Big Law (15 page)

“Ummm … what’s that?” I asked, pointing to the mysterious cardboard cutout looming beside his desk, praying it wasn’t some life-size stripper that would have to be recorded in his diary.

“This? It’s a life-size cutout of Abe Lincoln!” he answered excitedly, turning the figure around so I could see. Okaaay … this guy was even kookier than I thought. Had I underestimated Sheldon? Was he the type of guy you see on CNN that brings a gun to work and unleashes a spray of bullets on all of us sinners? I could just imagine the interview:
Were there any signs that Sheldon was crazy? Well, let’s see, you mean other than the masturbation journal and the giant cardboard Abe Lincoln in his office?

“What do you think?” Sheldon grinned widely at me. It was the most animated I’d ever seen him.

“Hmmm …” I didn’t know what to say. I certainly didn’t want to be the first one shot if he did end up going postal. I gripped my chin pensively. “I always thought Abe was taller.” It was the best I could come up with.

“Wow—good eye, Mackenzie!” He looked at me in astonishment. “Abe actually WAS two inches taller. According to history books …”

“Sheldon,” I interrupted. I had to know. “Can I ask WHY you have a life-size cutout of Abe Lincoln?”

He looked at me like the answer was obvious. “Not only was Honest Abe a great president, he was also a great lawyer. I couldn’t think of anything more inspiring to look at when I come into the office every day.” He gazed admiringly at Abe. Looking at Sheldon’s devotion to his hero, I couldn’t help but envy that he’d managed to find a role model. Sure, he had to look outside of Biglaw and this century for inspiration, but at least he’d found it. Tonight the only thing that inspired me was the dangling carrot of a good night’s sleep. Unfortunately for me, it didn’t come in a life-size cutout.

Two days later, while digging into dinner at my desk (a shrimp salad from the cafeteria salad bar), I finally opened the email from Mom, which I realized with a pang of guilt had been sitting in my inbox, unread, for over a week. Usually Mom thinks some disaster has happened if I don’t return a phone call or email within the hour, so I knew she’d be fretting.

Christmas. The word blinked at me from my inbox like a neon sign. Tomorrow was Christmas. I couldn’t believe it was here already. I’m one of those people that eagerly anticipates the arrival of Santa in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade, ushering in the season. I love Christmas carols, the scent of pine and balsam, and even shopping on Black Friday. This year, though, I’d spent Black Friday fielding angry emails from Saul, and had yet to inhale the scent of a Christmas tree (unless the pine scented air freshener in the bathroom counts). The only carols I’d heard were playing in Starbucks while I impatiently waited for my morning caffeine fix. I couldn’t imagine feeling any less festive right now. The one reminder that it even was the holiday season was the eight foot, decorated tree in the lobby that I passed every morning on my way to the elevator and again every evening on my way out. And I wouldn’t call it festive as much as I would call it patronizing, like it was saying to me, “Hope I provide you some Christmas joy in your dreary day!” accompanied by a gentle pat on the back.

I reread Mom’s email. I found her enthusiasm … exhausting.
This is absolutely the worst time to be heading home to visit my family
, I thought. I had so much work to do, and if I wasn’t working I’d rather be … sleeping.

I wasn’t in the mood to answer the questions about my job that would inevitably be posed by neighbors and extended family. “When will you go to court?” (Never, I do corporate law, not litigation.) “Is it really like how it is on TV?” (You mean introducing a piece of evidence at the last minute to save your case and then celebrating with your hard-bodied colleagues at nearby bar? No.) “Can you help my brother get out of jury duty?” (No. And sitting reading the paper all day waiting for your name to be called sounds like heaven to me—he should be thankful.)

But the most irritating question about my job usually came from Mom in the form of something like “Why don’t you just tell them you’re too
tired
to work that late?” (Because, through decades of peer pressure, lawyers have deemed exhaustion, or any other reason, an inadequate explanation for not working.)

