This Was Not the Plan Page 13

“He and my mom were never married,” I say stiffly. “He was a partner at a law firm, too, actually. My mom was his secretary. He was married to someone else. They had an affair. Mom wound up pregnant with me and my twin sister.”

  “Dang.” Tom lets out a whistle. “That’s heavy. Did you get to see him growing up?”

  “I’ve only met him twice.” I omit the part when I used to take the train into the city from Long Island when I was in high school just so I could catch a glimpse of him walking home from work.

  “Does he know that you’re a lawyer?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t really think about him,” I say, although that’s not true, either. I’ve kept close tabs on my father’s career. I’ve always hoped he’s done the same for me. Every time Fred and I appear in the press, I get a rush of excitement thinking that my father’s out there, reading about my successes. I made it without you, asshole. I did this without your help.

  And then: the video. I cringe at the thought of him watching it, shaking his head in disapproval and thanking his lucky stars he never publicly acknowledged me to be his son. In truth, it was the first thing that crossed my mind when I saw it myself. Not What will my clients think? Or What will my boss think? But What will my father think?

  “Really?” Tom looks surprised. “It’s a small city. You’ve never crossed paths?”

  “We did once. At a black-tie thing, years back. My mentor at Hardwick was a guy named Fred Kellerman. He’s a pretty big deal on Wall Street.”

  Tom nods, his face blank.

  “Anyway, NYU Law had a dinner in Fred’s honor. He invited me and a few other guys from the firm to sit at his table. So I’m sitting there and I look across the room, and there’s my dad. And then I remembered: my dad went to NYU Law, too. He and Fred were classmates.”

  “Holy smokes. Did you say hello?”

  “No. I just got up and left. It was snowing and there were no cabs. I walked all the way home in my tux.”

  “That’s a crazy story, man. Did you tell your boss what happened?”

  “Yeah. The next day he came by my office and was, like, ‘What the hell happened to you last night? There were people there I wanted you to meet.’ So I told him the truth. You know what he said?”

  “What?”

  “He said, ‘Never liked that prick myself. He sued a client of mine once, a long time ago. Tried to take him for every last penny. Guy’s a shark, always out for blood. You’re probably better off without him in your life.’ ”

  “Wow. That’s amazing.”

  “Yeah,” I say, “I guess it sort of is.”

  “So you didn’t even hear from him after your wife passed away?” Tom stops and frowns. “I’m sorry. That’s probably a really personal question.”

  “It’s okay.” The truth is, my father did call. Several times, in fact. He still calls about once a month, despite the fact that I never pick up. Though Zadie has, on occasion, gently suggested that my boycott is childish, I just have no interest in speaking to him. At the end of the day, there’s nothing he could possibly have to say that would improve my life in any way.

  “No, he didn’t. He never called,” I say, just because it’s easier.

  “He really is a prick.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hey, so there are the guys,” Tom says, and points towards a cluster of kids and parents who have set up camp on Sheep Meadow.

  “Tom!” A smiling brunette waves at us. “We’re over here!”

  “That’s Elise.” Tom nudges me with his shoulder. “She’s a single mom. We grew up together. It’s a long, sad story, but she’s terrific. She’s kind of an honorary member of the Dads’ Club.”

  “Elise Gould?”

  “Yeah,” Tom says, surprised. “You know one another?”

  “Uh, yeah. Sort of. She was in my law school class.” I shade my eyes to get a better look, but I’m certain it’s her. Elise was—and continues to be—one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen in real life. We struck up a fleeting friendship during our 1L year when we found ourselves seated next to one another in Civil Procedure. I got a B minus in the class, an unfortunate deviation from my straight-A average that I partially blamed on having to sit next to such a distractingly attractive woman. Like every other guy at school, I nursed a little crush on Elise for the better part of the year, the harmless kind that comes with the full understanding that a woman like Elise would never deign to date a mere mortal like me. Indeed, the last I’d heard, Elise had married a politician named J.P. or P.J. or J.M, some distant Kennedy cousin with presidential aspirations and freakishly good bone structure. I remember seeing their wedding announcement in the Times and, despite having been recently married myself, feeling the tiniest ping of jealousy.

