About Face (16 page)

The four women looked at each other in bewilderment. These were the only papers they had.

Vivian burst into noisy tears, remonstrating loudly that her husband and baby awaited her in Abidjan and she needed to get back to them right away. As she walked, she gestured wildly and cried real tears. Her hair flew around her face, some of it sticking to her wet cheeks. She walked in circles and got more and more excited, talking about her husband and her baby, over and over. The other women watched in wonder.

“My husband is having an operation tomorrow. I need to be there. Tomorrow.” And on and on.

The guard's face melted from stern military man to bewildered boy, someone who wanted to be rid of a crazy white woman. “Just go, misses, go now.” The women got back in their car and, as soon as they were out of earshot, laughed for 100 of the 200 kilometers back to the coast.

 

THE ELEVATOR doors opened.

She knocked on Jeremy's door and he greeted her with a big imitation-smile but his usual wimpy handshake. They agreed the sun had finally broken through and the weekend promised to be fair. He didn't offer coffee this time.

He sat on the couch and indicated Ruth should sit there too.

“Do you have the data for me?”

So much for it being a conversation. She handed him a thirty-seven-page report, but hung onto a smaller packet. “How about if I give you a tour of the highlights, big picture, that kind of thing.”

“No thanks. I'll look it
all
over. All over. Big picture plus details.”

He read and she followed his page-by-page progress. Was he taking longer than he really needed to?

“Let me just say that the most important material is on—”

He looked up and seemed to choose his words carefully. “I prefer to look through it myself and make my own judgments about what's the most important.”

Some conversation, she thought.

He continued to read. Sometimes he ran his finger down the tables of numbers, and sometimes he returned to a page he'd already read.

When he was on page twenty-six, he said, “This is just what I'd feared.”

She'd been expecting it on page twenty-five. “I know what you mean. But there are a few interesting verbatims on pages twenty-seven to thirty. My team and I are convinced that—”

“Ruth, Ruth, Ruth.” He looked up at her. “Focus groups are like science. Create a situation, test it, see the results. Data. Individuals may say one thing, but the composite data reveal the truth. And the truth, as I said, is just what I feared. We may or may not like the idea of makeup that's about … about … loving your wrinkles. But our customers don't.”

“Let me just read one verbatim to you. It's on the bottom of page twenty-nine.”

He returned to the precise point where he'd previously stopped, held up his hand in a “Stop” sign, and continued his plodding. She held her tongue and her breath.

Finally, he said, “It doesn't look good.” He looked above and behind her.

Here was the tricky part of the so-called conversation. She had to explain that she wanted to run more groups, this time paying more careful attention to the selection of the respondents, but without implying they hadn't done a good job the first time around. She had to prove there were different results out there, waiting to be uncovered, that it wasn't a question of throwing good money after bad.

“Right. They don't look good at first, but there's is a nugget of gold. These women have shown us something very important. It's in that verbatim.”

“I see it. ‘After all these years of showing me beautiful young women in your ads, you're telling me you've changed your minds? So I've been making a mistake to listen to you? And why should I listen to you now?'”

“That's the one.”

That comment had gotten Ruth thinking that maybe they were asking too much of women to disbelieve the old advertising messages and believe the new. It was conversion fervor, like brand-new EST idealogues who try to convince everyone to jump onto their magic EST carpet, only to find people crossing the street to avoid them.

She still thought her ideas about authenticity were right, but knew it wasn't enough simply to state them. So it wasn't
just
about new groups, which she was confident would yield the expected results. It was also about the message.

She told Jeremy about her plan for additional groups, with different screening techniques, and her new concept. She'd never prepared anything so fast and knew it wasn't as polished as she'd have liked. But, with a couple of “Oh well's,” she'd patched together photographs and possible message statements.

When she was done, he said, “You think you're going to change their minds this way?”

“I'm sure of it.”

“Before I was CEO here at Mimosa Inc, before I was SVP at B&D, even, I ran a project for my company, even though the numbers told me maybe I shouldn't. Like you. I let my hopes and dreams cloud my judgment. Feelings, the bad “F” word.” He smiled in what was, for him, slow motion.

He's making a joke?

