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Why we have to have a meeting about this every time we start a round of layoffs is beyond me. Our severance strategy is always the same. Offer enough money so the majority of the employees being cut will accept the offer, no questions asked. Set aside a contingency fund for the small percentage who seek legal advice and demand more. Have a firm ceiling above which you cannot rise during your negotiations with said lawyers. Make it clear that you will see them in court if necessary. Chance that someone will institute litigation, according to the consultants: 0.02 per cent.

I wish I could skip the whole thing, but what choice do I have? So here I am, completely freaked out, half an Ativan in the bag, skulking into the conference room with the rest of my department.

I take a seat next to my supervisor, Lori Chan, a tiny woman with straight black hair who’s been at the company about as long as I have, just in time for the Safety Minute presentation—the SMP.

If these meetings are pointless, the SMP is in a category all its own. Implemented two years ago when, as Jeff would say, the consultants started taking over, every meeting begins with one. A minute-long presentation about safety in the workplace. It’s why all the cars are parked ass inwards in our parking lot. Why you’ll see employee after employee swing their legs out of their car and make sure both feet are planted firmly on the ground before exiting their vehicle. That, and an infinite number of other acts of conformity that are supposed to make us safer, but only make me think of the Two Minutes of Hate in
Nineteen Eighty-Four
every time I’m forced to listen to one of them.

I’m sure I’m being subliminally programmed for something; I’m just not sure what.

As Casey Durham, today’s lucky contestant, rises to tell us about water fountain safety, my mind drifts to the one fun Safety Minute I ever attended.

I don’t know how, but Hector Valenzuela knew he was about to get whacked. But first, he had to deliver his SMP. And boy, did he go out in style. He was supposed to be speaking about how to avoid paper cuts, but instead, he gave a very instructive, and very graphic, presentation on how to skin a moose. Apparently it depends on what you want to use the skin for, and all kinds of other things I never absorbed because I was laughing so hard thirty seconds in that the laughter took over my whole body. I was nearly crying by the time I told Jeff about it …

Oh-oh, is this what my life is going to be like now? Every little thing reminding me of him, and not being able to tell him about any of it?

Where is he, where is he, where is he?

I can feel my throat closing up and my head start to spin even before it happens. Lori stands to thank Casey, then she gets this look on her face, this fake sad look, and says she has something else to add before we begin.

“I’m not sure how many of you knew him, but it’s my unfortunate job to inform you that Jeff Manning, of the other Springfield, died tragically in a car accident this weekend …”

No. No!

“Tish, are you okay?”

I didn’t realize I spoke out loud. Screamed. I think I might’ve screamed out loud.

“I …” I stand on wobbly legs and move as quickly as I can for the door.

The handle’s slippery in my hand, but I have to get out of here. Then I’m out, and the bathroom is only two doors away. I’m in a stall and I’m leaning over the toilet, heaving, choking, until there’s nothing left in my stomach, not even bile.

I knew it
, I can’t stop thinking.
I knew it
.

A couple years ago
, I was invited to the company’s annual retreat in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico.

I took it as a positive sign about my performance as the new head of the accounting department, but mostly I was happy it was slated to take place at a pricey golf resort, and that spouses were invited along for the ride. Claire and I hadn’t had a trip without Seth in a while, and it was nice that we were being forced to take the time. That we needed it was one more reason to be happy to go.

My parents eagerly agreed to stay with Seth, and I brought my clubs up from the basement, dusting them off and taking practice swings in the living room. I hadn’t played a round in four months, and I was feeling itchy. Not a golfer, Claire was looking forward to getting away from the dull, grey winter we’d been having and seeing a bit of sun.

I don’t usually think of myself as the sort of person who’s affected by the weather, but I felt lighter the minute we deplaned. The sight of all that pristine grass, broken up by
sandy-white bunkers and indigo water hazards as we drove through the resort added to the bubble of happiness welling up inside me. I could tell that Claire was feeling happy too. She had a sort of perma-smile on her face, something I hadn’t seen in a while.

The resort was plush, spread out over endless acres bounded by the choppy ocean. Our suite was in a building next to the newly built clubhouse. The first one we’d been in since our surprise, paid-for-by-the-family honeymoon, the suite had a large living room, an even bigger bedroom, and a bathroom that was grand enough to house a Jacuzzi. The colours were light and airy. Sunlight flowed in from the massive windows that gave never-ending views of the kelly-green golf course.

“Maybe I should go to the pool?” Claire said, flitting around our room, unpacking. “Or, I saw tennis courts. Do you think I could find someone to play with me?”

“I think you could find someone to do a lot of things with you.”

“Flirting!”

“Can you flirt with your own wife?”

She rested her hands on my waist. “You certainly can.”

We started kissing, pressing against one another. Thoughts of the golf course drifted away. I had my shirt off and was working the buttons on hers when the phone next to the bed rang shrilly.

“You better get that,” Claire said.

I put my lips against her neck. “It’ll take a message.”

