Can I Get An Amen? (31 page)

“Don’t write him off, Ellen,” she commanded. “Give him a chance. You only just started dating.”

“I know.”

“And I can’t understand how you would view his being a minister as some kind of
flaw
.”

“All right, Mom,” I said, as I tried to escape the kitchen, feeling suffocated, as if the neck of my sweater was too tight. “We’ll just see how things go.”

“Hold on a second. I need to talk to you.” Sidestepping the island, she scurried up next to me. “Have you told your brother
and sister anything about what I told you about Daddy and me?” she asked, her voice a whisper.

Having already assured her that I wouldn’t discuss things with Kat and Luke, I was thrown by her need for additional assurance. “No,” I said, my voice softening as I was reminded of the reality of her situation. “I haven’t told them.”

My mother nodded in relief. “Your father wants to tell everyone all at once,” she said, her red sweater looking too bright, too festive for her pale, gray face.

I knew how Luke and Kat would react. Like me, they would cling to an ignorant, desperate optimism. This was when we still had the luxury of believing that it wasn’t quite real, that it was going to be a close call and cautionary tale.
Do you remember when Mom and Dad almost lost the house?

“When?” I asked, wondering at what time, besides Christmas, we would all be together again.

“I don’t know, Ellen,” said my mother impatiently before taking a deep but unsatisfying breath. “Your father has it all worked out.”

. . .

I tried not to think about Mark the rest of the day, but my mind veered in his direction, again and again.

“Why couldn’t he
really
be a Buddhist?” I asked Kat, my cell phone pressed surreptitiously to my ear as I drove into work the next morning. “I could get on board with Buddhism.” It was after I said it that I realized I was only half kidding.

“Why? So you can trade one ideology that probably isn’t true for another that probably isn’t true?” asked Kat harshly, hyperintolerant, as ever, of hypocrisy. “So you can hang out with Richard Gere and wear prayer beads and talk about being an
old soul
?”

Better than hanging out with Mel Gibson.
“Relax, Kat. I was just joking.”

“I don’t think you were.”

Screw you, Kat.
I didn’t want to be challenged. “Whatever. Listen, I’m at work. I gotta go,” I said as I slowed for a traffic light a few miles from the office.

. . .

I wasn’t deep into the day before I had to field several calls from Parker, who was obsessing over that evening’s party. “I want to make sure you are there at least an hour before the guests arrive.”

“That’s no problem,” I said in the same chipper yet professional tone I had taken to using almost exclusively with Parker. “I’ll leave right from here.”

Philip sauntered out of his office as I was hanging up.

“Is Parker driving you nuts?” he asked apologetically, adjusting the collar of his overcoat.

“Oh, no.” I laughed unconvincingly. “She just wants everything to be perfect. I understand.”

Philip sat on the edge of my desk, an uncharacteristically familiar gesture that I attributed to the somewhat more relaxed vibe that permeated all offices during the week before Christmas. “She gets so worked up about this kind of thing. Frankly, I can’t wait until it’s over.”

My only response was a smile, in hopes that Philip would move along. I wasn’t interested in engaging in personal banter with Parker’s husband, even if he was my boss. But Philip didn’t take the hint.

“So, do you have any plans for Christmas?”

“Uh, yeah,” I said lightly. “I’ll be spending it with my parents.”

“They’re friends with the Arnolds, right?”

His body language was so informal that I straightened up and stiffened in compensation. “I suppose you could say that.”

“I think Parker has us going to their Christmas party.” He arched his back in a little stretch. “She’s been going to some women’s group at Lynn’s house and can’t say enough about her. I must hear Lynn’s name”—he paused to make an accurate estimate—“six times a day.”

“Oh, that’s great,” I said. My tone was perfunctory.

Philip rolled his eyes. Unlike Greg, who was adoringly amused by Jill’s idiosyncrasies, Philip seemed to merely tolerate Parker’s. “Yeah, well”—he drummed his fingers over my desk—“if Parker calls, I have a meeting in the city. I’ll be home in time to go to the party together.”

As Philip walked away, I stared at his back, noticing that he didn’t have his briefcase with him.

. . .