“We lost a bundle. I vowed never to do that again. When I
do
make a mistake, I try to learn from it.”

He flipped through the rest of the thirty-seven-page report, then reached over for the smaller packet with the new plan, which he looked at more carefully. As he thought, he licked his lips, slowly and thoroughly, as luxuriously as if someone had told him to clean the sugar from a powdered doughnut off his mouth.

“On the other hand….” He paged back and forth through the document, a few times, then snapped it shut. After a long pause, he said, “Maybe, just maybe. But be sure you keep me informed. And have you made any progress on a new name?”

“We're working on it.”

That's it? An abrupt and unexplained U-turn? And then ‘Keep me informed'? No questions? No snide comments about the slap-dash presentation of the new approach? No deadlines or ultimata? Does he have another meeting he's late for?

She was glad he said yes, and didn't even resent the hoops she'd had to jump through. But she wondered why good sometimes felt bad.

Part IV

CHAPTER 17

Profit or None

 

 

THE RED BRICK BUILDING that housed The Brooklyn Shelter for Women could have been an old-age home, a nursery school, an apartment building, an armory. Square and squat, with no nod to decoration or beauty, its heaviness was slightly intimidating, which seemed fitting, as if the building welcomed its broken and bruised inhabitants and promised to protect them.

“No one can know about the shelter in a casual sort of way, if you know what I mean,” Vivian said, as she and Ruth approached. “The women have to sign a confidentiality agreement. The residents are here so they won't be found by husbands, boyfriends, girlfriends even, not by anyone. We found out a little while ago that some people in the neighborhood think it's still a barracks, which it hasn't been for a long time, so every once in a while we blast some military music to keep the illusion alive. I love that.”

A week ago, Vivian and Ruth had been talking about their jobs. They ventured beyond questions of exactly what they did to the satisfactions and frustrations therein. With uncommon restraint, Vivian didn't actually lecture Ruth on finding another kind of work; she just asked if Ruth wanted to see the Shelter or, as she called it, the BSW.

Ruth accepted the invitation partially as a way to get to know the contemporary Vivian better, but also for her periodic re-evaluation of her long-ago choice of profits over non-profits. Was it really just about the money and Josh's college fund?

David thought the visit was all about female bonding and she didn't disabuse him. He still wanted her to retire, she still didn't, and they rarely discussed it any more. But secretly she thought maybe she'd consider leaving Mimosa for something else. If it were the right thing. Just the exactly right thing. Something that fit her perfectly.

Vivian had to work for a few hours on Saturday and Ruth tagged along. Carlos was going to meet them, then Ruth would drive all three of them to her place, where David, at this very moment, was getting lunch ready for the four of them.

She'd been gratified that Vivian looked less like a vagabond than she did at the concert or the shopping trip, but not so much as to disguise who she really was. Her blue slacks were loose-fitting and, therefore, flattering as well as comfortable. The fabric was a second cousin of denim, but with a fine and handsome finish. On top of it was a colorful knit, not so colorful as to be wild, merely uninhibited. Her bright-yellow shoes matched her top in only the loosest sense of the word, with clunky heels that used to be found on old-country grandmothers' feet. Her hair was formed into a loose-weave single braid and was moderately well-behaved.

As they drew near the entrance, Vivian stopped to face Ruth. “Listen, Ruthie, visitors are sometimes really uncomfortable in here, and they just don't know how they should talk to the women and kids. There's only one golden rule. No pity. No ‘Oh, you poor thing.'” She started fumbling for her keys. “Other than that, just do what feels right, what feels like you.”

“Yeah, it's true that some of them are pitiable. They're physically and emotionally bruised and you want to scoop them up and say ‘Poor baby' over and over, and rock them to sleep. But believe me, ‘poor babies' don't really help them get their lives in order. We're protecting them and nursing them back to health, but we're also trying to prepare them for the rest of their lives. We've got three months to do it. Remember, these women are the lucky ones because they're here. Save the pity for the ones who are still out there.”

