Damaged Goods, page 18
Laura had been to several of FirstStep’s fundraising galas and had written substantial checks to support the nonprofit over the years. She admired the nonprofit’s success in bridging the educational gap between students in Bridgeport and Westport, and the idea of working there intrigued her. But she was hoping her friend would just commiserate with her, not offer solutions. Dianne’s ideas were coming at her too fast. “I’m not sure I understand the rules of the game these days,” Laura said, seeking reassurance. “Do I want to punch a clock, meet deadlines, wear the right clothes, say the right things, think the right thoughts, analyze, evaluate, and recommend ideas at the risk of having them dismissed?” Her words reminded her of Brendan’s constant complaints of how much his work sucked.
Dianne patted Laura’s forearm. “Fear is a natural reaction after years on the sidelines. It’s time for you to take your first step. I’m good friends with Randy Bauer, the executive director of FirstStep. You’ve seen him speak at our events. I’ll tell him about you.”
Dianne worked fast. The next day Randy’s assistant called Laura to arrange an informational interview. Laura skipped her yoga class, showered, applied makeup, and begged the hair salon to fit her in for a color, cut, and blow-dry at noon. Afterward, she met her personal shopper, Marcia, at Mitch’s clothing store.
“Darling,” Marcia said with a rich Hungarian accent as they air-kissed near each other’s cheeks. “Which gala are you attending?”
“I’m looking for a very professional business outfit, Marcia. Are you familiar with that product line?”
“But of course, darling. I have several senior executive women as clients. Do you watch the evening news?”
“Sometimes,” Laura said.
“Then you must know . . .” Marcia leaned in and whispered the name of America’s most famous news interviewer. “But a business outfit for you? This is surprising. Come with me.”
Marcia guided Laura on a three-hour journey, and at the end, her assistant loaded massive shopping bags filled with shoes, jackets, blouses, skirts, belts, scarves, and jewelry into the back of Laura’s car. The day had worn Laura out, but she still had homework. She drove home, dropped the bags in the entryway, and opened her computer to FirstStep’s website. She reviewed its Charity Navigator quality rating, downloaded five years of tax returns, and sifted through its marketing materials. Equipped with data, she designed a mock fundraising brochure, printed it out, and held it up to the light. “This will blow Randy away,” she said aloud. Then she checked her watch. Nine p.m. Twelve hours until her interview. Her stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten all day but had one more thing to do before grabbing a handful of carrots from the kitchen. As she pulled a skirt, blouse, stockings, and shoes from the bags on the floor, the sales receipt slipped out—ten thousand dollars. For the last ten years, she’d felt a sense of decadent satisfaction spending Bren’s hard-earned money on herself. Her entire walk-in closet was filled with shoes that attested to it. But after reading about FirstStep, for the first time, she felt almost nauseated by the waste of money. She neatly folded the clothes and placed them back in their bags. She would shop her closet for the interview, return the clothes to Mitch’s, and donate the money to a worthy cause. Finally ready, she grabbed a handful of carrot and celery sticks to snack on and called Bren.
“I’m still at the office,” Brendan said. “Crazy day.”
“When is this crisis going to end?” she asked.
“It’s more like ‘how will it end?’ Another bank went belly-up today. The Fed is pulling out all the stops to save the world financial system,” he whispered.
“It can’t be that bad,” she said. “Mitch’s was packed today.”
“Dancing on the deck of the Titanic, Laura,” Brendan said. “I sold all our stocks and put the money into T-bills today.”
“Are we going to be okay?” Laura asked, contemplating whether to cancel some of their magazine subscriptions.
“We’ll survive,” he said. “I prepaid Shannon’s college tuition. That’s the most important thing. By the way, why were you at Mitch’s? We don’t have any galas on the horizon, do we?”
“I have a job interview,” she said. “It’s a copywriter position at FirstStep.”
“This is out of left field,” he said. “Are you bored with Shannon out of the house?”
“It’s more than that,” she said, irritated by his quick assumptions.
“When’s your interview?”
“Nine tomorrow,” she said.
“Don’t stay up for me,” he said. “Get some rest and blow them away. You can do it.”
Laura ended the call with a new sense of urgency. It was no longer just about relieving her boredom or reasserting her value to the outside world; her family might need the money.
A few minutes before nine the next morning, she stepped out of the car and studied her reflection in the car window. A gray A-line skirt, a white silk blouse, a wide black belt with a gold buckle, a simple gold necklace with a pearl pendant, sheer stockings, and black pumps. Sharp. Modern. Confident. She walked tall into the main lobby, where a gray-haired woman in a knee-length red plaid pleated skirt and black pashmina shawl led her to Randy’s office. Laura worried that she was overdressed.
She extended her hand to Randy as she entered the office, but he blankly motioned for her to sit on the couch. How much had Dianne twisted his arm to agree to this meeting? She quickly adjusted her approach, skipping the pleasantries and handing him her résumé and the example fundraising materials she had made.
“I did my homework, Mr. Bauer. I hope you like my work,” she said. It felt strange addressing a man her age as “Mister.”