I stood just inside the doorway to Maramar, where I had been for at least an hour, ready to escort guests to the large and lavishly decorated private dining room that the Kents had reserved.

“Make sure they don’t set up the raw bar until the very last minute,” ordered Parker into her cell phone. “I would
die
if someone ate a room-temperature oyster.”

“I’ll tell them,” I said, just as I had told the florist to pluck any spotted petals from the cerise rose and green hydrangea bouquets, as I had told the waitstaff to be sure that the wine was served from decanters, “but with bottles displayed so that the label shows.”

I heard the clatter of Parker’s stiletto heels before I saw her.
She marched through the door, which Philip held open for her, and immediately searched for me, disappointed, I could tell, that I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

“How is everything going?” she asked as Philip took her coat. “Does the room look good?”

“It looks beautiful,” I said, though Parker would not be satisfied until she saw it herself.

“Does it feel tight with the banquet-style tables?” She took a discreet but distinctly appraising glance at me. I was wearing a black turtleneck and black pencil skirt with black, kitten-heel boots. I didn’t have on an apron, but I was, as requested, wearing the all-black attire of the rest of the staff.

“No, it’s great,” I said. “That was a good call.” Parker, on the other hand, was dressed to be noticed, with a strapless fuchsia satin cocktail dress that was tight over her chest but belled out into a tulip skirt that accommodated her enormous belly. She had on sexy heels that added at least five inches to her frame and her hair was pulled into a chignon with her bangs grazing her brow.

“Philip, honey,” she said, as she rested her fingers on his upper arm, her voice an octave higher than when she was speaking to me, “let’s go back there. People should be getting here soon.” I could see that she was taking to heart Lynn Arnold’s lessons on how to be a “fine Christian wife.” Philip probably got back rubs, blow jobs, and beer in frosty mugs brought to him on wooden trays with a little bowl of smoked scallops.

The guests began to arrive soon after, and I greeted them cordially.
Good evening. Are you here for the Kent party? Right this way.
I knew how to hold my hands behind my back and smile; Horton had trained me for that. And I wasn’t surprised when they looked through me when asking the whereabouts of
the restroom, or when they followed silently without a pleasant word. I was, after all, the help.

When the Arnolds arrived, and Lynn saw me, her face instantly lifted into a practiced smile, the kind she could probably hold for hours at a time during a ribbon-cutting ceremony.

“So nice to see you, Ellen,” she said, stopping just a few inches too far away for her greeting to be considered sincere.

“Good to see you, too,” I said.

“So, I hope you are still coming to our party next week.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” The immobility of her smile indicated that she wished I would. Her distance suggested that she was fully aware of the severity of my parents’ financial troubles. To the Arnolds, losing your money was worse than having a divorced daughter. It was worse than having a pregnant teenager or a gay son.

As the party reached critical mass, the chatter in the room became a laughter-punctuated buzz. I stood on the sidelines, rendered redundant, as I knew I would be, by the very capable staff of the well-respected restaurant. I was there because Parker was in the position to tell me that I had to be. So I stood in the corner and watched as Parker sought to be the perfect hostess, twirling between conversations and giving face time to everyone in the room. She rested her hand on her swollen belly and nursed her glass of San Pellegrino, every so often directing Philip this way or that. The evening, it seemed, was orchestrated to show Philip exactly how valuable she was, how lucky he was to have her. All powerful men need their Jackies.

As the cocktail hour ended, I approached Philip and Parker to let them know that the guests could be invited to take their seats. They were talking with the Arnolds and Parker’s parents.

“We need to get you into the attorney general’s office, Philip,” said Edward Arnold as he snatched a duck spring roll off a passing tray.

Philip took a sip of his wine. “I’m not nearly altruistic enough to go into public service,” he said, to his audience’s riotous de-light. It wasn’t funny so much as true.

“That’s the problem. No one in his right mind would take that job,” said Parker’s father. “That’s why our government is run by idiots.” Lynn stood by with her hands crossed in front of her, listening to the men, while Parker’s mother looked vacantly off in the distance, like a socialite of old, anesthetized by privilege. Privilege and something darker.

