By the Numbers (23 page)

Hold on. . . . Am I even interested in the great transformations to come professionally?

Do I
want
to be an executive vice president with all the additional duties and responsibilities the position entails? Do I actually
want
to completely and entirely give up on the math and focus on the management?

The great irony here is that I spend all day, every day, enmeshed in analysis, and at no point have I truly examined the data points of the new position. Chances are, this will be a job I'll hate for a dozen reasons, but mostly because instead of playing to my strengths, I'll have to forgo numbers for people. This dynamic didn't work out with Smith Barney when the stakes were minimal, and I can't imagine what might happen now that they're so high.

In this moment of self-reflection, I feel like those ladies on the dating show Patrick makes me watch. A few seasons ago, all these beautiful women were fighting like mad to win the heart of an Iowa hog farmer. They were ruthless in trying to capture his interest, employing every single one of their feminine wiles. Toward the end of the show, it began to dawn on some of the gals that the victory, sweet though it might be, ultimately would result in the grand prize of
life on an Iowa hog farm
.

That's because it's one thing to say, “I love you so much, Bachelor Chris, that I would be happy to imagine my life on a hog
farm in Iowa,” and it's another thing entirely to actually go there and smell the place for yourself.

I believe today's the first day I've actually stood downwind (metaphorically) of the EVP position and I'm honestly wondering if I wouldn't be a lot happier just buying my (metaphorical) bacon in the little plastic packages at the grocery store.

Plus, I'm going to be someone's mother's mother in less than nine months. (I haven't figured out the specific term I want to be called yet.) Regardless of name, the position is not insignificant. Do I look forward to spending the next ten years on a plane or in a meeting while this kid turns into a preteen without ever having gotten to know me? I feel like I'm right on the edge of vast and limitless space, and if I don't put on the brakes, I'm going to careen endlessly, tumbling head over foot for all eternity like Sandra Bullock's character in
Gravity
, except I don't have a George Clooney to catch me by the ankle before it's too late.

A bead of sweat travels from my temple down my cheek. I feel like I'm fighting to pull air into my lungs and my heart is pounding so loudly that I'm surprised Adrienne can't hear it from her desk on the other side of the wall. Am I having a panic attack? Or is this the actual, physical manifestation of a midlife crisis?

Am I leaving here to buy a convertible and procure a spray tan?

Or am I Chris and his mythological motorcycle right now?

My head hurts.

I hear Kathy clear her throat on the other end of the line.

I try to regain my senses. “Kathy, this sounds great, but clearly this is a big decision and I will need to look at the deal from all angles,” I tell her.

“Of course. I don't expect a reply now. This offer's on the table
for the next forty-eight hours; please give it your full consideration, but know it's a great deal.”

“Okay, thanks for all your hard work, Kathy. Bye-bye.” I try to regulate my breath. Calming yogic breath in through the nose, exhale through the mouth. Again. I do this a couple of times, and it seems to help.

I hang up and dial Patrick. His assistant answers the phone. “Hello. You've reached Walsh, Kahn, and Partners Integrated Marketing Solutions. This is Alysin, Patrick Walsh's assistant. How may I help you?”

“Hi, Alysin; it's Penny. Is he in?” I ask.

“He's not in the office, but I'll put you through to his cell phone,” she says. “This will just take a second.”

For all of my complaints about the millennial generation, they are at ease doing the kinds of things with technology I never dreamed possible, like transferring a phone call from a landline to a mobile device.

After a couple of long beeps, I hear Patrick pick up.

“Penny! What's up?”

Without any preamble, I ask him, “Am I crazy?”

Without hesitation, he answers, “Yes.”

“Really?”

“No. But how else do you expect me to answer when you ask like that? What's going on?”

“I'm on the verge of getting everything I've been working for, and now I'm not sure I want any of it.”

“Intriguing. Continue.”

“I want to know if that's crazy.”

“Do you mean, is it crazy to change your mind? No. You're
allowed to change your mind. What is it you're not sure you want now?”

“For starters, I'm not sure I want to sell my house.”

“Fair enough. You've been there half your life.”

“And I'm not sure I want to be an EVP.”

“Hmmm. In the immortal words of the Notorious B.I.G, ‘Mo money, mo problems.' You saw how that worked out for him, so that might not be the worst decision.”

“Actually, I'm not familiar with him. Was he a drag queen, too?”

Patrick barks with laughter. “Definitely not. But Biggie is not germane to the discussion. Your takeaway is that only you know what's right for you.”

“The last thing is I'm not sure I'm ready to date Wyatt.”