There was no point in saying that to my parents. They’d never get it. How could they? Jobs weren’t considered a 24/7 commitment
when they were starting their careers. There was no email, no BlackBerries, no way of getting a hold of you when you weren’t near a phone. When you left work you knew you were done for the day. They had no concept of the demands of Biglaw, just as I hadn’t until I lived it.

I’ll take the 6:14
A.M
. train Christmas morning, stay Christmas Day, and come back early on the 26
^th
, I reasoned with myself.
Ben couldn’t balk at that, could he? I’ll barely be there long enough to open presents.
Then it hit me. Presents. I forgot the presents. I couldn’t show up without Christmas presents. I looked at the time—7:38
P.M
.
Shit, shit, shit!
I grabbed my coat and headed to the only place close to the office that would be open at this time on Christmas Eve—Duane Reade.

I nearly knocked into the automatic doors on my way in. Why do they make those things open so damn slowly? Once inside, my eyes darted around the store frantically as I tried to make a mental list of people I needed to buy for. Knowing that every minute spent shopping was one less minute I would be sleeping tonight, I grabbed a plastic basket from a stack by the door and raced around the aisles, tossing in anything that would be a suitable gift for anyone on my list.
An umbrella—perfect! Isn’t Dad always saying he loses his umbrellas?
In the basket it went. Next aisle.
An Oil of Olay gift set—Mom’s skin could use some moisturizer, right?
I shrugged and threw it in the basket. Next aisle. A new hair dryer for my sister.
Well, she’s always blow drying her hair, right? Like every morning! She probably needs a new hairdryer!
In the basket. Next aisle. Adidas cologne for my brother-in-law.
He’s sporty—I’m sure he wants to smell that way
. Next aisle. A stuffed cat in a Santa outfit with the words “Meowy Christmas” printed across the front.
Kids can’t get enough stuffed animals, right?
I grabbed two—one for each nephew.

I headed to the line to pay, tossing random bags of Christmas candy in the basket on the way. I could use the candy to fill out the gifts a bit. Everyone likes candy! A box of Hawaiian Punch-flavored candy canes, a bag of red and green sugared gum drops, a foil wrapped chocolate Santa. Perfect. Christmas shopping done in record time.

Exactly twenty-eight minutes after I’d left my office, I was dashing through the lobby at breakneck speed, nearly bowling over a delivery
man, causing him to drop his large plastic bags full of Chinese food. “Sorry,” I muttered as my shopping bags swung wildly. No time to stop and help. Passing the Christmas tree, I felt it shake its head in disapproval.

Don’t you dare judge me, tree,
I thought as I stepped into the elevator and repeatedly pressed the button for twenty-seven.
These are perfectly acceptable Christmas gifts.
But still the tree stared, judging. “Screw you, tree,” I mumbled, glaring at it as the doors closed.

Back in my office, I flung myself down in my chair and peered into my bag, surveying my purchases. The candy looked like it was from last year. Does candy ever expire? And did I really buy Adidas cologne? Should a company that is known for making something that goes on your feet really be in the fragrance industry? I felt deflated. Piled up together it really did look like a big bag of junk. The stupid tree was right.

“Mackenzie?” I looked up and saw Ben at my door, staring at my bags disapprovingly. “When you’re finished with your Christmas shopping, can I see you in my office for a run-down on where we’re at with the diligence? I’m leaving for the airport in forty-five minutes.” Obviously the moratorium on vacations did not apply to partners.

I fumbled with my bags, trying to stuff them underneath the desk. “Of course, Ben. I’ll be right there,” I answered in my most professional voice.

“You’re losing your gumdrops.”

“Pardon?”

He gestured to the window behind me, which showed the reflection underneath my desk where one of my bags had toppled over and the large bag of gumdrops was falling out.