Randy gathered the materials, settled into a beige wingback chair across from her, and propped his black Chelsea boots on the glass coffee table. As he read through the materials in silence, her stomach twisted. Oh no, she thought. She was overprepared. He knew she was an impostor. After what felt like an eternity, Randy glanced at her and smiled.
“Very impressive,” Randy said. “Phi Beta Kappa from Painter College in 1980, fast-tracked at your PR firm, accepted at Columbia. If you hadn’t paused your career, I’d be working for you.”
“I don’t regret my choices,” Laura said. “But I must admit that I have much to offer and hope to be a part of FirstStep.” She hoped she didn’t come across as too defensive or overconfident.
He rose from his chair, grabbed a list from his desk, and handed it to her. “These are the corporate philanthropies we’re targeting,” he said.
Laura recognized several hedge funds from the list; some were Bren’s clients.
“They want to clean up their reputations, and there’s no better way than to make a six- or seven-figure donation to charity. Our task is to ensure we’re their charity of choice.”
Randy did not present himself as the idealist she’d thought he was.
“Whenever board members such as Dianne recommend candidates, I expect to see charlatans in red dresses looking for any excuse to get out of the house. I’m looking for go-getters, not bored housewives.”
“I’m a go-getter,” she declared. “If you trust me with this list and are willing to give me a week, I’ll create a plan of attack. If you like it, the job is mine.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing your plan. Next Tuesday at nine a.m. sharp.”
* * *
Laura shared the good news with Bren that night, but he smiled feebly. “Randy doesn’t know how lucky he is to have you on the case.”
Laura hugged Bren. “Why are you being so supportive?” she asked.
“I’m happy for you,” he said. “And I’m so proud of you. You bring back memories of our college days and the early years in the city. You thrive in challenging environments where you can channel your intelligence and competitiveness into something positive instead of hovering over Shannon or trying to squeeze into the skinniest jeans on the planet. The business world suits you.”
Laura released the embrace. Had he just complimented or insulted her? She tried to unpack his words. Sure, she had poured her efforts into being a room parent and social coordinator at Shannon’s school, which benefited the whole family. Their family ski trips to Vail and Park City were built on the friendships she had nurtured. Her relationship with the head of the school allowed her to advocate for Shannon to get the best teachers, and those teachers went the extra mile for him, changing his grades from A-minuses to A’s whenever she questioned them. Certainly, she worked hard to maintain her fitness, but Bren didn’t grasp the pressure she felt to keep it up. Some of the other mothers at the school were former models; one was a former ballerina with the New York City Ballet. Nevertheless, she also knew when to step back.
“Are you suggesting I’ve wasted my life?” she asked.
“Absolutely not,” Brendan replied. “I’m just saying this version of you is the one I fell in love with.”
Laura was about to blow her stack.
“Please don’t find insults in my compliments,” he said. “I genuinely support what you’re trying to do, and I’m truly happy for you. You’ll kill it. I know you will.”
Perhaps she was trying to find insults. Perhaps she didn’t fully trust this version of her husband. But she didn’t have time to dwell on it. She had a fundraising plan to develop, and it had to be great.
* * *
The following Tuesday, Laura styled her hair and applied her Foxy Lady lipstick, which was much more professional-looking than the name suggested. She arrived at Randy’s office five minutes before nine—on time without appearing overly anxious. They spent the next hour discussing Laura’s plan.
“I love it,” Randy said.
“So, do I have the job?” she asked.
“You had the job when you left the office last week. I knew you would come up with a great plan.”
* * *
During her first month on the job, Laura visited all of FirstStep’s affiliated schools, sharpened her pitch, and met weekly with Randy to refine their strategy. They needed to strike between Thanksgiving and New Year’s, when their target donors would finalize their philanthropic commitments. On the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, Randy stood by his office window, one leg on the sill, gazing at the fading cattails swaying in the marsh.
“We need to nail down this plan tonight. Let’s have a working dinner at the new sushi restaurant on Post Road. It’s getting rave reviews.”
“Shannon is coming home from college tonight,” Laura said. “I haven’t seen him since I dropped him off in September. Bren and I are taking him to Pete’s BBQ, his favorite rib joint.”
“Okay. I’ll see you in the office tomorrow,” Randy said. Laura sensed his disappointment.
But later that afternoon, Bren called. He was stuck at work and might get a hotel room in the city that night. Then Shannon called about a campus party he wanted to attend. He would come home in the morning. She closed her office door and cried. She was anxious to see Shannon, who had become less communicative over the last month, and she needed to hug and talk to him to understand how he was truly doing. But she would have to wait another day. Wiping away her tears, she walked across the hall to Randy’s office.
“My family canceled on me.”
“I’m sorry about your family,” he said with a weak smile. “I still have the reservation.”
As darkness settled in, she trailed Randy’s Volkswagen Jetta to the restaurant. It struck her as strange that he hadn’t canceled the reservation. She parked beside him in the crowded lot, and he hurried to her car to open the door, insisting on carrying her briefcase.
“May I order for you?” Randy asked soon after being seated. He extracted ivory chopsticks from a satin bag tucked in his coat pocket. Laura ripped the paper wrapping off the wooden chopsticks on her place setting.
