Hot Desk: A Novel - 2

After it became clear that the pandemic was not a two-week staycation inside her cozy Cobble Hill apartment with her roommates (one of whom was a paranoid germophobe who wore a face shield in their shared space, and the other an old high school acquaintance who acquired a lot of dubious medical “expertise” on the internet), Rebecca packed up and moved into her grandmother Mimi’s rent-controlled apartment on the Upper West Side.

It was not at all weird that she had commandeered her father’s childhood bedroom (all vestiges of him scrubbed and painted away), nor was it social suicide to live with an eighty-two-year-old who kept two pet budgies (Noodle and Pookie), and it was certainly not an issue that it had been over two years and Rebecca had made no serious effort to find her own place. She was saving a lot of money! She had her own “wing”: a hallway, a full bath, and a bedroom flooded with natural light. Mimi was, considerately, hard of hearing. The kitchen had a full-size refrigerator. There was a separate dining room with a long table around which her friend Stella squeezed twelve happy people once a month for her supper club. There were original herringbone floors and crown molding. No matter that there was no central air, the lobby smelled of cabbage, and Tibor, the part-time doorman, never stopped talking. Rebecca had always been close to Mimi, but quarantine, in all its horror and beauty, had truly bonded them. It would be really hard to leave, but she must at some point. Before she turned thirty, definitely. Because living with your grandmother at thirty? Now, that might be a problem.

Rebecca knew she should call her mom again, but first there was the subway; the deli stop for tonic water, a lottery ticket, and kale (Mimi’s list); Tibor’s predictions for the NBA playoffs; and Mimi’s daily 6 p.m. cocktail hour. Turning the key in the lock, turning another key in another lock, jolting the door against the chain that Mimi often forgot to undo, leaning on the doorbell long enough to enrage the Yorkshire terrier in the apartment across the way and to alert Mimi, Rebecca pushed away thoughts of the day. For now. Until she had an olive, a Ritz cracker with a thick slice of extra-sharp cheddar, a handful of lightly salted peanuts, and a few sips of Sapphire gin and tonic in a tiny etched glass, she would empty her mind. Mimi sorted out the chain lock and offered her soft, papery cheek for a kiss. “And how was your day, my darling? Come, come, I’ve put out provisions, but I’m misting the boys before dinner.”

“Good! I’ll tell you.” Rebecca draped her sweater over the hat rack. “Just let me wash my hands and change.” Once you had seen one bird bath, you had seen them all, and there was always the chance that Noodle, who had bonded with Mimi long before Rebecca had arrived and who disapproved of any other human, would bite her. Pookie was definitely the brighter bird and liked to perch on Rebecca’s finger during their hour of supervised exercise. He had two words—“Hello, Pookie”—which was two more than Noodle did. All in all, Rebecca preferred the cage covered and the constant peeping silenced. Mimi had always had parakeets, always two budgies, always named Pookie and Noodle; some Noodles and Pookies lived a mere year or so; and the next Noodle or Pookie might live a decade. It was a flawed system whereby occasionally there were two Noodles or two Pookies in the cage at the same time, but Mimi seemed unbothered.

After Rebecca “freshened up,” as Mimi called it, she joined her grandmother in the living room, where they had their cocktail hour, Rebecca on the uncomfortable, high-backed sofa and Mimi in her blue toile chair, its seat cushion worn shiny. Mimi Katz, daughter of a wealthy haberdasher, had married a poor medical student for love: Rebecca’s grandfather, Nathan Blume. Rebecca had only snatches of memory of her grandfather, who sang “Wake Up Little Susie,” and let her listen through the stethoscope that dangled out of his overcoat pocket. Mimi was still in mourning, Rebecca thought, twenty-five years later. Dr. Blume, as Mimi sometimes referred to him, had been known to enjoy a home-cooked meal, and although she had come to the marriage not knowing how to boil water (as she liked to say), she had modeled herself on Julia Child, also a tall lady who adored her husband and could manhandle a chicken into a perfect coq au vin.

It had done Mimi a world of good to have someone to cook for (she said it herself!), and in that way Rebecca was a generous, altruistic soul. These days Mimi was good for at least two meals a week. Stella had been working for a wealthy family on the Upper East Side, and her perks included a room that she crashed in whenever she wasn’t staying with her boyfriend Miles and a crazy budget to grocery shop with when the family was in town. Stella came over to pick up Mimi’s slack every Sunday. Mondays were the leftovers, and Rebecca filled in where she could, following Stella’s recipes or ordering take-out Thai, because they were, after all, New Yorkers.

Rebecca lifted her tiny etched glass and made a “Cheers” motion at Mimi, who did the same. She had a blissful swallow of the stiff drink. (Mimi’s mixology skills skewed heavy on the alcohol and light on the mixer, though her antique glasses meant that Rebecca would need to have at least four drinks before getting mildly drunk.) “I have to call Mom before dinner,” Rebecca reminded herself out loud, tossing a few peanuts into her mouth and trying to relax against the stiff, awkward back of the couch.

