Part One Recap: Something More, Chptrs 1-4

CHAPTER 1: SOMETHING MORE

Ulysses Mann merged into traffic to begin his daily commute to downtown L.A. Still dark, the lights from oncoming cars stung his eyes. He re-focused on the taillights that strung before him like a twisting red dragon.

He shivered. The air charging through the vents created a white noise and was as yet ineffectual against the early morning chill. He adjusted the heat on the dashboard then struggled to pull open the strip on the plastic cap of the container of coffee. He brought the cup to his lips and sipped.

“Damn.”

He tapped his scalded tongue against the roof of his mouth. The night before, he’d forgotten to set the coffee maker and resorted to the MacDonald’s drive-through instead of taking time to make his own.

Getting to the freeway on time was the first step to a successful day. He didn’t worry about being late to the office. He was a supervisor after all and had some leeway. His concern was taking his place in the line of cars oozing through the city before their numbers overloaded the system and deteriorated into a frustrating sequence of stops and starts.

As long as the commute flowed, no matter how slowly, he imagined the network of freeways, connectors and on-ramps as being like the veins and arteries of one sprawling body with white and red blood cells coursing to sustain its vital organs.

But when cars multiplied, squeezing into a framework unable to expand, accidents happened and tempers flared--- the body under attack. Whenever he found himself in the mother of all lines, he considered his standing in the world.

Ulysses Mann hadn’t been alive then but was now familiar with the image of hapless refugees lined up for the last helicopter out of Saigon, epitomizing the U.S. retreat from Vietnam. Four years later, he was one year old but would not remember the OPEC oil embargo, forcing Americans into long gas lines. But he did recall, at eleven years, watching on TV as people danced atop the Berlin Wall and tore away chunks of concrete. He struggled to understand, but did appreciate that people were lining up, waiting to get out. On 9/11, he was twenty-three and marveled at a sky empty of aircraft for the first time in his life.

About that time he decided to head back to college to finish his accounting degree. Ready money from working full-time at a restaurant had lured him away but after awhile friends, girls and parties seemed echoes from the past.

Married now and with a mortgage on a small house, he felt engaged in the present and strove for a prosperous future. Though his hopes of working for one of the big accounting firms hadn’t come to pass, he had risen after five years to Billing Supervisor at Dedalus Insurance and was confident he would go higher. Meanwhile, with two incomes he and his wife Penny could save to start a family. Everything flowed and had seemed right. If there were something more he’d ask it’d be for a shorter commute--- and designated parking.

A lot offered an Early Bird special as long as he arrived before nine and left before seven. After parking, he walked a few blocks past homeless, looking cold and dazed and dragging flattened cardboard boxes. Then he entered his building where he could relax, believing, as he did then, that his sensibilities wouldn’t be challenged inside.

Upper management and select others were afforded paid parking beneath the building. People, such as CEO Stephen Joyce II, Sales Manager Jeremy Port, and the Salesman of the Quarter, Peres Aguilar, parked without concern for weather and took elevators to their offices, never having to set foot on the street if they didn’t care to. A network of elevated walkways linked a cluster of buildings with venues to work, meet and eat. Ulysses considered the perk a measure of acceptance within the company and something, much more than convenience, he had longed for.

Founded in 1971 by Stephen Joyce the elder, Dedalus was a medium-sized company offering property and casualty insurance to business and wealthy individuals. Its operations consisted of sales, claims and information technology. Sales was the glamour department, bringing in cash in the form of premiums and establishing the high water mark for profits. Claims was the ill-favored sibling, whose payouts reduced profit. Information technology was the neglected stepchild, providing the infrastructure to get things done but receiving little credit. Billing was in IT.

Ulysses hoped to transfer to Sales but struggled against being typecast as “support”. No matter his efforts ---knowing the business of the company and his job, networking with the right people and dressing the part--- he always fell short. Creases in the slacks of the top salesmen were sharper, their humor wittier and their significance greater than anything he could muster.

Peres Aguilar was the exemplar. Wherever he entered a room, all eyes shined on him, whether from adoration or envy, lending a glow, and adding to his aura. He was a star, and Ulysses felt the pressure of his presence when he lobbied Jeremy Port. “I’ll keep you in mind,” he’d say, unwilling to commit and likely measuring him up against Aguilar.

It fared no better with Stephen Joyce who, two years before, had replaced his namesake father and began a campaign to bring new blood into the company. He valued loyalty, which meant forgetting the foibles of the intemperate young executive. New blood had the advantage of not knowing. Ulysses could not forget and considered him vengeful and rapacious. He was fated, it seemed, to be considered old while still young and to desire advancement in a company atop which stood a man ready to lop off his head.