She swatted me gently as it rang again. “It might be one of the bosses calling.”

She was right. John Scott, the VP in charge of my department, wanted me to go to the driving range with him, had
heard I could help out a guy who might have a “slight” slice. I wondered how he knew that, but then I remembered some passing conversation we’d had months ago about how I’d worked as a golf pro for a couple summers when I was putting myself through college. Drinks had been involved in this conversation, of course, because the truth was that I’d worked
for
the golf pro while I was putting myself through college. But I couldn’t tell him that, so I agreed to meet him in the lobby in fifteen.

“Sorry, honey, but duty calls,” I said as I hung up the phone. “I have to go to the driving range.”

“Since when has someone ever had to convince you to do that?”

“It shows the power you still have over me.”

“Now you’re feeding me lines! What’s gotten into you?”

I wasn’t sure, but it seemed like it had gotten into both of us.

I hoped it would last past golf practice.

“I feel happy.”

“You know what?” Claire said. “Me too.”

I met John in the lobby twenty minutes later. He was standing underneath a large blue banner that read
Welcome!
and was dressed like my grandfather used to, in a pink polo shirt, madras golf shorts, and tan socks pulled up to his knees. He was chewing on an unlit cigar, his shaven head glinting under the harsh overhead lighting.

“Jeff, my boy,” he said, shaking my hand firmly, “let’s do this thing.”

He slapped me on the back and led me outside, where a white electric golf cart was waiting for us. I had started to
strap my bag in when a young kid in a dark blue polo shirt and chino shorts mumbled, “Let me help you with that, sir,” in nearly flawless English and snatched it from me, then did the same for John.

Having been in this kid’s position, I wanted to tip him for his efforts, but I’d left my wallet in my room. John took it as part of the included service, and placed his rather large behind into the golf cart. It listed to the side under his girth.

I mumbled an apology to the kid and climbed in next to John, surprised he was letting me drive. Until he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a silver flask. He unscrewed the top and took a long pull.

“Would you like a snort?” he asked, holding it towards me.

“I’m good.”

I pressed the pedal and followed the signs for the driving range, wishing I hadn’t answered the damn phone. Wishing the golf car went faster than ten miles an hour.

These thoughts retreated when I caught sight of the nicest range I’ve ever been on. The grass looked like no one had ever hit a ball off it. The wooden pickets separating each practice area were whiter than the puffy clouds above, whiter even than the pristine balls filling the plastic baskets next to them. No chits, no ball machines, no marked-up, mangy range balls, just ones that looked like they’d been cracked out of their packets moments earlier. If making it to the majors meant real baseballs for practice, this was the Show of golf.

A different kid in the same uniform took our clubs and set them up. I mumbled another apology, and he thankfully placed me far enough away from John that his curses and frequent whiffs wouldn’t distract me.

I spent a few minutes watching his swing—hunched over,
not coming back far enough, head lifting at the moment of contact—searching for some polite phrases that might actually help him without getting me fired. In the end, I suggested he stand taller and position himself differently to the ball, and he hit a few shots that didn’t arc into the woods. Satisfied, he waved me off, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

Left alone with my golf bag and enough balls to ensure I’d be in need of a session in the Jacuzzi later—hopefully with a slippery and happy Claire—I got into a zone while I worked my way from my pitching wedge to my five iron, ten balls each. When my muscles felt loose, I took out my driver and used it to stretch my arms above my head.

As I twisted my body from side to side, I noticed that John was sitting on the grass in his pen, his legs splayed out in front of him, flask in hand. He was watching the only other person on the range, a tallish woman wearing a white polo shirt and cropped khaki pants. A long black braid of hair poked through the back of her white baseball cap.

I rested my driver on the ground, leaned against it, and watched her. She had, very possibly, the most natural golf swing I’d ever seen. She was using an iron—her seven, I think—to deftly flick a ball from the green plastic basket and up onto her tee. She drew the club back and—
whack!—
it flew off the face in a perfect arc and landed within feet of the fluttering blue flag a hundred and fifty yards away. I realized that she was, incredibly, making a ring around the flag. In a few minutes, there was more white than green in its radius.

I’m not sure how long I watched, but I remember feeling like I could watch forever. This woman was amazing. She should be on the tour, she should …

“That girl has a perfect ass,” John said, slurring his words
and talking, I was sure, loudly enough for her to hear.

She turned towards us, her features shaded by the peak of her cap. “Excuse me?”

“I was admiring your ass,” John replied unabashedly, all politeness washed away by the contents of his flask. “Your golf swing really shows it to its best advantage.”

Her iron swung in her hand like she was getting ready to use it. “And who are you?”

“I’m John Scott.”

From what I could see of her expression, she clearly wanted to tell John Scott to go fuck himself, but something was holding her back. Then it occurred to me—she must work for the company too. She couldn’t tell him to fuck off any more than I could.

I walked over to John’s pen. “Maybe we should get back? Isn’t the reception soon?”

