“Be rational.” Ruth tried to convey just the right degree of scientific objectivity. “Why take any chance of getting an amoeba in your system? The Africans have adapted their internal chemistries to their environment over generations and generations, but you don’t have time for that.” She dropped her voice a few tones when she added, “And besides, who wants to have to put their shit on a slide for the Peace Corps doc to look at under a microscope? Euuuuwww!”
Vivian did get sick. During the worse of it, she was weak and green, though the visiting PC doc dropped off meds and assured them it would pass. What little strength she had went for vomiting and diarrhea, then she’d rest up for the next bout. Their intimacy deepened as Ruth read to her, stroked her head with a wet rag, sang to her. She even killed a chicken and made chicken soup. Vivian’s illness subsided and Ruth was torn between love and anger. “Vivvy sweetie, you are my best friend in the whole wide world and I’m so sorry you’re having such a bad time, but I have to tell you in all honesty that it doesn’t pay for you to get well, because as soon as you’re out of bed, I AM GOING TO KILL YOU!” They laughed until they cried.
Sometimes they struggled, as many volunteers did, with the idea of the United States, with its affluence that came packaged with crime, materialism, and empty values, purporting to teach traditional cultures to emulate it.
“Really, Ruth, it’s ridiculous to think that these villagers, who know nothing about suicide and very little about emotional illness of any kind, where everyone knows his purpose in life and has a whole villageful of love, might someday be able to watch TV and actually want to be like us. That’s so crazy. No, they should be sending the Peace Corps to us.”
“Right, like a reverse Peace Corps to teach us traditional values. Core Values. The CORE Corps.”
“With a model of a traditional village set up in Times Square.”
“And the villagers would show us how to care for people who need it the most.”
“Without bitching about taxes.”
“Right. And accepting everyone for who they are, without pushing everyone to be a doctor or lawyer.”
“Right. Or asking them when they’re going to get married and have kids and settle down in the suburbs.”
They indulged in this or any kind of discussion they wanted, playful, serious, creative, impassioned, tearful, or a combination. They never needed to hurry back to a paper due the next day, never feared being pre-empted by a boy calling. The evening’s only entertainment was a full discussion of the day’s insights, with the guarantee of a willing listener, a hefty measure of understanding of both the words and the intentions behind the words, and acceptance. The relaxed rhythm of their lives was as much a new experience as living in Africa. Their life together was intimate, but not sexual, though visiting volunteers—and they got more than their fair share because the ocean in their back yard made visiting them like a trip to the beach—spread whispers about the two girls who were … “you know … really really close.”
When they were all talked out, they’d play Ray Charles on their battery-powered record player and do the twist to “What’d I Say” on the sand in the moonlight, until they were giggly and sweaty. They’d collapse and listen to the waves.
Long afterwards, when the dust had settled, Ruth realized it had been naïve to think their friendship would survive the transition from the hothouse of their close quarters, new experiences, and isolation to their lives back home. They didn’t realize that, in the real world, they’d have to be satisfied with something less, and the diminution would be unacceptable.
When the rift came, though, they just thought they were arguing about the Viet Nam War. Vivian was counseling young draftable men on their limited options: try for Conscientious Objector status, aim for one of the few remaining deferments, flee to Canada, or fight. They were having dinner at Chuan Hong, a Chinese restaurant on the Upper West Side. It was Szechuan, a new kind for both of them, and they were enjoying its spiciness and novelty. Vivian tried to convince Ruth to join her in working for “Is Fighting the Only Option?”
Taking a bite of her Kung Po chicken, carefully avoiding the pepper pods, Ruth explained, “Look, Viv, I support what you’re doing, really I do, but I’m just not an activist sort of person.” She blew on her food. “I’m just not. I mean, it’s sort of like—”
Vivian slammed her chopsticks down on the table, and one of them flew into the air, landing on the next table. “What do you mean, not an activist sort of person? Does that mean,” she spoke in a singsong as she continued, “‘I’m too busy starting my fancy New York career and going out to bars at night to do what I think needs to be done, so I’ll just let others do it for me?’ Is that what it means?”