He kept a look out for other opportunities, but for the while things flowed and when things flowed…. He worked hard and strived for the credit he deserved; and with credit would come riches. So he had thought.

That day promised to be routine: monitor reports detailing dollars billed and received, field phone calls from angry clients who believed their bills too high ---never too low--- and confer with attorneys over delinquent accounts. The only thing out of the ordinary was a new hire starting that morning. Helen Roy interviewed some weeks before and he made the offer after getting the okay from Personnel.

Billing had a staff of twenty, nearly two-thirds women, who stared into computer monitors, tracking accounts and handling problems. Their ages ranged from young to middle age. Most saw their position as a starting point before the next step, especially the single ones who knew they couldn’t survive on the salary. Those who stayed longest usually had a spouse working another job.

Some thought they could advance in the company. He’d seen it twice ---curiosity about the business, eagerness to meet people in other departments and a general catch-me-while-you-can attitude. Both women ended up leaving the company, having failed to break into male-dominated Sales. Stacy, a pert petite blonde, didn’t feel she’d get the respect she deserved; while Felicia, dark and sensuous, got too close to the man who would be CEO. When she broke it off, she realized she’d ruined her chance.

He felt bad about Felicia, believing he could have shielded her. But would she have responded to his chivalry, and was he as high-minded as all that? It bothered him that an ulterior motive might have lurked somewhere. He was sure, though, that his job wasn’t any easier when the higher ups interfered with his staff.

Stacy and Felicia were the exceptions. Most settled into the position, finding refuge in a functional role unlikely to have dramatic impact, the grayness of support staff, the anchor weighing Ulysses down.

He hadn’t put Helen Roy in a category yet. He estimated she was in her mid-twenties and unmarried. She’d gone to a good university. Overqualified, he expected she’d be gone before two years, the average length of service in his group. In the interview, she’d been exact in her responses, without expanding, and projected an air of not really caring about the position, which, oddly, made him want to give it to her. He remembered feeling there was something more he wasn’t seeing. Reserved, he concluded, but easy to train.

Pulling into the parking lot, he found a space near the cashier’s kiosk and shut off the engine. Stepping out the door in shirtsleeves and tie, he raised clenched fits to the sky, stretching his five foot nine inch frame. He shook a head of dark brown hair, ridding himself of the monotony of the drive. After adjusting his glasses, he reached into the car for his jacket, which completed his dark gray suit. With briefcase and coffee in hand, he started for the office.

The cup was three-quarters full and the coffee lukewarm. He extended his arm in an underhand motion to toss it into a trash bin. But, catching the eye of a homeless man, he handed it to him instead and smiled sheepishly. Then he walked away, tapping his tongue against the roof of his mouth to check if the hurt was still there. It was.

*

“Good morning, Mr. Mann.”

Ulysses looked up from his desk to scrutinize the young woman standing before him. A halo of light brown hair surrounded a prominent brow, sensuous lips on a mouth that might be considered large and almond-shaped brown eyes glowing with intellectual light. He couldn’t place her.

"Mr. Mann, it’s Helen Roy.”

He stood and extended his hand, though inwardly he recoiled, his mind racing to complete an image he should know. She laughed and he realized he’d been squinting.

“I'll show you your workstation.”

Rotating an assortment of papers before her, he convinced himself that she was indeed the woman he had interviewed. Small details took hold; that she’d been slightly taller than he and that her calm assurance compelled him to present for her rather than the other way around. She was the same person, but he marveled at the differences: eyeliner, lipstick, hairstyle and dress. Instead of the gray business suit, her dress was of a light shimmering fabric that, draped over her crossed leg, appeared like a fragment of blue sky. Her hair, before being pulled back and restrained, flowed, catching and playing with the light.

He felt someone at his elbow.

“Yul, want me to show her around?”

He nodded his assent and arranged to meet Helen again to discuss performance goals and objectives. He watched them walk away and thought, “One year, if that”.

Lola McIntyre, the longest serving member in the Billing Unit, liked to escort new people through the company. It gave her a chance to size them up, determine whether to like them then share her opinion with her friends.

“Oh, they’re going to love you,” she said, beaming at Helen like a child with a new toy. “The men will,” she added when she didn’t take the bait.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Lola gave a hearty laugh, coarse from years of smoking. “Oh, I think you do.”

