by Lisa Tucker
When his shoes were on and he was ready to go, he couldn’t resist telling Rachel that he didn’t have kids. “I’m just taking care of them while their mother is sick.” He moved to the door. “But you’re right, I don’t love you. You don’t love me, either, if that’s any consolation.”
“You lying prick.” She threw a wad of clothing at him. “Screw you and screw that stupid song you made me listen to. It bites like a dog turd.”
The song she was so brilliantly critiquing, Talking Heads’ “Once in a Lifetime,” was not only one of his favorites, but also one of the hundred most important American musical works of the twentieth century, according to some authority. CNN? NPR? An eminent music critic? He wasn’t sure, but he’d read it on Wikipedia.
He smiled indulgently. “I believe the simile you’re striving for is ‘stinks like a dog turd.’”
“Whatever,” she said, and gave him the finger.
When he got home, he found Isabelle face down, sobbing on the couch. Hannah was singing to her—a valiant effort, even if her voice was badly off-key.
“Isabelle,” he said, leaning down to her. “What are you going on about?”
“Ma-ew,” she said, and sat up, only to throw herself in his arms. More crying and some babbling, which he took to mean she was mad that he hadn’t been there for the foot injury.
He patted her back. “You’re becoming a pain in the ass, too; you know that, right?”
“I not,” she stammered.
He laughed. “It’s a good thing you’re so cute. Otherwise, I’d have to throw you out the window.”
Hannah looked horrified. Matthew told her it was a family joke. For some reason, that made Isabelle laugh.
“It cheered her up?” Hannah said. “I guess it’s okay, then?”
He paid the seventy-two dollars plus cab fare. Sent Hannah home. Walked Isabelle around the apartment until she was completely calm and then told her she had to go to bed.
“You bed?”
“Absolutely not.” Her face scrunched up again, but before she could let loose he reminded her that Danny was waiting for her in their bed. “You love Danny, and if you don’t, you should. He treats you like a princess. Be nice to him or you’ll grow up to be a bitch, too.”
He had no idea whether she understood, but she didn’t object when Matthew put her next to her brother. A few minutes later, he checked and she was snoring.
Another perfect night, but thankfully almost over.
When he sat down at his computer, he wrote Walter an email. “Something’s come up that we need to talk about this weekend. Give me a call when you have a minute.”
Walter would know it was an emergency because Matthew only bothered him on the weekend if a potential disaster was brewing. This certainly qualified. If Amelia could pretend to be his housekeeper, all bets were off. The woman was dangerous. They would have to release their own statement about Pain Matters as soon as possible. The only question was how to do it, and Matthew had already worked out a few possibilities during the evening with Rachel. At least it wasn’t a total loss.
The next morning, Matthew sat down at his computer to discover that Walter had already emailed him back. This was a little strange since the boss didn’t like checking email on the weekend, and he usually did so as little as possible, once a day, late in the afternoon. But it was the message itself that was really disturbing: “I need to speak to you about something as well. How about coming over to the house today around two?”
Walter had never issued such a weekend summons. Naturally, it crossed Matthew’s mind that he’d done something wrong, possibly even stepped in some very deep shit. He called Hannah and bribed her to come back, this time for a minimum of a hundred dollars. He also told Danny to stay alert and not eat too much. “I can’t deal with any problems this afternoon,” he said to Danny. “This is serious.”
Walter lived about an hour outside of Philadelphia, in a relatively undeveloped part of Chester County, mainly horse farms and old money. The drive took Matthew right past Astor-Denning and then about fifteen miles down tiny curving roads with names like Three Ponds Lane and Whitetail Run. Several AD execs lived out here, including the CEO, presumably because it was so convenient—unless it snowed; then getting out of here would be a bitch. Cassie lived in the other direction, nearer to civilized Paoli, and even she needed an SUV to get to work. Walter had a Jaguar and a Hummer, though how he got down these roads in that Hummer without knocking over mailboxes and running down little animals was a mystery. Harold Knolton, the CEO, had only been at the company since last spring, but the first time it snowed he’d probably charter a helicopter to take him to the roof and hire a band to congratulate him for making it in.
