The Hole in the Middle (3 page)

Overall, though, I'm feeling a little more in control of my day now. I've spent the last two hours plowing through sixty-three e-mails: thirty-two of the for-your-information variety requiring no comment from me; twelve requiring a quick review and approval; one from the convener of my book club; four reply-all messages from other members of the book club; one from Jamie's class parent about volunteering for the winter fair; four from my mother; and nine that, to be honest, I haven't dealt with yet and have re-filed in my inbox. But I'm fifty-four e-mails lighter, and that can only be a good thing. I've even found twenty minutes to look at the binders and have managed to affix brightly colored sticky flags on a few random CVs to demonstrate my enthusiasm for the process.

I push open the door and get my bearings. I recognize a few familiar
faces from the hospital's medical staff and administration: Carolyn Waldron, the head of oncology; Marvin Shapiro, the director of medical research; Anusha Dhaliwal, the head of the nursing staff; and Patti Sinclair, the patient liaison officer, responsible for running interference between unhappy patient families and the hospital. Carolyn gives me a friendly wave and Marvin nods courteously. I've worked with both of them recently on the publicity for major gifts to their units. Jenny Dixon, the director of HR, is here too; I avoid eye contact in the knowledge that I have been avoiding her weekly e-mail about staff reviews for the past five weeks. In truth, I'm a little scared of Jenny. She is a large, imposing woman who was born in a shantytown in the Dominican Republic, came to North America as a young teenager, and managed to put herself through two university degrees and raise three children without missing a beat in her career. Although she is unfailingly polite and supportive in the classic manner of HR professionals, I always feel like a pathetic whiner around her. The rest of the faces are completely unfamiliar, a man and two women, all of whom must be from the board. Then Barry comes in and we all take our seats.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” booms Barry. “I don't expect that this will be a long meeting today. As you know, we are moving quickly to the interview stage here, so what we want to do today is finalize the short list so that we can check references. We have a meeting on Wednesday to decide on the interview questions and then interviews on Friday. Everyone on the long list has been asked to keep Friday clear, so there shouldn't be any problem with availability.”

He pauses, and seems to grit his teeth before continuing. I catch a quick look that passes between Patti and Jenny, and I resolve once again to stay as far away from the field of battle as possible. It's clear that allegiances are already forming in this room, and I have zero interest in finding myself on Barry's bad side. In any event, I'm distracted by the fact that my skirt is stretching uncomfortably over my hips and riding up inappropriately. I surreptitiously yank the skirt down by a fraction and vow to stop drinking wine every night with my takeout.

Barry studies the notes on the table in front of him. Ordinarily,
Barry doesn't believe in speaking from notes; you can't command the room, he says, unless you can convey the impression that you are speaking from the heart. In practice, this means that Barry ignores all of the carefully prepared briefing notes that we write for him and is notorious for going off-message. But today, he is sticking to his script, a bad sign.

“I also want to address the issue that Mrs. Baxter raised at the last meeting about the board's policy on equity in hiring. Although I said at the time that I didn't think the policy applied for the purposes of this search, I have since been advised by HR”—he glares at Jenny—“that we should be scrupulous in our efforts to uphold board policy in all of our searches. So I want to take this opportunity to thank Mrs. Baxter for her very helpful intervention.” Barry grimaces as though he has bitten down on something sour. One of the women from the board—presumably Mrs. Baxter—inclines her head in a queenly gesture.

I look at her for the first time and feel my eyes widen. A blond beehive hairdo towers over a vacant face decorated with inappropriately bright pink lipstick applied well over the lip line and a harsh stripe of rouge on each cheek. She wears a pilled blue Chanel suit that has clearly languished in the back of a closet for forty years, and I think I catch a faint whiff of mothballs across the table. The outfit is finished with an honest-to-God fox stole wrapped around her neck, the sharp little teeth clutching the end of the tail and the beady glass eyes gleaming sightlessly in the fluorescent light.