“Oh … uh … thanks.” I leaned down to stuff it back into the shopping bag, banging my head on my desk in the process. Popping back up like nothing happened, I gave Ben a tight smile, which he returned and walked away.

I let out a large breath through my pursed lips. Stupid gumdrops. I should have thrown them at the damn tree.

I
STEPPED OFF THE
train at North Station with my laptop in tow. It was Christmas morning and people all around me were gathering their bags full of festively wrapped parcels and slowly making their way off the train. I cringed, picturing my plastic bag full of Duane Reade’s finest sitting in my suitcase. They weren’t even wrapped.

“Honey, over here!” Mom waved at me over the crowds. I’d almost forgotten how chipper people could be outside of F&D. One look at her cheerful face and my eyes prickled with tears. I didn’t realize how much I missed her and Dad until I saw them.

“There’s our big city lawyer,” Dad boomed, pulling me into a hug.

“Merry Christmas!” Mom chimed.

Being in Dad’s embrace felt so comfortable I didn’t want to let go. It was like this one element was still frozen in time despite my life surging ahead in New York. With Dad, I was seven years old and problems could still be solved with pizza.

“You look wonderful, honey,” Mom gushed as she wrapped her arms around me. “But have you gotten thinner?” She pulled back to survey me, making a disapproving face as she poked my ribs.

“I don’t think so, Mom.”

“Well, I’ll put some meat back on your bones before you leave. I made popcorn balls!” Mom always made my favorite Christmas treat, even though nobody else in the family liked them. And I knew she’d probably cleaned out my old room, put a bowl of my favorite candies on the nightstand, and laid out fresh towels on the bed.

“Thanks, Mom.” I smiled, blinking back unexpected tears.

“Let’s get outta here,” Dad said, putting his arm around me guiding us towards the exit. “Everyone is so excited to see you, and I want to hear all about this glamorous New York City life of yours.”

Glamorous? I was definitely going to have to leave some of the messy parts out.

Walking into my childhood home, I inhaled the smell of freshly baked Christmas cookies. My jaw unclenched, my shoulders relaxed, and the knots in the pit of my stomach loosened. I was home. If only there was a way to pipe this smell into my office every day.

“The others don’t arrive until two, so we have a few hours. Have you had lunch?” Mom asked, walking towards the kitchen. “I could warm up some lasagna in the microwave. Or if you feel like something lighter I could toast you a bagel.” She put her Santa apron over her head and reached behind her back to tie it.

Lunch? I looked at the clock. It was 11:45
A.M
. Most days I was lucky if I had time for breakfast by this time.

“Bagel sounds good, Mom.” I flung myself down at the kitchen table and watched as Mom buzzed around the kitchen, slicing the bagel, popping it in the toaster, and pulling the cream cheese out of the fridge.

It struck me that my mother put on an apron whenever she entered the kitchen. She was always prepared to whip up a meal, a snack, or just to wipe down the already clean counters. If she had been born at a different time, would she be running a company instead of a household? I wondered if she would be happier, more fulfilled that way. It was hard to tell. Watching her spread the cream cheese on my bagel, humming “
Jingle Bells
,” she looked more content than anyone I’d been around in a long time.

She set the bagel down in front of me and gleefully gave me a run-down of our Christmas schedule. “So, everyone arrives at two and we’ll do presents and appies then. You’ll never believe it, but I managed to track down that video game that Evan asked Santa for.” While she launched into a story about befriending the owner of a local toy store, my mind wandered to the stuffed cat I had in my suitcase for Evan. I was already an absentee aunt—what was I think
ing, getting him a cheap stuffed cat? An absentee aunt should at least come up big at gift-giving time.
Maybe I’ll tuck $100 in with it. Do five-year olds like getting cash?

I tuned back in just as Mom was wrapping up her victory story. “And when he got the shipment he called me right away and I raced down there to get it. I was actually at a movie and had to leave midway through, but it’ll be worth it to see his little eyes light up.” She smiled triumphantly.

