Ask Again Later by Jill A. Davis Page A

like that,” Jim says.
    â€œDo you happen to know how much you pay receptionists?” I ask.
    â€œI have no idea,” Jim says. “It can’t be much. Next to nothing, I imagine.”
    â€œSo they do it for the love of the game? Or is it the added perk of having all the free coffee and microwave popcorn they can enjoy?” I ask.
    â€œIt’s amazing how that butter flavoring tastes so real,” Jim says. “I resisted trying it for years. Big mistake. Of course, the office smells like a goddamn movie house.”
    â€œIt really does taste like butter,” I say. We have something in common! We both adore popcorn prepared in the microwave!
    I stare for a while. How did the topic of what to do with the rest of my life turn into this? I can’t quite figure out what to make of my father’s suggestion that I go to Italy. Is the trip supposed to spare me the experience of my mother’s cancer? Or does he just want me to be the one to leave this time? Ease his guilt?
    We drain our martini glasses.
    I make a joke about answering phones all day andmy official cause of death being listed as “bad case of boredom.”
    My father gets annoyed. He’s not amused by any reference to the great good-bye. Despite the ravenous dating habits he enjoyed while married to my mother, it turns out he’s quite sensitive about his ex-wife’s diagnosis. Perhaps there is some leftover love between them. Or guilt. Sometimes love and guilt look the same.
    â€œYou are so much like your mother,” Jim says.
    â€œHow would you know?” I ask.
    He stares out the window.
    There’s nothing I can do about my mother’s health. Crying hasn’t helped. Neither has the career suicide or personal-life sabotage. But the dirty martinis have been tasty. For a few minutes there, I was enjoying getting to know my father. Until that last comment.
    â€œWell, think about the job,” Jim says.
    â€œI already have,” I say.
    â€œAnd?” Jim says.
    â€œI’ll take it. Thanks,” I say.
    My inheritance is right here in the room with us, boiled down to a simple equation. My mother’s fear of communicating married to my father’s immaturity. It’s all mine now! And I don’t want any of it. What I add to this heap is longing. It’s a romantic and useless notion, unless it’s converted into something resembling personal satisfaction and a blueprint for happiness.

Love Map
    MAPS, ALL OF THEM, hopefully imply there are places you should want to be, and people working diligently to make it easier for you to get there. I like to imagine a band of solitary travelers dispersed and making all the wrong turns so I don’t have to. I long for the neat, personal map that warns me of the wrong turns that could have saved me the inconvenience of a few side trips in my life.
    Steve was one such pit stop. He was cute, distant, and extremely cheap. Tight with money and love: Congratulations! You’ve arrived at your destination!
    A map might also have prevented me from stumbling into Miller. In spite of the fact that he held on to a deep, deep hope that I’d agree to hurt him during sex, he made me laugh. In the morning, he’d serve me café latte in a china cup. Sans pants, but taking the time to don a cowboy hat, he’d teeter across the floor not spilling any coffee. He was a runner, and I’d watch him carry that latte cup away in amazement. Plus, he still seemed like such a kid, and in that way he was a relief. A temporary thing requiring no stressful tests to see how my past might repeat itself in my future with him.
    A map might have warned me that my mother would be getting sick, and that my father would reappear. That he’d try to rewrite history, and that he’d be too late.
    There are maps to places you have no right to go, like maps of the stars’ homes. You’ve got no business driving by Siegfried and Roy’s home