Chapter 2
Late that afternoon, I returned home, turned the key in the door, and found something unusual waiting for me—my husband.
Jake worked for Wake-Up America, a hotel conglomerate. When he became senior vice president, we relocated to Florida. I sold my podiatry practice in Manhattan, where I had a very successful business. (Thanks in part to one fact: many of my young, cosmopolitan patients considered a shoe with a three-inch heel a flat). I don’t want to brag—but I will: I was the first woman to lead the esteemed Big Apple Podiatric Society.
When we first married, in the seventies, Jake worked for his father of blessed memory, Ivan—or, as Jake dubbed him, Ivan the Terrible. He assumed he’d take over the business, until, at a joyous Passover seder , Ivan announced he would leave his mattress empire not to Jake, the only offspring who showed an interest or participated in the family business (part time while attending school, full time once he had his MBA), but to all his children equally. Jake was the eldest. He considered his dad’s decree the tenth plague: “death of the firstborn son.” He quit on the spot, and I learned something that evening—how few words are necessary to wreck a family.
In our condo, Jake was on the couch instead of his usual place—the sleek white power recliner. We’d decorated our entire apartment predominantly white. An easy decision for me—our three kids lived elsewhere, and we had no pets. Normally Jake got home at 7:00 p.m., but there he was, hours earlier, in loafers. No socks. Some say you can tell how big a man is by his feet. Jake was a size 15.
His silver wire-rim glasses sat on the marble coffee table, next to a tumbler. Jake rubbed his temples, which was never a good sign.
“Jake, what are you doing here?” I couldn’t recall the last time he was home before cocktail hour. If I called him at the office, said the condominium was on fire, he’d tell me to jump and that he’d be home as soon as he finished working.
“I live here,” he said, then sipped his drink.
“I know, but why are you home?”
“I said I live here.”
I stationed myself across from him, choosing one of our white-and-cream chairs. “What’s going on? Don’t tell me it’s something about the kids.”
In addition to Lisa, we had twin sons. Michael, in Los Angeles, was also a podiatrist—he’d literally followed in my footsteps. His partner, DeLorenzo, was a screenwriter. Michael had a celebrity clientele, confided to me about George Clooney’s arch, but I wouldn’t be at liberty to say what exactly he confided. He was also an avid photographer. His pictures of feet decorated my waiting room.
Alex lived in Florida—across Alligator Alley. I know all moms say their kids are brilliant, but Alex was brilliant. He graduated from MIT, had a PhD, did something important in high tech too involved to explain. I’d never understood why he chose his pasty, humorless wife. She smiled at me only once, then took it back. Early on, Jake had dubbed her Peggy the Pilgrim. She’d be tickled to discover me under a bus, assuming it was in motion. The Pilgrim didn’t call me Mom, didn’t call me Jodi. She avoided calling me anything by addressing me only when I was facing her.
“The kids are fine,” Jake replied. “Why do you always worry about the kids?”
Because worrying about the kids had always been my job. And I excelled at it. Out of longtime habit, I checked each child in my mind, a silent roll call.
“I’m out of the hotel business. It’s over. It’s done. I’ve been fired.”
A nerve shot a jolt up my spine. “No way. Can’t be. Impossible.”
He wiped a wet eye with his hand. “Never expected it to end this way.”
“Did the executive board call you in?”
“Oh, they did better than that. They used new technology. They sent me an email. Probably written by artificial intelligence.”
I was incredulous. “Oh, Jake. I’m sorry. How cruel.” My heart hurt. It was difficult to breathe as he recited the email robotically from memory.
“Your performance has not met our expectations, and we are dissatisfied with the current progress of the company. We request you leave the premises of your own accord immediately. As compensation, you will receive your current salary for a period of six months. Your personal belongings will be delivered by messenger within twenty-four hours. As your vehicle belongs to the company, a representative from Wake-Up America will drive you to your home.”
“Oh, Jake. My Jake.”
“I’m out to pasture. I thought seventy-one was the new fifty-one—but maybe only in a senior center.”
I offered him a second drink. He said it would be his fourth. I was broken for him, and my hands quivered as I poured vodka, reached for the tonic. I felt him next to me—his palm over the top of the glass.
“No tonic. Let’s not dilute this,” he said, rubbing his forehead.
“It’s despicable,” I said, biting my lip, appalled by the treatment he had received. “For crying out loud, those ingrates might have warned you, suggested you retire. You could have retired, and that would have been it.”
Silence. Not a word from Jake.
“Jodi, they asked me to retire. A while back.”
I found this late-breaking information stunning. “What? Why didn’t you tell me? How could you keep that a secret?”
“Don’t go bats. I can’t take it now. I love what I do. I wanted to keep working. I didn’t tell you because I knew you would insist I call it quits and take the retirement package, truly a golden parachute.”
I recognized that some people would think less of me for this—but those weren’t the kind of people who would like me in the first place: In the middle of my husband’s tsuris —Yiddish for “troubles”—I wondered how much he had tossed out the window by refusing to retire when he was asked. What exactly had happened? What sort of deal had Wake-Up America originally offered?
I poured a glass of wine for myself. It might have been white. Pinot grigio? Sauvignon blanc? Who cared? I needed to calm down.
“Jake, what was the package?”
My husband looked away from me, eyes on the carpet, and I knew he would never divulge what was offered. Poor guy was hurt, ashamed, embarrassed. I shoved my curiosity into the back of my head. This was no time to discuss his lie of omission or what that lie had cost.
“I made a huge miscalculation, Jodi.”
I ached for him. “Don’t blame yourself. You did what you thought was right at the time. Besides, who cares about money? We’ve worked hard. We have enough.”
“I love you,” he said.
I held his face in my hands. I tapped his nose. He tapped mine.
“I love you too,” I said.