Don't Let Go

by Sheryl Wright

  Focusing on the details being mentioned she followed the woman around the executive office. Like the stunning art deco exterior of the nine-story brownstone, the interior was flawlessly finished and maintained. It was obvious the office had been designed to impress. Stunning views abounded regardless of where you stood or looked. The building had been designed with a strange bullnose feature something similar to a flat iron, but more bow shaped and protruding from its long rectangular form. Standing in the CIO’s office, Tyler saw why. The unusual bow shape provided stunning views both north and south of the Erie shoreline. It had been designed to impress, and it succeeded.

  “We replaced…all glazing…twenty years ago.” Pointing to the office partition walls, she added, “SmartGlass…programmable…new. Old panels, glass and oak…hard to clean. Floors. Six, seven…senior staff. All visitors…see…” She failed to complete the thought, for some reason preferring instead to simply wave her hand as evidence of her sentiment.

  “Very impressive,” Tyler offered noncommittally, wondering again at the woman’s difficulty with speech. She thought the decor was overkill. As a business major, she had been taught that the point of any head office would be to highlight the products, not their environment. But who was she to say? DME, in one guise or another, had been a Buffalo keystone enterprise for more than seventy years. Not wanting to prejudge her host and determined to make a good impression, she offered her hand. “I’m Tyler Marsh, pleased to meet you.”

  The woman, who she had to assume was Georgina DiNamico, stared at her without what would appear to be simple comprehension. Finally, seeming to catch on, she accepted Tyler’s outstretched hand and shook it amiably. “Georgina DiNamico…Junior. Georgie.”

  “Should I address you as Georgie? If it bothers you, I’m happy to address you in any appropriate form.”

  That seemed to confuse the woman even more. “Oh…Georgie. Everyone…Henry too…Georgie.”

  “Who’s Henry?” Tyler asked, before she could catch yourself.

  “My uncle, Dad’s brother…partner…best friend,” she explained, waving her guest to the sitting area.

  Tyler nodded, carefully taking her place on the love seat beside the couch she assumed Georgie usually occupied. Sure enough, she sat in the place directly across from the flat-screen, where the remote and wireless keyboard were arranged. Without preamble, or explanation, she began to type in several commands on the keyboard. She continued without comment even when Zoe returned with a tray loaded with a mismatched tea set, two bowls of freshly diced melons and heavy matching coffee mugs. Tyler examined the mugs without actually picking one up. Zoe, seeming nonplussed by Georgie’s behavior, explained while pouring tea, “Henry Phipps, my granddad, and Uncle Danny served together in the Red Tails.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know what that is. The Red Tails?” she asked.

  “Oh sorry, it’s their squadron from when they were in the air force. It started as the Tuskegee Airmen, you know, the all black flyers who started out in the Second World War. They distinguished their Mustangs, their airplanes, from all the rest by painting the entire tail section red: Hence Red Tails!

  “Anyway, my granddad and Georgie’s dad served together. After the air force was organized properly, and integration was in full effect, they started filling slots in their highly decorated unit with the best men for the job, regardless of color. Uncle Danny was one of the lucky sods to join Granddad’s squadron. They served together up in Newfoundland and Vietnam before coming back here and taking over the company.” Zoe, chatting amiably, continued as if it were the most natural thing to carry on a conversation around, but not with, Georgie DiNamico. “My granddad met my grandmom up in Newfee. The old boys used to ship us kids off there every summer. Henry said it was to run the devil out of me. Never had more fun! Have you been to Newfoundland?”

  Tyler shook her head. “I’ve never been out of the country, other than a conference I went to in Toronto. Does that count?”

  Zoe laughed with an easiness that Tyler could appreciate. “Newfee was still part of Britain back then.”

  “Sort of like a fourteenth colony?”

  The vivacious grinning young woman laughed appreciatively at that, turning without comment and heading back up the stairs to the reception counter.

  Not sure what to expect next, Tyler turned back to her noncommunicative and hopefully soon-to-be boss. “Should I pour?”

