The Kissing List (6 page)

She was glad they had moved, even though their new office windows offered a panorama of bolts of fabric on one floor and women hunched over sewing machines on another. After all, it was a not-for-profit, and it had always seemed wrong to work downtown amid armies of bankers. The space itself could have been a little nicer, or at least more conducive to productivity.

Converted space was how Anne described it. Translation: no hot water in the bathrooms, no carpets to absorb the echo, no shades on the windows, no heat except from the radiators along the wall, which roasted the unfortunate ones who happened to sit near them. Unfortunately, all of it was true, and she was one of the unlucky few to sit by both a window and a radiator, and on sunny winter days she felt like she was locked in a car in a parking lot in Tucson, Arizona, in the middle of the summer.

Anne had sent out an officewide e-mail that said: Unwashed Hands: How Germs Spread. Most of the women kept small bottles of liquid sanitizer in their top drawers. The ones who should have been killing germs, given their anatomical architecture, appeared unconcerned, however, and Anne started a rumor that the president and founder of the organization was going to disseminate a memo re: It’s Time to Take Important Matters into Hand: What You Take into Your Hands Matters! It was rather too wordy for Elizabeth, the president, who believed that, as a rule, the subject lines of memos should be no longer than five words.

Goldy—her real name was Frances—sat down and shuffled a pile of papers from one spot to another on her desk before she powered on her computer and dug into her day’s work: writing a strategy memo pitching their program to the Yetman Foundation. Their not-for-profit-nor-for-pleasure was called Pencils Are Important and Necessary Tools (PAINT), and their mission was to raise money for school supplies, including pencils, paints, pens, rulers, glue, tacks, calculators, crayons, and so on. Yetman, of course, earmarked its grant money for the arts, so in the “Likelihood” section, Frances typed
improbable
. Improbables, however, were her favorite challenge—how to persuade foundations and corporations that cared not one whit for public education, or whether schoolchildren in the Mississippi Delta had pencils, to make a commitment to school supplies. It tapped her creativity. She knew exactly how they’d pitch this one—they’d request funds for recorders. A travesty it was that elementary schoolchildren in poor, backward areas weren’t learning how to play “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” and other favorites. Of course, they’d also throw in money for chalk and paper for copying sheet music, meeting two needs with one proposal. Her fingers danced over the keyboard.

Writing grants wasn’t what Frances had set out to do. When she graduated from college, she had wanted to do something good with a capital
G
, like working with poor or oppressed women. In college, she’d been an anthro major—at her school the administration looked down upon the study of anything practical like education or social work or even business—but she’d taken a slew of courses in women’s studs:
Women: Sex
or Gender?
;
Gender: An Anthropological Perspective
;
Heterosexuality: “The Unconscious Non-Choice”
; and
The Economics of Marriage
. For a while, she had even considered becoming a lesbian, at least for political reasons. In spite of what her parents argued—they urged her to cash in on the value of her education—she took a job at a battered women’s shelter, thinking she’d become the Jonathan Kozol of poor women, writing moving books that shed light on their plight. But the shelter was poorly run, and because of her liberal arts background, she was only qualified to work as a front desk receptionist for a salary that barely covered her rent. She had looked around—so many of the places like NOW tackled the struggles of American women who already had good jobs but wanted equal pay or needed rocks to shatter glass ceilings, or women in faraway places like Burundi and Bangladesh who were forced to consent to genital mutilation. But there was no Women’s Defense Fund, no Women’s Aid Society; there were just millions of poor children, children who appeared to be orphans. It was as if their poor mothers had been carefully rubbed out of the picture with erasers provided by PAINT and other not-for-profits.

I
like it, Elizabeth said, and Frances said, I’m so relieved. Though there are some changes I’d like to make in terms of wording, Elizabeth said. First, I don’t like
travesty
. I don’t know. It just sounds too melodramatic to me. Let’s try
tragedy
and see whether that works. She tilted back in the donated office chair and put her Prada loafers on her desk.

Frances admired the shoes, the way they deconstructed
the traditional loafer with their clunkiness. Elizabeth’s husband’s family had money, which was what enabled both of them to work at not-for-profits and still be fashionable. Elizabeth’s husband’s nonprofit raised money to send new and donated eyeglasses to people in third-world countries, some of the same places where Pork Pie—whose real name was David—made his money second-guessing the rise and fall of currency values.

It is a tragedy that children in the birthplace of jazz graduate from elementary school without learning to play the recorder, Elizabeth read aloud.

Frances nodded.

Yes, I think that’s better, Elizabeth said. Now let’s look at
graduate
. Do elementary schoolchildren graduate? She stared quizzically at Frances, but before Frances could answer, Elizabeth punched Harry’s number, even though he was just on the other side of the four-foot-high cubicle wall.

Graduate
, Elizabeth said. What do you think, Harry?
Graduate
or
leave
?

Frances noticed that Harry needed no explanation. He had probably been eavesdropping on the whole discussion.

On the one hand, Harry said,
graduate
might be confusing, and on the other,
leave
is so lackluster. What about trying
emerge
? He lowered his voice: It is a tragedy that children in the birthplace of jazz emerge from elementary school without learning to play the recorder.

He’s so brilliant, Elizabeth said in a stage whisper loud enough for Harry to hear over the partition.

Frances felt nauseated. Harry was one of only three men
who worked at PAINT. The other two men, the graphics guy and a new program assistant, were soft-spoken and slightly effete compared with Harry, who left the top two buttons on his Oxfords undone, revealing a triangle of tangled chestnut-colored hair. It was difficult to find men who wanted to work at not-for-profits, which made Harry very precious for the sake of workplace diversity.

