Jessica Winter - Break in Case of Emergency

“She was really sweet about it, seriously. And sweet doesn’t come easily to Pam. It was funny — Taige Hammerback told Pam that a Flossie Durbin endorsement is actually a kiss of death, and Pam told him no, it’s the jaws of life, and then Taige said—”

“Pam will have to get in line and become a paying customer now,” Jim interrupted. “You’re going to get so many commissions. By the way, how much did you get for the Flossie Durbin painting? I want to get Franny a new Cat Scratch Mountain and I’m hoping Mrs. Durbin can foot the bill.”

Jen was quiet.

“This is suspenseful,” Jim said. “It’s a number so large that we need a new language to express it.”

“I didn’t — there wasn’t — nothing,” Jen stammered.

Jim was quiet.

“Nothing will come of nothing, child, speak again,” he said evenly.

“I never negotiated a fee with Mrs. Durbin,” Jen said, almost defiantly.

Jim was quiet.

“I meant to,” Jen plowed on, her defiance receding as abruptly as it had broken in, as if she were speaking over Jim’s protests. “But it just never came up, and she never asked, and it seemed so awkward to broach it, and—”

Jen swallowed some air, and Jim still said nothing.

“And you know, I’ll get paid in exposure, you know? Like you said, I’m already getting so many commissions, word of mouth—”

“You are unbelievable,” Jim said into his collar, as Jen pulled her arm away from his. “The way you let people take advantage of you.”

“That’s not fair—”

“Why was it her show?” Jim asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Why was it billed just as Pam’s show?”

“Honey, I can’t even keep track of what we’re talking about from moment to moment—”

“Seriously, listen to me. You did a bunch of fucking giant paintings for her show. At least one of which Taige Hammerback is probably masturbating on right now. You worked forever on those fucking things, and they were awesome, and they were the only evidence of any technical aptitude whatsoever in her entire fucking show, and your name was in tiny fine print in the program.”

“It wasn’t tiny and I don’t care, honestly.”

“And now it’s going to happen again. Are you even mentioned in the new show? Do you exist? ”

“I don’t care.”

“It’s stupid that you don’t care.”

Jim’s voice was spiking in volume as they neared the block of the Deli of Death. Hundreds of feet away, Jen could already hear the dogs barking halfheartedly.

“Don’t call me stupid,” Jen said.

“I did not call you stupid. I do not think you are stupid. I do think it’s stupid not to care that a rich woman steals your work.”

“Pam did not steal my work,” Jen murmured. Then she realized that Jim was referring to Mrs. Durbin. She hadn’t told Jim about Paulo’s family yet. Pam’s family, now.

“And I do think it’s stupid not to care that Pam took credit for your shit.”

“She did not! It was work-for-hire, or—”

“It was hundreds of hours of work not for hire. She didn’t pay you a fucking penny. And need I remind you, you were unemployed at the time.”

“Right! It’s not like I had anything else going on. Jesus! She’s my friend.”

“And need I remind you that at the time you were — you were—”

“Don’t, don’t—”

“Surrounded by paint fumes, inhaling that stuff, for all you know that could have caused you to—”

“Stop it,” Jen said, halting in her tracks and clapping her hands over her temples. “Stop it, please, stop it. I can’t talk about this. I can’t.”

“She could have helped you.” Jim was pacing in a semicircle in front of Jen. His eyes were round and dark. “Your friend. And you ask her for one fucking favor and she puts you in friend jail and you’re supposed to be so grateful that you’ve been pardoned for your crimes. After all you did for her for free. ”

Jen lowered her hands and began walking again, faster. “So this is all about money,” she said, as Jim fell into step next to her.

“No!” Jim said. “You’ve totally missed the fucking point as usual! This isn’t about money. This is about you having some self-respect and not letting people walk all over you, whether it’s your friends or people at work or Flossie fucking Durbin.”

“So if I had taken money from my friends that would mean I have self-respect,” Jen said. Walking faster, faster. “It’s all so simple!”

“No,” Jim said, “what would mean having real self-respect was if you stopped laying yourself at people’s feet all the time, trying to earn their approval. It’s like, if you could write somebody a check to like you, you would.”

Jen stopped again, a dead stop, arms hanging limp at her sides, mouth agape. Jim walked a few more steps and then stopped, too, covering his face with his hands. Now the dogs had spotted them approaching, whereupon they began barking with renewed vigor, purpose, and focus.

“I’m sorry,” Jim said into his palms, then turned to look at Jen, one hand reaching for her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t touch me,” Jen said. His face back in his palms.

Jen watched him and waited.

She saw herself at the edge of a diving board hanging over an empty pool. She could feel the tingle in her toes, the last effervescent vertiginous moment before her feet pushed off, the board rippling.

“It’s all about money,” Jen said. “We can pretend like it’s not, but it is. Always. And it always will be.”

Jim said nothing.

“Maybe if I had real self-respect,” Jen said slowly, champagne burbling inside her stomach, “I wouldn’t have married a man who doesn’t earn a decent living.”

Jim put his hands behind his head and stared at the pavement.

“Maybe if I had real self-respect,” Jen said, “I wouldn’t have married a man who makes nothing nine months a year and then sits on his ass all summer.”

Jim smiled grimly at the pavement.

The vertiginous feeling was gone. All Jen could see was the concrete bottom hurtling toward her. The champagne bubbles distended and popped.

“Maybe if I had real self-respect,” Jen said, her voice choking, “I would have been more pragmatic. I wouldn’t have married someone just because I loved him.”

Jim’s head laughed mirthlessly, loud and yawping. “Nice try,” he said. “I’m going home.” He turned and loped back in the direction of their apartment, the dogs now behind him.

Jen walked quickly after him, struggling to keep up, her heels almost slipping out from beneath her footfalls. “No, no, you can’t — you have to come with me.”

“Fuck you, Jennifer,” he said, one middle finger raised in salute over his shoulder, his strides growing longer and quicker.

Jen stopped and watched him for half a block. She turned and looked at the snarling dogs, and at two tall men who had emerged from Brancato’s to watch the show, and turned back again to Jim’s retreating figure. What happened next happened without her permission.

“You can’t just leave me here!” she screamed. Her voice shattered. An animal sound, primal and desperate, naked. “You can’t just leave me here!”

She watched as Jim turned 180 degrees and speed-walked toward her. Rage contorted his face. He stalked past her toward the train station. She tried to keep up, her heels scratching and scrabbling after him; the side of her right foot touched the ground just as her left foot caught her fall with a hard momentary plant. Jim and then Jen passed the men and the dogs, who were baying and snarling, leashes taut, choking on their own aggression. Hurrying along behind her husband, toes scuffing and heels listing, Jen didn’t feel frightened of the dogs anymore. The dogs were choosing sides in a playground battle. If not for their leashes, they still wouldn’t have attacked. They would have formed a circle around the couple, rooting on the combatant of their choice.