Lola quickened her pace, her expansive hips shifting under her dress. Helen lengthened her stride, easily keeping up with the shorter woman. She was amused by the looks of the people they passed. They would be her co-workers, she assumed, but were, as yet, strangers. Instead of introducing her, Lola seemed intent on something in particular.

Through the room she led, around the corner and into another, before pushing off in a different direction. “That was Claims,” she called over her shoulder. They took the elevator to the floor above, then entered another large room. After looking around, she announced, “This is Sales”.

Whereas Claims had been crowded with desks and people and IT had been the same but with the buzzing and clicking of plastic CPUs and printers, Sales gave the impression of space. The desks were fewer and the aisles broader.

Heads popped up as if someone had turned on a light. Helen felt their eyes, while Lola smiled broadly, pleased with the effect. Soon, a straggling line of salesmen began to form and Lola made the introductions. But when Stephen Joyce, who’d been conferring on the far side of the floor, approached the line dissipated like a mist.

Joyce was proud of knowing and controlling everything in his company. After assuming the CEO mantle, he attempted a paternal air but the aggression that made him top seller and a bare-knuckled manager still predominated. He was tall and robust and his hair was shaped into a spiky crew cut.

He extended his hand before he arrived, his eyes fixed on Helen’s. Lola introduced them, then stepped back to watch. He took her hand and held it while they spoke.

“Welcome to Dedalus. I hope you’re happy with us.”

Helen smiled. “I’m sure I will be.”

After a few more words, a silence ensued and she tilted a head at her captive hand, which he released. As Lola led her out, he lingered looking, his mind deep within itself. The strong features of his face, so often expressing swagger and certainty, betrayed something more.

“I need a smoke,” Lola said, walking leisurely and steering Helen to a small concrete balcony. The door slammed shut with a dreadful finality, sealing them outside the air-pressured interior and facing two other buildings clustered in a close triangle.

“That’s the Northeast Office Building,” said Lola. “We’re in the Southwest. That’s the Agency Hotel.” She pointed to a building whose tower rose above the two thirty-story office buildings. “The top floors are condos.”

They watched people pass through the glass-enclosed walkways linking the buildings at the 11th floor above them.

“You can get coffee, snacks and sandwiches in the shops near the walkways. And the hotel has good restaurants. Expensive, though.”

“Are the walkways the only way to get to the other buildings?”

“Street-level, of course. The underground garage connects them, too.”

When Lola finished her cigarette, she showed Helen the way back to her workstation, then sought out her friends, eager to tell what she had seen. Helen was content to remain at her desk till lunchtime, study the materials she’d been given and to meet the others in her unit who came by to say hello.

*

Peres Aguilar smiled at his Blackberry and at his buddy’s enthusiasm. He composed an e-mail reply ---Why not in field closing sales?--- then pressed send. He stifled a laugh and shot a smile through the café, capturing the attention of the waitress.

“More coffee?”

He nodded and she brought over the glass pot. As she poured, Peres admired the curling strand of black hair sweat-pasted onto her long neck. She stood upright, pausing to appreciate the nature and quality of the smiling man.

He had thin black hair, shiny slick, that was combed straight back and quivered whenever he moved. His skin, a shade darker than olive, contrasted with the white of his smile and added to its brilliance. His hawk-like nose suggested purpose and the intense black dots that were his eyes unwavering concentration.

Had she asked what he was smiling about, he would have answered in one word: success. He’d come from a client’s offices where he closed a large deal. Now, while waiting on a sandwich, he filled in some paperwork and strategized his next appointment later in the day.

His e-mail was a dig, part jest but largely serious ---he didn’t make Salesman of the Quarter by sitting in the office. He worked his prospect list religiously and found there an element of joy. One deal led to another and his joy intensified, along with his smile. Even if he couldn’t close on an account, his smile told them he’d look forward to seeing them next year. The field was the theater where his successes took place.

Once a week, he went into the office to drop off the data sheets on his sales. Though it took him away from the field, he relished the envy in the eyes of his peers when handing over a stack of paperwork for input. He welcomed praise and liked seeing his name on top of the company sales chart.

He’d been First Place in everything he did and didn’t know any other way. Being first brought honor and wealth to his parents and his wife and to his kid. And always there seemed something more to strive for.

Though he didn’t chase fool’s gold, preferring substance to style, he understood that the trappings of success were as important to the world as accomplishment itself. So they had the big house, the expensive car and enjoyed their vacation trips.

He sometimes pondered what his next move would be. Going higher in the company, taking Jeremy Port’s position, or more? But that had the feeling of following in others’ footsteps. He wanted to be first, maybe starting his own company. For now, he thought he had at least one more step in Dedalaus before striking in a new direction.

