The Hole in the Middle

Chapter 2: MONDAY, DECEMBER 5, 2011

I turn down the hall with all of the enthusiasm of a delinquent teenager heading to the principal’s office. I wonder, idly, if Barry will make the effort to call me by my name today. Based on experience, the odds are around sixty-forty against, but it’s hard to predict. He usually just calls everyone “pal” or “buddy”, even people whose names he must know. He reminds me of my elementary school principal who called all the girls “princess” and all the boys “cowboy”; Barry’s cut from the same cloth, he’s just updated the nomenclature to reflect the ostensibly gender-neutral values of our age.

Barry Wise is the Chair of the Board of the hospital. He is my boss as well, although only temporarily. My former boss is on an extended leave after some allegations were raised about the extent of his interest in children. The police then paid a visit to his house and left with his computer. These unfortunate events stem from a misunderstanding, as we are all quick to tell any external parties. But behind closed doors he’s a dead man, and it’s an open secret that the person hired to replace him as the Vice President of Advancement for the hospital on a limited term contract, will in fact be a permanent hire. I’ve already drafted the press release announcing his early retirement and praising his visionary leadership during a period of growth and change. We’ll hit send as soon as the search committee announces its choice.

I find Barry with his back to the door, staring out the window. It’s a studied pose, designed to give the impression that he is wrestling with a management issue of great complexity. But since he begins virtually every meeting this way, I’ve concluded that he is simply watching the pigeons, and waiting for the opportunity to practice his pained, far away expression, befitting one who must climb down from a lofty perch of contemplation to deal with the mundane matters below. It is an expression that has been imitated in the staff room on countless occasions, usually after Barry has made a particularly boneheaded pronouncement. In truth, Barry has absolutely no idea what any of us do, and why should he? He runs a hedge fund, and is only the Chair of Board because he has what is known in our business as “capacity”: he is rich, and so are all of his friends.

“Hi pal,” he says. “So I hear we have a problem.”

I dip my toe in, very cautiously. “I’ve spoken to Justine,” I say. “I understand that the volunteers want to change the theme. Of course that will be difficult, not to mention expensive, at this stage. Not impossible, but definitely far from ideal.”

“Hmmm.” Barry nods sagely. “I’ve spoken at length with Janelle about this issue.” Of this I have no doubt. Barry is putty in Janelle’s hands and she knows it. I can see that we are doomed. But I make one more attempt.

“I think that we need to be quite concerned about the impact that this could have on ticket sales, Barry,” I say. “Our experience suggests that we need at least two months of advertising to get the word out. The designers have been working on the marketing for at least a month. We are going to run out of time.”

“I hear you, buddy,” says Barry. “But Janelle assures me that she can make up any losses by selling tables to her friends. She even offered to cover any of the expenses that we incur from the redo of the campaign to cancellation fees.” He chuckles, and his jowls shake noticeably. “Of course I told her no.”

“I’m not sure we should be so quick to reject her offer, Barry,” I say firmly. “If we change the theme now, we will probably throw away thousands of dollars, not to mention all of the time that our staff has put in on this project. We are going to have to be incredibly focused and efficient to pull this off, and I guarantee that we are going to go way over budget.”

Barry’s expression hardens. He hates being told what to do, especially by women. And even more especially by young women. I brace myself for the explosion, but it doesn’t come. The restraint is uncharacteristic, and I wonder why he is making the effort.

“Look, pal,” he says. “I know it’s going to be a lot of work for you.” For me? “But you’ll just have to put your head together with –“

“Justine?” I suggest.

“Justine, precisely. Tell her that I want you two working together on this. You have my full confidence. I’ll look forward to hearing what you come up with.”

“Um, Barry? You know that I’m always available to help, but my responsibility for the Gala is pretty limited to the marketing side.” I can see Barry’s face starting to redden. “I’d be reluctant to hone in on Justine’s territory. She’s doing a terrific job and I wouldn’t want to give her the impression….”

I trail off as I see Barry’s expression darken and his cheeks begin to puff out in a malevolent expression known around our office as The Blowfish. “We’re not selling aluminum siding around here!” he huffs. “We don’t have territories. This is a game for team players, and we need to get in the same boat and row together. When someone tells me something isn’t in her job description, I hear an excuse – and what’s my motto?”

“There are no excuses in business,” I say.

“You got it in one shot,” says Barry.

