Page 6 of The Better Sister

As I walked Valerie to the door, I could feel Ethan’s eyes following her. It would be weeks before I asked myself whether that was yet another sign that something was deeply wrong with my son.

3

Despite its populist-sounding name, the Press for the People gala was a veritable who’s who of what most of the country would call the “media elite.” But as was typical with the New York City social scene, not all levels of elite were equal. Even with a starting ticket price of $500, the reminders of the night’s hierarchy began at check-in. As the recipient of the night’s major award, I learned that my family and I were seated at Table 2. I took small (and admittedly petty) satisfaction when I overheard a former employee of mine who had left for a minor promotion at a competitor magazine being informed that he’d be enjoying the program from Table 132 on the balcony above the stage.

“And am I checking in all three in your party, Ms. Taylor?” the young woman asked with a smile. She was not much older than Ethan, probably the daughter of a board member who had volunteered in exchange for another entry on her college applications.

“My dad’s not coming,” Ethan said. “So we’ll have an extra seat. You know, just in case you need to rest or something.”

The volunteer’s stylus paused over her electronic tablet, and her eyes shifted from Ethan to me. Her smile grew nervous.

“My husband’s just running late,” I assured her. “Adam Macintosh.”

“Certainly. I’ll leave him unchecked then.”

As we walked away from the table, Ethan groaned in embarrassment. “Oh my god, what was that? I sounded like a total chode.” It was his new favorite word for someone who was a jerk. I had to look it up in the Urban Dictionary.

Adam had been the one to suggest that I ask if we could bring our son to the banquet. I had done so reluctantly, foreseeing the battle of wills that would erupt when it came time to go. Ethan, in my view, was a normal kid, which meant that a night in a monkey suit with fourteen hundred adults celebrating the value of the First Amendment to a free democracy ranked only slightly above being poked in the eye for three hours straight. Adam, on the other hand, was determined to force Ethan to be some other version of himself. More like Adam, I supposed.

But now here we were. Ethan had come home on his own, put on the tux we’d bought him last month, and let me help him with his tie without a single grimace. He had even rushed to the car waiting for us at the curb to get the door for me. And his father was still nowhere to be seen.

Jenna Masters, the board member in charge of the gala committee, spotted me at the tail end of the bar line and rushed over, a seemingly impossible feat in four-inch stilettos. “We need you at the step-and-repeat. Tell me what you need, and I’ll have someone bring it to you.”

I asked for champagne if they had it, and Ethan said he’d “do” a Coke, and then added a “Please” when I shot him a corrective Mom look.

The smile plastered on my face felt like someone else’s by the time Jenna finally told me I was finished with my photo duties for the night. Her brow remained impressively uncreased as her gaze dropped to her iPhone screen, right thumb tapping and swiping furiously. “I’m sending you this great shot of you and Darren, if you wouldn’t mind posting to your social. Remember, we’re hashtagging Press for the People, Not the Enemy.”

“Darren” was Darren Pinker, the multiple Academy Award–winning actor who was serving as honorary cochair of tonight’s gala. He was also a fierce First Amendment advocate and a hero to wishful liberals, who were trying to recruit him to run for president.

Ethan held out a hand toward me. “Want me to do it?” he offered. “It takes my mom, like, five minutes just to do a tweet.”

I turned over my phone so he could do his handiwork. He had just finished up when I heard a friendly voice from beneath one of the dinosaurs in the main hall. “There’s our star client!”

I turned to see Bill Braddock holding up one arm to get my attention. As Ethan and I wove our way through the crowd toward him, I saw that he was standing with four other attorneys from his law firm.

“Bill, I didn’t expect to see you here,” I said, leaning in to exchange dual pecks on the cheeks.

“Now how could I let you get this kind of an honor without your octogenarian boyfriend in the house? We’ve got a whole table, in fact. Number seventeen. Not too shabby for a bunch of egghead lawyers.”

When Bill celebrated his eightieth birthday the summer before, I had adjusted his title as my septuagenarian boyfriend accordingly. Bill was what some people his age—even liberals—called a “confirmed bachelor.” He was also one of the preeminent First Amendment lawyers in the country, having argued more than a dozen constitutional cases before the Supreme Court. He served as counsel for some of the biggest publishing outlets in the world and even a few smaller ones he enjoyed, such as my little magazine. I had first met him through Catherine Lancaster, but he had become my friend as well.

I didn’t know the names of all of the lawyers around him, but I did extend my hand toward Jake Summer, one of the partners who was closer to my own age. As I watched one of the female attorneys welcome Ethan with a big hug and a remark that he looked like “a grown-ass man,” I realized I needed to make more of an effort to get to know the other lawyers at the firm. After all, they had made Adam a partner nearly two years earlier, in large part because of the push I had made on his behalf with Bill.

“Where’s your lucky husband?” Bill said, scanning the crowd.

“He’s running late from work,” I said. “His firm’s a total sweatshop,” I added dramatically.

“I popped into his office to see if he wanted to leave with us, but he wasn’t around.”

The comment, from the woman who had been so friendly with Ethan, had a couple of the lawyers exchanging awkward glances. I offered her my hand. “Hi, I’m Chloe. I’m not sure we’ve met.”

She told me her name was Laurie Connor and that she was an associate in the litigation group.

“It’s the Gentry Group thing,” I assured them. “He was meeting them near JFK.”

“I’m not familiar,” Bill said.

I’d been under the impression that Gentry was a major client. I tried to tell myself that Bill was kidding, but I was beginning to worry that his age was taking a toll.

---