That was why he smiled. As for his buddy, he was happy the new girl was “heaven”. But, he thought --- as the waitress buzzed by again --- there are pretty girls everywhere.

*

Ulysses looked at his watch --- a few minutes yet before leaving to get his car. Already dark outside, he’d spent the day without seeing the sun, focused on the work at hand. Everyone from his unit had gone and he was alone with his thoughts.

He thought about Helen whom he’d watched making neat stacks of the paper on her desk in preparation to leave. Then she held a compact mirror to her face, shifting it to capture every inch as if making herself whole, magically, after having been torn apart by the scrutiny of the day.

The chicken or the egg, he thought. Did the interest she excited result from the effort she put into making herself up, or would it be there anyway and was making herself perfect a defense?

His eyes assumed a faraway look, as if seeing beyond the horizon ---to a sandy beach beside a turquoise sea. She danced under the sun, lithe, brown, beautiful, her body shaping communication, as in words he couldn’t understand. Wanting to stay, he needed to leave; but she touched him deeper, drawing him near and he couldn’t pull away...


Helen had turned and caught him watching, a smile on her lips. Ulysses snapped out of his vision, acknowledged her look and sank behind the cubicle wall. Her beauty was both sword and shield.

Already she’d made an impact. Heads popped inside the department door, people who didn’t usually come by taking a look. The grapevine said that she’d met the CEO. He wasn’t pleased. Felicia all over again.

Before a pretense would suffice: co-workers going for dinner and a drink, even as his position in the line of succession was understood. Now he had complete control. No one was comfortable with the idea that the CEO could like or dislike someone and act on the emotion.

Even as he scorned it, Ulysses admired the power Joyce possessed and his willingness to use it. And what about himself? If he, Ulysses, had the power, would he act or was he checked by self-conscious knowledge of the consequences? Those thoughts chased him driving in pursuit of the red taillights headed home.

***

CHAPTER 2: EMPIRE

...The CEO surveys his realm ...


Stephen Joyce left the Sales Department and passed through the halls of the company. Employees smiled and nodded and made way for the CEO who obviously had something weighty on his mind. His gaze, elevated to start by virtue of his height, looked beyond ---possibly to higher profits, expansion and taking the company public. Happy in such prospects for the company and for themselves, they forgave his failure to acknowledge them. Making it easier was his reputation for making those he did acknowledge squirm.

Going by executive suites in the southwest corner, he noted activity through open doors, but didn’t pause, and continued toward the receptionist. Hair swirling like blond ice cream and wearing a pale blue suit with matching bow, she smiled and batted her eyes. But when he didn’t stop, she reached quickly beneath the desk to open the elevator. The doors parted to admit him without his having to break stride. Betsy Murray watched as the elevator swallowed him and wondered, with pressed lips, whether he was mad.

Joyce stood motionless as the elevator made its way up one floor. When the doors opened inside his suite he walked across the silver carpet, highly piled and woven with green laurel wreaths, to his desk. Then, after easing into a high-back leather chair, he gazed through the floor-to-ceiling window over the city towards the west.

He was alone atop the company. Though favoring hands-on management, which to him meant hounding managers in their offices, he invited only a select few into his own. He established the office when he became CEO. The elevator, which he badgered the landlord to allow, served as drawbridge that severed or effected physical ties, and he controlled the switch.

Prominent in the expansive and uncluttered office was a broad oak wood desk. It held perfunctory in- and out- boxes and a set of matching pens, perpetually ready at 45-degrees. Instead of a computer, he employed a mobile Blackberry so as to forestall attendant and inevitable streams of technicians going in and out.

Adjacent to one wall stood a small conference table with four chairs and behind him hung a signed photo of President George W. Bush who smiled and, it seemed, approved, the four-foot wood-carved statue across the room: a cowboy riding a bucking horse and waving his hat to the sky.

Shelves opposite the desk contained hardcover volumes of philosophy and literature, spines unbroken, and two framed photos. In one, his wife, Delfina, smiling and squinting into the sun, hugged their two boys. In the other Stephen Joyce Senior, silver-haired and patrician, faced straight ahead and stood beside Rhea who, looking to him, rested a hand on his chest. He exuded selfless confidence.

Joyce had gotten used to mocking that confidence. He joined Dedalus after graduating with a business degree and since then the chorus playing in his head was “Too complacent, too slow”. He was especially angry that the company was still privately held and advocated reaping a windfall by selling public shares. Instead his father had settled into a country club lifestyle and the camaraderie of fellow executives.

