Making It Work

by Kathleen Glassburn

  He shifted his attention again and scanned the rows of desks that flanked Petersen’s office, probably tallying who was working, who was not. His expression turned to disgust when his eyes landed on Joe Sullivan. Sheila knew that everyone else talked on their telephone or busily sifted through files. She snuck a smile at Sully, who lounged in his chair, arms crossed behind his head, gazing at the high ceiling, seeming to memorize its design.

  Ronald turned back to her, and she re-focused on her note.

  He loudly cleared his throat.

  Sheila raised her left hand as if to hold him off. “This will take another minute.” Again, she carefully went over what had been written, savoring the moment. Like a cat teasing its prey.

  Ronald looked down to the end of the wide, marble-floored hallway. Beyond several other almost identical departments, in a corner with ten-foot Plexiglas walls surrounding it but still a great distance from the soaring ceiling, the bank’s President led everyone else. His son worked in a small cubicle next to him. Above the President’s desk, an intricately designed leaded-glass window filled that end of the bank with prismatic light. During Sheila’s gab sessions with Sully, they often referred to this area as the Holy of Holies.

  Ronald seemed to tip his head in reverence. After a meditative few seconds, he took a ballpoint pen from his jacket pocket and looked back at Sheila. He clicked the pen several times before grabbing a piece of stationery from her basket and scribbling a few words. He clicked the pen again, and she felt hot irritation, knowing that he was too wrapped up in his own needs to notice her nasty expression.

  Sheila had heard from Sully that in Ronald Lindquist’s eighteen years with the bank, he moved back two desks, presently sitting right in front of Ivy, who sat directly outside of Leonard Petersen’s office. The nameplate on Ronald’s desk said Vice President, his title for over ten years. In twelve more months, after Petersen’s retirement dinner, everyone knew that Ronald would leapfrog right over Ivy into Petersen’s chair, with the Plexiglas partial walls enclosing his area, indicating to anyone who entered the department that Ronald Lindquist was their leader.

  Abruptly, Sheila decided to bring Sully’s note to an end. She shifted toward Ronald, whose fidgeting stopped. Her eyes rested on the bumpy, red razor burn covering his neck as she said, “So, what can I do for you?”

  “First, add these figures to yesterday’s Goldfield report.” Ronald flipped the note he had scribbled onto the center of her desk, on top of Sully’s information. In doing so, he brushed a musical score off her stack of textbooks. With no apology, he continued, “Also, I have another report. Come back to my desk. I need to do it before I leave.”

  After picking up the score that she had notated off the floor, Sheila said, “Certainly, Ronald, I’m all yours.” She re-stacked her textbooks, putting the score at the bottom, and grabbed her steno pad.

  As Ronald walked back to his desk, with Sheila trailing behind, he ignored Sully and the jaunty tilt to his chin. At Ronald’s same age of forty-three, Joe Sullivan had a couple of kids and a mortgage too. He had been sitting in the same desk, behind the desk that Sheila occupied, for his twenty years in the department. His nameplate said Assistant Vice President, and everyone thought it would stay that way until the big shift took place. At which time, Sully would receive a promotion due to longevity, and there he’d be until retirement, answering to Ronald. Sheila wondered if Sully’s disrespectful attitude would continue then. I’ll be long gone by that time.

  Sitting in the chair next to Ronald, her shapely legs crossed, eyes cast down, pen poised for notes, a lock of red hair resting on her lightly-freckled cheek, Sheila waited for Ronald to begin. You’d think he’d be ready to go!

  He took another minute to shuffle through his notes, before saying, “This is a report on First National of Eden Park. The visit was made yesterday afternoon.” He proceeded to supply pertinent information on developments since his last call. It took less than five minutes. The report was on one of Ronald’s largest banks. Their dealings were so cut-and-dried that any business did resolve itself rapidly.