The nice thing about using
emerge
is that it picks up on the birthplace language. Harry’s voice boomed over the speaker-phone while echoing in the carpetless converted space. We could take the whole birth motif a step further by using “are
borne
.” It is a tragedy that children in the birthplace of jazz are
borne
from elementary school without learning to play the recorder.

What about parental rights, Elizabeth asked. Aren’t we skating on muddy ground?

Harry chuckled. You’re a genius. It never occurred to me, but you’re right on the ticket.

Elizabeth shook her head. I’m no genius, Harr. We’re a good team, that’s all.

Frances looked down at her notes, and for the second time that morning, she felt anger surging through her veins.

D
avid called as Frances was drafting a thank-you note to the Peter Pan Foundation for its gift of $5,000 for movie posters (and pushpins, tacks, and tape to affix them and other items). Marry me, he said, and she said, How’s the market? How many millions did you win today?

Earn, he corrected, earn.

Earn
, she repeated. I can’t keep it straight when you’re earning and when you’re gambling.

We could go to Vegas and throw a big party afterward?

What’s a party without a wedge of melted Brie and crudités with creamy dip?

He gasped.

Hard day? she asked.

I’m sorry, he said, I can’t think about vegetables and soft cheese right now. The bottom just fell out of the Russian bond market. We covered our margins, but who knows how we’ll come out in the long run.

Oh, Pork Pie, I’m sorry. Are things terribly tense down there?

They’re fine for now, he answered. How’s the not-for-money business? Did you pitch the Yetman memo to Elizabeth?

Yes. It went well enough—just the usual wrangling over words, she said, sighing and fiddling with her PAINT pencil, which she had filched from the donor gift drawer. She could leave PAINT, say good-bye to Elizabeth and Harry, and no, thank you, to their inane suggestions. That would give her certain satisfaction, but moving up the ladder only meant moving on to an arts organization where, if she were lucky, she would manage an individual donor campaign, keeping track of the board’s friends and producing monthly reports on their generosity. Everyone loved the arts; no doubt she would double her salary. She sighed again.

Why don’t you buy yourself something nice to celebrate? Pork Pie suggested. You haven’t already spent your winnings from the race, have you?

I guess I could, she said, but it seems premature. The proposal’s not even out the door yet.

Don’t be silly, he said. Look, I’ve gotta go. See you tonight, little one?

Love, she said, and he said, Ditto.

F
or two dollars, the graphics guy said, and Frances said, You’ve got to be kidding.

Why don’t you just buy your own pack, he said, turning back to his screen, where he was redesigning the PAINT stationery for the third time that year. You can afford it. Your boyfriend’s an i-banker.

What’s that got to do with anything? Whose boyfriend’s not an i-banker around here?

Mine isn’t. The graphics guy still refused to turn and look at her.

He’s a lawyer, Frances said. That’s practically a banker, and it’s certainly close enough to share your cigarettes.

Look, the graphics guy said, spinning around and facing her, he’s a lawyer, but he works for Legal Aid. Heard of them? They make less than we do, and most of them are in big-time debt from law school. I’m not fucking money.

She didn’t know what to say, twisting her diamond earring out of nervousness.

Point taken, she said at last. I owe you a pack. What do you want?

Spirit of America, he answered.

A
fter buying the cigarettes, Frances walked around the block to clear her head. She wouldn’t smoke. Pork Pie would tsk-tsk her if he found out and challenge her to a reservoir race. She would regret each illicit cigarette, feeling every day of her twenty-seven years. You’re a real dumbo, he would say after beating her soundly, and because those were the meanest words he spoke, she would feel like crying and need to sink her thumbnail into her palm to distract herself.

The sky was gray and heavy overhead, and the pounding in her temple had not subsided. She felt dizzy. She pushed her sunglasses to the crown of her head and closed her eyes for several seconds. When she opened them, there was a rack pusher standing in front of her. She hadn’t heard the rattle of his approach. He licked his lips and smiled crookedly. For once, she didn’t automatically flip her sunglasses back down over her eyes. She stared at him, meeting his gaze, letting her eyes move up and down him as his moved up and down her. He was small and wiry, and his red T-shirt stuck to his chest with perspiration. His jeans were tight and frayed at the cuffs, and at the crotch she noticed an unfamiliar bulge, unfamiliar because she never let her eyes fall on the crotch of a man. Nestled up, it was the size of a big apple. She heard him laugh.

Ice Queen, he said, let pappy stick you his hot rod, and she said, What’s on the rack.

BCBG, baby, the spring collection.

I’ll fuck you for the blue dress and matching jacket.

He looked startled for a moment, and Frances felt astonished too. Her stomach twisted like a dinner napkin being crumpled and tossed on an empty chair, but she was also excited by the thought of the dress and jacket. It was like buying something on a very good sale, she told herself, even though she knew it was nothing like this at all. She wanted to try on the outfit, but there was no time for that in this transaction. Behind the garbage cans, she said and nodded toward the alley. Come on.

She saw that he wasn’t boasting when he said he had a rod. Yes, it was a rod, and pushed up against the brick wall with her pants around her ankles and his callused hands around her waist, she closed her eyes and met his thrusts. It hurt. There was little excitement in the exchange until it was completely over—and she was fingering the rayon dress and jacket as she hurried back to the office.

T
hat night, David met her at the door with a glass of white wine. They toasted, their crystal tinkling like a window shattering, or real birds singing on real trees outside David’s apartment on the first day of spring, or both.

He said, Marry me, Goldy, and without hesitation, she said, Yes, Pork Pie! Yes!