“I’m heating up Stella’s leftover white bean stew,” Mimi declared. Stella was the only person who called Mimi “Grandma,” and Mimi was the only person who allowed Stella to smoke her one cigarette a day on the narrow balcony outside Mimi’s bedroom window. “Grandma, show me the view!” Stella would say after dinner while Rebecca rolled her eyes and did the dishes. They would disappear into Mimi’s room, where Stella would grapple the window up, crawl out of it, and turn sideways to fit on the wrought iron slats while Mimi pulled up her ottoman and puffed daintily on the offered cigarette, blowing smoke out the window, and handing it half finished for Stella to toss into the empty planter, kept for this very purpose. Rebecca disapproved: Stella was trying to quit! Mimi had already quit! No one cared what Rebecca had to say on this topic, but she continued to register her disappointment every time.

“Do tell Jane hello for me, please.” Mimi and her daughter-in-law got along extremely well in absentia, less well in proximity, but with age came acceptance: they had worn each other down to a slightly reluctant respect and real love. The crux of their issue, as Rebecca observed it, was her mother’s exasperation that Mimi had “waited on the men in her life hand and foot,” thereby creating a model and expectation that Jane herself had resented but not successfully resisted.

“Ami asked me to go over to Edward David Adams’s town house to talk to his widow about possibly working with her on his estate,” Rebecca announced. No use introducing the “curious” request from Mrs. Adams herself.

“She asked who, dear?” Rebecca couldn’t tell if this question was due to Mimi’s incredulity or her increasing deafness.

“Ami asked me to go over. You know the Lion just died, right?”

“That dreadful man. Very full of himself! I never cared for his books.” Mimi gestured toward the living room bookcase. “Of course, we own them all. How old was he? Eighty-four, I believe?” Mimi rattled her ice in agitation, and Rebecca understood that she knew full well how old he was and was doing some unfavorable math. Luckily, the Lion was older, and by everyone’s calculations Mimi had a few more years at least. No more cigarettes! One of Mimi’s favorite darkly comic routines was to make Rebecca sit next to her on the terrible couch while she flipped through her address book, examining the names written in her distinctive script: “Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead to me! Dead. Dead. Dead to me!”

“Yes, he was really old,” Rebecca assured her grandmother. “He never got out anymore. Hibernated in the Hamptons. Certainly not living a robust, fulfilling life hanging with millennials and becoming an Instagram star like some people.” Stella featured Mimi in most of her livestreams, and Mimi’s deadpan takes on cooking had been very well received. The broadcast where she explained (wearing a whole raw chicken on her upheld hand like an oven mitt) that when she first roasted a chicken for Dr. Blume, she didn’t know there was a heart, neck, and gizzards crammed “up there” in plastic, which resulted in a visit from the fire department, had garnered thousands of delighted comments.

“I am a natural, Stella says.” Mimi stabbed an olive with a toothpick and waved it theatrically.

“ ‘Stella says, Stella says.’ ” Rebecca pretended to be jealous of the outsize influence her best friend had on Mimi, but she was thrilled that they loved each other, and she thought their partnership in the kitchen and on social media would lead to big things for Stella, whose charisma and talent Rebecca believed were destined to catapult her to fame. As for Mimi, if fisting a chicken and sucking the marrow out of lamb shank bones with the vigor of a vampire kept her young, that was a bonus.

She balanced the glasses on the empty cheese tray and headed into the kitchen. Even after two years, she still sent up a silent gratitude mantra for an actual separate kitchen instead of the dollhouse appliances that had lined the entrance wall in her Brooklyn apartment. She rinsed everything in the sink, then opened the fridge and admired the bouquets of Italian parsley, sealed container of SCOBY (Stella was on a fermenting kick), cartons of oat milk for her and half-and-half for Mimi, stacks of neatly labeled containers filled with chicken and fish and pre-chopped mirepoix, a few bottles of decent wine, a bottle of celebration champagne, a jumble of speckled eggs from the farmers market, fancy mustard, Mimi’s probiotic yogurt, an amber jar of face cream, and a flame-orange Le Creuset Dutch oven (a wedding present and heirloom) that contained the rest of Stella’s stew. Rebecca lifted it onto the counter along with the bag of kale for the budgies.

When she dug her phone out of her bag, she saw that Mrs. Singh had sent her an email with the heading “A Great Honor!” Was she referring to Rebecca’s rapidly advancing career as posthumous editor to literary lions, the Lion in particular? She was not.

“Dear Rebecca,” the email read. “You have been nominated to serve on the Desk Share Cooperative Community Group Committee. Please see below for more information on this exciting new opportunity!” She read on, recognizing parts of the attachment from Frank French’s original announcement.

“In these evolving times, Leesen has reacted with nimble readjustment, bringing the hybrid work model to life. Of course, hot desking is new to all of us, and to help us improve its rollout we are forming a COOPERATIVE COMMUNITY GROUP COMMITTEE comprising representatives from all publishing divisions and departments. The committee will meet to process employee feedback from the Office Life Inbox, and to update our desk sharing guidance with the goal of improving desk sharing practices for everyone. If you are receiving this email, congratulations on your nomination. We appreciate your dedication to helping Leesen maintain the efficiency and collaboration that has always imbued our company. —The Management”

Nominated, my ass , Rebecca thought. Scowling, she took her phone into her room and called her mom.