“Don’t give me that crap, Vivian. I just gave two years of my life for something I believe in. Save the radical speeches for people who deserve it.”
“Bullshit. You did Peace Corps because your parents didn’t want you to. You did it because it made you feel good, not because it helped people.”
This traditional conundrum for Peace Corps Volunteers was like a Zen riddle: If you felt good about giving service, were you really being an altruist, or just doing what made you feel good? Who is the greater altruist, one who loves to give service or one who hates it but does it anyway? Still, it shocked Ruth to hear it thrown in her face.
She quietly put her chopsticks on her plate, took a sip of water and wiped her mouth with her napkin. She returned the napkin to her lap, carefully insuring it had no wrinkles, then said softly, “You know, Vivian, if I’m not radical enough to be your friend anymore, just tell me.”
“You said it, not me.” Vivian fished a five-dollar bill from her jeans and flung it on the table. As she stormed out, she called back, “Have a nice life.”
CHAPTER 4
Jeremy Rules
WHEN THE ELEVATOR SLOWED and the doors whooshed open to the tune of the too-perky ding, Ruth hesitated for a second to let her eyes get used to her nine-to-five bleached landscape: white floors and desks, white-on-white artwork, framed in white, on white walls. The exuberant floral displays in matching vases supplied the only color, as if the walls were the canvas and the bouquets the paint. Breathing deeply, she detected “Moi, Moi, Moi,” the scent of the week
She marched with a determined stride, each step compensating for her measly five feet two inches by stretching a little further than was comfortable. An instructor in an Executive Presentations course had once referred to this stride as her “I may be little but I can lick any guy in the place” walk, and suggested she try more of a “fairy godmother” style. Yeah, right.
In the sanctuary of her office, the windows directed a gentle morning light on her collection. Soft black-and-white photos of faces dominated. Her favorites were the strong unsmiling profile of the Senegalese man in his village whom she knew to be gentle and loving, and the withered Indonesian woman hunched over her garden with an ancient tool.
Masks occupied the wall behind her desk, next to the window, all variations on the theme of camouflage and disguise. Most were African masks, brown wood with some accoutrements like shells and straw. The few Balinese masks with exaggerated facial gestures and wild colors were a stark contrast. There was even a papier maché mask Josh once made with garish polka dots resembling measles from outer space.
She allowed herself a few minutes vacation, basking in last night’s glory. There were already lots of emails congratulating her, including one from the head of the Foundation for Children with Scleroderma. She spread the newspaper out on her desk and thought yes, we really did it this time.
Would Jeremy eat humble pie? Probably not. But maybe he’d be nice about it, only throwing in one or two snide remarks? She thought of Dean, the pre-Jeremy, or maybe the anti-Jeremy, and how glad she was that he’d let her start the Charitable Giving program when she made the switch from Human Resources to Marketing. Not only were the benefits fun, they helped even up her moral balance sheet. What a dream-boss he’d
been.
Later today, she’d think about having glimpsed her retirement future—maybe David would change his mind—and her Peace Corps past in the space of a few hours. And she’d also figure out how she might use the success of the benefit to counter Jeremy’s over-the-shoulder look at Lipsticks & Scarves.
Outside her window, the quickly-moving clouds against the gray-blue sky gave her the jump-start to confront today’s To-Do list, including the leftovers from yesterday. She dove headlong into the corporate busywork of phone calls to return, memos to write, butts to kick, asses to kiss. Activity aimed at closure was her drug of choice. She loved nothing better than to cross things off her list, and some days yearned for an emptied list even more than a hot lavender-scented bath.