Astonishingly, no one else at the meeting seems distracted by Mrs. Baxter's extraordinary costume. I sneak another glance and find to my surprise that her expression has shifted. She is focused now, her eyes alert. When she sees that she has my attention, she cocks her head and gives me an almost imperceptible but unmistakable wink. And then she puts a long finger up to her lips. It is simultaneously a signal between conspirators that a prank of epic proportions is in the works and a warning not to spoil the fun.

It is a gesture that I would recognize anywhere, having seen it many times over the years. It's one of Lillian Parker's signature moves, but this is a novel context, and it dawns on me that Lil's message this morning had
nothing whatsoever to do with her holiday party. I tune Barry out while I construct and reject several elaborate theories to explain why this search could possibly have piqued Lil's interest, why everyone in the room seems to think her name is Mrs. Baxter, and why Lil has deemed it necessary to come in disguise.

“. . . committed to a short list of three. Since the policy that we are bound to follow requires that we meet with the most qualified female candidate and the most qualified visible minority candidate, we may need to alter our preliminary selections,” Barry continues. “Obviously, we are all interested in seeing Stephen Paul.”

I flip through my binder. This isn't a name that I remember seeing. I find the CV and can see immediately why I didn't flag it; the candidate has years of experience as the CEO of a major corporation, but there's nothing on the CV about fund-raising. I'm obviously missing something here. I raise my index finger in the air.

Barry registers my presence, and raises his hand. “Just a minute,” he says. “I should have mentioned one other thing. When we reviewed the policy earlier this week, we discovered”—again he glares at Jenny—“that we were short a staff rep. So I've asked”—he consults his notes—“Sophie Whelan from the communications office to serve for the last leg of our deliberations.” The group swivels to look at me, and I give a little wave. “Did you have a question, Sophie?” asks Barry, discouragingly.

“Just a quick one,” I say. “I have Mr. Paul's CV here, but I don't have any information about his fund-raising experience. I assume you had this discussion before I joined the committee, but I was hoping you could fill me in if we are going to interview him.”

Now Barry glowers, Jenny beams, and I want to stab myself with my pen for having wandered into enemy camp in my first five minutes. “Our view is that Stephen's experience managing a massive public corporation for fifteen years is extremely transferable,” Barry asserts. “And obviously, as CEO, he has had oversight of the corporation's philanthropic foundation.”

Barry is putting me on notice that further interventions will be
unwelcome, and may even convert his general indifference to antipathy. I square my shoulders and raise my hand again. Barry frowns. “Yes?”

“Again, please accept my apologies if I go over things that you've already discussed. I just want to make sure that I'm on the same page.” I point to the CV on the table in front of me. “Obviously, Mr. Paul has extensive experience working with his corporate foundation, but I'm not sure how transferable that experience would be to our operation.” Several people straighten in their chairs and lean forward; I'm not sure whether they are interested in my analysis or just want to get a good view of the new kid's act of self-immolation. “Corporate foundations give money away,” I continue. “In the most basic terms, their job is to manage an annual budget and decide how to allocate it among worthy charities and community projects. An organization like ours works in the opposite way. We raise money from the community in order to support our own projects.” I pause. “The vice president of advancement is our lead fundraiser.”

“Thank you, Sophie,” says Barry, crisply. “I think we are all aware of that. And as we discussed prior to your appointment to this committee, Stephen's vast experience in deal-making will give him an edge in any donor negotiations.”

I murmur my thanks for Barry's helpful clarification, and then sit back while I consider how to proceed. I could quit the committee, which a large part of me desperately wants to do, but in the end I know I won't. This is because most of my actions are governed by a complex calculation that I call the Requirement of Action Rating, or ROAR. The ROAR is a number that is produced by adding the Desire to Perform Activity (DPA) to the Guilt Factor (GF) associated with the failure to perform the activity and the Need to Behave Like a Grown-up (NBLG), and then subtracting Allowable Selfishness (AS). So: DPA + GF + NBLG − AS = ROAR. Although the temptation is often to allocate a negative number to the Desire to Perform Activity (DPA), the available range is zero to ten. Allowable Selfishness (AS) is generally in the range of one to five, except when it is your birthday (8), or you are in labor (9), in the hospital in critical condition (9.5), or in a coma (10).