  It’s hard to believe that the last time I saw her was ten years ago. Her dark hair has a touch of silver running through it, but otherwise she shows no sign of aging whatsoever. She stands up as we approach, unfolding a spectacular pair of tan mile-long legs. Reflexively, I suck in my gut.

  “Hey, Elise, this is my friend Charlie,” Tom says, giving her a hug.

  “I think we went to law school together,” I say awkwardly.

  “Of course!” When she leans in to kiss me on the cheek, I get a whiff of her subtle but distinctive perfume. “How are you, Charlie?”

  “I’m, uh, well, truthfully—” Blessedly, Elise interrupts my stammering. She smiles down at Caleb. “And who is this gorgeous boy?”

  “This is my son, Caleb. Caleb, say hi to Mrs. . . . uh . . .”

  “Miss,” Elise corrects me quickly, holding up her ringless left hand. “But you can call me Elise.”

  “Hi, ’Lise,” Caleb says.

  “This is my son, Lucas,” Elise says, coaxing a boy out from behind her. “Lucas, say hi to Mommy’s friends.” Lucas mumbles something and retreats again behind Elise’s calf.

  “We just moved here from D.C.,” Elise says, a touch apologetic. “It’s been a big transition.”

  “Lucas is going to be in Delaney’s and Caleb’s kindergarten class in the fall,” Tom announces.

  “That’s great!” I say enthusiastically. “It’s a fantastic school.”

  “Oh, that’s so nice to hear. We’re so grateful to Tom. He helped us get in at the last minute. He’s been amazing, introducing us to this group and everything. He’s a godsend.”

  “It’s nothing,” Tom says, staring bashfully at his shoes. “Lucas is a great kid. Any school would be lucky to have him. Hey, Charlie, maybe you guys can arrange a playdate sometime. I’m sure Lucas would love another buddy in New York.”

  “That would be great,” Elise says, nodding. “We’re on Seventy-Fifth Street, between Second and Third. It’s all boxes right now, but once we unpack, we’d love to have you over.”

  “We’re neighbors, then. What building?”

  “Two fourteen.”

  “Wow! How about that. We’re two fifteen. I could, like, stare into your bedroom window.” The words have already left my mouth before I realize how creepy they sound.

  Elise chuckles. “You probably could. I don’t even have shades up yet and it’s killing me. I’m literally up at five every morning.”

  “Well, you guys are welcome over anytime. I mean, five might be a little early. But, you know, anytime after, say, six.”

  “Daddy, look!” Caleb tugs on my pant leg. He points to a cart with a striped umbrella, out of which a man is scooping Italian ice into paper cups. “Can I have some?”

  “We were just heading that way,” Elise says. “Caleb can come with us, if you don’t mind.”

  I look at Caleb, expecting him to shake his head. Instead, he nods emphatically. “I want ice,” he says.

  “Me, too!” Delaney pipes up.

  “Okay.” I shrug, and dig into my pocket for some cash.

  “I got this one,” Elise says with a wink. “You can get the tab next time.”

  Tom and I watch as the kids race over to the cart, Elise trotting
behind them.

  “So Little Man’s heavily into purple, I take it,” Tom says, nodding at Caleb.

  “Yeah. I don’t know if it’s purple so much as girls’ clothing generally. We do pink. Accessories. Lately, we’re liking sequins.”

  “Right on. Well, you should come over and raid Delaney’s closet. It looks like Hello Kitty and the Care Bears threw up in there.”

  I laugh. “Be careful what you offer. We might run off with as many tutus as we can carry.”

  “We have enough to go around.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you think I should be worried?”

  “About the disaster stuff?”

  I frown. “No, about the tutus.”

  “Ahh, the tutus.”

  “My sister doesn’t think it’s a big deal. But as a guy . . . would you worry?”

  Tom shrugs. “I don’t know, man. Kids are funny. Remember Punky Brewster?”

  “The girl with the pigtails?”

  “Yeah. I got so into her when I was a kid that I started wearing two different shoes to school.”