  After he dismissed her, Sheila felt his eyes on her back. She purposefully gave a little extra sway to her hips. She put her notebook away until the next morning, picked up the textbooks and score on her desk, and turned to see Ronald stretched back in his chair, rubbing his hands along the sides of his stomach as if he had just completed a satisfying meal.

  Sheila smiled at Sully. “I have to get going so I won’t be late for class.”

  Sully said his usual, “Have a great night,” and rolled his eyes in Ronald’s direction with an exaggerated grimace of pain.

  Sheila peeked again at Ronald, his face now set in a frown. She heard a thump as he slammed his hands onto his desk.

  Hurrying, she just made a bus to the university. In two or three years she would take her certification test and be able to find a job teaching music in a junior high. Remembering her own difficult early adolescence, she wasn’t sure about this, but was anxious to check it out when her student teaching started.

  The next Friday, as soon as Sheila sat down at her desk, Sully “psssst’d” at her.

  She turned around, ready for the latest department gossip.

  “There’s going to be a big meeting this afternoon with everyone involved.”

  “Even me?”

  “Even you and Ivy.”

  “That’ll be a diversion.” Sheila wrinkled her freckled nose at the stack of call reports to be typed for the nine bankers in the department.

  Bill Warmuth walked by and greeted her. He was one of the younger guys in Correspondent Banking. Grinning at her with his wide, white-toothed, movie star smile, he said, “Can you go out on Saturday?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Dinner and clubbing, or a movie, whatever you want.”

  Sheila nodded.

  “I’ll call you tonight.” He walked to his desk a couple of rows away.

  She would have preferred a concert but still felt excited to see him.

  Sheila and Bill had only dated a few times. She was busy with her classes and studies on most nights, and he had his own activities with friends—tennis, handball, going to sporting events. She appreciated that he was so encouraging about her going back to school. “I know it’s hard, with work and all, but you’ll be glad to have that degree in a few years. It’s good that you’re planning for something other than working here at the bank,” he said.

  She hadn’t asked him why at the time.

  Sheila turned back to Sully. “What were you saying?”

  “Rumor has it that Ronald is going to get a shake up.”

  “That wouldn’t hurt my feelings.” Sheila looked again at her stack of call reports. “I have to get going on these before everyone’s breathing down my neck.”

  A while back, Ronald had complained to Petersen about Sheila’s attitude, how she always kept him waiting. Petersen called her into his office where she avoided sitting in Ronald’s chair, choosing a smaller one against the wall, the place where Ivy sat when she took dictation. Ivy had worked for Petersen since he occupied Ronald’s desk. Never married, she seemed to have gotten her mothering urges taken care of with Leonard’s constant demands. Due to her age, Ivy’s exit would surely coincide with the Senior Vice President’s retirement.

  After he talked to Sheila about Ronald’s grievance, Petersen told her, “You’re smart. You’re competent. You work circles around any girl we’ve ever had at that spot. Still, you have to be more cooperative, especially with Ronald. He’ll be your boss before long, and it would be a waste for him to send you back to the steno pool. You know, he has a practice that seems to work for him, learned it at one of our seminars.” It seemed like the bankers were always attending some motivational seminar or other, all focused on making themselves better bankers and achieving their dreams. A happy banker is a good banker.


  “When he needs a lift,” Leonard went on, “when he gets tired of being patient about where he wants to be, he takes out his goal file and adjourns to somewhere quiet to go over his plans—do his affirmations. I’d do the same thing, but all my goals have been met.” Leonard smiled smugly. “Who knows, you might want to attend one of our seminars sometime in the future.”

  At the department picnic on Lake Minnetonka, Sheila had seen his beautiful beachfront property. Boats. Fancy cars. He took vacations to Europe every year.

  “Achieving one’s goals takes patience. Believe me, I’ve had to show a lot of patience at this bank in order to get where I am today.”

  Sheila, thinking of her own musical goals, had told Petersen, “I’ll try harder. I guess things have been so busy with night school that sometimes I’ve slowed down here at work.”