“Again, intriguing. I thought after the whole Moscow Mule thing—Close Mum Ow, and damn it, he's got me doing it now—you kind of liked his vibe. How much of this is because of your almost mash-session on the couch with the former Mr. Penelope Bancroft Sinclair afterward?”

I can keep no secrets from Patrick, whether I like it or not. Within five minutes of casual chatter on Saturday, he had me spilling each and every bean.

“At least thirty-three percent,” I admit.

“Penny, you always say you don't know people; you know numbers. Well, guess what.
I
know people. As a marketer, I'm paid to read people for a living. What you have to realize is that people can change. You're so afraid of history repeating itself that
you fail to recognize that history can also learn from itself.
I said that part in italics because it's that important. Now, I'm going to do you a tremendous
favor. We're ending this conversation and you're just going to sit with what I've said. Mull it over. Let it sink in.”

In the background I hear a voice say, “That'll be seven dollars and twenty-nine cents, please. Do you need any ketchup for your fries, sir?”

“Hold on, Patrick, are you at a
drive-through
?”

“What? Are you kidding? Ew, I would never! No!”

“Thank you for stopping at McDonald's and have a nice day!” the voice says.

I laugh. “You're
so
busted.”

He sputters, “I didn't—you can't—”

“The good news, Patrick, is you just illustrated your own point. People
can
change. Thank you. Please enjoy your Quarter Pounder with cheese.”

“Listen, it's not a Quarter Pounder. It's a Filet-O—whatever.” He sighs with resignation. “Just don't tell Michael, okay?”

“Pinkie swear.”

By the time we hang up, my path is clear.

• • • •

I don't know whether or not I made the right decision, but what's important is that I made a decision. I could have hemmed and hawed for the next day, the next week, the next month, debating my options, weighing the odds, running the numbers. Instead, I looked deep into myself and went with how I felt.

Granted, a lot of people make a lot of stupid decisions following this very protocol. But if that's the case, then I live with the results. Again, at least it's a decision.

So, while I'm not overjoyed or jubilant when I walk in the
back door, I do feel a sense of calm. Surprisingly enough, Max is there at the counter, reading the paper.

“I feel like I haven't seen you in ages,” I say. “We need to talk.”

“So talk,” he says, patting the seat next to him. “What's stopping you?”

“Mainly your never being here. My God, it's like I need to give you a curfew or something. The two of you are out gallivanting at all hours! You know that the Center for Disease Control says that STDs are spreading like wildfire through the senior population? Syphilis is up fifty-two percent.”

He cocks an eyebrow at me. “This is what you think your mother and I are doing? Giving the Cushmans the clap? Get your mind out of the toilet, Penelope. We're usually playing bridge. If we're feeling wild? Canasta.”

“No, that's not what I'm saying. I mean, it sounds like yours is the only generation out there having any fun.”

“That's a problem? Didn't we earn the right?”

Before I can answer him, Caroline comes shuffling into the kitchen, which is about fifteen miles an hour slower than she usually travels. “Hey, does she seem okay to you?” I ask.

“I don't know. I just got home. She doesn't have her normal level of enthusiasm, though. I'll say that,” he replies. “She didn't even try to knock me over when I came in. I said to her, ‘Dog, you're slipping.'”

“Is Kelsey here?”

He gestures with his thumb. “Upstairs.”

Caroline begins to hack and lets forth a small pool of clear vomit. I grab some paper towels to mop up after her. She vomits again, and this time I notice something odd in the pool.

A Milky Way wrapper.

Oh, no.

I could have sworn I put the chocolates on a high shelf in the pantry, far away from anywhere Caroline could reach, even if she stood on her back paws. I run up the stairs to Kelsey's room, where I find her watching a show on her laptop, the package of Milky Ways open and scattered across the bed. There are only a few of them left.

“Kelsey, did the dog get into the chocolate?”

She presses pause on her computer. “Well, hello to you, too.”

“Kelsey, please, this is important. Did the dog get into the chocolate?”

“What chocolate?”

“This chocolate, here? All around you? That is toxic to her. Did she eat any while you were sitting here?”

“Um, I don't know?” She shrugs and presses play.

“You don't know? Were you paying attention? You understand what ‘toxic' means, right?”

“Don't talk to me like I'm a dummy,” she says. “I know what ‘toxic' means.”

Instead of getting louder, my voice becomes very quiet. “Then do you understand that this dog—your dog—may have consumed an amount of a substance that could not only hurt her but could cause her to die?”

“Uh-huh?”