In her list-shortening orgy, she resolved three scheduling glitches. Two concerned product development, for which she preserved budget at the expense of schedule; one was about advertising, for which schedule got priority over budget. She composed the first draft of her weekly report, sticking to Jeremy’s new prescribed format almost completely, leaving the section on the bottom-line results of the benefit temporarily blank. Then she rewarded herself by replying to some of the “Bravo on the benefit” emails, including a delicious one from Josh that she read about ten times.
“I know it’s the mom who’s supposed to be proud of the kid, but I just can’t help it, ya know? If you don’t want me to be proud of you, stop doing great stuff.”
She left about fifteen more congratulatory messages in her e-inbox for later, when she’d have time and need a pat-on-the-back pick-me-up. It would probably be mid-afternoon, and it would be even better than caffeine.
While she was on the phone with one of the colleagues whose product development schedule was about to be tinkered with, Tom knocked on her open door. She waved him in and finished her call.
Tom looked younger than twenty-eight, with sandy-brown hair that fell straight down with the slightest movement of his head, leading him to reflexively finger-comb it back. His deep brown eyes were ringed by lush eyelashes (“They’re wasted on a guy,” was the take in the women’s room) which drew attention from a large-nostrilled nose, too-skinny lips and crooked teeth.
Ruth liked Tom’s idealism, his sincerity and eagerness to learn. “Hi Tom. What’s up?”
“Wow, I love those pictures of when you were in the Peace Corps, out in the middle of nowhere.”
“Proof that I was once young.”
“I didn’t mean….”
“Of course not. I know. Have a seat.”
He asked Ruth how the benefit went, and she spent too much time telling him how successful it was. “Even Jeremy came.”
“But that’s good, you know, after yesterday’s meeting and all.”
“The meeting wasn’t so bad. Not like when you were a teacher, I know. But you’ll get used to it.”
She asked if he’d finished his application to graduate school, knowing he hadn’t or would already have mentioned it.
He’d been too busy.
That’s what he said last time, she thought. She reminded him how valuable it would be to have the company pay his tuition. And that she’d write him a great recommendation. She jotted a note to herself in blue, to check once more, maybe in a month. But that would be the last time.
“So…?”
Tom was having trouble with the figures she’d wanted on the lavender bath oil and he didn’t think he’d be able to get them to her by the afternoon. He showed her what he meant, then asked if Monday would be all right.
“Sorry, Monday’s not okay. I need them for the report I’m doing for Jeremy over the weekend. Just do the best you can, but get me something.”
“Um, okay. I’ll have to drop everything else and concentrate on those figures.”
“Good idea.”
She stayed at her desk through lunch. Just as she was finishing her sandwich, Jeremy called. About time, she thought. He liked the concert. He hadn’t seen the write-up in the paper. He wanted to talk to her, though. About the benefit. Could she please come up to his office? Now.
While she didn’t like the way he commanded her to run upstairs, at least it was for the purpose of praising the success of the benefit. Also, she’d get her first look at his permanent office, the one the decorators had been preparing with whatever personal preferences he’d expressed.
She tried to imagine what the office would be like, but there’d been little gossip about Jeremy’s tenure at B&D. Orderly and a micro-manager, yes, but nothing juicy. Maybe that’s why he’d brought only a few Big Daddies over with him, because he was afraid they’d talk. Somehow, she just couldn’t believe he was interesting enough for that type of intrigue.
“Come in, Ruth. Have a seat.” He was behind his desk, a massive chunk of dark grainless wood. Blank legal pads and variously-colored file folders in piles of differing heights looked like a LEGO® brick village. He used green B&D sticky notes instead of the ubiquitous pink ones from Mimosa. Frugal or passive-aggressive?
She looked at the practically-obligatory family photos. First, Jeremy and his attractive wife in their mid-twenties, maybe ten years ago. On a cruise ship, perhaps.
Next to it, a larger one of him and an older woman, in a silver frame, arm in arm, very happy. His mother?
