Free Pink Slip Party by Cara Lockwood Page A

looks at me when she says this.
    “Anyhow, your Dad’s being forced out.”
    “I am not,” Dad protests, but I can see it’s just for show.
    “They asked you to take the early retirement package,” Mom says to Dad, who seems to have suddenly lost his appetite. He shoves a bite of piecrust to one side of his plate with the tip of his fork.
    I stare at him, unbelieving. Dad, the man who my whole life has been spouting Republican propaganda about how all you have to do in this country to get ahead is work hard and hope no one elects a bleeding-heart president, is suddenly looking sheepish and small. The same man who argued with me that “corporate welfare” is liberal labeling, and that a company’s first priority should rightly be to its shareholders, is now sitting at the head of his table unable to look anyone in the eye.
    I can’t believe it. It doesn’t seem possible.
    He’s too old to adjust to the cold, hard reality of modern corporate America — he entered it when it was full of promise — like a new suburb built in the ’50s. Now, it’s been reduced to drab strip malls, chain restaurants, and drive-by shootings.
    I feel suddenly selfish and petty. Here I am thinking I’d borrow money from them, when they might actually need to borrow money from me.
    “When?” sputters Todd. “When did this happen?”
    “Last week,” Dad says.
    “Four months ago,” Mom says at the same time.
    I look from Dad to Mom and back again.
    “Four months,” Dad admits, after a pause.
    “And you kept this from us?” Todd asks, the look of betrayal and childish angst on his face. Leave it to Todd to blow things out of proportion. He sounds as if he’s just discovered that Santa Claus doesn’t exist.
    “Well, we didn’t want to worry you,” Mom says. “We didn’t want to be a burden.”
    I feel about the size of an ant.
    “But we have a right to know,” Todd says. I am not sure what rights he’s asserting here. “I mean, what other secrets are you keeping from us? Is one of you dying from cancer?”
    “Todd,” I scold.
    “Well, Jane, I mean, seriously — doesn’t this upset you? I hate secrets. This family is always keeping goddamned secrets!”
    Todd, unfortunately, is prone to fits of paranoia and conspiracy theories. He, like Dad, believes there is a secret government ruling the world made up of billionaires who decide the fate of nations based on high-stake poker games. He also thinks global warming is a fiction devised by liberals.
    “Watch the language!” Mom commands.
    Todd throws his napkin on the table.
    “Todd, shut up,” Dad shouts. “This isn’t any of your damn business.”
    I snicker. I can’t help it. Todd so rarely gets any negative criticism from the parents. Dad and Todd usually tag-team me, so it’s two against one (with Mom always acting as Switzerland).
    Todd can’t believe Dad’s told him to shut up, and his bottom lip starts to quiver slightly as if he might cry. Instead, he slams back his chair with a screech and declares, “I’m going to the bathroom.”
    “I don’t want you working, Doris,” Dad says, ignoring Todd as he stomps out of the dining room. “I’m still working part time. You don’t need to work.”
    “Honestly, Dennis. You’re being ridiculous. Let’s face facts. We can’t live on your reduced salary.”
    “I’m not the one being ridiculous, here,” Dad says, throwing down his butter knife. “Just what are you going to do for them? Bake cookies?”
    A hush falls on the table. Mom’s mouth draws itself into a thin line. She doesn’t turn to me like she usually does to say, “Your father is just joking.” Her eyes get that steely look of determination, the one usually reserved for PTA meetings and Tupperware parties.
    “For your information, I am going to write about cooking,” she says, teeth clenched. She is trying hard not to raise her voice. She is trying not to let the strain show. “They are going to pay me for my expertise.”
    Dad