“Patience,” shrewd Rhea advised. She too had grown weary of the routine and hoped to convince Steve, as she called her husband, to take an extended worldwide trip. She pointed out that he didn’t have it so bad in the meantime.

Indeed, throughout his life the name “Stephen Joyce” opened doors and charmed important people, and he didn’t want for the material things like clothes, cars, boats or trips. But as his life advanced ---taking a position in the company, marrying Delfina and having kids--- his father overshadowed his existence and he grew restless and moody.

He developed a reputation for being smart ---and ruthless. With his calculator and business school methods he spotted inefficiencies throughout the company and preached return-on-investment and cost-benefit analysis. That alone would have been useful, but he used the data to scold the old school managers who served as proxies for his father. Yet, the company benefited and his father indulged him.

The managers, compelled to sit at the table with one lesser in rank and heed his advice, didn’t like it or him, but knew they were glimpsing the future. One day he’d be CEO and topple them like a timber company ravishing an old-growth forest.

And in time, with him pushing and Rhea pulling, they convinced the older man. Though still owning a majority and chairing the Board of Directors, he ceded managing control to Stephen The Younger.

Joyce immediately under cut the managers and the pace of the company seemed to quicken as their replacements, young, sharp, mercurial men who shared his emphasis on the short-term, came on board.

Jeremy Port was an exception. Old Blinker as he called him ---after his habit of blinking when nervous--- managed to meet demands for higher sales. Having been Joyce’s mentor, now he was fortunate to manage a record breaking sales staff. As he blinked, the ground beneath him swelled into a golden mountain, and he held on for dear life.

The light flashed soundlessly. He picked up the desk phone and listened. “No, nothing,” he said then stood to put on the jacket to his silver gray suit.

Turning to face the wall, he grasped the edge of a wood panel and swung it open to reveal a door. He passed through into a narrow corridor. That led to wider one connecting to the walkway to the Agency Hotel. He was anonymous to those he encountered as few Dedalus employees had reason to be there at that hour.

Past coffee stand and gift shop, through the small lobby of vacant armchairs, he made his way to the hotel elevators and took the one leading to the upper floor condo.

He used a card key to gain entry. The air was stale, as if nothing that breathed had lived there. He pressed a button and a small engine hummed as it retracted the drapes, admitting light and a vista that imagined the contour of continents. Nothing had been done since Dedalus acquired the lease and the furniture that came with it still suggested the manufacturers’ showroom rather than a human touch. Justified as a venue to entertain VIPs in style, he alone controlled access and its use. He didn't mention it to his father, nor to Delfina.

Duty nagged him. Duty to extend the line of corporate chiefs: his father’s father and his father before him had been heads of companies, and his sons would be groomed to preserve the tradition. After they met in college, his mother pushed for the match. Delfina came from good family, her father being CEO of a Detroit auto parts manufacturer.

“She’ll bear you fine sons,” Rhea had counseled.

And so she had. She played out the role for which she’d been selected. Part of the armament, the executive acquired a wife to help settle his wealth and make of it something real. She tended the home and the boys, happily.

He approached the tinted window. He saw his own reflection and through that the view beyond. In the distance human figures were indistinct, cars were dots that followed predestined paths and jets inched through the sky like pedestrian flies on a glass pane. Absent was the violent intensity of engines and passion for any journey traversing a beginning and an end.

To be CEO was expected and his due, just as the car and that jet were expected to move forward. But lost for having never been sought was any knowledge of what propelled Stephen Joyce the person.

As if in search of meaning, he snatched at the glittery trappings of wealth. Whatever displeased he shunted aside and destroyed when possible. Whatever pleased he held close to compare and contrast with his own nature and, when the fascination faded, to add to his collection and be forgotten until, what counted as reflection, he took the time to inspect his inventory.

He turned around. The suite did not yet please. It should be the gold standard of suites and elicit green-eyed envy in his rivals and the admiration of his allies. He nixed the idea of ordering someone up from the company. Nor did he pursue the thought of an interior decorator, which curled his lip. But he had an idea. He looked at his watch then left to return to Dedalus.

*

At the end of the walkway the elderly white-haired lady paused. With thick shaded glasses and black shawl over a floral print dress, she rested her weight on the cane in her right hand and caught her breath. Out of place amid sleek corporate offices and associates, she might have been visiting a granddaughter or keeping her company on a trip. Now, as her favorite attended to business, she was taking her exercise.

She worried at the approaching stranger. Walking down the center, the looming figure in the silver gray suit crowded the walkway and seemed to scrape the ceiling. Not wanting to challenge his courtesy, she angled the cane to the right, willing her body to follow.