“What? Oh yes, I suppose you’re right.” He struggled to get himself into an upright position. The woman shot me a grateful look.

“Will we see you there, little lady?”

“Indubitably,” she said, and turned back to her half-empty basket of balls.

When I got back to the room, I found Claire sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a plush taupe towel. The room was thick with steam, and her hair was wet and slicked back from her face. Pale skinned, she already had a slight sunburn across the bridge of her nose.

“Damn. If only I’d gotten here a few minutes earlier.”

She looked away from the television and grinned. “One-track mind.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

I walked towards her to give her a kiss, but her attention was drawn back to the screen. I followed her gaze. Anthony Bourdain was biting into what looked like a raw sea urchin, plucked from the crystal ocean behind him.

“Where is he this week?”

“Sydney.”

“Australia?”

“Yes.”

I watched the screen for a moment, listening to her breathing, feeling the stillness expand between us.

“It’s beautiful,” I said eventually. “No wonder Tim loves it there.”

“Shouldn’t we get to that cocktail party?” She stood, hugging the towel around her tightly. “You’re right, we should.”

I walked past her to the bathroom and showered quickly, trying not to think about Claire and Australia and Tim. Eventually, I shifted my thoughts to the driving range as a distraction. And it worked, after a fashion.

I told Claire about John as we dressed.

“He’s a jerk,” she said. “But you shouldn’t let it bother you.”

“Wouldn’t it bother you?”

“Of course. But a lot of the old guard are like that. You have to roll with it.”

“Are you saying you get treated like that?”

“I used to. Sometimes.”

“By who? And why haven’t you told me that before?”

“Because I knew you’d want to beat the crap out of them, and that wouldn’t have been good for my career, now would it?”

“I might’ve taken some pleasure from it, though. Seriously, who talked to you like that? Was it that Ed guy?”

“It was no one in particular; part of my old life. Now come on, we’re going to be late.”

I stifled my annoyance and finished tying my tie.

Outside, we walked along the path to the clubhouse. It was dusk, and as we walked, a set of lanterns stuck into the lawn snapped on, illuminating the path. Bugs and birds buzzed and twittered in the trees above us. The air smelled like freshly mown grass and new paint. Venus was rising, bright above the horizon.

Claire curled her fingers into mine. After a moment’s hesitation, I squeezed her hand.

“Is this going to be excruciating for you?” I asked.

“Of course not. I’m sure I and the other wives will spend the night talking about our kids.”

I laughed and felt lighter because of it. “I do work with a few women.”

“Maybe I’ll talk to them, then.”

The clubhouse had a long wraparound porch. Little white lights were strung through the balustrade, and the din of cocktail conversation spilled towards us. We collected drinks from a waiter and spent the next hour winding through the crowd, having those brief exchanges you always have at these types of events. “Where are you from?” “What department do you work in?” “This is my wife.” “This is mine.” “Isn’t this place great?” “It really is.” “Do you work for the company too?”

Claire kept an eye out for the waiters passing with canapés, and by the end of the hour we had a good drink-to-bite-sized-food ratio going.

When the Milky Way was a streak above the now nearly invisible golf course, a gong sounded, calling us into dinner. We searched the seating chart for our table and found out that
we were sitting with John and his wife. I knew Claire actively disliked both of them, and I was pretty sure she’d hate John by dessert.

Hell, we might both hate him by dessert.

When we got to the table, John and Cindy were already seated, making inroads into a bottle of red wine. His face had a florid, other-side-of-sober look to it. He patted the seat next to him when he saw Claire. She sighed, and I whispered to her that she didn’t have to sit there if she didn’t want to. She told me she could handle it and sat down, her shoulders squared as if for a fight. I took the seat next to her, introducing myself to a middle-aged woman in a cocktail dress who turned out to be the chief operating officer’s wife.

The COO was deep in conversation with a very pretty, very young woman, the newly acquired wife of our sixty-year-old CEO. She was the talk of the company, her “modelling” photos circulating around the office. Some of them had been enhanced and/or captioned. You can imagine. I hoped the guys behind it weren’t on the outs with IT.

The seat next to hers was empty, for the CEO presumably. I couldn’t for the life of me understand how we’d ended up sitting here.

“What are we doing at this table?” Claire murmured.

“I was wondering the same thing.”

“I see big things in your future, young man,” she said, squeezing my thigh under the table. “Big things.”

The thought of that possibility made me nervous, and I decided to switch to water. Drinking as much as I wanted to seemed like a bad idea in the circumstances.

The first courses of salad and soup passed slowly. The COO’s wife was very nice, but we had less than nothing
in common, and I began to regret my no-drinking decision. When the waiter came to refresh the glasses, I decided to allow myself a glass of wine. One glass with each course ought to keep things reasonable but bearable.

The main course was set up as a buffet against the back of the room. As we rose to take our place in line, Claire told me to go ahead, she’d meet me back at the table. I suspected she was going out for a smoke, but I didn’t call her on it. We had a sort of don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy with respect to her smoking.