  “Black…please.”

  Once Tyler had filled the two mugs and doctored her own cup, she turned her attention to the large porcelain mug. On it was an illustration of an aircraft with the entire tail painted red and the nose in a checkerboard pattern. Along the bottom of the illustration, the caption read, P-51 Mustang, 332 Fighter Group, United States Army Air Corps.

  “You lied on your résumé.”

  Tyler almost choked on her tea. It was everything she could do to keep from spewing it across the coffee table and at her interviewer. “Sorry?”

  The woman she had hoped would be her new boss looked at her without judgment, without any emotion at all. She then turned her attention back to the large flat-screen, entering a few more keystrokes, “You signed…NDA. Background check…Understand?”

  “No, I mean, yes.” She couldn’t help the frustration. “I mean…yes, I know I signed the nondisclosure agreement and yes I lied on my résumé. If that means I don’t get the job, then fine,” she offered, upset. “Can I at least explain the situation?”

  Her interviewer seemed surprised by the question as she signaled with her hand for Tyler to continue. “No judgment…Dr Marsh. I do not…why hide…accomplishments?”

  Tyler pushed out an angry breath, barely able to remain calm. “That’s easy for you to say. You have a job. I don’t expect someone like you to understand how tough the market is out there. I took my academic achievements off my résumé after being told, time after time, that I was too qualified for the job!”

  “Which job?” DiNamico asked, as if someone in her own company had given her that advice.

  “It wasn’t any specific job. It was just every job I was applying for.” Thinking the interview was over and frustrated beyond belief, Tyler got to her feet and turned for the stairs, adding, “I don’t need this—”

  Georgie stood too, giving Tyler a curious look, “Dr Marsh? I do not…understand. Do not want…the job? No?” She too was clearly upset. “I…not interesting. You may…research…lots of time…work on…stuff!”

  One hand already on the antique circular staircase, she said bitterly, “Stuff?”

  That seemed to confuse Georgie DiNamico even more. “My sister…she told you? This…this job…I need…SIT!” she ordered in a tone both autocratic and frustrated.

  Tyler turned at the command, surprised to realize the woman was as frustrated as she was. She watched as DiNamico took a long moment to order her thoughts. Rubbing at her temple before closing her eyes and announcing, “Dr Marsh, I am an engineer…A good engineer. Everything else…really…” She stopped abruptly, flopping back onto the couch. “I thought Marnie…explained my…me…”

  Tyler took a deep breath, forcing herself to relax a little. Whatever Georgie DiNamico’s problem was, it wasn’t about her. “You don’t have to call me Doctor. Yes, I have a PhD but it hardly applies here.” Walking back to the sitting area, she offered more calmly, “I think we got off on the wrong foot.” Then she asked boldly, “Are you usually this forthcoming?”

  “I cannot help…I have…issues…social graces…no good. Not on purpose.” She closed her eyes again for a moment. “Marnie wanted to hire you for…” As if sensing Tyler’s movement, she waited patiently as Tyler resumed her seat. “Your job. Your job…to keep me out of trouble or…explain things,” she confessed, almost under her breath, adding, “Doctor…I call you, what?”

  “That depends, how do you want to be addressed?”

  Confused, she answered, “Now just Georgie.”

  The now indicated something had changed
, something significant, Tyler guessed.

  “This,” she said, waving an arm at the room and the view, “was my grandfather’s…I like the shop better. The machine shop…Downstairs with Henry.”

  “Your father’s business partner works in a machine shop?”

  “Tinkers…me too.”

  “Do you like being Chief Innovation Officer?”

  She nodded. “But…sometimes…working with family…” She finished the sentence with a two thumbs-down gesture.

  Tyler simply nodded. She couldn’t imagine working with her own sisters, much less a platoon of siblings and cousins. “Please call me Tyler.”

  “Tyler,” Georgie DiNamico repeated it as if trying the name on for the first time. “You like boats?”

  Tyler nodded. “I don’t really know anything about them. I do know DME is still building world-class sailing yachts but it’s no longer your core business.”

