at George with her big brown eyes wide open, as if surprised to see George, whom she was supposed to be walking with.
“Do you want to have lunch? It’s the first day, so they might go easy on us. I know for me it’s probably going to get crazy after today.”
“I don’t know, George. Rothman’s . . . Rothman’s, you know . . .”
“Rothman’s an asocial asshole, that’s what I know.”
“Let’s not argue! I know what you and just about everyone else thinks, but the man’s been good to me. I don’t know what he has in mind for me today or for the month, for that matter. What I do know is that I can’t make plans to meet for lunch before I find out what the day is going to bring.”
“I can tell you what most people think he has in mind for you.”
“Oh, please!” Pia snapped. “Let’s not get into that again. I’ve told you time and again the man’s never made one advance or off-color comment in my presence. What he is is a genius who believes he’s surrounded by morons, and he might be right, at least comparatively. All he’s interested in is his work, and I’m interested in it too. I’m well aware of his asocial reputation, but I’m lucky that he tolerates me. I can’t wait to get in there. If I have a moment as the day progresses, I’ll call your cell.”
For a brief second George saw red. All at once his brain was flooded with unreasonable jealousy of the prick Rothman. Everybody hated the guy and here was the woman he was romantically obsessed with essentially telling him to bug off and that she couldn’t wait to rendezvous with the aged sourball instead of planning to get together for what might be the last lunch of the month. George sucked in a lungful of air while he regarded Pia’s obviously scornful look. In a flash he wondered anew what the hell he was doing continuing to pursue this woman when she seemed to be merely tolerating his company.
Instinctively George knew he shouldn’t put so much importance on whether or not she would make plans to meet for lunch, but he couldn’t help it. It was just another episode in a long list of episodes. The last time they had made love, which was the way George wanted to think about the “hookup,” as she called it, George had tried to be open about how her dismissing him made him feel. Her response then, as it was now about lunch, was to get irritated. Of course, after he left her room, instead of feeling good about making his feelings known, he’d worried himself sick that he’d scared her off for good. But he hadn’t. Instead, a couple of days later, George had received a surprising note from Pia in his mailbox. “Maybe you should call Sheila Brown.” It included a cell phone number. George called Sheila Brown and had one of the oddest phone conversations of his life. He was to learn more about Pia’s past in that one conversation than she had ever shared with him.
“Hi, my name is George Wilson. Pia Grazdani asked me to call you.”
“Hello, George. Pia told me you would be calling. I was Pia’s caseworker and her therapist for some time. Pia told me it was okay to talk to you.”
“Oh, er, okay . . .” Caseworker? Whatever George had been expecting, it wasn’t this.
“I know it’s extremely unusual for a therapist to talk to a stranger about one of her patients, but Pia asked me to speak with you.”
Therapist? This was going to be interesting.
“Normally I wouldn’t be speaking to you as I am since it’s against any number of rules of my profession, but Pia persuaded me to do so. If I can help Pia emerge from what she faced in her upbringing, I’m willing to do most anything within reason.
“I worked with Pia for years, since she grew up in foster care, including a stint in what used to be called a reform school. As a result, let us say that she’s always found it very hard to form any meaningful relationships. Trust is an issue. She didn’t tell me much about you, but I find the fact that she asked me to talk with you very encouraging. I think she wants you to know something about her, but she can’t tell you herself. So she asked the person who she believes knows her best to do it. Pia has different ideas about privacy and attachment than most people.”
That George knew from painful experience.
Without going into specific details, Sheila encouraged George to “keep trying” with Pia because it was her opinion he would be “good” for her. Sheila concluded by giving him her office number to have in addition to her cell phone number in case he ever wanted to call back. George never did, and despite Sheila’s disclaimers, he questioned the professionalism of the conversation. At the same time he appreciated the information. He never brought up the issue directly with Pia by saying that he knew she’d been through foster care but rather tried to get her to open up about her childhood in general. Unfortunately she always responded that it was something she did not want to discuss. It was a no-go zone. That was okay with George; he set it aside and didn’t think about it. He was giving her as much time as she needed.
George let out the lungful of air with pursed lips. The slight delay gave him a chance to collect himself and not blurt out something he’d regret later. He even tried to mask the fact that he was upset.
“Well, I hope your day goes as well as can be expected,” he said finally. “I know you can handle yourself, Pia. But I still don’t know how you can stand to work with him.”
“I don’t need to get along with him, George. It’s not kindergarten. If he tolerates me and I learn from him and he can help my career, that’s all I ask. We’re grown-ups-we don’t have to be friends.”
She’d used that line before, and George had to wonder, was she talking about Rothman or about him? George’s worry that Pia was going to abandon him resurfaced.
“Okay!” George said simply, while holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Sorry to even mention it.”
“Stop apologizing!” Pia said sharply, looking at her watch. “You sound nerdy when you apologize. Now I really am going to be late.”
Pia hurried away. George asked himself what time Pia might have gotten up had he not gone to her room to wake her. He couldn’t help but notice that she’d not bothered to thank him, much less make a commitment to have lunch. Unfortunately it all was irritatingly pro forma.
Pia showed her ID to the security guard with all the other students who were mostly first- and second-year heading off to their eight o’clock lecture. Instead of following them she took the elevator to the fourteenth floor of the Black Research Building and headed for Rothman’s sizable laboratory. He commanded the most space of any researcher in the entire center. As soon as she went through the anonymous-looking metal door and entered the suite, she could sense that the lab’s day was already in full swing. The three research technicians, Panjit Singh, Nina Brockhurst, and Mariana Herrera, were loitering around the lab’s communal coffeepot having already calibrated all the instrumentation that needed to be done on a daily basis. Rothman, fastidious about what he ate and drank, kept a Nespresso machine in his office that only he and Dr. Junichi Yamamoto, his senior associate, were allowed to use.
“Morning, Miss Grazdani,” said Marsha Langman, Rothman’s secretary, from behind her desk. One overdefined eyebrow was raised as she looked at the clock on the wall opposite. “You don’t want to make this a habit.”
Pia followed the woman’s line of vision and glanced at the clock. The second hand had just ticked past vertical: it was 7:49. Pia stopped and half turned toward Rothman’s ultraloyal retainer-cum-secretary for the inevitable reprimand.
“You know he likes everyone to be early,” Marsha said in an accusatory tone.
“I’m not late,” said Pia. Students were supposed to begin lectures and other activities at eight unless they had been on call the night before for specific rotations that required it.
“Ah, but you aren’t early either. Let’s not start the month off on the wrong foot. And I should warn you, you’ll be having some company in your office. There’s a man from maintenance in there trying to find a problem in the wiring. The security system is down.”
“How long’s that going to take?”
Marsha, a middle-aged African-American woman in a lab coat her position didn’t call for, made a face that said,
Pia was exasperated. There was barely room for her in what was generously described as an office.
“Is the chief going to have time for me this morning?” Pia was one of the handful of people who didn’t reflexively kowtow to Rothman and wait for him to come to them. As Pia asked the question she turned to fully face Marsha. The research technicians were quiet. Pia wondered if they’d timed their coffee run for her predictably not- quite-early arrival and were eavesdropping for any possible gossip.