Matthew never complained publicly about the new CEO, though just driving by the man’s forty-acre estate—on the way to Walter’s more modest mansion—made him feel pissed off. Why the board had made Harold Knolton CEO instead of Walter Healy was something he would never understand. Knolton was an outsider whose only experience was in retail, while Walter had put twenty-eight years into AD, earning the respect and loyalty of nearly everyone in the company. During Knolton’s very first week on the job he’d managed to alienate the entire workforce with his foolish comparison of AD and Microsoft, braying in his teleconference: “We must become the Windows of pharmaceuticals. Our goal is one hundred percent penetration of the market and the same reputation for safety and utility as the best Microsoft products.” Ignoring the fact that even Windows didn’t have 100 percent penetration (ever heard of Apple, asswipe?), the bigger problem was that pharmaceuticals are legally classified as “unavoidably unsafe products,” meaning that, unlike software, you can’t make them so they don’t cause harm to someone . The key was always a careful risk/benefit analysis, which Knolton claimed he fully understood from his vast experience launching…department stores. Thankfully, Matthew rarely had to see the man or his house. He’d been to the estate only twice: once in March, for the welcome party Knolton threw to welcome himself, and once for the Fourth of July picnic and fireworks display. Both times, Walter had pushed Matthew forward and praised him as the next big thing, and Knolton had shaken his hand before walking off to someone more worthy.
He was about a mile from Walter’s house when he suddenly wondered if he was being fired. He’d heard of weekend firings at other pharma companies, but surely AD wouldn’t stoop that low. And Knolton had just called him in Paris; why use effusive praise as prep for a firing? Then, too, Matthew knew Walter wouldn’t let this happen unless the only choice was cutting Matthew loose or facing jail time, and Matthew was positive (well, almost) that he hadn’t broken any laws. He consulted with the legal department on every important decision. The last thing he wanted to do was get the company in trouble with any government, not to mention his personal opposition to going near a prison.
Walter lived in an old stone farmhouse, built in 1768 and on the national register of historic places. (The plaque on the front proclaimed as much.) The house was surrounded by hundreds of trees, and Matthew heard the leaves crunching under his feet as he walked up the long path from the parking area to the front door. He could hear the brook in the back and smell the fire billowing out of the chimney. It was an unusually warm day, almost 60 degrees, but Walter loved to have a fire in his den or in one of his eight other fireplaces.
“Son, you’re right on time,” Walter said in his great southern drawl. Whenever they were alone, he always called Matthew “son.” He’d started this years ago, but the older Matthew got, the more he appreciated it. Made him feel young.
Walter looked very tired, but that wasn’t surprising. He’d come home from Paris a few days before Matthew had, but he’d probably had a houseful of kids and grandkids for Thanksgiving. His wife implied as much when she told Matthew they had lots of leftovers if he wanted anything.
He thanked her, but said he’d just eaten. He couldn’t choke down a bite until he found out what the hell was going on. While he follo
wed the boss through the long left wing of the house that led to the den, Walter congratulated him for the latest CESS results, joking that Matthew “must have paid them off again.” The Confidential Employee Satisfaction Survey, or CESS, was called the “cesspool” by most of the employees, since filling it out was mandatory and it was way too long. One section was devoted to the employee’s immediate boss and another to the leader of the employee’s division, with statements like “My team leader supports and encourages my development” “My team leader knows of my work” “My opinion is valued by the team leader and sought out when appropriate.” Every year for the last three years, Matthew had come in with the highest results in the company. This year’s was his best score yet, and the director of human resources took him to lunch to pick his brain on how he kept his people so happy. The true answer, he didn’t know. The BS answer, a reformulation of the same categories in the CESS. “I support their development in every way I can. I know all their names and what they’re working on. I value their input.” She took notes, which seemed so hilarious it made the wasted time for lunch almost worthwhile.