She found a small brass-colored key with a red string, separate from the densely-populated and noisy key-ring that advertised its whereabouts in Vivian's huge tie-dyed canvas purse. She unlocked the ten-foot-tall metal door, heavy and thick, unadorned, unwelcoming. Ruth expected it to creak, but it didn't. They walked through a cavernous empty room with high ceilings and barred windows. Ruth could imagine troops practicing here, or school kids playing “Duck Duck Goose” during recess. They crossed to the far side of the room, footsteps echoing like a film noir soundtrack, to a cheerless stairway which took them to Vivian's office.

Vivian looked at her desk, piled with mountains of paper. She sighed and said, “As you can see, there's stuff I gotta get done. It'll take maybe an hour or so. Want to walk around and see what you see? Then come back and I'll give you an official tour and introduce you around?”

“Okay.”

“Here's an ID badge. If anyone wonders about you, tell them you're my friend. Or tell them you're a potential corporate sponsor who needs to see the work we do. Or both.”

Vivian's mind seemed already to be focused on her work as she turned to the paperwork on her desk. Ruth set off down the hallway, trying to keep her mind empty of preconceptions about what she'd find and her heart free of guilt about the disproportionate share of luck in her life.

The walls were a quiet nondescript speckled green, not the dull military or institutional green she would have expected, more like the living color of an algae-covered pond. The orange trim was also unexpected and curiously cheerful. At odd intervals along the way were hand-painted murals, about three-feet square, the bottom of the square being the floor. Frame and picture and wall in one, thought Ruth. Neat. Some had clearly been painted by children, others by adults, some by artists of unguessable age. She particularly liked the aquarium and the playground. A few were disturbing in their depictions of violence. Each panel was labeled with the artist's name and the date.

Everything was clean and very, very orderly, like the stacks of magazines with labels as to categories, sub-categories, and sub-sub-categories. Perhaps it was a way of having control over one's environment, a way of reining in emotional chaos through physical order. That made a lot of sense.

She idly looked through the glass panel in the closed door on the right and saw a group of nine women seated in a circle, as if they were a therapy group. But it might be a class, too, because the leader or teacher, also seated in the circle, was pointing to a flip chart. Everyone was taking notes. The windows in the room had whimsical yellow and orange curtains and lush potted plants. A few women looked up at her, their impassive faces registering her presence but shielding their own reactions. One had a large bandage on her cheek and almost no hair on her head. Another's arm was in a sling. Ruth walked on.

She was drawn to a huge bulletin board—The Bee Ess Double-You—dominating the end of the corridor, listing all the goings-on. By this time, she was not surprised that it was well-organized, nor that it was attractive, with cheerful hand-made decorations. What struck her, though, was the bubbling activity going on inside this building, yeast-like. It had looked so immobile and lethargic from the outside, yet was so energetic within.

There were counseling and therapy sessions, for individuals and groups, for adults and children. But there were also courses on personal and interpersonal matters, on parenting and workplace issues. She saw that the course she'd just looked in on was “Workplace Communication and Writing a Resume.” There was AA, NA, and AlAnon. There was an elaborate schedule of home-schooling classes, as well as lawyers' visiting days. There were schedules of communal chores, including cleaning, cooking and repairing. Announcements and congratulations were scattered throughout: one woman got a job, another stayed sober for ten days, one passed the GED, a child won a local spelling bee. And there were lectures, concerts, and movies. The current population was thirty-five women and their twenty-eight children, along with fifteen staff and twelve volunteers, all listed on the left with photos. It struck Ruth that, like Djembering in Africa, BSW was a thriving community that was hidden under the radar to most people.

“Do you belong here?” asked a loud, stern, monotonal voice that lingered on the second syllable of ‘belong.' Ruth hadn't heard the approach of the small woman in jeans and a dark blue tee shirt with BSW in large white letters.

“Oh hi, yes I do. I'm here with Vivian. She's my friend.” She pointed to her ID badge. “And I'm also a potential corporate sponsor. I'm from Mimosa. The makeup company.”

She was glad she remembered the sponsorship cover story, but also immediately envisioned, listed on the bulletin board, the classes Mimosa could sponsor: Makeup for the Workplace, Makeup as Concealer, Talking to Your Daughter About Makeup, Makeup and Self-Image, Makeovers. Then she remembered “No More Benefits.” But this wasn't a benefit event, it was different. Would Jeremy think so? Probably not.

