The Hole in the Middle

Chapter 6: TUESDAY, DECEMBER 6, 2011

I sit, bent at the waist with my forehead on the cool laminate desktop. I turn my head and gaze out at the expanse of artificial wood grain, contemplating the luminous effect of the red message light from the telephone flashing through a fluffy mound of used tissues. For a moment, even this seems like too much stimulation, and I entertain the possibility of crawling under my desk and staying there for a while, just until I feel a little calmer. It’s tempting because anyone walking by would assume that I’m at a meeting, but dangerous, because Killjoy would probably find a way to blow my cover, and what would be more humiliating than being caught hiding under my desk? It would be a fate worse than, well, being in charge of the Gala, or having to produce a holiday appeal ad by Monday, with absolutely no assistance from any of my senior colleagues, who are afraid that they’ll be fired if they have a conversation with anyone who isn’t a prospective donor in the next three weeks; although not as bad as being caught drinking at my desk, which is almost as tempting. This brief environmental scan of my professional life complete, I summon the inner fortitude to reach over and dial Geoff’s extension, and then close my eyes while I wait for him to arrive.

“Uh, oh,” I hear him say, “That doesn’t look good.” I sit up and feel a rush of affection for reliable Geoff, the picture of caring and concern.

“Not so much.” I say. “Do you want the bad news, or the really bad news?”

Geoff groans. “Let’s hear it.”

“The bad news is, Justine quit, and Barry’s decided to put me in charge of the Gala for the foreseeable future.”

“Ouch. What’s the really bad news?”

“Do you remember the huge fight that Barry and Bill had about running the holiday appeal this year?”

He nods. “Barry thought it was too expensive, and told Bill to man up and hit his numbers without it?”

“Correct. And now – surprise, surprise – the Annual Fund numbers suck, which is, of course, Bill’s fault. But Barry has a plan. We’re going to run a holiday appeal after all.”

“Last year’s ad? Isn’t it a bit late for that? We don’t have any ad space booked.”

“I don’t think you have the full picture here. He wants a brand new ad to air on Monday.”

Geoff sticks his fingers in his ears, wiggles them around. “I’m sorry,” he says, “My hearing must be going. I thought I heard you say that you wanted a new ad for Monday, which is obviously impossible.” He looks stern. “If we were going to run an ad on Monday, which to be clear is six days away, we would have to find a director and crew prepared to shoot and edit all weekend, and we’d have to get on the phone today and try to buy time to run the ads, which is by no means a sure thing, and we would have to produce the script in-house, because we are out of time to hire a freelancer.”

“Correct.” We both remember how much work it was last time we got pulled onto this project, on a much more generous timeline. “On the upside, though,” I say, “You won’t have to pay someone to write something lousy that you rewrite for free.”

Geoff snorts. “It’s a kamikaze mission,” he says. “We’ll have to kill ourselves to make it happen, and spend a small fortune, and there’s no guarantee that whatever we can churn out is going to be good enough to see the light of day.”

“Let’s work backwards,” I say. “Nothing happens unless we can get the airtime. So let’s give Erica a chance to save the universe, since she’s feeling so neglected.” Geoff snorts again, but this time it sounds a little more like a laugh. “I’ll ask her to pull out all the stops with her media contacts, and try to get the stations that ran the appeal for a reduced rate last year to give us the same deal this year. If we can’t buy the spots, there’s nothing more we can do and Barry will have to live with it.”

Geoff sighs. “OK, I’ll play. We’ll have to start on the script at least, on the remote chance that Erica is able to find something. I’ll get the guys on it. Can we use the same basic storyline as last year?”

“Of course,” I say. “But we’ll have to use an older kid this year, someone who doesn’t need as much coaching. We don’t have time for multiple takes. I’ll call Carolyn Waldron and see if she can suggest someone.”

Geoff is scribbling notes, a good sign. “We’ll need to shoot on-site, so can you ask Joy to find some sound-proof space – meeting room, operating room – that we can book for the weekend?”