Then a smaller shot of Jeremy and Mrs. Jeremy with their two freshly-scrubbed smiling sons, very close in age, hovering around seven or eight, dressed up and standing behind a formal dining table.
None of the photos showed a sailboat, a tennis racket, a tent, or anything denoting passion or even the willingness to sweat. There was something else odd about them.
“Beautiful boys,” Ruth said.
He turned the photo around to look at it. Wait, that was it. The photos were facing the wrong way, and it was as odd as people standing the wrong way in an elevator. Guess he doesn’t know he’s supposed to look at them during the day and derive pleasure, Ruth thought.
“Thank you. They’re good boys.”
“You must be very proud.”
“In fact I am.”
“Are they twins?”
“No, just very close in age. Abraham’s the elder, then Charles.” Quick smile. “How do you like my new office?”
The carpet was off-white, called “ecru” above the twenty-first floor, meshing perfectly with the tan, brown and white geometric print of the couch and two arm chairs just inside the door. Three walls—the fourth being the high-status floor to ceiling window with drawn curtains—had sparse nondescript artwork that seemed to have been chosen only for color and size. One frame was blank. Other than the family photos, the only personal element in the room was a country club award for duplicate bridge. Jeremy must have given the decorators “bland” as his preference, and they’d done a good job.
“It’s very nice. Do you like it?”
“It’s a good, calm space. I know you took a different approach with yours,” he continued. “A bit more … more eclectic … shall we say. But this one suits me just fine.”
She nodded. “That’s what it’s all about.”
He looked at his watch. “Let’s get down to business. Down to business. I’ve been analyzing our charitable giving. We certainly raise a lot of money.”
“And last night—”
“But we have to spend a lot to raise it. The salaries of the people who work on the events. The profits that those people—like you—would be generating if they spent all their time on something more, something more…more profitable. All the expenses. We have to balance the negatives against the positives. All the negatives against all the positives. I have to balance them.”
He couldn’t be going where she feared he was going with this. She had to head him off at the pass, and she knew “intangibles” would not be the weapon of choice. “But Jeremy, the good will we generate is priceless, and a recent study about good will—”
“It’s simpler and easier to just write a check—”
He really was saying it
. At a gallop, too. So much for small talk about children and office décor.
“—even if it’s a big check. Which it doesn’t need to be. Yesterday’s concert did very well, bravo, but it was the final benefit. I don’t know if you’re planning another one, but you can stop.”
She’d been primed for praise. She’d thought he might stick in some little dig about her benefits being more successful than Lipsticks & Scarves, but she’d been prepared to forgive him. In her imagination, she’d been gracious.
She’d always known the charity-benefit program had to be evaluated as part of a bigger picture than just the amount of money raised. In fact, seen in a certain way, a very narrow way, what he was saying was sort of … well, sort of true. It just didn’t look at the whole picture. Dean understood about the name recognition and good will. She’d have to explain it to Jeremy. Remedial Marketing. First, inhale.
“But it’s not just about—”
“It’s simple. You need to spend all your time on launches. Profitable launches. Grand slams. More focus on profit, less on non-profit. Time for order and discipline, not emotion. Have to be fish or fowl.” Tongue-dart. “Can’t be both.”
There seemed to be no air in the room. This was much worse than a hot flash. It was a vacuum.
He turned to face his computer and circled around the keyboard with his index finger—‘here comes the airplane, into the hangar’—before he hit the “send” button. “I’ve spelled it all out in an email.” He turned back to her and looked at his watch ostentatiously.
“It explains the changes in charitable giving as well as some other ideas for reorganizing. I’m sure you’ll agree when you see the numbers. They’re very persuasive. They always are. That’s why I like numbers so much. They line up and stay where they belong. Right where they belong.” His lips did their impersonation of a smile.
“It’s a done deal. You have to expect changes with new management. But I just wanted to give you a heads-up in person. You know, as a favor. Thanks for coming up.” He stood up to shake her hand, then went to the wall to straighten the crooked blank frame.
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