Barry’s contempt for the HR department and all of its policies and procedures is well-documented, so it seems pointless to tell him that very little of what I do every day is actually in my job description. And in any event, I know my strategic advantage. I’m a stroker, a smoother; I’m the career girl version of the angel in the house. I’m nurturing and supportive; I can be relied upon to laugh at jokes, even when they are bad or inappropriate or at my expense; I’m still slightly better than average-looking, holding steady with the help of well-fitting bras and control-top hose and incredibly expensive moisturizer; and I work hard at being non-threatening in every way. And that is why I’m going to fall on my sword, fix the problem and make Barry feel like he’s in charge. Not for the first time, I contemplate the wisdom of the years I spent in graduate school on Women’s Studies. I should have done something useful, like Latin.

Barry is looking at me expectantly. It’s my cue. “Of course, Barry,” I say. “Justine and I will get right on it. Don’t you worry. It will all turn out just fine.”

“Excellent!” Barry beams. “I knew I could count on you, buddy. Now, there is just one other thing that I wanted to discuss with you.”



I make my way back to my office in a state of disbelief and with my arms full of binders, living proof of the axiom that no good deed goes unpunished. Now in addition to assisting with the Gala, I have been selected to serve as the staff rep on the search committee for the new Vice President of Advancement. The only good news is that it should be done by next week. The bad news is there are at least three meetings this week, and accommodating them is going to require scheduling contortions, which would be awe-inspiring even if I had a willing assistant, and probably impossible in my current circumstances.

Barry is a little disappointed in me; I think he expected me to exhibit more obvious pride at being plucked from the herd and elevated so far above my station. But it’s widely known that the committee has been meeting for at least a month without a staff rep, a state of affairs that has both been observed and roundly denounced for weeks in the staff kitchen, a closet just spacious enough for a coffee-maker, a microwave, and two employees muttering to each other about a conspiracy at the highest levels to circumvent the collective agreement. Now it appears that the search consultant has taken a look at the hospital bylaws and realized that staff consultation is a disagreeable necessity. There’s no way to disguise the fact that I’m joining up by way of a shotgun wedding, since they’ve picked a short list and start interviewing this week. But I can smile for the photo if that’s what’s required. I’m supposed to go through all of the applications today and let them know if there is anyone else that I think should be included on the short list; I think I can make time to flip the pages, show up for the meeting and venture no opinion, which is exactly what the committee wants from me.

Geoff Durnford sticks his head into my office, and I feel my spirits lift. Everyone should have an employee like Geoff. He is the head writer on my team, and does incredible work with almost no direction. He never gives me a hard time about anything, never whines, and never demands attention. I can take him to any meeting; I can even send him in my place. The rest of the staff look up to him and when I’m not available – which is all too often lately – he steps in and keeps the team on course. His fashion sense runs to the whimsical, especially in ties and socks, and today his ankles are adorned with a riotous paisley in pink and tangerine. He is tragically single, but I just know there is a perfect man out there for him, someone who loves theatre and fine restaurants and will overlook the fact that his hair is thinning as quickly as his middle is thickening.

“Not your best day?” he asks. “Have you even checked your email yet?”

“Is there anything urgent?” I ask.

“Probably not super-urgent,” he says. “Although Erica’s head is going to explode if you don’t sign off on the Family Care Center press release today.”

“Noted,” I say. “Have you seen it?”

“It’s fine,” he says. “It’s all boiler-plate except paragraph six. That’s the only part you have to read.”

“Can you email it to me?”

With a flourish like a conjurer, he whips a few pieces of paper out from behind his back. “I just happen to have it here,” he says. “Since I had a feeling that you may be a bit behind on your email.” He grins, flips over the first page of the document, and places it in front of me, pointing to the relevant paragraph. “Just read this,” he says. I do what I’m told.

“Perfect,” I say. “Tell her to issue it, with my apologies for the delay.”

“Done,” says Geoff. “I’m heading down to grab a sandwich. Can I bring something back for you?”

“You’re an angel,” I say. I don’t have time to run downstairs, and in any event, I need to stay as far away from Nigel as possible. “Chicken noodle soup, please. And saltines.”

Geoff looks concerned. “Are you sick again?” he asks. I shrug and Geoff shakes his head. “Has it occurred to you that your body might be trying to tell you something?” he asks.

“It can get in line,” I say.



At two-ten, I’m walking as quickly as I can with the binders in my arms. I’m late, of course; I’m always late these days. I can remember a time before I had children when I was always early; I have a mental picture of myself, standing outside the movie theatre, waiting for friends, checking my watch every thirty seconds, starting at the appointed hour. Back then I thought chronic lateness was a character flaw, evidence of a profound self-absorption. Now I regard it as a mark of efficiency. Imagine how much time you would lose if you were early for everything? I read once that economists say if you travel for business you should miss one out of every three flights; the repeated close shaves save you more time than the occasional missed flight loses you. I like this justification; the alternative theory is that I can’t get my shit together to be on time for anything anymore, but I don’t like that one as much.