As he passed without seeming to take notice, she studied the strong nose with the minute bump at the ridge, the narrow-set eyes and the small humorless lips. She hurried along, jowls aquiver and her cane goose-stepping ahead, thinking she had strayed too far, but grateful when scary things, like nightmares, passed.

***

CHAPTER 3: COMMAND

…Rhea and Steve discuss past and present…


The Mediterranean sun, reflecting off the villa’s whitewashed walls, promised burning heat later but in the morning warmed the couple on the balcony. Seated at a table having breakfast, their movements, though limited to the task, displayed a kind of grace.

Rhea sipped coffee then spoke.

“You’re restless.”

Steve Joyce rose and glided to the railing and, over the hilly Cretan landscape, gazed at the sea and the string of small white clouds streaming across the sky. His lean body was clad in white cotton slacks and shirt that reflected light. He had silver hair and active blue eyes in a face lined with deep creases. His sunken cheeks gave the impression of having exhaled a mighty gust of wind. He returned to the table.

Rhea’s lavender sundress added color, like a flower in bloom, against the white. She had pewter-colored hair cut below the ears and brown eyebrows over hazel eyes.

“You’ve enjoyed the trip.” Her eyebrows arched, expressing the question absent in her voice. He swung his head and dropped a kiss on her lips.

“You’re right, of course---” she continued, speaking for them both as, after more forty years, she often did. “---We’ll finish the month. It’s too peaceful. We’ll go back, relaxed.”

Halfway through a yearlong trip, they’d walked through the Lake District, strolled Parisian streets amid spring showers and toured Venice, Florence and Rome.

In a whisper she added, “I don’t want you causing mischief.”

“He treats my friends like dogs.”

“They’re recouping their investment.”

“Forced. Honorable men wouldn’t put up with it. Daily reporting! Looking at the numbers more often doesn’t do a thing. Schedule your calls, close deals and service the customer. Basic stuff.”

“That’s the trend.”

“Looking in the mirror, touching up flaws, falling in love with yourself. Many do. But sometimes numbers lie. By intent or for looking at the particular at the expense of the bigger picture.”

“The new people are good.”

“Easily brought to heel.”

“I don’t see a difference.”

“I tell you, schedule calls, close deals and service the client. Wealth grows and everyone benefits. These guys worry how fast. They capture growth in a stat and show it off. A hiccup is cause for celebration. But if it can’t be sustained ---it’s gone. Vanished.”

Rhea rose, walked to the railing and turned. Her straw sunhat cast a shadow over her eyes.

“Stephen’s your son. Take his side.”

He remained silent and she continued.

“You wanted Richard, I know. But he chose the ministry. Stephen followed you. That should mean something.”

“Emphasis on ’Follow’.”

Unsaid but present was awareness that had Stephen not gone into the business, the succession of presidents in the family might have ended. Maintaining continuity was synonymous to preserving prosperity. Born near the start of the second war, they met and married in the early sixties, the flower of the American Century. In quick order, they had Diane, Stephen and Richard.

She returned to the table. “There was Diane…”

His face twitched.

“I’m sorry.”

“She went her own way. I admire that.”

“You couldn’t see her as more than a girl. She got at you, being bad.”

“Not that bad, looking back.”

“She got your attention, but you’d never accept her in the business. Not for lack of love ---you couldn’t imagine it. In rejecting you, she established herself.”

“Times were different---”

“And they pass. Now she’s an artist, a good one.”

“Happy?”

“Yes. You regret not giving her a chance.” Her eyebrows arched for the question and his eyes focused on the distant past.

“I regret she had to fight out of the box I put her in. Not fair but it happens all the time ---labeling people and things according to a point of view. It helps to concentrate on what you think's important---“

“But hides the people underneath. You didn’t put me in a box.”

“You wouldn’t fit.”

“You still carry boxes around?” Her voice was playful.

“I suppose.” They laughed thinking about the time they met, browsing the Museum of Natural History. He was attending Yale and she was newly arrived in New York City. A shadow tickling the far side of recollection signaled the role that chance played in putting them together that day.

“Your folks had me labeled.”

“Not dad ---though Mom thought of you as that poor girl from Kansas.”

“After your money. ‘Girl’, by the way, is polite.”

“After she got used to you, she liked you. I did from the start.”

“Funny. I come around the corner and you standing there, jaw dropped, eyes wide, as in a trance.”

“I didn’t quite know what to make of you. I liked it ---whatever you were. You set to though, right away…”

Her eyebrows arched.