It struck Matthew that Knolton might have a different view of his CESS results, since the CEO was known for his boasts that “Being feared means I’m doing something right.” True enough, if by “something” he meant being an incompetent asshole. Indeed, he was not only doing that right, he was doing it almost perfectly.
The den was Matthew’s favorite of all the rooms in this great house. It wasn’t as cavernous as Walter’s office at AD, and it was much more personal. The shelves on the facing wall contained hundreds of books about the usual things—management, medicinal chemistry, the stock market, drug development—but also dozens of volumes on the boss’s three passions: bird watching, poker, and American history. All over the room were photographs of Walter’s children and grandchildren taken at holidays and birthday parties and summers at their vacation house in Maine. Even the mahogany bar seemed intimate, flanked as it was by a painting of Walter’s wife, sitting in this den, smiling with the absolute confidence of a woman whose husband adores her. From what Matthew had seen, it was really true. They’d been married for almost forty years and Walter had never strayed; he said Cynthia was the love of his life, so why would he?
Walter fixed himself a scotch, but he knew Matthew didn’t drink unless he was with a client, and then only a glass of wine, less if he could get away with it. “The only thing I don’t like about you,” he always joked. But not this time.
When they were seated in the wing chairs, Walter took a drink of the scotch and then announced that he’d decided to retire from AD. “Effective immediately. I wanted to tell you before they make it official.”
“Knolton is forcing you out, isn’t he? That dimwitted bast—”
Walter shook his head. “Harold had nothing to do with my decision. He asked me to stay for a transition period, but I told him I can’t do it. For years I’ve been promising Cynthia a trip around the world.” He smiled. “I’ve always told you, don’t make promises. They have a way of coming back to bite you on the ass.”
Matthew sat forward. The boss was obviously serious. “I’m glad for you if this is what you want. Selfishly, I’m worried about my division. Who is replacing you?”
“The board has been considering several internal people, but they’ve also been talking to outside candidates.”
Walter was still talking about the board’s process, but Matthew wasn’t paying attention. Those jackasses. Outsiders like Knolton? Maybe the new boss would have substantial expertise selling toilet paper. He could explain how drugs should be 100 percent absorbent, as safe and effective as Charmin. And even if by some miracle the board picked someone inside the company, this was still bad news. No one else would be as good as Walter. He was fucked.
“They’ve authorized me to offer the position to you.”
Matthew sat back. Wondered, did he just say you? As in me? As in, oh shit, now I’m really fucked?
“I’m not ready,” he said, because it was absolutely true. Walter was one of only eight people on the corporate executive team, and his area, International Pharmaceuticals, covered everything from regulatory to IT, marketing to product development, ethical compliance to finance, medical alliances to clinical trial management, public relations to administration. A few others that Matthew couldn’t remember at the moment. How could he be in charge of departments he couldn’t remember? It was ridiculous.
“You are ready, son.” Walter took a drink. “This is excellent news. If only you were a drinking man; this is a hell of a moment for a drink.”
“All right, I’ll have a scotch.”
Walter gave him a curious look, but he stood up and poured him a drink. Matthew sipped it, afraid he’d wuss out and choke. It helped him calm down and listen as the boss started to tell his favorite story: the day Matthew interviewed for his first job at Astor-Denning. He felt about the story the way other people felt about watching home movies with their parents: a little fascinated, more than a little embarrassed, mainly just bored. The story always took forever because Walter was a southerner, and southerners have to tell you what kind of day it was (raining and “cold as a well-digger’s tail”), what month (March), what Matthew was wearing (a blue suit that didn’t fit him well and a clip-on tie), and what his clothes said about him (“so poor he couldn’t rub two nickels together”). Several other colorful details that Matthew sat through, waiting for Walter to get to the real point of the story: what he was thinking throughout the process.
“I didn’t want to interview you. HR insisted, because they were always impressed by anyone from Hopkins. But I was looking for a doctor to join my trials division and I knew you weren’t my candidate. You sat across the table from me and said you’d done a residency in internal medicine. I had your college and med school transcripts. I thought either this kid has never been on an interview or he’s just as dumb as a box of rocks.”