“You know your way around here,” Laura said, “but I’d rather order for myself.”
Randy lifted his chopstick to signal the waitress. “A tokkuri of sake and two ochoko, please.” He turned to Laura. “I hope you like sake.”
His actions irritated her. She remembered how indifferent he had been when they’d first met, and now all this over-the-top chivalry. “None for me,” she said. “We have a plan to discuss.” She pulled a presentation deck from her briefcase and flipped through it, pausing when the sushi, sashimi, and maki arrived.
“What happened to your family?” Randy asked while loading his plate with raw fish.
“Things came up,” she said, stabbing her tuna maki with a chopstick but never bringing it to her mouth. “I’m curious . . . why didn’t you cancel the dinner reservation?”
“I’ve noticed that you work late a lot and thought it might have something to do with things at home. I figured there was a good chance your family dinner would fall through. If you want to talk about it, I’m willing to listen.”
Laura tugged at her pearl earring, wondering how he could be so audacious. Yet she had finally found someone who’d let her get her family troubles off her chest. “To be honest,” she said, “the financial crisis is putting a strain on us. Plus, Shannon has gone silent with me, which is never a good sign. I don’t think he’s doing well in college.” She explained the conflict between her husband and son.
“The battle between a father’s desire for his son and a son’s desire for himself is as old as time. Cat Stevens wrote a song about it,” Randy said.
Wow, Laura thought, Randy is offering empathy instead of solutions. She didn’t know men were capable.
He placed his chopsticks on his plate and waited for her to continue.
Laura told Randy about her troubles at home for the next half hour, and Randy’s eyes didn’t waver from hers, except to refill their ochoko.
Randy placed his hand on hers. “You’re remarkable,” he said. “Everything will work out for you. Trust me.”
She slid her hand from under his and stood, retreating to a safe space in the restroom. Did he just hit on me? she wondered. She inspected herself in the mirror. The top four buttons on her blouse had come undone. She could see deep into her own cleavage and the inner edges of her bra. Did I invite his actions? Laura wondered, buttoning her blouse up to her neck and returning to the table, where the waitress was delivering a second tokkuri of sake.
“I hope I didn’t give you the wrong impression,” he remarked.
Now I know, she thought, he did hit on me. “It’s been a long day,” she said. “And we didn’t get any work done here. I’ll see you early tomorrow.”
She left the restaurant quickly and pulled into her garage a few minutes later, surprised to find Bren’s car parked inside. He had come home after all. She straightened her skirt and blouse. “Nothing to feel guilty about,” she murmured and went inside.
Brendan
November 2008
Brendan’s cell phone rang loudly in the dark. He glanced at the alarm clock. Three a.m. He picked up the phone and saw Shannon’s number. This could only mean trouble.
“Why are you calling so late?” Brendan asked, groggy from sleep.
“Mr. O’Shay, this is Burton, Shannon’s roommate. You need to help me, Mr. O’Shay. I’m standing over Shannon. He’s catatonic.”
“Catatonic? Where is he? What’s he doing?”
“He went out drinking tonight. Alone. A few minutes ago, he stumbled into our dorm room and passed out on the floor. I can’t wake him up. He wet his pants and is lying in a pool of vomit. He’s not moving.”
“Is he breathing? Burton, is Shannon breathing?”
“Let me check.”
Burton went silent for what felt like an eternity.
“Yes, he’s breathing.”
“Call 9-1-1. I’ll get there as quickly as I can. Figure five hours.”
Laura was already standing, tugging on her clothes. “I can’t believe this is happening again!” she screamed. “Get dressed! Let’s go!”
They rushed to the garage and jumped into the Range Rover. “Where did all this snow come from in November?” Brendan asked. “It wasn’t in the forecast.” He barreled through the heavy, wet snow piling up in the driveway, sped down the street, and nearly fishtailed into the neighbor’s mailbox.
“Don’t kill us!” Laura yelled.
“I’m not trying to kill us,” Brendan shouted. “I’m trying to save our son!”
Laura called the campus police. “My son is passed out on his dorm room floor. Gifford Hall, room 201. He might be dying. Please, please check on him,” she begged. Then she called Shannon’s phone, hoping his roommate would answer. “Burton, thank you for calling us,” she said. “Did the EMT arrive?”
“Yeah, they are wheeling him out now,” Burton said.
Brendan shuddered. It had been almost a year since Cassie was wheeled out of her house for the last time. And now, it was Shannon on a stretcher. But he had to get a hold of himself. It was a long way to Vermont and the roads were treacherous.
“Honk, Bren. Let them know to move over,” Laura said.
“They’ll just slow down if I honk,” he said.
“Is every man in the world an asshole?” Laura asked, tears streaming down her face. “I can’t handle this. Why is this happening to us? We’re a good family. We try to do the right thing. Why are awful things happening to my baby boy?”
A few minutes later, the snowplow drivers pulled off the highway and Brendan hit the gas. He glanced at Laura; her head was in her hands. He turned on Bloomberg Radio, and a crackling voice reported that another bank had failed. He remembered he had scheduled a critical meeting with John Smart and Sarah Whetstone to review their bank’s liquidity position. He couldn’t miss it.