“Yes,” I say. “I think it’s doable – just – if we can get someone to do the shoot and edit on short notice.”

Geoff looks up. “Don’t even think it,” he says.

“I know how you feel about Claudio,” I say, “but I can’t think of anyone else.”

“Seriously, Sophie, no way. The city is full of aspiring film-makers.”

“We don’t have time to vet them,” I say. “We know he does good work. And he’ll do it if we ask him.”

“You mean if I ask him,” says Geoff.

“OK, if you ask him.”

Geoff grits his teeth. I’ve actually never seen him look so irritated and it would be funny if he weren’t so genuinely unhappy. I understand it. Claudio is a good filmmaker, very good in fact, but he doesn’t get a lot of commercial work because he is so high-maintenance. He has the demands of an Oscar-winning director on a blockbuster budget, and he usually insists on having Geoff as his personal assistant whenever he works for us, and he hits on him relentlessly. Last year I promised Geoff that he would never have to work with Claudio again.

“Fine,” he says. “I would only do this for you.”

“It’s my winning personality,” I say, lightly. “Just ask Nigel the germ Nazi; he’s a big fan of mine.”

I expect a forgiving grin at this, but Geoff’s expression is strangely unreadable, and I am struck with the horrible thought that the day may come when he will have had enough of working for a stressed-out, neurotic and emotionally unavailable boss who allows freelance filmmakers to sexually harass him, and will go off in search of greener pastures. And when he does I will be in deep, deep trouble. “I’ll make you a deal,” I say. “You get Claudio to commit and I’ll oversee the shoot.”

“Sophie, you don’t have to do that,” says Geoff. “It’s below your pay grade. I can handle it.”

“I don’t really get paid that much,” I say, “And I’ll feel less guilty for making you miserable if I share the pain.” I grin. “Just don’t tell Claudio. We’re not exactly interchangeable in his eyes.”

“You’re not making me miserable,” he says. “I …” Geoff pauses.

“Yes?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says. “Just that I should go and get started.” He stands up and walks over to the doorway. “I’ll give you an update tomorrow morning. Let me know what Carolyn says. We should meet with the patient as soon as possible.” He steps into the hall and turns and I hear him say, “Sorry, my fault” as he collides with someone just outside my view.

“My turn,” says the last person I want to see right now, and my mother steps into my office. “Sweetheart, for heaven’s sakes, you look terrible! You haven’t returned my calls and I was in the neighborhood so I thought I’d drop by and see if you were trapped under a rock. And now I see that you might as well have been. Look at the circles under your eyes!” Her eyes light on the pile of tissues on my desk. “Are you sick? What are you doing at work? No one is going to thank you for infecting the whole office, I can tell you that right now.”

She draws a breath, and I say, “It’s just a cold. I got your message. It’s been a little busy this week.”

“Well, of course you’re busy, good grief, with this crazy job of yours and two little boys at home. No wonder you’re sick. But your brother is busy too and he still manages to return my calls."

“You mean Dana returns your calls.” Dana is my sister-in-law, who is as beautiful as she is lovely and generous and kind. For years, when Dana was an aspiring kindergarten teacher and my brother Mike, a.k.a. “The Stuntman”, was famous among his engineering brothers for his dominance in a drinking sport that involved doing a shot of tequila, snorting a line of salt and then squirting a lime wedge in his eye, I was tempted to tell her that she could do better. But Dana saw something that the rest of us didn’t, because somewhere along the way Mike persuaded a bank to let him invest other people’s money and now he has a fancy title and a Porsche and Dana is a stay-at-home mom with a full-time nanny. Dana remembers birthdays, bakes, makes Halloween costumes by hand and calls my mother back. She is much, much nicer than I am, and would certainly never be as rude to my mother as I am about to be.

“It’s a lot easier to return calls when you have a full-time wife to do it for you. I should really get one of those. Maybe I’ll ask for one for Christmas.”

