The Hole in the Middle (20 page)

“Well,” says Jenny, “this might be a good moment to take a straw poll and see if we are arriving at any kind of consensus.”

“Nonsense,” blusters Barry. “That would be premature. I think we would all benefit from a period of reflection. I suggest that we adjourn the meeting and reconvene in a week's time.”

“I disagree,” says Lil. “We will get to the right decision a lot faster if we let people vote while their impressions of the candidates are fresh in their minds.”

“That is consistent with our regular practice,” says Jenny. “I'm very
reluctant to expose committee members to pressure—however well-intentioned—to back one candidate or another. People should commit to a candidate based on their honest reactions to the interviews and not because they have had outside discussions with other members of the committee.
Not
that I'm saying that anyone would do that, you understand, just that it is a risk if we adjourn.”

Barry's face is purple, and everyone around the table is studiously avoiding any eye contact with him.

“Let's just get an initial feel of the room,” says Jenny, “and that will tell us how we should proceed. How many people support Mr. Paul for the position?”

Barry and Carl raise their hands.

“Two,” says Jenny. “How many people support Mr. Assaf?” The female board member raises her hand.

“One,” says Jenny. “And how many people support Ms. Anderson?”

Six hands shoot up: Carolyn, Marvin, Anusha, Patti, Lil, and me. “Six,” says Jenny, “plus my vote is seven.” She pauses. “That was intended to be a straw poll, but we have such a strong majority vote that it may not be necessary to continue. Does anyone feel that further discussion might change their vote?”

“I'm on the fence,” says the female board member. “It's possible that with further discussion, I might vote for Margaret Anderson.”

“And with further discussion, you might come to support Stephen Paul,” says Barry.

“No, I don't think so,” says the female board member, and Barry looks deflated.

“That being the case, it seems that we have a new vice president,” says Jenny. “My office will prepare an offer in consultation with the board, and we will report back to you if and when the candidate accepts. And the communications people will need to start thinking about the press release and public announcement.”

“Of course,” I say. I am trying not to smile too broadly.

Barry inclines his head, acknowledging the defeat, and says: “I may not agree with the choice that we've made here today, but I respect the will of
the majority. This is an important moment for the Baxter Children's Hospital, and we need to present a united front. I'll start the ball rolling on the public announcement today. We'll need some strong, professional communications advice on this.” Barry looks at me. “Don't you agree, Sophie?”

“Absolutely,” I say. “This is a great opportunity to create some real buzz about the hospital, and we don't want to miss it. When would you like to meet to talk about the PR strategy?”

“Oh, you misunderstand me,” says Barry, smiling slightly. “I don't think a meeting will be necessary. I just need you to send me the contact information for the best PR folks in town and I'll get in touch with them myself.”

I have an odd shrinking sensation, almost as if Barry has punctured the bubble of elation in my chest. My cheeks are hot with humiliation. “You don't want my office to help with the announcement?” I ask.

Barry regards me with undisguised malice. “Oh, I think we've had the benefit of more than enough help from you this week,” says Barry. “And as I said, it's an important moment. We can't leave the job to amateurs.”

friday, december 6, 2013

I rush out of the meeting room as the committee breaks up, pausing only to whisper congratulations in Lil's ear and to promise to see her at her party on Saturday night. She shoots me a sympathetic look, but doesn't try to stop me.

In my office, I scoop up a file of all of the things that I'm not going to read tonight, and I inform Joy that I'll be working at home this afternoon to prepare for tomorrow's shoot. Joy doesn't believe me, but she won't undermine me this time; I've just given her license to surf the Internet all afternoon with no threat of discovery. And after Barry's poisonous send-off, I feel blessedly free of guilt despite the fact that I plan to spend the entire afternoon preparing for a dinner party.

There was a time in grad school when, suffering from a mild form of writer's block, which may have resulted from a fundamental lack of interest in my topic, I spent what any objective observer would have said was too much time playing Tetris. Tetris is a simple video game that involves putting falling puzzle pieces in exactly the right spot in a limited window of time. Eventually, I had to go cold turkey on Tetris, but the closest equivalent I have found in recent years is in the design of a perfect menu for a dinner party of friends. The initial request for
dietary restrictions always unearths the usual religious and cultural prohibitions, but then there are the vegetarians, or God forbid, the vegans, and the lactose intolerant, and those afflicted with various and sundry allergies to ingredients like barley or blueberries. The trick is to have a constellation of dishes in which any one person can eat at least three of them.

I'm thrilled that Richard isn't coming, not just because he is a notorious conversation hog, but also because he is a vegan. Without him, I have a group I can work with. Those who can eat everything will feast on warm goat cheese salad, beef tenderloin, mushroom risotto, wilted rapini, and pear tart with whipped cream. The vegetarians can eat everything except the beef; the lactose intolerant can eat everything except the risotto and the whipped cream; and Anya, who is apparently “sensitive” to dairy and garlic, can just suck it up.