“Hello, sweetheart! I’m so glad you called. How was work? Did you send me a link to Avenue’s spring catalog yet? Remember to mark all the books that you edited, please.”

“Oh my god, okay, okay.” Rebecca often regressed into a sullen teenager when faced with her mother’s relentless barrage of inquiries and expectations. On her last trip back to Philadelphia, she was not proud of the fact she had actually stomped up the stairs and slammed the door to her childhood bedroom, now a combination home gym and storage closet. There was nowhere to sit but on her mom’s Peloton.

“I hope you’ll be able to come down for the boys’ party. Ethan and Emma are renting a bouncy castle. Did you have the marketing meeting with Lady Paulette today?”

“What? Yes.” How did she know about that? Rebecca hadn’t said anything about it this morning, had she? It would not be beyond Jane to have a spy monitoring Rebecca at work, making sure that she asserted herself and didn’t spill food on her shirt. Wait, did her mom have Gabe’s number?

“I remember that you mentioned it was scheduled for today. And now that you go in so rarely…” Jane disapproved of the new hybrid office plan; she made it clear that, when Rebecca was working from home, she imagined her in pajamas or idly thumbing through Cook’s Illustrated in the bathtub. Well, the joke was on her, because Rebecca didn’t own pajamas. She slept in oversize concert and sports T-shirts she had “borrowed” from her brothers over the years.

The smell of reheated white bean stew and the distant clatter of Mimi setting the table reminded Rebecca to get to the point. “Mom, the craziest thing happened today. You know that Edward David Adams died, right? Well, Ami called me in and said that his widow, Rose Adams, asked for me to meet with her to discuss his estate. I mean, it’s a huge deal; he died without an agent, so the whole thing is a big free-for-all. And get this: she said there might be unpublished stories.”

There was a long, uncharacteristic silence on Jane’s end.

“I know you used to work at the magazine, right? The East River Review ?”

“Briefly.” Rebecca could hear the unmistakable sound of her mother slamming the dishwasher shut, the little beeps of her turning it on.

“So can you think of any reason she would ask for me? I mean, strange, right? Did you know Rose Adams?”

“Fergus! Get out of there!” There was some scuffling; obviously Fergus was underfoot, as always. “This dog is on his last legs, I’m telling you! If it weren’t for your father, I’d take him to the vet tomorrow.”

“Mom, stop trying to murder Fergus. Why are you being so weird?”

“I don’t like your tone, Rebecca. Did it ever occur to you that you’re an excellent editor? Is it inconceivable that your reputation might be the reason you were requested?”

It was pretty much inconceivable. Rebecca appreciated her mother’s faith while chafing under the pressure. “I feel like you’re not telling me something. Did you know Rose Adams?”

“Rebecca. We can talk about this later. It’s dinnertime. Your father can’t find the ketchup because he is apparently incapable of moving a single thing in the refrigerator. My lord, Sam, you’re helpless!”

Rebecca heard her father’s rumble and could imagine him staring haplessly into the fridge, waiting for her mother to elbow him aside and triumphantly retrieve the ketchup. “Wait! Is there something you’re not telling me? Mom!”

“Goodbye, sweetheart—see you at the boys’ party. Give our love to Mimi.” There was a decisive silence, and Rebecca, stunned, had the sudden realization that her mother rarely (never?) hung up first when they were on the phone. What the fuckety fuck was going on? She texted Stella.

Rebecca:

we need to talk

crazy shit happened with work

my mom is being super weird

okay dinner we’re eating your stew but will FT later

also be thinking about my most impressive professional outfit like what is it?

Stella:

your apple bottom jeans and the boots with the fur?

Rebecca:

haha later be ready

Stella:

Rebecca checked her email once more and impulsively pulled up the instructions for posting on the Office Life Inbox. She needed a screen name. Was “Bartleby” too obvious? He was the OG passive resister of the corporate grind. Had they tried to extinguish her humanity by forcing her to share a desk? Kind of. Hold on. Using a clever literary reference was exactly what they would expect Rebecca to do. She remembered all the unfortunate terms Frank French had thrown around in his memo: “What is Hot Desking?” What indeed. There were two comments already. Rebecca’s would be the third.

Rebecca googled, typed quickly, and—without even editing—pressed “send.”

OFFICE LIFE INBOX:

AGIRLHASNODESK:

Where do we find the End Cap Shelf Replacement Request Form?

paul:

why all the higher ups have dedicated desk :/

HOT DESK:

“reach for the stars, even if you have to stand on a cactus” —unknown

Rebecca closed her computer with satisfaction. But the moment was short-lived. Was Jane involved somehow with Rose Adams? How could it be that the biggest break of her literary career was a mystery possibly involving her mother? Rebecca thought of the manuscripts she had to read through for work. Everyone knew she did not care for mysteries.