  “It’s great that you’re going to school. With a degree you could go far in the bank.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “I’m going to speak to Ronald and tell him that all will be better.”

  Sheila merely thanked Petersen and left. She didn’t tell him that there would not be a banking career in her future.

  As part of the human potential movement, many seminars and workshops had started springing up. Sheila’s plans did not include much in the way of material acquisitions, but rather doing as much as she possibly could with her music.

  After this morning’s dictation, Ronald said, “How come we never see you at the Top Hat?”

  Sheila looked at him long and hard, before saying, “Usually I have something planned for Friday nights. I need to get home as fast as possible.”

  “Oh—a date?”

  “No. Studying.”

  “You’re a bright young woman, Sheila. Do you have any long-term goals for here at the bank?”

  “This is a good job for right now.”

  “I’m talking about more than a job. Something you could work at for years. Ivy’s sort of position.”

  “Sincerely, I’ve never thought of Ivy’s … position, Ronald.”

  “Think about it. A year up the road, changes will be made. You’re an efficient, competent employee. A spot like Ivy’s could be perfect for you.” He sat up straighter. “We’ll talk more about this later. Get those call reports typed up before the meeting this afternoon.”

  Entering Petersen’s office a few hours later, Sheila saw that Ronald, with a leather-bound notebook spread open on his lap, sat in his chair to Petersen’s right. The other men filed in and sat on extras Ivy had placed around the desk. Joe Sullivan arrived last. A short, stocky guy, arms crossed in front of his chest, he leaned against the partial wall. Ronald sat drawing dark arrows soaring up to the corner of his note page.

  The meeting started with Petersen listing biggest business generators since the last assemblage.

  Why am I here? Sheila would rather have been at her desk clearing things up before she left for her apartment.

  Ronald’s First National of Eden Park, of course, produced the most business. The other bankers seemed to smile in resignation. Sully’s banks fell somewhere in the middle. Bill Warmuth, a guy many years younger than Ronald, had brought in several large notes. He covered southern Minnesota, including Ardenville, his hometown. One of his banks in Rochester had stepped up to the big league.

  Sheila watched Ronald who peered at Bill, gauging his reaction to Petersen’s praise. When Bill looked up from writing in his notebook, his eyes met Ronald’s. He gave Bill a quick cuff to the arm.

  “I have a couple of special announcements.” Petersen picked up some papers from his desk.

  Ronald looked like a pointer on alert. Sheila was under the impression that he and Petersen shared all office information. Hmm, guess not.

  Ivy handed a couple of papers to each person in attendance. Everyone scanned the top page. A letter copy with Joe Sullivan’s signature. Another letter copy underneath, from another bank, bore their president’s signature.

  “You can read these at your leisure. I’ll fill you in on the contents with this announcement: our associate, Joe Sullivan,” Petersen looked back at Sully, who gave a bent-fingers salute, “has received an extraordinary opportunity. He leaves the beginning of next month to become Vice President and General Manager of First Federal Bank of Lakewood. Max Williams, President of this fine institution, has nothing but praise for Joe and what he has accomplished on their behalf.”

  My friend is leaving!

  Petersen gazed through the opening in the wall, across his department to the marble-floored hallway where customers and employees walked by. “Unfortunately, Max was recently diagnosed with lung cancer. The prognosis is not good. He will step down from the presidency within six months.” Petersen paused here while they absorbed this unpleasant development.

  Sheila didn’t know Max Williams personally, but she did speak to Mrs. Cleary, his secretary, on the telephone often. For this woman, she felt sadness. Mrs. Cleary always spoke in a glowing way when she referred to Mr. Williams. Sheila also felt sadness for Petersen, who was obviously upset.

  Changing to a more enthusiastic tone, Petersen said, “So everyone, I’d like to introduce the upcoming President of First Federal. My friend and yours—Joseph P. Sullivan.”

  Silence filled the area, then loud clapping broke out. Most of the men hooted their approval. Belatedly, Ronald clapped louder than anyone else.