I make it home with the groceries just before three o'clock. First up is the pear tart, and by four-thirty, I have a perfect little round of homemade pastry browning in the oven. So many people just buy dessert these days, but they are really missing out on the tactile satisfaction of baking. I love the measuring, the rolling, the patting; it takes me back to the best parts of childhood.

Next I assemble the little patties of goat cheese for the salads. I mince herbs and coat the cheese with them, and then throw some slightly stale bread in the food processor to make fresh crumbs. I bread the goat cheese patties and put them in the fridge so that I can bake them just before serving. Then I whip up a delicate citrus vinaigrette, which also goes into the fridge. I'm making excellent time, congratulating myself, when I hear the door open.

“Hello?” I call, but hear only a strange thumping sound from the front porch. I wipe my hands on my apron and head to the front door to investigate, where I am nearly taken out by the business end of a Christmas tree being pushed, battering-ram style, through the front door.

“Yikes!” I shout, leaping out of the way, and Jesse's head appears at the other end of the tree.

“Oops. Sorry about that,” he says.

“I wasn't expecting you for another hour,” I say. “You escaped from the office?”

“I thought you could probably use some help with the party prep.”

“Fantastic,” I say, concealing my surprise. Jesse isn't usually this adept at anticipating my needs when it comes to entertaining, and it's a development to be encouraged. “But why don't you just stick the tree in the garage for now, and we'll put it up on the weekend?”

“No, no,” says Jesse. “I want to put it up for the party. Don't you think that would be great? I'm just going to run down to the basement and find the stand. Do you know where it is?”

“In the storage room,” I say. “But, Jess, are you sure we have time for this?”

“Of course,” says Jesse. “People are coming at seven, right? It's only five-thirty now. Lots of time.” And he disappears down the basement stairs.

I exhale forcefully and adjust my shoulders down. Jesse is right. There's lots of time, and the Christmas tree is always beautiful. I put the dried morels for the risotto into some hot water to soak, and am washing the rapini when I hear a crash and a shout from the basement.

“Are you all right?” I call down the stairs.

Jesse appears, limping. “The fucking stand fell on my foot,” he says. “Jesus, Sophie! Why did you leave it up against the wall like that? I moved the toboggans and it tipped over. I nearly lost a toe down there!”

“As I said,” I say stiffly, “are you sure that this is a good time to put up the tree?”

“It'll take ten minutes,” he says. “I just need you to give me a hand.”

I follow Jesse into the living room. He points to the corner by the window. “That's where we usually put it, right?”

“No. We usually put it over there.” I point to the opposite corner. “But we can put it here. It doesn't really matter.”

“OK, then. Help me move the armchair?”

We clear a spot for the tree and Jesse puts the stand in place. “Good,” he says. “Now, I just need you to hold the tree while I screw the supports in. Can you get me a screwdriver?”

I run down to the basement, find a screwdriver, and run back up to
find Jesse holding the tree up with an expression of pure exasperation. “Did you have to go to the hardware store? How hard is it to find a screwdriver in the basement?”

I bite back the very unpleasant comment that I'm tempted to make and say instead, “It's just about six, Jesse. I need to get back to the cooking.”

“Hold the tree and we'll be done before you know it.” Jesse gets down on his belly under the tree and starts twisting the first support. His soft grunts emanate up through the pine needles. “Is it straight?”

“It's hard to tell standing right next to it, but I think so.”

Jesse moves to the next screw and then the next one. He slithers out to examine his handiwork. “Goddamn it! It's leaning to the left. Push it right!”

I try to fix the angle, but the tree is locked in place. Jesse mutters and gets back under the tree, which vibrates as he wrenches the right support loose. He climbs out and looks again. He's sweating and there are pine needles in his hair. “Hold it exactly like that. Don't let it move!” He dives under the tree again, and I hold on for dear life as the tree sways with the violence of whatever Jesse is doing to its trunk. I am reminded, as I am every year, that nothing says, “Why did I marry this man?” like putting up a tree together.

“Perfect,” he pronounces, surveying the tree with obvious pride. “Now for the decorations.” He looks at me expectantly.

“You're on your own, pal,” I say. “Dinner party in forty-five minutes. I'll be in the kitchen.”

“OK, fair enough. Just tell me where the ornaments are.”

“Upstairs closet, top shelf,” I say.

I'm browning shallots for the risotto when Jesse reappears. “Didn't you hear me calling you?” he asks.

“Nope,” I say, pointing to the fan above the stove. “What's the problem?”

“I found a box of ornaments but no lights.”

“Same shelf, in a garbage bag.”

He sighs heavily. “Why didn't you say so?”