  Grabbing the keyboard, Georgie tapped in a few keystrokes before slapping Enter. A detailed company organizational chart popped up on the widescreen display. It was color-coded and provided the names, titles, and a brief description of responsibilities under each heading. “Marnie explain…about…a family company?”

  “I haven’t met Mrs. Pulaski. I interviewed with Ms. Chan.”

  That information temporarily stalled Georgie’s train of thought. “Susan Chan. Director of recruiting.” She clicked on the box with Susan’s name in it. A pop-up window displayed a professional photograph and a high-level CV of the recruiting manager, including awards and years in service with DME. Georgie opened an unseen menu and selected the second organizational chart. This one was far more detailed and technically more complicated. “Family…company,” Georgie said as explanation.

  Tyler looked at the org chart again, only then realizing it was actually a family tree. Susan Chan’s name was highlighted, probably because Georgie had followed the link from her corporate webpage. Susan was connected to the family tree by marriage. According to the chart her spouse was Anthony DiNamico, master boat builder.

  “Susan will explain.”

  “I’m sorry, explain what about your family?”

  She shook her head, returning her attention to the keyboard. The pop-up window and the company org chart were replaced by the job posting with title and description. It was far more detailed than the posting she’d applied for. Listed under the title Executive and Personal Assistant to the CIO were specifics that surprised her. Items like research product liability and ethics exclusive of financial responsibilities were right up her alley. Others, however, left a little to be desired. Having to maintain your boss’s daily calendar was menial enough without adding duties like personal shopping to the list. Still, it didn’t look as bad as she had imagined it would be. Pointing to the widescreen display, she asked point-blank, “Are you telling me I’ll have the opportunity to research and formulate opinions when it comes to issues that may be involved in new products?”

  Instead of answering directly, Georgie returned her attention to the keyboard. She opened the text box and began typing furiously.

  It took a moment before Tyler realized she was typing a response instead of answering the question. She read the point notes word by word as they appeared on the screen. Her could-be boss was describing the opportunities that would be made available to her to continue her own academic research and writing while she examined the new issues facing their technology branch. Before she could comprehend why someone would consider paying her a salary to not do a particular job, the second pop-up window appeared. The bullet points streamed up on screen even faster. This list closely matched the job description she had been provided in her last interview. According to the note Georgie was furiously typing, these were the duties Marnie Pulaski had deemed required for any assistant or researcher she hired.

  “Does that mean you’re offering me the job?”

  The question appeared to confuse Georgie even more. “I…you want to…babysit?”

  Tyler carefully surveyed Georgie’s curious self-control. From where she was sitting, the woman was the embodiment of contrast. Obviously she could afford better shirts than what she wore. Did she choose the suits and just accept the shirts or was it the other way around? Then there were her hands. Small, even petite, but strong somehow. They still showed a tan from the summer and a myriad of tiny white scars, the type gained from rough work. Still they looked soft, gentle almost with short-cropped nails that reminded her of a surgeon’s hands. These were hands, she imagined, that never hesitated. Maybe she spent her summers on the lake, sailing one of her family yachts. “What is your job?”

  Georgie clicked a few buttons, displaying the company org chart again. “CIO,” she said, pointing to the organization chart. “Chief Innovation Officer.”

  “I didn’t ask what your title was.” Tyler pushed her, much as she would a presumptive student. “I asked what it is you do?”

  Seemingly oblivious to her attitude, Georgie appeared more surprised by the question than anything else. “New product technologies…build or license. Improve or innovate.” When Tyler didn’t comment, she seemed to interpret her silence as a lack of understanding. Resting the wireless keyboard on her knees, she typed furiously, head down, her too-long bangs bobbing in her eyes and with the fixed concentration of a small child. On the flat-screen several file folders popped up, then one opened to display a portfolio of jpegs from which she selected four thumbnails to expand.

  The images were of some safety device. That was an easy guess. Tyler recognized the red stripe across the white waterproof case. Of course, the stenciled “RESCUE” was a dead giveaway too. The second photo showed inside of the case which was packed like an egg carton with what looked like six flashlights and an iPad.

