The Hole in the Middle Read Online Free PDF

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 e-mail 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.
    â€œGood 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 studies the notes on the table in front of him. Ordinarily,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, a bad sign.
    â€œI 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 grimaces as though he has bitten down on something sour. One of the women 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 across the table. The outfit is finished with 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