  “That’s hilarious.”

  “I thought it was rad. You know why I stopped?”

  “Because you realized you looked ridiculous?”

  “No, because some older kid told me I looked like a girl. And then he and his friends egged our house.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “I don’t know. It’s no big thing. My point is, you gotta let kids be themselves. It meant a lot to me that my mom took me to the mall to buy two pairs of high-tops so that I could let my inner Punky Brewster shine. It would’ve hurt a lot more if she was the one who shamed me into stopping.”

  “That’s sage advice.”

  “Maybe. You are talking to a guy in a purple Juicy Couture tracksuit.”

  “You and Caleb can go shopping together.”

  “Anytime. I dig that kid. I’m glad you guys came today, man.”

  “So am I. Thanks for inviting us.”

  “When I first approached you, I wasn’t sure you’d be into this. I felt vaguely like a Jehovah’s Witness.”

  “Trying to convert me to become a SAHD, huh?”

  “Something like that. Or get you to embrace it, anyway.”

  “To be honest, when you first approached me, I hadn’t really come to terms with . . . well, any of this,” I say quietly. “I still haven’t. I’ve worked so hard my whole life. In my high school yearbook I was voted ‘Most Likely to Succeed.’ I don’t mean that in a self-congratulatory way. Actually, it makes me sound like an asshole. It’s just been a big change for me, not working.”

  “Well, maybe this is a much-needed break for you, then.”

  “I guess. I’ve spent more time with Caleb in the last week than I probably have in his life so far. It’s going to be hard to go back.”

  “Do you think you will?” Tom asks. “Go back to law firm life, I mean.”

  The question surprises me. “Yeah . . . I mean, for sure. What else would I do? I’m not qualified to do anything other than practice law. And I definitely can’t afford not to work.”

  “There are a lot of things you can do with a law degree.” Tom shrugs. “Talk to Elise. She says most of her law school friends don’t even practice anymore. They become professors or writers. One of her friends started a fashion label—she’s super-successful. Another one runs a dog-walking business.”

  “I could do that, maybe. Entry-level dog walker. I walk my dog, Norman, every morning.”

  “I’m just throwing things out there. There’s a world of possibilities out there for a smart, educated guy like you. Maybe The Real Housewives of New York City would be interested in picking up a male cast member.”

  “Maybe we could start our own show. Real Househusbands of New York City.”

  “Women would dig us, man. Can you imagine?”

  “Yeah, and think of all the marketing potential. Househusband BabyBjörns. Househusband diaper bags.”

  “Househusband calendars.” Tom pats his gut. “I know it may not look this way, but there’s a pretty serious six-pack under here.”

  We both laugh. “Ah, dude, that would be fun,” I say with a sigh. “Wouldn’t that be nice? To have, like, a fun job?”

  “I had a fun job. I loved my job. It’s totally none of my business, but why go back to a job you hate? You should do something you love. Or at least something you like. Everyone should, if you want my humble opinion.”

  “What about you? You think you’ll ever go back to work?”

  Tom smiles. “I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about it. Don’t get me wrong: I love hanging out with my girl here. Morgan did really well, financially speaking, so we’re okay on that front. But in the fall Delaney will be in school for most of the day. I’d like to have something to do. Otherwise I’ll turn into some freaky helicopter parent. And no one wants that.”

  “Maybe you should start a business. Like a support group for dads. Or a play space where dads can take their kids in pajamas and not feel judged.”

  Tom laughs. “I remember the first time I took Delaney to a music class at Little Maestros. When we walked into the classroom, everyone went silent. One mother even wrapped her arm around her daughter, like maybe I was a sexual predator. Suffice to say, we never went back.”

  “That’s exactly how I felt the first time I dropped Caleb off at camp. I don’t know which is worse, the looks of pity, disdain, or just outright concern.”

  “Totally. So maybe there is a market for a play space where shlubby dads and their grubby kids feel welcome. I’d dig it.”

  “Yeah. You could have classes, birthday parties, maybe even support groups. I think it could be good. Maybe really good. Honestly, you should do this. With your background—teacher, stay-at-home dad—you’d be the right guy to make it happen.”