“This life—that you are responsible for—is possibly in jeopardy. What are you going to do about it?”

She stretches and puts a hand on her stomach. “Can you not yell at me for once? I don't know what to do. I don't feel well.”

“Yes. Caroline doesn't feel well either. She's vomiting all over the kitchen.”

“Gross.”

I am incredulous. “Gross? Is that all you have to offer here?”

“What am I supposed to do?” Kelsey whines. “Dogs don't come with a manual or anything. Do I Google ‘Milky Way'? This is hard. How am I supposed to figure this out? Maybe you could just do it?”

“Do you not feel your maternal instinct kicking in? Don't you want to scoop this dog up and protect her and do everything you can to make it right for her?”

She pats her abdomen. “I can't lift the dog or anything; I feel like it would be bad for the baby.”

“I'm taking Caroline to the emergency vet now.”

“Cool. Later.”

“La-ter?” I repeat, enunciating both syllables.

“As in ‘see you'?”

That's it. I'm done here. “You will be gone when I get back.”

“Did you not hear me? I said I don't feel good. I don't know what else you want me to do.”

“Kelsey, I'm going to do you a tremendous favor that you won't understand or appreciate right now, but someday you and your baby will thank me. GET OUT OF MY HOUSE. GET OUT NOW. TAKE YOUR SHIT AND GO. YOU ARE NO LONGER WELCOME HERE. I DON'T CARE WHERE YOU GO. I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU DO. I SUGGEST YOU GO BACK TO MILO AND GROW THE HELL UP BEFORE YOU BRING ANOTHER LIFE INTO THIS WORLD, BUT IF YOU DON'T, THAT IS NO LONGER MY PROBLEM.”

Kelsey's chin is pretty much resting on her chest when I'm finished and her eyes are saucers.

“By the way, Kelsey?
That
was yelling. And Caroline belongs to me
now.”

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Date: July 1st

Subject: Fireworks!

Hello, Penny!

I tried calling you, but I'm not sure if your cell phone is still at the bottom of a Newfoundland, so I'm e-mailing just in case. I'd like to cordially invite you to our first official dinner date of the new millennium. If you're free, please join me on Friday night at Michael in Winnetka at 8:00 p.m.

Looking forward to hearing from you!

Wyatt

• • • •

“S
o . . . how's tricks?”

“Chris, I'm kind of in the middle of something,” I reply.

“I know,” he says, taking on a more somber tone. “I wanted to see how Caroline's faring.”

I'm sitting in the waiting area of the twenty-four-hour emergency vet twelve miles to the west. I don't even want to consider the traffic laws I broke to get here, but I arrived in less than seven minutes. “The vet believes she's going to be okay because I got her here in time. Right now they're forcing vomiting and they'll pump her stomach with fluids. Poor thing. She was starting to convulse. They're doing something with charcoal to keep the toxins from getting into her bloodstream, too. I'm just thankful you don't like dark chocolate or almonds, or we'd have really been in trouble.”

“Why is that?”

“She ate the medicinal bag of Milky Ways I bought for you.”

“Oh.” He's quiet for a beat. “Anyway . . . Kelsey called.”

It's my turn to pause before replying. “Yes, I imagine she did. What did you say to her?”

“I apologized.”

“Terrific. Listen, I've got to—”

“No, you're misunderstanding, Penny. I apologized to her for having made things too easy her whole life. I said I was sorry that I never let her fail, that I never let her experience consequences. I told her that my belated wedding present was to allow her to handle this situation with you on her own. Then I wished her well and asked her to let me know where she was planning to settle. Told her I loved her and then I hung up.”

“Whoa. How badly do you want to go and help her right now anyway?”

“I made Sophie confiscate my crutches and my chair; I can't be trusted. Every fiber in my being is like, ‘Daddy's coming!'”

I can't help but laugh. “When do you anticipate she starts speaking to us again?”

“Hard to say. But Milo texted me. He's on his way to pick her up. She's going home. To her home.”

“You're telling me we did the right thing? Both of us? Does this bring us up to a sixty-six percent success rate?”

“Maybe so.”

“Ha! We're on a winning streak. Hot damn. I should buy a Lotto ticket, because I even managed to run into Max today. You know, all of his tests came back fine? Even the MRI and CT scan. And he seems totally present. He helped me load the dog in the car. As I was leaving, he said if I wanted to talk to him, I should meet him at the Green Bay Café tomorrow in Winnetka. Says he has lunch there every week with Miguel.”

“Miguel? How do I know Miguel? The nice old waiter from the club?”