Overall, though, I’m feeling a little more in control of my day now. Fueled by Geoff’s lunch delivery, I’ve spent the last two hours plowing through sixty-three emails: thirty-two of the for-your-information variety requiring no comment from me; twelve requiring a quick review and approval; two from the convenor of my book club; four reply-all messages from other members of the book club; four from my mother; and nine that, to be honest, I haven’t dealt with yet and have re-filed in my in-box. But I’m fifty-four emails 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 email 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 looks down at some notes on the table in front of him, another bad sign. 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, and I wonder what has happened in my absence.

“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 looks as though he has bitten down on something sour. The woman 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. But all of these details are overshadowed by 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 fundraising. 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 fundraising 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 looks positively gleeful 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 transferrable,” 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 know that I’m only here to fill a quota. But surely the reason for requiring staff participating in the search process is to provide specialized knowledge and context that can assist others around the table in making an informed decision. Time is a scarce commodity, and if I’m going to sit here, it should have some utility, shouldn’t it?

I square my shoulders and raise my hand again. Barry frowns. “Yes?”

“Again, I’m sure that you know this, so 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. “I think we are using the word ‘foundation’ in a couple of different ways. Obviously, Mr. Paul has extensive experience working with his corporate foundation, but I’m not sure how transferrable 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. A foundation 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’m sure you’re right,” I murmur, my small rebellion crushed under the weight of Barry’s contempt. But he can’t control my thoughts, so I pull out my BlackBerry under the table and send a blast of righteous indignation through the ether to my friend Zoe.

J. Sophie Whelan

To: [email protected]

Sent: Monday, December 5, 2011, 2:41 PM

Subject: Career suicide in progress



In horrible search committee meeting, where I am supposed to shut up and am doing the opposite, thereby incurring the wrath of the Blowfish. Any insights on why I might be doing this? Is he awakening latent feminist rage that has been dormant in my system since 1995?



Zoe Hennessy

To: [email protected]

Sent: Monday, December 5, 2011, 2:45 PM

Subject: Re: Career suicide in progress



A) I’m not convinced that your feminist rage has ever been latent.

B) The 1995 version of you would ask if you are complicit in your own victimization.

C) It’s possible that people will start taking you more seriously when you decide to take up some more space in the world. Your problem isn’t that you have no power; it’s that you can’t decide whether or not you want it.



J. Sophie Whelan

To: [email protected]

Sent: Monday, December 5, 2011, 2:53 PM

Subject: Re: Re: Career suicide in progress



Good point. If I had to choose, I’d definitely take a spa day over power. Lunch this week?



Zoe Hennessy

To: [email protected]

Sent: Monday, December 5, 2011, 3:02 PM

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Career suicide in progress



Thursday. Will Killjoy let you out?



J. Sophie Whelan

To: [email protected]

Sent: Monday, December 5, 2011, 3:10 PM

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Career suicide in progress



She will if I lie about where I’m going. Noon? Usual spot?





In fact, it’s true that I’d take a spa day over power, and this undeniable fact troubles me to my core, because I was, for many years and not all of them in university, a person who Cared About Issues. Most of the issues I cared about were women’s issues, although in solidarity with like-minded activist comrades I also marched for the environment and against tuition increases, and Took Back the Night from homophobia and sat-in for disarmament. Mostly, though, I stood shoulder to ill-clad shoulder with the membership of the Women’s Campus Collective (WCC), protesting all manner of injustices against women the world over, our global perspective happily providing us with no shortage of Issues to Care About. I learned virtually everything I know about communications from my year as the Public Issues Director of the WCC, notably the importance of clear messaging, tragically absent from most of our demonstrations as a result of our overarching commitment to collaboration and consensus, which in one mortifying case resulted in our sitting in a circle with duct tape over our mouths and sheets covering our faces to signify the silencing of Afghani women. Today, I rarely even read the paper, telling myself that I’ll look at the online version later in the day, but rarely following up on my promise other than to click on the breaking MSN celebrity headlines.

“…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 fundraising 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. “OK.”

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 feel 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 under water 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?”

“Not yet,” I say.

“OK, well, you’re going to have to sort it out without me. I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later and check in.” And I’m listening to dead air.

I think of the four emails and two phone messages about Christmas and I know that I am not going to try my mother. I’m going to close my door and burst into tears. I’m going to sweep all of the paper off my desk and into my bag so that I can do it after the kids are in bed. And then I’m going to get into my car and take my son to the doctor.

And that’s exactly what I do.