Laura Caldwell - The Night I got Lucky

“That’s how I want it to be with Chris,” I said. “Starting today, in fact.” Chris had asked for time alone, but I’d decided that he’d had enough time. Not because I didn’t respect his need for privacy, but because I’d started to see how entirely too much time had passed without me addressing our distance. In some ways, I think I had expected it, some subliminal part of my psyche telling me that all men left-physically or emotionally-at some point. I was hoping Chris hadn’t entirely taken off yet.

“Good luck, sweetie.” My mother’s dark eyes searched my face. “And if you don’t get it right the first time, try again.”

I felt a swell of emotion in my throat. “Thanks.”

“And let me know if I can help you,” she said. “I’m not sure why but I’ve been a little…” She shook her head, a slightly puzzled expression on her face. “Well, I’ve been a little different lately. Really, I’ve been having such a good time.” She gave a breezy laugh. “But I want you to know that I love you, Billy, and I’m always available for you. Always.”

“I’m here for you, too.”

“I know.”

I smiled at her, at my mom who had been there all along. I wouldn’t have to shock her with the news of meeting my father. I would tell her eventually, but there was no need to bruise her with it. Instead, I would talk to her about Chris. I would ask her more about how she felt about Jan’s death, and how she felt now about her friends and her new life.

I caught a glimpse of fresh potential in my relationship with my mother. We might not be able to get back to the way we’d been before the frog. But we might be better.

Late in the afternoon, I took a cab downtown. When it reached my condo, I asked the driver to wait. It was 3:30, which meant I could still get to the office before Roslyn left. I wanted to drop off my bag and change clothes first.

In the condo, it was quiet, a stale scent in the air. Had Chris been staying somewhere else? I went to our room and checked the master bath. A damp towel lay on the floor from this morning, and his contacts case and solution were lying haphazardly by his sink, the way he always left them when he was in a rush. The rest of the house was similarly disorganized. My usually structured husband must have had a rough week. He must have never opened the windows to let in fresh air. The thought made me incredibly sad, then optimistic. He was upset, true, but that meant there was still something between us that could shake him. Which meant, I decided to believe, that I might be right about my instincts. We might carry those packages again.

I went to my closet. I considered light pants and a summer sweater, the kind of outfit many people at Harper Frankwell would be wearing on a Friday, but I had important business. I put on my sage-green suit with a white blouse and black spectator pumps. I opened every window before I left.

During the drive to Michigan Avenue, I noticed the trees were full and vividly green. People crowded the streets and sat outside at cafés. It was early June, and it was officially summer in Chicago, the start of a new season.

Once inside, I said hello to the receptionist and went to my office. I stood in the doorway, resisting the urge to sink into the butter-yellow seat. I looked at the stack of budgets to the right of my desk and the notes about prices for the new prints that might decorate the foyer. Then I looked behind my desk to the credenza where Odette’s cookbook stood, along with my old orange notebook, where I used to keep all my random ideas for press releases. I thought about my father’s words, Sometimes you have to know when to double back.

I turned and walked the gray carpeted hallway toward Roslyn’s office, half praying she was there, half fearing. But I knew I could find her somewhere in the building, since Roslyn was rarely anywhere else. This job at Harper Frankwell was her life. Her whole life. I wanted the job, too-one I enjoyed-but I wanted the other parts of me to flourish as well.

My heart rate picked up as I neared her office. The suit I was wearing suddenly felt stifling. I blew my bangs away from my forehead with a puff of air. I tried to clear my mind and think of how to say what I knew I had to say.

Roslyn was at her desk. “Hello, Billy,” she said when she saw me. “Nice of you to come in.”

“Can I have a minute?”

“I’d like that. I think we need to talk.”

I closed her door. “So do I.”

She took off her glasses that were affixed to a silver cord and let them fall onto her chest. She tilted her head a little and said, “I think we both know that you weren’t sick the last two days.”

I coughed, not to fake illness, but because she’d surprised me. I hadn’t expected her to call me on it so quickly. Yet I was glad. I wanted to be honest with her, and she’d just opened the door. Wide.

“I’m sorry, Roslyn.” I said, “You’re right. I wasn’t sick. I had some…family matters to attend to. And I have something to discuss with you.”

She gave me her patented tight-lipped, raised-eyebrow smile, which said, This better be good.

I swallowed hard. I sat up straighter. “I want you to demote me. I’d like my old job back.”

Roslyn sat back in her chair so quickly that her breath seemed to have been shoved out of her lungs, causing her to make a loud “humpph” sound.

I enjoyed a childish moment of triumph. I’d shocked the unshockable Roslyn.

“You want to be demoted?” she asked. She began to laugh. Admittedly, being scornfully laughed at was not as fun as shocking her.

“Yes,” I said with force in my voice. “I’d like to be an account exec again.”

Roslyn got her mirth under control and sat forward, elbows on her desk. “Billy, you’ve been a VP for how long now?”

About four weeks, I wanted to say, since Blinda gave me that frog. But I remembered that first morning, when everyone thought I’d been a vice president for a whole lot longer. “Well, geez,” I said, deciding to bat the question back to her, “how long has it been?”

Roslyn opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She clamped her mouth closed. “Hmm,” she said. “I can’t remember. Troubling.” She shook her head, her perfectly styled hair never moving. “Anyway, the point I was trying to make was that you’ve been in this position for a while, so why in the world would you want to backslide and become a-” she shuddered “-an account exec?” She said “account exec” the way others might say “child molester.”

“Let me ask you something. Do you think I’m a good vice president?”

She pursed her lips. “Well, I wanted to talk to you because I think there are definite areas that require improvement.”

“Exactly. I’m really not great as a VP. But did you think I was a good account exec?”

More pursing of lips. “You weren’t bringing in the big clients.”

“But bringing in the big clients is only important if you want to be a vice president, right?”

“I suppose that’s true. You did have your own cadre of small-time clients, and you handled them quite well.”

“And I did a good job on other people’s projects, right?”

“Yes, you’re an excellent team member, but-”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Roslyn, but I think you see my point. I am better suited to be an account exec than a VP.”

“But Billy,” she said in a chiding tone. “How embarrassing. To be demoted? It’s unthinkable.”

It would have been unthinkable to me in the past. Back then, I was all about forward motion, at least in my mind. I wanted to get a job, get engaged, get promoted, get married, keep moving, keep achieving. What I’d forgotten to do was stop and look for the quality, the satisfaction in each station. I’d also forgotten to actually decide what direction I wanted to take next. I’d been walking a scripted path, never halting to ask whether it was the right path for me. Not everyone needed to be an officer of a company. Accomplishment, I’d realized, needn’t always come in the form of a raise or a title. Instead, I would find accomplishment in giving the best performance I could in a job I loved.