“Yeah.”

“That can't be right.”

“I know. But I'll at least try him there tomorrow and see who he actually meant.”

“You're not working?”

“Interesting development. I—” Before I can explain what transpired, the vet tech calls me into the room where Caroline's being treated. “Oh, shoot. They're ready for me. I have to sign off. But, Chris? Thank you for having my back. You're kind of my hero right now.”

“Penny, that has always been my goal.”

I feel my cheeks flush as I turn off my phone.

I follow the tech through the sprawling waiting area, populated with other nervous pet owners. This clinic serves many special pet needs during the day, from hydrotherapy to animal behavior to oncology to nephrology. But if anyone is here after hours, they're experiencing an emergency, and I pray their outcomes will be positive, too.

I enter the room where Caroline is being treated. Three techs had to hoist her up onto the table where she's currently in restraints because of the IV, but if she weren't, she'd have bounded up to greet me. No one's pinned down her tail, and it slaps merrily against the stainless steel. The pink color has returned to her tongue, which had been pale, and her breath is no longer labored.

I can tell she feels considerably better.

Well, guess what, Caroline—so do I.

• • • •

I park on the street in front of the Green Bay Café, noting that Max's car is indeed here. As I gather up my purse, I see someone who looks a lot like Miguel leaving the restaurant and getting into a Maserati. He waves, so I return the gesture.

Curiouser and curiouser.

The café is a tiny neighborhood joint one town to the south of Glencoe. The atmosphere is homey and charming, with mismatched novelty coffee mugs and an eclectic collection of plates. A menu is handwritten in chalk above an antique cash register. I like the place immediately, but I can't for the life of me imagine what my dad would be doing here, knowing his propensity for white-glove service.

However, as the café boasts only a few tables and booths, I spot him immediately.

“Was that Miguel I just saw?” I ask.

“Yes. I told you I have lunch with him every week,” Max replies.

“Miguel, the waiter from the club?”

“Do you know a lot of other Miguels?”

“Just the one.”

“Then that's him. Do you want some coffee? Excuse me, Wendy, can we get a cup o' joe over here?” my dad says, pointing at the waitress and then pointing at me. “Thanks.”

“I swear I just saw him getting into a Maserati.”

“Is he driving the GranTurismo or the Quattroporte today?”

“Miguel, the waiter from the club, has more than one Maserati?”

My father stirs some sugar into his coffee. “He's a bit of a gearhead.”

I repeat, “Miguel, the waiter from the club, is a bit of a
gearhead
.”

“Penelope, you sound like the Mad Hatter. Are you investigating things that begin with the letter ‘M'?”

“Am
I
having a stroke? Do
I
have dementia?”

He puts down his spoon. “What, just because he's a waiter, he can't have nice things? That's kind of a racist attitude; I thought I raised you better than that.”

I feel like I'm through the looking glass right now. I begin to crane my head around.

“Penelope, dear, what are you doing?”

“I'm searching for the cameras. Clearly this is some sort of elaborate setup. I thought
Betty White's Off Their Rockers
was canceled, but I guess not?”

“You're talking gibberish.”

“Join the club.” My coffee arrives in a mug that has “Drama Queen” written on it in curling script. I take a big sip, and in so doing, I scald most of the interior of my mouth. I can already feel fleshy stalagtites forming from the burn. So at least it's not prop coffee; that much is real. “Humor me. Let's backtrack. You know Miguel.”

“And you know Miguel.”

No, it's
me
who's talking to the Mad Hatter here, not vice versa.
I'm
the Alice, not him. “Let me try this again—you are friends with Miguel.”

“Obviously. We have lunch every week.”

“On the days he's not serving you lunch.”

“He has Thursdays off.”

“Of course he does.” I drink some more boiling coffee, assuming I will need the caffeine to help every piston in my brain fire. I had no problem in college wrapping my mind around how Stokes' theorem relates a surface integral with curls of vector fields and line integrals, but this? This is above my pay grade.

I ask, “How do you know Miguel?”

“I've known Miguel forever.”

“This is impossible.”

He swirls the coffee in his Bannockburn Fire Chief mug. “Only if you believe it is.”

Did Alice ever punch the Mad Hatter right in his enormous hat? I feel like I'd remember if she did; ergo, I will continue to question him calmly, but if he asks me why a raven is like a writing desk, it's all over.

“Max, if you had to stick a pin in the specific date when ‘forever' may have started, that would be . . . when?”

“Hmm. I'd say more than fifty-five years ago. Miguel was my first employee. He was a young, young kid back then who cleaned up the shop at night.”