The woman shifted her weight to her left foot as she studied Ruth for a moment with large, unblinking and unforgiving hazel eyes. “Okay.” Her voice was still stern.

“My name's Ruth,” she said as she extended her hand.

They shook. “I'm Elaine. I work here. Actually, I used to be a client, but the BSW helped me straighten myself out.”

A skinny girl of about eight emerged from a room with a hand-lettered “Infirmary” sign. She looked up and down the corridor, then came over to stand close to Elaine, far from Ruth. Her complexion indicated ethnicity of some kind, though whether African-American, Semitic or Hispanic, Ruth couldn't tell. It was a perfect complexion, the color all people would be if everyone reproduced with everyone else. The ultimate answer to racism. Her hair was curly, about chin length. Several colorful barrettes did their best to control it. Like a puppy's paws, her adult teeth were too large for the child's face that contained them, giving her the illusion of wisdom and innocence at the same time. Her mouth was magically expressive, now smiling, now frowning, now wide open in surprise.

This child reminded Ruth of pictures she'd seen of herself. And of the children used in fund-raising photos for international aid organizations. Of the daughter she'd regretted not having after Josh. Of EveryChild. She adored her instantly.

“What's the matter, Joy?” Elaine asked. “Are you sick?”

“No, I had to get a needle cause I stepped on a nail. A turtles shot? But mom said she'd wait for me out here. Did you see her?” Joy's eyes were on Elaine as she spoke, but they made frequent quick jumps over to Ruth and back.

“I haven't seen her. And, by the way, it's a tetanus shot. This is my friend Ruth. She's Vivian's friend too. She's visiting today because maybe the company she works for will give us some money.”

Ruth kneeled and said “Hi, Joy. Does your arm hurt from the shot?”

“No, it's okay. But if your company gives us money, tell them we need a new computer. And I could use some new shoes, cause I'm getting so big so fast.”

“I'll remember that. And how about some books? Do you need some books, too? Do you have a library here?”

“Yeah, we do. And the books are really rusty-dusty old, and I've read ‘em all. I like to read a lot. So yeah tell the company people we could use new ones.”

Ruth unconsciously reached out to remove a strand of hair that was like a corkscrew in front of Joy's eye, but the child backed out of her reach.

Softly, Ruth asked, “What's your most favorite book in the whole wide world?” She wanted to keep this girl engaged as long as possible, so she could stare at her some more.

Joy folded her arms and rolled her round brown eyes up to the ceiling. “Let's see, I really loved it when mommy used to read ‘The Runaway Bunny' to me. And ‘Good-night Moon.' But those are baby books. Those are from when we lived at home. Long ago.” She looked at Ruth solemnly. “Now I like books about magic places, like Wizard of Oz and stuff.”

“Do you want me to help you find which classroom your mom's in, sweetie?” Elaine asked.

“Yeah,” she said as she held onto Elaine's leg.”

“It was nice meeting you, Joy,” Ruth said. “I'll remember what you said.”

“Goody.” Her eyes danced, her mouth grinned. “Red ones would be good. Shoes, red shoes. With a little strap, like my friend Amy has.”

“Bye.” She waved, using all her restraint to keep from leaning over to try to kiss Joy good-bye.

Elaine and Joy walked off hand-in-hand, the child skipping and the small adult walking quickly to keep pace with her.

Ruth continued to wander the halls and went upstairs to see the dormitory-style sleeping rooms, the cafeteria, the gym. No one else asked her for identification. She returned to Vivian's office about an hour and fifteen minutes after she'd left and entered without knocking.

“Perfect timing,” Vivian said. “Ready for the official tour?”

 

BY THE TIME Ruth and Vivian got in the car, she knew in her heart the non-profit life was not for her. She'd always felt that way, though she thought she “should” feel otherwise, wished she did, and hoped that maybe she'd have changed by now. She certainly loved the work done by the BSW, thought the environment was stimulating and passionate, and knew there were many other non-profits about whose missions she felt equally enthusiastic. She was glad they were there and would do anything to help them. In fact, she already had plans for a computer and books for the library, although Vivian would not permit her to buy Joy a pair of shoes.