“’Close your mouth’,” you said, “’you look silly’.”

They laughed and she covered his hand with hers.

“I can’t think how it would have been, if I hadn’t seen you ---had been distracted somehow--- and you walked by. I would have continued on my way---“

“---And met someone else.”

“I can’t see it. Life would have been different.”

“You know, I willed it to happen.”

She leaned over to receive another kiss.

They discussed plans to return to L.A. and then decided what to do later in the day. When they finished, Steve stood again at the railing, like a captain of a ship looking out to sea. The sky was clear, the clouds gone like a troop of soldiers departed from the field of battle.

As if speaking, not to Rhea or himself, but to the sea, he said, “I’m Chair of the Board of Directors. I’m still Chair, god damn it!” He inhaled deeply, air inflating his cheeks, and then released it in a gust.

Watching, Rhea spoke. “You weren’t ready to retire.”

***

CHAPTER 4: BALANCE

...various interactions and implications...


Stephen Joyce drummed his fingers on the desk, as if pacing a prisoner to his execution. The Claims Manager appreciated the irony as he delivered the bad news. Claims were up and included a warehouse fire.

Mark Pointer’s tired eyes spoke to decades of pouring over accident reports, shadowy photos and contractual fine print. He was a short compact man with a wrinkled face, fading brown hair and a tight moustache.

He paused for breath. Joyce, who was looking past him at the wall, didn’t interject, so he continued with his report. Used to telling people what they didn’t want to hear, he dispassionately recited numbers and, of what they pertained to, the descriptions. When he finished, he would remain silent. The numbers are what they are and he wouldn’t embellish them with unnecessary final words.

He was well aware that Joyce had him targeted for replacement. He was a holdover. But Claims Manager wasn’t a glamour position that elicited back slaps and high-fives. The slick young men coming into the company had steered clear so far.

Pointer set down the paper, removed his glasses and folded his hands on the desk. The drumming stopped and Joyce lowered his eyes as if taking aim. Rushing blood made his face glow.

“Cause of fire?”

“Still smoldering. We’re waiting on access.”

His face got redder. He was upset, Pointer recognized, because the loss had already appeared on the system. The warehouse owner had contacted the claims adjuster right away and she was obligated to calculate and post an estimate. Over time the actual payout would be higher or lower. But for the present it was a large undigested lump threatening profits.

“Who’s the adjuster?”

“Margie.”

He could have found that out by himself.

“Did you double check her figures?”

Pointer shook his head. They both knew they were standard in-the-ballpark estimates. He pushed his face at him, eyes bulging.

“Do it!”

Pointer was silent, looking straight ahead, not avoiding Joyce’s eyes but not challenging them either. He had his finger on the pulse and had confidence in the people who worked for him. Joyce rose, glaring and domineering, then left. After he cleared the door, a line began to form, of supervisors and adjusters who needed a consult. He put on his glasses, ready to get to work.

Joyce made his way to Billing and stood at the entrance. He scanned the room, then stepped forward to Helen’s desk. He waited a second for her to acknowledge him and, when she didn’t, knocked on the frame of the cubicle wall. Still, she took a measure plus one to turn.

“Are you ready?”

She nodded. He motioned her to come.

*

Ulysses looked up at the knock and Mimosa Liang slid onto the chair beside his desk. She spoke as if in mid-conversation.

“I’m telling you. It doesn’t feel right.”

His mind was focused on the report before him.

“What?”

“The CEO.”

“So?”

“Helen.”

He squinted.

“Mo, what are you talking about?”

“The CEO. Helen. Again!”

Mimosa, with jet-black hair down to her shoulders and black eyes in an open face, had been with the company about a year. Worry lines fretted her forehead. She spoke in a whispered rush of words.

“Every time he comes, I want to hide. I don’t know what he’s thinking!”

He sat patiently to listen to the story again. Over the past weeks, Joyce had been stopping by to speak to Helen. His presence and the power of his position made Mimosa self-conscious. Though he tried to reassure her that she was doing a good job and nobody was spying on her, she worried nonetheless.

But everyone was talking, and reaching different conclusions. Some thought he was spotting new talent to advance in the company. Others, like Mo, that he was learning about their jobs in order to criticize. A third interpretation was that he was looking for a mistress or even a new wife.

The tension excited some, unnerved others. The calmest was Helen herself, who smiled when addressing “Mr. Joyce”. She swiveled her chair towards him, moving either forward or back dependent on how close he stood. Always, she held her head erect with her face slightly tilted up. And though his voice was alternately loud and low, hers was always moderate and clear, a voice that kept secrets even in the open.