“You're just mentioning this
now
? You've known him my whole life and you're only telling me now?”

He shrugs. “You never asked.”

Fair enough.

“Then what's the connection to Centennial Hills?”

“I couldn't pay him much back then. When he had the opportunity to work at the club with his cousin, I wished him well and gave him a couple of shares in the company because he was a good kid. We kept in touch—we were friends. Years later, when we moved to Glencoe, he kept his ear to the ground around the club. Told me who I needed to know and what I needed to know about them. That's the thing about service professionals—people in power believe they're invisible. They let their guard down around them. I was able to get in because of Miguel.”

“Seriously?” I exclaim. “Your whole country club membership is predicated on
extortion
? You
blackmailed
people into making you a member? You built our lives on a lie?”

He raises his eyebrows at me. “Really, Penelope, that's what you think of your old man? That's crazy! What I did was develop similar interests. Miguel told me who was important, told me who made the decisions. They all lived here in town, so I paid attention to their habits. I followed their patterns. If they bought a Town Car, I bought a Town Car. If they used Joe the barber, then I used Joe the barber. I wasn't insidious. I was ubiquitous. I blended. I became part of the scenery. I was someone who was always there. I did this until my membership seemed a mere formality, because they assumed I was already one of them.”

I have never been more surprised by anything my father has told me. “You used math to become successful.”

He nods and sips his coffee. “I guess I did. Club membership was important to me because it was important to your mother. She knew it was the key to opening a new world for us, and she was right. She wanted to be able to give you everything you'd ever need to be successful, and I'd say that's mission accomplished.”

I sit with this information for a moment. I guess I never looked at her social climbing from this perspective before. I'd always assumed her purposes were more self-serving, and that distinctly changes my narrative about her.

Wendy comes up behind us and refills both our cups. Max says, “Careful, this stuff is usually pretty hot,” bringing me back into the moment.

“Can you explain how Miguel has so many Maseratis?”

“Oh, he's
rich
.”

“What? How many shares did you give him?”

“Not enough to get rich. Just enough to wet his beak. He took the money and began investing. Here's the rub again—invisibility. He's like that little wizard boy with the cloak from the movie. With the scar.”

“Harry Potter?”

“That's him. All anyone wants to talk about at the club is their money. Bit of a bore sometimes, actually. Enough already! Everyone was always,
‘
I bought Apple at twelve dollars. I bought Pfizer at fifteen dollars.' Finally, Miguel goes, ‘I'm going to buy Apple at twelve dollars and Pfizer at fifteen dollars, too.' Then he did. The rest is history.”

“When people think he's standing there being solicitous, he's
actually eavesdropping and perpetrating the ultimate in insider trading and the whole thing is a scam?”

“No.”

“No?”

“He's a great waiter and he loves what he does. He's a people person. He could have retired years ago. He's there by choice.”

“No wonder he's always so happy.”

Max shrugs and taps his watch. “Works for him. Listen, I've got a tee time soon. Anything else?”

“Wait, yes! Everything else. You sold the place in Florida and didn't tell me.”

“Didn't concern you.”

I scoot over so I'm blocking his exit from the booth. “What's going on? Do you even own the condo up here anymore? No one will give me a straight answer, and you guys are perpetually out running around. The doctor says you're fine, but nothing is adding up.”

My father gives me an imploring look. “Think about it. You're the smart one. You'll figure it out.”

“I've done nothing but think about it!” I reply. “Wait, does that mean you think Foster isn't smart?”

He shrugs. “Foster has a fine long drive. That's important, too.”

“Really not here to talk about Foster's golf prowess.”

“All those fancy certificates and accreditations and you still don't see it.” He slumps against the back of the booth. He seems defeated in his posture, and I don't understand why, as clearly he's still winning this battle of wills. He gestures to Wendy for more coffee. She trots over and fills his cup with an eager grin.

“Sure you don't want a scone or anything?” he asks. “Their cinnamon chip with maple icing? The best on the North Shore.
Or they have lemon poppy seed. Maybe you'd like savory? I think they might have a few bacon cheddar chive left.”

“No! I don't want a damn scone,” I bark. This man is in a master class when it comes to stalling techniques. “I want you to stop speaking in riddles and baked goods. It would be so nice if something would make sense for a change.”

He sighs. “The problem ain't me, kiddo.”

“What?”

He begins to rub his knuckles. He hasn't built anything himself in many years, but all of his early days wielding a hammer have taken their toll and some days his arthritis really acts up.