“That’s great, Mom. I didn’t really have … uhh … time to get him anything good. Do you mind if I put my name on the card too?” I didn’t want to be crowned World’s Worst Aunt this early on in their young lives.

“Of course. No problem, honey.” Reading my mind, she added, “it’s not the gifts they want from you anyway, so don’t worry. Margaret told the boys you’d take them to see the new Muppet movie tomorrow. That’ll be better than any gift they’ll receive today.”

“Mom, I don’t have time to do that!” I snapped. Seeing her crushed expression, I took a deep breath and softened my tone. “I’m sorry, but I have to take an early train back to the city tomorrow. Lots to do back at the office!” I forced myself to sound cheery.

“You’re leaving tomorrow? But you won’t even have been home for twenty-four hours. I know you’re busy at work, but …”

“Well, such is the life of a successful, big city lawyer,” Dad called enthusiastically as he entered the kitchen, newspaper in hand, ready to discuss the latest current events with me. Mom turned back to the counter. It seemed like I was disappointing everyone these days. At least Dad understood.

“Have you seen what they are doing with our tax dollars now?” he asked, sitting down and settling in for a debate.

“The first thing we need is a glass of wine.” Margaret extracted two large wineglasses from the cupboard and set them on the counter.

“I don’t remember seeing that in the ingredient list,” I snickered as Margaret opened a bottle of pinot grigio and poured two healthy portions.

“Secret ingredient.” She grinned, handing me the glass. I silenced my BlackBerry and slid it into my pocket before taking the glass. “All good chefs are drunk when they create their signature dish.” She lifted her glass, air toasting mine, and took a long satisfied gulp.

“Well, there’s a piece of Food Network trivia I never knew.” I leaned back against the counter, surreptitiously examining my sister over my wineglass. Even after having twins, her body still looked like she could model in a fitness magazine. Everything about her was toned and flawless, from her Jessica Alba-esque stomach to her perfectly rounded bum. I was slim, granted, but I was all straight lines and angles. Shape magazine wouldn’t exactly be knocking down my door.

“Okay!” Margaret set down her glass, wiped her palms on her jeans, and peered down at the recipe. “How do we make this bad boy?”

“It’s my famous gingerbread roll with cinnamon cream.” I pointed to the picture in Mom’s cookbook. “You’ll be in charge of the cinnamon cream and I’ll make the roll.”

I think I was actually humming as I buzzed around the kitchen, gathering bowls and ingredients. Hearing the familiar clang of pans, inhaling the scents of vanilla, cinnamon, and ginger, I was reminded how much I used to enjoy baking. I loved the feeling of creating something from scratch; measuring out perfect proportions of flour and sugar, sprinkling in new ingredients, changing the taste with a dash of nutmeg. I liked baking cookies until they were golden, their aroma filling the entire house. But I hadn’t had the time to bake in … I couldn’t even remember.

“So how’s everything in New York?” Margaret asked, dipping her finger into her concoction and taking a taste.

“Oh, good,” I answered breezily. “Everything’s good.”

“Good? You must be having the time of your life! I’m so envious. I mean, living in New York when you’re young enough to enjoy it—the art, the food, the energy.” Margaret looked into the distance wistfully for a moment. “Luke and I are
dying
to make it down there to visit you. Maybe when the kids are older …,” she trailed off, and began mixing so vigorously I thought the bowl might fall off the counter.

“You should.” I nodded enthusiastically, suddenly aware it was the first time Margaret had ever envied something I had. All those
years I spent in her shadow, wishing I could be more like her, have her life, and now I was the one with the enviable life. Margaret was right. Living in New York is pretty fantastic. I had everything I’ve ever wanted.
If I can just get through the next few months
, I thought as I blended the spices into the egg mixture.
Then the Highlander deal will close, I’ll get the StarCorp secondment, be on partnership track, and things will fall into place.