When loud, Joyce spoke to generalities ---like how did she find the work or on which account was she working. His low voice suggested something personal and exclusive, causing some, like Lola McIntyre, to emerge from her desk to get closer. But Helen’s answer, in her clear voice, countermanded his low talk and suggested to most there wasn’t anything to hear.

More extraordinary was the way she dismissed him, with a glance at her watch or gesture to her desk. His consternation was obvious, but always she smiled and he departed with something like a forced grin.

She handled Joyce without complaining or a mention otherwise. That suggested confidence, but Felicia had been, too. If seeking advancement, she couldn’t have attracted anyone higher. She appeared to be playing a good hand: he kept coming back. Ulysses hadn’t reached any conclusions. He hoped for the best, but feared the worst.

“What if he comes for me?” Mo protested. “I don’t want to say no to a CEO but…”

He agreed a woman shouldn’t be put in that position. He advised her to tell him if anything in particular happened to her, a familiar recital from the other times they spoke. But, she pounded the desk.

“She went!”

“What?”

“They went ---together!”

He rose from his chair and peered over the wall. Helen’s seat was empty, angled toward the door. He felt hollow in the pit of his stomach.

*

As they left, heads sprung up and eyes followed: Joyce striding across the floor and Helen trailing, as at her leisure, tan legs shapely beneath a frilly hem. Through the hallways, a manufactured silence greeted them, followed in their wake by murmurs and, when out of earshot, a twitter or a laugh. Betsy Murray pressed the button to the elevator and shredded Helen with her eyes.

On entering his suite, Joyce sat behind the desk, but Helen inspected the room. She looked through the window down to the street, like a girl searching for dandelions. At the statue she patted the horse’s hindquarters and then, gazing at the shelves, tapped fingers before the picture of Delfina and the boys. All the while Joyce tracked her movements and checked his impatience. When finally she settled in the chair before him, she gestured around the room and met his eyes straight on.

“It appears I am your captive.”

“Helen,” Joyce began…

*

Ulysses bolted from his cubicle. Workers stood in clusters of twos and threes, some in animated conversation. They watched him, having seen Mimosa rush in. Outside the door, Lola approached and settled in his path, a mischievous look in her eyes. Before he could speak, she said, “She’s with Stephen. His office.”

He maneuvered past her down the hall. He met people agitated for having seen something. But as he progressed, the hallways cleared. His heart pounded. He was running and felt absurd. By the time he reached the reception desk he had slowed to a walk. Betsy looked up. He waved and grinned and touched her desk like a runner’s turnaround point, leaving her to wonder about his odd manner.

Already up, he decided to go for coffee. He took the elevator to the street. Along the way, he thought about what to say to Helen.

*

A brooding cloud settled over him. Time passed. Slowly. He waited, couldn’t concentrate and jumped at every sound. But when she appeared, everything happened too quickly.

He beckoned her to sit. Seated on the edge of the chair, her face was flushed, as from exercise, and her eyes excited. Her hair, combed high and back at the brow, fell into stylish tangles at the sides surrounding the serene lines of her face.

“Yul, I’m sorry for going away without letting you know. Mr. Joyce talked to me and I want to give you a heads-up. He wants me for a project. PR work. Not all the time. I’m still working here.”

He nodded dumbly, gathering his thoughts. He admired the enthusiasm attending any adventure, but feared what lay ahead.

“Helen---”

Signaled by the tone in his voice, she slid back into the chair, crossed her legs and appraised him. Her eyes settled and deepened. She waited.

“Don’t get too close.”

And waited.

“He can turn on you.”

Still waited, and he rushed to fill the silence.

“People will look at you differently.”

She canted her head. “Will you?”

His face reddened. He shook his head.

“Just ---friend to friend--- be careful.”

When she stood, he jerked his head back and was gratified by her smile.

“See you tomorrow.”

He was alone again with his thoughts. He tried to do right and be right, in the moral sense ---like right attitude towards people, and in the social sense ---right school, job or girl leading to all things good.

But right in one sphere might damage rightness in another: being fired for taking a principled stand might injure the good life he sought. Still, he craved a higher purpose.

Helen, and all she represented, was that purpose. He couldn’t bear the thought of divided time with Joyce. He suspected his motives and was ashamed to associate them with her. He would protect her, even though her eyes told him it wasn’t necessary and he’d have a devil of a time explaining to Penny if he lost his job. He had to admit, he might be a bit in love. That complicated matters, but didn’t trump them, so he vowed.



* End of Part One *


Part Two begins March 6.

The persons and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.