  Sully’s hands fidgeted, picking at a hangnail like it was the most important thing on his mind. Eventually, he responded to some of the guys’ comments with a bemused expression. He never turned Ronald’s way, and he didn’t look toward Sheila either.

  She watched Ronald studying Petersen, whose eyes were on another packet of papers.

  After remarks of congratulation dwindled and quiet was restored, Ivy passed out a copy of an inner-bank memorandum, and Petersen began, “Moving on to some personal business … at a recent executive meeting it was voted to alter bank policy.”

  Will this mean something to me? Sheila’s gray eyes widened.

  “As you may be aware,” Petersen said, “mandatory retirement at age sixty-five has long been our practice.”

  Where’s this heading? Sheila watched Ronald rub his chafed neck.

  “Several senior vice presidents, myself included, and even our esteemed president,” heads seemed to lower at mention of their top man, “are drawing close to that arbitrary age. It has become apparent that, health-wise and productivity-wise, many of my contemporaries are not ready to retire. Good years are left to serve the bank. Therefore, a new option has been added.”

  “If deemed appropriate, the individual can choose to extend his employment at the currently held position to age seventy years.”

  Sheila saw Ronald stiffen like a retriever ready to fetch. He almost stood from his green simulated-leather chair.

  Petersen briefly looked up, adjusting his bifocals. His eyes turned to Bill. “I’m looking forward to an additional six years as head of this department, rather than the one I’d anticipated.”

  Petersen glanced Ronald’s way with a concerned expression, but Ronald’s eyes had glazed over and he didn’t acknowledge Petersen. “I am very excited about the change, and I hope everyone will enjoy working for me this extra time. Unless, of course, your efforts result in an opportunity like Joe Sullivan’s upcoming move.”

  Petersen’s expression seemed to bless Sully, who accepted the good wishes without flourish, wearing his familiar lopsided grin, hands now stuffed in his pockets.

  After that, the meeting rapidly ended.

  Sheila heard Petersen say to Ronald, “Please stick around for a minute.”

  Ronald slouched back into his chair as the Senior Vice President ushered his men through the opening in the partial wall. Ivy and Sheila filed out last. Ivy seemed to have a bit of an unexpected bounce to her step. Sheila saw Petersen throw his arms ove
r Bill’s shoulders, and heard him say, “Six more long ones.” Bill assured Petersen that it would be a pleasure. Sheila turned toward Ronald. His features had collapsed. His open mouth hung loosely on his face. His whole body seemed deflated.

  Back at her desk, the commotion started. People kept stopping by to congratulate Sully. Sheila smiled brightly with the others, but her eyes prickled with unshed tears.

  After several minutes, Ronald shuffled around the gathering, never looking their way. He wore a blank expression. His chin burrowed into his collar. His shoulders hunched as he passed out of the department, not stopping, in his customary way, to inform Sheila where he was headed. To his chest, Ronald clutched a manila folder—the goal folder—with no newspaper wrapped around it.

  Silence fell over the group as they observed his shuffle down the wide, marble-floored hallway, past the bank of elevators. The impressive old architecture overwhelmed the bent figure of Ronald Lindquist, who, for once, seemed small and tired beneath the soaring, carved ceiling. He paused for a few seconds at a large wastebasket, made a motion as if to drop his folder into it, must have re-considered, and continued on. At the Holy of Holies, the leaded-glass window rested flatly in its framework. This was a cloudy day with no prismatic light. Ronald bowed his head deeper as he approached the President’s office, then he turned left, and headed for the men’s room.

  When all the bankers were back to their own desks and their own work, Sully said to Sheila, “What do you think about this?”

  “I’m really happy for you.” She blinked. “But it’s going to be so lonesome around here.”

  “Come with me to First Federal.”

  “Lakewood is too far from where I live and from the university.”

  “I could get you on the fast track for promotion.”

  “No. My music degree will be done before too long. That’s what I want to do, more than anything.”