“Cinnamon cream is done!” Margaret announced proudly as I spread batter into the baking sheet.

I put down my spatula and patted her on the back. “I’ll just pop the roll into the oven and when it’s done we can put it all together.”

“I’ll be upstairs wrapping presents till then.” Margaret started towards the door before taking a few steps back, grabbing her half full wineglass off the counter. “With this.” She grinned.

I leaned back against the counter, licking the last bits of gingerbread batter off my fingertips, marveling at how good food tastes when your stomach isn’t tied in knots. Delicious smells were wafting from the oven, Christmas carols were softly playing, and the Christmas tree lights were twinkling in the window reflection. I felt just simple and uncomplicated happiness. I picked up my wineglass and let out a long, cleansing exhale.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

It took me a moment to realize why my pants were suddenly buzzing.

You have got to be kidding me!
I screamed silently. What is it about being a partner that makes a person incapable of completing a simple task, like printing out a document himself? Last winter, Alex had had to trudge out in a blizzard that dumped fourteen inches of snow to personally deliver a sixty-seven page purchase agreement to Vincent because he didn’t want the hassle of printing out the document at home.

Surely Vincent can find a printer somewhere around his hotel
, I fumed.
And why does he need to see this ASAP? It’s not like we’re brokering peace in the Middle East—this deal will still get done even if we take one measly day off.
But that “ASAP” shouted at me from the screen. There wasn’t time to talk myself down, remind myself that I was here to spend time with my family and that Vincent wouldn’t die if he didn’t receive the document until tomorrow. I dashed upstairs to sign on to my firm-issued laptop.

Despite multiple attempts with my parents’ painfully slow internet connection, I kept getting hit with the same error message.
This username is signed on at another location. Please sign out of your previous session and try again. If you believe you’ve received this message in error call the Help Desk.

I could hear laughter coming from the living room, as Dad was telling everyone about his disastrous trip to the mall to Christmas shop. “I was stalking this guy for his parking spot and it turned out he was a security guard patrolling the lot!” His voice boomed. “He thought I was some sort of car thief casing the parking lot!” More whoops of laughter were in the background as I called the help desk.

“For security reasons we can’t have employees logged on from multiple locations,” the IT operator informed me in a monotone voice.

“I’m not signed in anywhere else,” I snapped. “I shut my computer down before I left the office.”

She sighed at my perceived stupidity. “It’s not your office computer. You’re already signed on from an external computer.”

“No, I’m
trying
to sign on from an external computer now, but I can’t get on. There’s no way I can be at two computers.” I struggled to use the calmest tone possible, knowing how prickly the help desk can be.

“Okay, I’ve terminated your previous session,” she answered, ignoring me. “So it should work now.”

I peered at my computer screen. The error message was gone.

“If you have any problems you can call us back,” she said flatly.

“Wait!” This didn’t make any sense. “Um, where did the other session originate from?”

“A computer that isn’t firm issued. I don’t know the exact location.”

“Thanks.” I hung up the phone and stared at my computer screen. I had the strange sense that something was amiss, but pushed it out of my mind because there was a job to do. I located the latest version, ran a blackline, and attached the documents to an email to the document services department asking them to Fedex them to Vincent and call me when it was done. If I didn’t hear back by dinner I was going to have to figure out a way to do this myself. Reluctantly, I turned on Dad’s ancient printer, grabbed the mouse, and clicked print. Like most things in my parents’ house, the printer should’ve been replaced years ago, but Dad’s thriftiness prevented him from getting rid of anything that was technically still working. I vowed to get them a new one as a belated Christmas gift and scampered down the stairs to the kitchen, just as Mom called out, “What’s burning?”

“Shit,” I hissed, pulling open the oven door as Mom waved a tea towel around the smoke detector. “Shit,” I hissed again as I slammed the baking pan onto the stove. “It’s ruined.” I stared down at my blackened cake roll somberly.