My mother puts her hands on her hips. “Nice talk,” she says. “I suppose you think I’m being obsessive again. You don’t think I should make the effort to make Christmas special for everyone?”

“I didn’t say that, Mom, but it’s still three weeks away! I haven’t turned my mind to it. I haven’t bought any presents. I don’t even have a list of the presents I haven’t bought. I don’t have any opinion about what we should have for Christmas dinner, and I’ll happily eat whatever you put in front of me as long as I don’t have to plan it or cook it myself. Barbecue hamburgers, whip up some Kraft Dinner, whatever – I honestly don’t care.”

I see my mother straighten and square her shoulders, a gesture I know well. She is willing herself to rise above my childishness, to be the mature adult in this conversation.

“I can see that I’ve caught you at a bad time,” she says. “I should have called first.”

“No, Mom,” I say. “You don’t have to call first, of course not; it’s always nice to see you.”

She softens a little. “You know, honey, I had another thought about a present for Jamie. Dana was telling me about this amazing kids’ program at the Art Gallery where they experiment with art forms from around the world. He’s such a creative little boy, and I know how hard it is for you to do extra programs for him, but Dana was thinking about enrolling Lola so she could probably figure out a way to get him there every week. It’s a shame for him to miss out on these opportunities. What do you think? Would he like to do that?”

“Let me talk to Jesse about it, Mom,” I say, with a calmness that I don’t feel. “That seems like a lot to ask of Dana. Why don’t I see if they offer a program on the weekends so that I could take him?”

“Whatever you think is best, honey. I’m just trying to help.”

“And I appreciate it. I’m just a little tired today.”

“Tired, always tired!” says my mother. “That’s all I ever hear from you. These are the best years of your life! You must have something more interesting than that to tell me. ”

“Honestly, Mom,” I say, “Tired is all I’ve got.”



I’m the last one home, but the kids are still up. As I come in the door, I hear shrieking, and I pray that they are only playing and not hurt. There were very high level spousal negotiations involved in having Jesse do the daycare pickup and dinner for the kids today, on account of my also having a job that occasionally requires attention; and it’s possible, although I’m not inclined to admit it at the moment, that there were tears and recriminations on my part, which ultimately led to a grudging acceptance of responsibility on Jesse’s part. But I can see, as the boys and Jesse race out to meet me, brandishing light sabers, that they are having an excellent time: Scotty is wearing a Batman costume, Jamie is Darth Vader and Jesse has a Triceratops hat perched on his head at a rakish angle. They are all flushed and giddy and ready to carry me off to Jedi prison, and I can tell that Jesse has forgiven me for reading him the riot act.

“Wait, wait,” I laugh, “Let me change my clothes and I’ll be right there. Do they have dinner in prison?”

“Absolutely,” says Jesse. “It’s a very respectable jail. We’ll even let you eat your pasta before we make you escape so that we can recapture you.”

“Perfect,” I say, and I kiss my little boys on the top of their curly heads and run upstairs.

When I come back down, I find that Jesse has managed to distract my would-be jailers with a video and I sit on kitchen stool while I wait for my pasta to heat in the microwave. It’s leftover from a giant batch that I made over the weekend and it still looks reasonably appealing.

Jesse joins me. “Feeling any better?”

“So-so. I’m holding my own. I’m hoping I can beat it if I get a decent sleep.” I take a bite. “I nearly forgot to tell you, I saw Lil the other day.”

Jesse’s face lights up with a huge grin. He adores Lil. “What is Her Majesty up to these days?”

“She was wearing one of her crazy lady costumes, so it was hard to tell, but she’s definitely up to something nefarious,” I say. “How are things with the investors?”

“Hard to know. They’re going over the plans with a cost consultant and we’re meeting again later this week. Anya is cautiously optimistic and she’s been spending more time with them than I have. I feel like it’s kind of out of our hands at the moment.”

