little more of the city, the desk is made of a slightly better wood, the chair is a little more comfortable. The only thing that intimidates me is the work that waits for me here. Files stacked on top of one another are filled with information about departments I’ve never been briefed on. My in-box is flooded with information that needs learning and questions that need answers. I will be organizing teams for projects without knowing the players I’ll be picking from. I will be helping those teams address problems I don’t understand. Mr. Costin seems to have “forgotten” to give me password access to some files I’ll need in order to manage the departments successfully, so I end up spending at least an hour talking to the IT guys—IT guys who, if I didn’t know better, were instructed to deliberately try my patience. I might have written it off as the normal inconvenience of tech problems if I didn’t see one of them smirk when I wondered aloud why Mr. Costin hadn’t given me the authorization he knew I’d need.
And still Robert doesn’t call.
I spend the day reading and taking notes. A few of the people who will be working for me stop by to offer congratulations. All the words are right and the bitterness is concealed but I can still detect it. I can see the gleam of resentment in their eyes as they shake my hand, offer their help in the transition, and so on. None of them loved Tom but they all respected his work. Will they feel that way about me? Is that what I want? Respect mingled with animosity? Well, you play the hand you’re dealt. I bend my head over yet another file.
And still he doesn’t call.
It’s a good thing, I tell myself. I need some space from him. I can’t have him touching me with his voice, his eyes, his hands every day. He wants to corrupt me. I need space from him so that doesn’t happen. It’s good that he hasn’t called.
I keep reading the file, a low level of anxiety quickening my pulse.
Eventually the night arrives. I don’t leave until six thirty. There’s no point in staying longer. I can only learn so much in one day.
I’m ill at ease as I enter the garage, step into my car. Mr. Costin did not come to see me and when I tried to call him with questions, my calls were sent to voice mail. He’s trying to help me fail.
I pull my car onto the busy city streets. As usual the traffic is an exercise in patience. Most Angelenos can tolerate it as long as we’re moving forward. It’s when traffic is completely stopped that we become agitated. That’s when we have to admit that we chose the wrong route and are not going anywhere at all.
I eye the sign for the 101. South will take me home, north will take me to him.
I need to go south. It’s where I live, where I belong. I’m not ready for anything else. I don’t want it.
But I need it.
The Los Angeles traffic continues to creep; someone leans on his horn in a useless expression of frustration.
The palms of my hands are moist and slide up and down along the smooth leather of the steering wheel.
Go south; it’s where you belong. You don’t want what he wants.
I’m shaking now. The numbers I reviewed all afternoon have all been left in the office. There is nothing clear or simple for me to hold on to here. I’m closer to the freeway entrance. I see the little arrow pointing the way for me, urging me onto the freeway that will take me home.
But I don’t go home. I go north.
And when I pull onto the freeway, I see that the traffic going along this new direction isn’t so daunting. The devil has cleared the way.
Soon I get to his exit and in minutes I’m curving up the familiar street.
The gate to his driveway is open; the door, unlocked. I walk in without announcing myself.
He’s waiting for me in the living room. A bottle of champagne is chilling in a bucket. Flames dance in the fireplace.
“You’re late,” he says without animosity.
“I’m not supposed to be here,” I say quietly.
He’s
And still Robert doesn’t call.
I spend the day reading and taking notes. A few of the people who will be working for me stop by to offer congratulations. All the words are right and the bitterness is concealed but I can still detect it. I can see the gleam of resentment in their eyes as they shake my hand, offer their help in the transition, and so on. None of them loved Tom but they all respected his work. Will they feel that way about me? Is that what I want? Respect mingled with animosity? Well, you play the hand you’re dealt. I bend my head over yet another file.
And still he doesn’t call.
It’s a good thing, I tell myself. I need some space from him. I can’t have him touching me with his voice, his eyes, his hands every day. He wants to corrupt me. I need space from him so that doesn’t happen. It’s good that he hasn’t called.
I keep reading the file, a low level of anxiety quickening my pulse.
Eventually the night arrives. I don’t leave until six thirty. There’s no point in staying longer. I can only learn so much in one day.
I’m ill at ease as I enter the garage, step into my car. Mr. Costin did not come to see me and when I tried to call him with questions, my calls were sent to voice mail. He’s trying to help me fail.
I pull my car onto the busy city streets. As usual the traffic is an exercise in patience. Most Angelenos can tolerate it as long as we’re moving forward. It’s when traffic is completely stopped that we become agitated. That’s when we have to admit that we chose the wrong route and are not going anywhere at all.
I eye the sign for the 101. South will take me home, north will take me to him.
I need to go south. It’s where I live, where I belong. I’m not ready for anything else. I don’t want it.
But I need it.
The Los Angeles traffic continues to creep; someone leans on his horn in a useless expression of frustration.
The palms of my hands are moist and slide up and down along the smooth leather of the steering wheel.
Go south; it’s where you belong. You don’t want what he wants.
I’m shaking now. The numbers I reviewed all afternoon have all been left in the office. There is nothing clear or simple for me to hold on to here. I’m closer to the freeway entrance. I see the little arrow pointing the way for me, urging me onto the freeway that will take me home.
But I don’t go home. I go north.
And when I pull onto the freeway, I see that the traffic going along this new direction isn’t so daunting. The devil has cleared the way.
Soon I get to his exit and in minutes I’m curving up the familiar street.
The gate to his driveway is open; the door, unlocked. I walk in without announcing myself.
He’s waiting for me in the living room. A bottle of champagne is chilling in a bucket. Flames dance in the fireplace.
“You’re late,” he says without animosity.
“I’m not supposed to be here,” I say quietly.
He’s
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