The meal was beautifully prepared and expertly served. Philip gave a lovely toast, thanking his wife for putting the evening together and his friends and colleagues for attending. I didn’t know if anyone noticed that his speech was beginning to slur.

After dessert, the guests began to trickle out and Philip took his post at the bar with a few other men around his age, some of whom I would learn he had known since he was a boy. They had gone to school together, played on the same hockey teams, gone on ski trips, and spent time at one another’s summer homes. Parker looked like she was beginning to flag, taking a seat on a stool and glancing at the clock every few minutes. When the Arnolds came to say thank you and good night, Edward commented on it.

“Parker, you look like you’re ready to put your feet up.”

Philip glanced toward his wife. “Yeah, you look bushed, Park,” he said reluctantly. “I guess I ought to be getting you home.”

“We can bring her home,” offered Edward. “No need to leave your party.”

Parker straightened up and immediately began to attempt to assuage their concerns. “Oh, I’m fine, really. I just needed to sit for a minute.”

“Honey,” said Philip, resting his hand on her belly, “you really should get some rest. Why don’t you let Lynn and Edward get you home, hmm?” Something about his affection seemed opportunistic.

Parker looked nervously over her shoulder, searching the room. I didn’t know what she was looking for until her eyes found me. “No, Philip,” she said, turning back to her husband, steel beginning to form in her voice. “I really am fine.”

Lynn rested her hand on Parker’s shoulder. “Your husband thinks you should get some rest, Parker. For the baby’s sake.” And that was all Lynn had to say. Lynn, from whom Parker was supposed to be learning how to be an obedient Christian wife. She wouldn’t dare defy Lynn.

Gathering up her things, Parker said a few good-byes, then walked over to the corner in which I was standing. She looked at me with an expression I didn’t recognize. “You really don’t need to stay any longer, Ellen.” There was an edge to her voice.

“Okay. I’ll check with the manager that everything is all set. Then I’ll head out.”

. . .

After tracking down the manager, I returned to find the room nearly empty. Philip was still at the bar, his tie now loosened, his hand curled around a crystal tumbler. I heard him give an unrestrained barroom laugh as he sat turned toward the man to his right.

“Pardon me, Philip?” I said from a few feet away.

He swiveled on his stool. “Ellen!” he exclaimed, seeming pleasantly surprised. “I’d like you to meet a few of my friends.”

He gave the man closest to him a slap on the back, a get-a-load-of-this backhand, and I instantly had three sets of male eyes on me, looking me up and down.

“This is Ellen… my assistant.” There was an uncomfortable subtext to the way in which he said my title.

One of his companions whispered something to the other before both began snickering.

“I just wanted to let you know that I was heading home. Everything is all set.”

He turned to his friends. “See how competent she is?” He set his drink down and stood up. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll walk you to your car.” Pointing to his friends, he added, “I’ve seen some unsavory types hanging around here.”

“No, really, that’s not necessary, Philip.”

“Nonsense,” he said, resting his hand on my back. “Where’s your coat?”

I glanced at the two men, one of whom nudged the other, both looking expectant and entertained.

“Really, Philip,” I said, trying to outpace him. “Stay with your friends.”

He ignored me and guided me toward the coat check, where I pulled on my black overcoat. He awkwardly, drunkenly tried to help me with it. “It’s okay,” I said. “I got it.”

I tried to leave him at the front door, to say good night, but he insisted on seeing me outside. “Don’t be so stubborn, Ellen. I’m just being a gentleman.”

Is that what you’re being?
He held the door open and I walked out.

“So,” he said, his breath turning to crystalline frost under the lights of the parking lot, “you’re going right home?”

It was ten o’clock at night. “Yup,” I said, hitting the unlock button on my keys.

“Maybe we could go get a drink somewhere,” he said, his hand once again on my back.

I looked at him sharply. “Philip…,” I warned.

We were at my car and I reached for the handle. Philip’s hand pushed the door shut. My heart jumped into my throat. Here I was again, in a dark parking lot. But this time there was no Mark.

P
hilip tugged playfully on the belt of my coat, letting it slide through his hand. I swatted him away. “What are you doing?” I demanded.