I add morels and porcini mushrooms and stir them while they soften.

“Do we have an extension cord?” Jesse calls from the living room.

“Hanging on the back of the furnace room door,” I call back, and add the arborio rice and some vegetable stock. Jesse darts into the kitchen to grab the stepladder.

“Smells awesome,” he says. “Can I borrow you for a second?”

“No can do,” I say. “The rice is in the pan. The cardinal rule of risotto is that you can't turn your back once the rice is in.” I pour a couple of ladles of stock into the pan.

“OK. I'll manage,” he says, but ten minutes later, I hear a shout of alarm and I sprint into the living room. “It's tilting!” he says, eyes wide.

“Hold it,” I say, “I'll be right back.” I race to the risotto, pour the remaining stock in and give it a good stir.

We adjust the tree again and I stand while Jesse looks for a diagnosis. “Aha! The shim slipped.” He rummages around for a few minutes and emerges with a glow of victory. “It won't be going anywhere now!” He hands me the star for the top of the tree. “I know you're picky about the placement of the star. Go to it. I'll spot you.”

I reach up and feel Jesse's hands resting on my waist. It's lovely, and for the first time in ages, I wish that we could forget the whole dinner party and race upstairs to bed. But then an acrid smell wafts in from the kitchen, and I leap off the stepladder, leaving the star askew, and bolt to the stove. Smoke is rising from the pan, curling around the edges of the dense risotto. “Oh no, no, no,” I say, as I pull it from the heat and reach in with a spoon to assess the damage. About two-thirds of the risotto comes out easily; the rest is caked to the bottom of the pan. I taste the rescued portion, which is a bit dry but still tasty.

Jesse appears by my side. “Oh, shit. Sorry about that,” he says. “How bad is it?” And as I open my mouth to answer, the smoke alarm goes off. I cover my ears as Jesse grabs a broom from the closet. He knocks the smoke alarm off the ceiling with one swing and beats it with the broom handle until it stops shrieking, suggesting that he is expelling some residual frustration from the Christmas tree project.

“Feel better?” I ask, looking at the mangled plastic on the floor.

“Much,” he says. “What's the risotto situation?”

“It's not enough to feed everyone,” I say. “I'm going to have to make risotto cakes to make it stretch. Do you think that will be OK?”

“Of course,” he says. “It will be terrific. By the way, where are the kids?”

“Oh, right, the kids,” I say. “I forgot about them.”

“You forgot about them?”

I roll my eyes, and then catch myself. I heard about a study on the radio that predicted marital success by watching couples interact. Eye rolling was singled out as fatal evidence of underlying contempt, which caused marriages to fail in statistically significant numbers. “I'm kidding, honey,” I say. “They're sleeping over at your parents'.”

“Oh,” he says. “Anyway, the tree's done and it looks great, so I'm going to jump in the shower before the guests arrive.”

I fill the dishwasher and put the ruined pan in the sink to soak while I regroup. I put the risotto in a bowl and set it aside, and take the beef out of the fridge to bring it to room temperature. I'm assembling a cheese tray when I glance at the clock and realize that I'm out of time. I sprint upstairs, strip off my sweats and throw on a dress and some stockings. I run a comb through my hair and am digging through my makeup kit for some inspiration when the doorbell rings. “Can you get that?” I call to Jesse.

“I'm wearing a towel,” he calls back. “Sorry.”

I loop a few strands of beads around my neck as I dash downstairs and throw open the door to our neighbors, Daniel and Claire, who live across the street. “Come on in,” I say. “It's so great to see you!”

Claire gives me a big hug. “It's been way too long!” she says. She steps back. “I know I'm not supposed to say this, but you look tired.”

“That's just because you don't usually see me without concealer under my eyes. I'm fine. What can I get you to drink?”

I get them settled in the living room, admiring the tree, when the bell rings again.

“Oh, thank God,” I say, finding Zoe standing in the doorway. “I need to put you to work.”

“I'm all yours,” she says. “Is he here yet?”

“Will? No. How are you doing, by the way?”

“Mostly enraged, with moments of sadness, which is probably better than the reverse. But I don't want to talk about it tonight. Much like the way you don't want to talk about what's going on with Will.” She lifts one eyebrow and gives me a penetrating look.

“Not now, Zoe. We'll find some time this weekend, I promise. I have to go into the office tomorrow for the holiday ad shoot; maybe we could meet after that. Let's connect in the morning once I have a better sense of how long the shoot will take.”

“Fine,” she says. “Just as long as you don't think you're off the hook.” The doorbell rings again and she saves me from answering. This time it's Paul, Jesse's closest friend from grad school, and his wife, Lila. I introduce them to Daniel and Claire, put Zoe in charge of drinks, deposit the cheese tray on the coffee table, and head back to the kitchen to assess the dinner situation.