  Tom chuckles. “Except I have no business experience to speak of. I don’t even know how to use Excel.”

  “It’s not hard. I can help. Setting up an LLC’s a cinch.”

  Tom pauses, strokes his beard. “Man, I don’t know. It’s your idea. Maybe you should run with it.”

  “I have no actual skills outside of defending white-collar criminals. And an unfortunate tendency to humiliate myself online. Not exactly the makings of a small-business owner.”

  “Definitely the makings of a fine househusband, however. And househusbands don’t have to bill by the hour.”

  “Yeah,” I say, with a nervous laugh. “That would be a plus. I’ll look into getting myself an agent.”

  Please God, I think as I turn away from Tom. Please let me have my job back. I’ll do anything. And I promise I’ll never complain about the billable-hour system again.

  Sleeping Alone

  It’s midnight and I can’t sleep. I know I should be happy for Zadie, but the truth is that her impending wedding has my head spinning, and not in a good way. All I can think is: First I get fired, and now this? While I know the two are unrelated—Zadie’s engagement, in theory anyway, has nothing to do with me at all—I can’t help but think that this is further proof that God is, in fact, out to get me. Even if Fred comes through and gets me my job back, there’s still the issue of child care. Without Zadie around, who the hell is going to take care of Caleb?

  Feeling lonely, I reach for my phone. I listen to a voicemail from my ex, Alison, informing me that Marissa has broken up with Todd and is happy to meet her for drinks next week. Good, I think. One step closer to exacting my revenge. There’s a message from Lorraine, checking in. Another from my father, which I delete as usual. There are several texts from Moose. They range the gamut from hilarious: “Dude, just got matched on eHarmony with JESSICA from tech support. Please call immediately to discuss the extreme awkwardness of this situation.” To nostalgic: “Walked by Bagatelle yesterday and was thinking about how much fun we had at your bachelor party. Miss you, dude.” To just plain concerned: “Chuck, am getting
worried. Send a smoke signal, let me know you’re okay.”

  I halfheartedly draft a response before deleting the text chain altogether. I’m not quite ready to talk to anyone from Hardwick, even Moose. If there’s one thing I don’t need more of, it’s pity.

  Anyway, I don’t really need to talk to Moose. I already know exactly how the conversation would go. He’ll try to make me laugh, first with a couple of self-deprecating jokes about his love life or lack thereof. Then he’ll casually rib me for not responding to his calls and texts and e-mails. Finally we’ll get to the heart of it: the spectacle I caused at the firm’s party, which, he will assure me, really wasn’t as embarrassing as I thought it was and is all but forgotten by the other associates. By the end of the conversation, Moose will have almost convinced me that it was no big deal. And then, like a giant Labrador puppy, he will bound off in another direction, taking his goofiness and good humor along with him.

  I consider calling Tom, but don’t want to bother him after we already spent the whole afternoon together in the park. There’s no way I’d call Coralie, the flirtatious mother from pickup; I’m lonely, but not quite that lonely. After a moment of hesitation, I pull up Elise’s contact information and debate whether or not I should shoot her a “Welcome to the neighborhood” text. Would that be creepy or nice? She probably gets hit on all the time. But I’m not hitting on her, I remind myself. I’m an old friend who lives across the street and who happens to have a kid her age.

  My finger slips and suddenly I’ve dialed her number. Horrified, I try to end the call, but it’s too late.

  “Hello?” I hear Elise say. “Hello?” Before I can get the phone to my ear, she says, “I can hear you breathing, you jerk,” and hangs up.

  I close my eyes and lean my head back against the wall. I feel like I’m thirteen again, repeatedly dialing Molly McInerney’s phone number over and over and losing my nerve right when she answers. Suddenly my phone is buzzing in my hand: Elise is calling me back. At least, in 1990, Molly McInerney didn’t have caller ID.

  I flirt with the idea of sending her straight to voicemail before finally picking up on the fourth ring.

  “Hi, Elise,” I say, trying to sound cheerful and vaguely surprised. “So nice to see you today.”