  “Sea Rover Rescue. DynaCraft standard equipment,” Georgie explained.

  Moving closer to take in the images displayed, she had to ask, “What does it do?”

  Georgie stood too, moving to stand beside her. “Man Overboard rescue,” she said, pointing to a photo of a life jacket. An expanded illustration detailed some sort of microchip. “GPS tracker…iPad controller.”

  Pointing out the six flashlight-style objects, shown in the open equipment case, Tyler asked her, “What are these other things?”

  The last of the open images showed a person in the water, maybe twenty, thirty yards behind the rear of a sailboat. With snow falling on a slush-churned surface, the image was more than frightening but failed to answer the question. When Georgie realized she wasn’t following, she clicked on the last image and opened a video file. The title read: DME Man Overboard Tracking System. There were other details too, like the Field Test number and the date.

  That caught Tyler’s attention. “You test marine safety equipment in December?”

  Taking a seat back on the couch, Georgie motioned for Tyler to do the same before pressing play on the video. Automatically tilting her head to match the keeled over angle of the horizon, Tyler realized the camera had to be hard mounted to the deck of a sailboat, and assumed they were using a company sailing yacht as the test vehicle. The rearview perspective painted a picture of the fiercely frigid day. The boat’s wake cut like a knife through the inches of snow that had accumulated on the surface. A person, clearly the test subject, dressed in what appeared to be a heavyweight wetsuit, stepped into the camera’s view before donning one of the company’s patented life jackets. A second person held up the iPad in its waterproof case at an angle easily covered by the camera. With heavy gloves on and through the waterproof case, the operator easily opened the DME rescue app. Within seconds the screen displayed several overlapping icons. One was shaped like a boat while another reminded her of those international swimming symbols she saw at high school meets. The iPad app clearly showed the test subject was still on board. At that moment the person holding the iPad gave a thumbs-up and without hesitation, the person in the wetsuit leaped backward and overboard.

  “Oh my God!” Tyler
immediately clamped her hands over her mouth. She watched in horror as the distance between the rear of the boat and the person in the water expanded at an alarming rate. Considering the conditions, she expected the people on board to immediately make haste. Instead, one crew member remained standing with the iPad in clear view of the camera, while another held up one of the flashlight devices. With a quick twist, it emitted a flashing light…

  “Boosters…Range boosters,” Georgie qualified.

  As they watched, the second crewman continued to casually remove boosters, one at a time from the equipment box, activating each with a quick twist before tossing them into the open water. As each one went active, another icon appeared on the iPad screen. When the last of the boosters were in the water, the crewman holding the iPad selected a single button. While it continued to show the position of the lost crewman and each of the boosters, it now added a recovery course. The camera angle then changed to show the helm and compass. The crewman at the wheel turned for the heading specified on the screen and followed the track line exactly as detailed. Within minutes the course line of the sailboat and the position of the man overboard intersected. The camera was twisted back around to follow the recovery operation. First hooking the overboard crewman, they then turned back to the original course and, with a pole net, swept up the six floating boosters. Chasing after the line of flashing beacons, Tyler was transfixed by the sight of the sailing yacht surging against the unforgiving brutality of the frigid cold gray lake.

  “That’s me,” Georgie DiNamico said proudly.

  “Holding the iPad?”

  Seeming confused by the assumption, she pointed to the person who had been hauled aboard and was hunkered down while a second person covered her with a heavy blanket.

  Tyler gave her a hard stare. “That water must have been freezing! The swells look to be at least six feet high!”

  “Yes,” she confirmed without elaboration.

  “Are you crazy?” She hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Though, considering how shocked she was, she was relieved to realize she hadn’t been screaming at the top of her lungs. No wonder the company thought she needed a babysitter! What kind of person would throw herself overboard during a snowstorm? Even the person holding the iPad was bundled in a heavy-looking slicker and waterproof gloves. “Is that snow? Where the hell were you?”