too. There were 71,409 sneaker accidents in the United States last year. Don’t you think sneakers look tacky when people wear them to work?”
“Not if they’re that Olympic runner from Jamaica, Usain Bolt.”
“Do you think that’s his real name? A runner named Bolt?”
“What I think is that it’s time to get you home now,” I say, reaching into my pocket to leave a five-dollar tip for the waiter.
Always generous, Sienna adds another twenty. “Maybe a local pet food commercial wouldn’t be the end of the world,” she says as I hold out her suit jacket so she can find the arm-holes.
“Of course not. It might even lead to something bigger. Teri Hatcher’s our age and she’s got a contract with Clairol.”
“Yeah, who cares that it’s for a hair color product to cover up her gray?”
As we step out onto the sidewalk Sienna bundles her collar around her neck against an early September chill. The early nip in the air is just a reminder that any day now, the girls will be asking for new Uggs. Ugh! Just one more thing we won’t be able to pay for. Sienna’s hugging me goodbye when our waiter comes rushing out after us.
“Thanks, but you’re going to need this more than I do,” he says, pressing Sienna’s twenty-dollar bill back in her hand. “It’s all over the Internet. Sorry about your getting canned.”
L ATER THAT NIGHT , Peter and I are snuggling in bed. “Why do they call it getting canned?” I ask, stroking his arm. “Bumped, bounced, kicked, booted—sounds more like a Lara Croft action sequence than a description of being fired.”
“Being fired is pretty brutal,” Peter says. He sits up and throws off the comforter, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “It’s not just my company, the markets are going crazy. I may never work again. You wouldn’t understand, Tru. I’ve been going through this hell for three months.”
From the tone in Peter’s voice I know that he’s just stating what for him is a simple fact. Still, every hair on my body stiffens.
Maybe I would have understood if you’d told me about your getting fired when it happened, buddy
! I start to snap. But instead,I hold my tongue. Even if Peter had no right to keep this a secret from me, I will not, I will absolutely, positively
not
turn into Naomi, bitter and belittling my father for everything that went wrong. “I want to understand,” I say. “Next time, if something awful happens, talk to me about it. I’m supposed to be your partner, remember?”
“We are partners,” Peter says, turning around to face me. “You’re doing a great job with the girls. It’s just that I don’t feel like I’m holding up my end of the bargain.”
“Stop that. They’re
our
girls. It’s
our
life. We have to be able to support each other.”
Peter shrugs. “I know you support me, Tru, it’s nice that you’re in my corner. But I didn’t want to worry you. It’s not like there’s anything you could have done.”
“Maybe yes, maybe no, but at least we could have tried to do something together. And I want to do something now. I’m going to get a job,” I say with false bravado. Because really, what exactly is it that I think I’m going to do at this stage of my life? Start a rock band? Stock grocery shelves at the A&P? Volunteer to test hemorrhoid medications?
“I don’t want you to have to go to work. Besides, you could never earn the kind of money we need.” Peter shakes his head. “I’m sorry, honey, I didn’t mean for this to happen. I was happy with things the way they were.”
“It’s nobody’s fault. It’s the economy, stupid,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. And then, hoping that as on the night after the benefit I can make us both feel a little better, I push Peter back toward the pillows and run my finger across the front of his white cotton Jockey briefs. Tugging at the waistband, I slip off Peter’s underwear and brush my fingers across his hip bone. Peter sighs
“Not if they’re that Olympic runner from Jamaica, Usain Bolt.”
“Do you think that’s his real name? A runner named Bolt?”
“What I think is that it’s time to get you home now,” I say, reaching into my pocket to leave a five-dollar tip for the waiter.
Always generous, Sienna adds another twenty. “Maybe a local pet food commercial wouldn’t be the end of the world,” she says as I hold out her suit jacket so she can find the arm-holes.
“Of course not. It might even lead to something bigger. Teri Hatcher’s our age and she’s got a contract with Clairol.”
“Yeah, who cares that it’s for a hair color product to cover up her gray?”
As we step out onto the sidewalk Sienna bundles her collar around her neck against an early September chill. The early nip in the air is just a reminder that any day now, the girls will be asking for new Uggs. Ugh! Just one more thing we won’t be able to pay for. Sienna’s hugging me goodbye when our waiter comes rushing out after us.
“Thanks, but you’re going to need this more than I do,” he says, pressing Sienna’s twenty-dollar bill back in her hand. “It’s all over the Internet. Sorry about your getting canned.”
L ATER THAT NIGHT , Peter and I are snuggling in bed. “Why do they call it getting canned?” I ask, stroking his arm. “Bumped, bounced, kicked, booted—sounds more like a Lara Croft action sequence than a description of being fired.”
“Being fired is pretty brutal,” Peter says. He sits up and throws off the comforter, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “It’s not just my company, the markets are going crazy. I may never work again. You wouldn’t understand, Tru. I’ve been going through this hell for three months.”
From the tone in Peter’s voice I know that he’s just stating what for him is a simple fact. Still, every hair on my body stiffens.
Maybe I would have understood if you’d told me about your getting fired when it happened, buddy
! I start to snap. But instead,I hold my tongue. Even if Peter had no right to keep this a secret from me, I will not, I will absolutely, positively
not
turn into Naomi, bitter and belittling my father for everything that went wrong. “I want to understand,” I say. “Next time, if something awful happens, talk to me about it. I’m supposed to be your partner, remember?”
“We are partners,” Peter says, turning around to face me. “You’re doing a great job with the girls. It’s just that I don’t feel like I’m holding up my end of the bargain.”
“Stop that. They’re
our
girls. It’s
our
life. We have to be able to support each other.”
Peter shrugs. “I know you support me, Tru, it’s nice that you’re in my corner. But I didn’t want to worry you. It’s not like there’s anything you could have done.”
“Maybe yes, maybe no, but at least we could have tried to do something together. And I want to do something now. I’m going to get a job,” I say with false bravado. Because really, what exactly is it that I think I’m going to do at this stage of my life? Start a rock band? Stock grocery shelves at the A&P? Volunteer to test hemorrhoid medications?
“I don’t want you to have to go to work. Besides, you could never earn the kind of money we need.” Peter shakes his head. “I’m sorry, honey, I didn’t mean for this to happen. I was happy with things the way they were.”
“It’s nobody’s fault. It’s the economy, stupid,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. And then, hoping that as on the night after the benefit I can make us both feel a little better, I push Peter back toward the pillows and run my finger across the front of his white cotton Jockey briefs. Tugging at the waistband, I slip off Peter’s underwear and brush my fingers across his hip bone. Peter sighs
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