My desire to remain on the committee in order to fill a quota, ignored on a good day and reviled on a bad one, is obviously zero (DPA = 0). My guilt factor, on the other hand, is not insignificant, since I suspect that Barry won't replace me if I leave. And then someone will be hired to supervise my unit with no staff input at all, a person who will in all likelihood be totally ignorant about the work we do and have a mild-to-serious personality disorder (GF = 8). My need to behave like a grown-up is heightened by the public nature of this committee and my personal vow to maintain a stiff upper lip around people like Jenny Dixon (NBLG = 9). And while I'm entitled to some selfishness due to Barry's rudeness (AS = 4), it doesn't change the fact that 0 + 8 + 9 − 4 = 13, which is a very high score indeed. According to the ROAR, I'm staying. But my first order of business is to grab Lil at the end of this meeting and find out what she's up to.

“. . . Margaret Anderson,” I hear Carolyn say. “She is the strongest female candidate by far, and in my view, the strongest candidate on paper. She has had a distinguished nursing career, so she knows how things get done inside a hospital, and she has ten years of experience in fund-raising in the health care sector.”

“Do others agree with Carolyn's assessment?” asks Barry. “Should Margaret Anderson be included on the short list?” There is general assent around the table, and the discussion moves on to the policy requirement for a visible minority candidate. But the conversation has barely started when the door to the conference room flies open and hits the wall. The committee jumps collectively in their seats; a couple of the women are so startled that they screech. And into this tableau steps Joy, with a gleam of malicious delight in her eyes.

“So sorry to interrupt,” she says in a creamy voice. “Sophie, you need to call your daycare immediately. Your son has a fever. They want you to pick him up.”

“That's fine, Sophie,” says Barry. “Go ahead. There's nothing here that we need you for.”

I rise from my seat, my face still burning with embarrassment, and step into the hall. Joy's back is already receding into the distance.

“Joy,” I call, and then louder: “Joy!”

She turns but makes no move to close the distance, so I half-run to meet her, silently cursing myself for yet another failure to take charge of this toxic relationship.

“I would have preferred for you to show more discretion in there,” I say. “Next time, please just say that you have an urgent message for me and ask me to step out of the meeting.”

She shrugs. “Whatever,” she says.

Back at my desk, I call Jesse's cell phone to see if there is any way that he can pick Scotty up and take him to the pediatrician. I don't know how I can leave the office now; I still haven't met with my staff or reviewed the six proposals sitting on my desk or figured out what to do about the Gala. Jesse doesn't answer. I call his office line. No answer. I call his assistant. No answer.

I suspect that Jesse screens my calls whenever he's too busy to be dragged into a domestic quagmire, and it makes me hot with anger. It must be nice to be able to be completely unavailable. Restful, to be able to ignore the call from the daycare, to be certain that someone else will deal with it, and to know that the someone has a “flexible” job, where it doesn't matter if she disappears for half the day to go to the goddamn pediatrician.

I call his cell phone again.

“Jesse Walker,” he says.

“I've been calling and calling,” I say in a controlled voice. “Where were you?”

“Sophie, I'm in the middle of something,” he says. “Do we need to do this right now?”

I grit my teeth. I am going to be a mature adult. I am not going to say something passive-aggressive like,
So sorry to disturb you. It's only about our son
.

“So sorry to disturb you,” I say. “It's only about our son.” I hear Jesse sigh at the other end of the line. “Scotty needs to be picked up from daycare. His fever spiked and he needs to go to Dr. Goldstein's. I'm sure he's going to need a prescription.” I soften my tone; you catch more flies with honey than vinegar, and vinegar is clearly not working. “Please, Jesse. I am really underwater here.”

There is a pause. “Sophie,” he says, “I'm sorry, but I can't. We have a meeting with the investors at the end of the day, and we are all scrambling to put the presentation together. I can't even really talk on the phone right now. Did you try your mother?”