“Hey, Jess?” I ask. “Do you think we have the kids in enough programs?”

He cocks his head. “Why?”

“Mom came by the office today and was asking about art programs for Jamie. Reading between the lines, which wasn’t hard to do, I’d say she thinks we are squandering his artistic potential.”

“That’s fabulous,” says Jesse. “Did you tell her there’s no money in the arts and we are trying to stamp out all of his creative tendencies?”

I roll my eyes at him. “She’s fixated on her Christmas shopping and I was too busy to return her messages so she dropped by in person to make sure I was still alive.”

“What does that have to do with the art program?”

“She wants to give Jamie art lessons. She and Dana have been concocting some charitable initiative that involves carpooling our under-stimulated son to the Art Gallery every week to counteract the effects of our negligence and even out the aesthetic playing field.”

“Were you nice?”

“Not especially.”

“Sophie,” Jesse says, “Haven’t you learned by now that you should just give her what she wants? Why rise to the bait? You only make yourself crazy.”

“I know, I know,” I say. “Let’s not talk about it. Do you want to hear the best story of the day? Barry was overheard in the elevator saying that it’s really unfair that all those poor kids with Downs’ Syndrome have to compete for medals with ex-military dudes who’ve had their limbs blown off in combat. The Chief of Surgery had to explain the difference between the Special Olympics and the Paralympics. It totally went viral.”

“Sweet,” says Jesse. “I have no idea how you work for that moron.”

We laugh, and I notice that there are a few more lines around his eyes than there used to be, and a few spots at his temples that are now more grey than brown. He still has a drop-dead smile, though, and I’m tempted for a moment to reach out and run a hand through his curly mop of hair, which both our children have inherited. But as I think of the children, I realize that they have been quiet for far, far too long.

“Can you check on the kids, Jess?” I ask.

He pops into the playroom and I hear him say, “Scotty, NO!” and then I hear Scotty start to cry, and when I get to the doorway, I see that the markers are out, and Scotty has scrawled all over the couch and the carpet and part of the wall.

“What the hell are the markers doing out?” I yell.

“We were doing drawings with Daddy,” says Jamie.

“You can’t leave them alone with the markers, Jesse, for god’s sake!” I snap. “That’s why I keep them on the top shelf! What were you thinking?”

“I was trying to encourage the children to develop their artistic potential,” says Jesse sarcastically. “Wasn’t that a big priority for you five minutes ago?”

Jesse takes the boys upstairs for a bath, while I dig through the cupboard for my collection of largely ineffective, although environmentally-friendly cleaning products. After a futile attempt at removing the ink by spraying and blotting, I eventually resort to squeezing blobs of upholstery shampoo directly on the couch and pouring hot water on top of it and going after the whole mess with a scouring brush – actions which are all firmly discouraged by the product packaging. By the end of the night the playroom looks as though it has been hit by a monsoon, and if the rainbow streaks of marker are slightly less visible, I suspect it is because they are harder to see when the fabric is soaking wet.

I stagger upstairs and dry myself off, and slide into bed next to Jesse, who is already asleep, turned toward his side of the bed. Forty-five minutes of vigorous scrubbing has taken the edge off my anger, and I curl up against Jesse’s back, breathing in the distinctive and oddly intoxicating smell of shaving cream, deodorant with a hint of sweat underneath, and the unfussy white bar of soap that he uses in the shower.

“Are you awake?” I murmur, kissing his shoulder and reaching across to touch his chest.

Jesse rolls toward me, a promising beginning, but as I lean in for a kiss he turns his head and my lips land somewhere around his ear. “Thanks for the offer,” he says. “But not tonight. I need some sleep and so do you.” I close my eyes quickly so that he can’t see the rejection in them, and I feel his cool lips on my forehead. “Good night,” he says, and rolls away.

And as I stare at his back with tears stinging in my throat, I think about how far the last hour has taken me from that moment in the kitchen when I wanted to reach out and touch his hair.