“The latter,” Matthew said, because it was undeniable. To think he could fake an entire residency. He’d never hire anybody who tried to pull something like that.
“So I told you the problem as I saw it. You’d done well in medical school, but you weren’t a licensed physician. You needed to come back after you’d done a good internship and a residency, and then we’d talk.” Walter paused. “You remember what you said to me?”
Of course he did. He’d answered the same question every time Walter told the story. “I can’t stand hospitals.”
Walter slapped his knee. “Another confession so stupid it boggled the mind. Applying for a job in clinical trials and admitting you don’t like hospitals.”
Matthew took a bigger drink. The scotch was warm going down his throat. No wonder the boss loved this stuff.
“So then I asked you, ‘Son, what is it you think you can do at this company? What are you looking for?’ And you said, ‘I made a mistake going to medical school and now I have a lot of student loans to pay off. I was hoping I could make some money.’” Walter was laughing and coughing. “And I thought this kid is green as a gourd. How did he graduate from college, much less get through Hopkins? He has to be putting me on.”
This was the most embarrassing part, which always made Matthew feel like Walter had to be talking about someone else. Yes, he’d been young and stupid, but green? That green?
“So finally I said, ‘Tell me some skills you think you could bring to the job. Mind you, I’m only asking so I can tell HR the whole story and give them a good laugh, too.’ But then you said, ‘I’ll work my ass off. I’ll give the company my best effort not only when I’m having successes but also when I’m failing miserably. I’ll be loyal to Astor-Denning and I’ll be loyal to you—the most loyal person you’ll ever hire. If you just give me this chance, I’ll never let you down.’” Walter took a drink and waved his hand. “You also told me about working full-time in college, acing the MCATs, the clinical rotations in med school, the one patient you thought you might have ki
lled, the couple of dozen or so you’d helped save. But the desperation is what got to me. I thought here is a kid who needs a goddamn job. And I can give it to him. All I have to do is find something he can do without screwing it up.”
Matthew laughed. “And that wasn’t much.”
“You said you liked talking to scientists. I thought, I’ll never turn this kid loose on our contacts. Instead, I gave you a job in marketing, at the bottom. Your first task was so impossible I knew you couldn’t do any harm: to come up with a new strategy for one of our worst-performing drugs. It was our first SSRI and we’d given up on it after several studies came out saying it wasn’t as effective as the others on the market. But you pored over all the numbers and discovered that our drug had one thing the others didn’t. It had a lower sexual side effect profile for men. Not much lower, but statistically significant. You came into my office and said that from now on, we can promote this drug as the only antidepressant that doesn’t depress your boner.”
Matthew was certain he hadn’t put it that crudely, but Walter, for all his soft-spoken manners, loved the word boner . He always ended the story this way. “The rest is history,” he’d say, meaning everything Matthew had achieved up to this point. But heading up International Pharmaceuticals was such a reach that he couldn’t imagine how he’d pull it off. He told Walter that, but the boss said he had complete faith in him. Walter also said that the board wanted Matthew to give his first press conference when they announced his own resignation, so Matthew had better start thinking about what he wanted his tenure as leader to be.
“Knolton is gung ho for this,” Walter said. “You know he’s not a hands-on man. His only loyalty is to the shareholders. Of course you’ll have to work with him, but you can decide how you want to accomplish the board’s goals. You’ll have full autonomy.”
Walter’s wife came in to check on him. She said she wished he’d eat something. “Later, honey,” he said, and kissed her. After she left, Walter told Matthew about the new salary, which was staggeringly high. More stock options and a huge bonus, of course. The choice to hire two or even three people to replace him, if he didn’t think one person could do his current job. Walter also told him the downside, including some of the problems he’d be inheriting. The difficulties of working with the board, and the constant meetings. The significant changes to his lifestyle. He wouldn’t be able to travel to the problems; he’d have to delegate. His alliances would have to be delegated, too. He’d have a public presence that he’d have to remain aware of at all times. He would represent AD at important functions all over the world. “You really should get married,” Walter said. “It’s time to settle down, and it’s better for your image.”
