Chapter 2: Tucson

JIM

Walking away from my children was by far the hardest thing I have ever done. Telling people what I planned to do was the second hardest. The first person I told was my boss Brad and his wife. When he asked why I wanted the job in Arizona, I felt it was only fair to give him the whole story. They sat side by side nodding solemnly while I explained that I could not remain married to Linda. For myself, I could have tolerated sharing a house until Tim was eighteen, but I would not have been able to disguise my feelings for her.

Emily would immediately sense that daddy no longer loved or trusted mommy and it wouldn’t be long before Timmy picked up on the atmosphere. Brad and his wife agreed that such a household situation would be extremely damaging for the kids. When I said that Linda would get primary custody, they reluctantly agreed that it was the most likely outcome. With one lapse three nights ago, Linda had been a wonderful mother. Her problem was with me and not with the kids.

So far, so good. It was when I extended the analysis that things became difficult, ending with Brad’s wife slamming out the room after calling me a monster. Linda is a beautiful woman who had proved that she is still attractive to men when she captured the eye of Lavalliere. It was my contention that she would soon remarry. Her experience on Friday would have been sobering, so she was likely to select a steady, reliable man as her next consort, someone who would be a good father to my kids if I was dead.

Dead or alive, if I was out of the picture, they would all bond and become a family. If, on the other hand, I was a constant presence in the background, the children would be torn between their new daddy and their natural father who appeared every other weekend and for two weeks in summer. Being a dad is more about fixing hurt knees and broken bikes, reading bedtime stories and helping with homework, than it is about DNA. Everyone adjusts to change, children quicker than adults. Emily is only six and in a few months I will be no more than a happy memory – providing I remove myself totally from their lives. No meetings, no birthday presents, not even a card.

I went to work the next day to brief my team, clearing my desk on the Tuesday morning. By that time, Brad had cleared the way for my transfer to Wylie Associates in Tucson. On Tuesday afternoon I returned to Eric’s home and packed my belongings into containers which I took to FedEx. After dinner, I explained my decision about the children in greater detail to Eric and Phoebe. We argued all night – literally, since we were still disputing when the sun rose.

They wanted me to stay another night to continue to search for a less drastic solution, but I insisted on calling a cab to take me to the airport. As a mediator, I look at all the available facts, consult the interested parties and then reach a decision. Once that decision is reached, I implement it without rehashing the facts or seeking further advice. I got on the plane to my new life knowing that I would never see or hear from my babies.

With the stress of thinking and explaining removed, I dozed through the flight. When I arrived, I booked a room at an airport hotel and collapsed on the bed, half dressed and slept again. On Thursday morning I rose late by eastern time but early in my new time zone. I took the airport bus to the center of Tucson arriving before the rush of commuters to their offices. For almost five hours I walked the sidewalks of the business district reconsidering my decision, despite telling myself that I would not second guess my position.

I began to come out of my fugue sometime in the middle of the day. I became aware that I shared the sidewalk with others, most of whom were bustling along. I had to make constant small adjustments to avoid collisions and I wondered how I had avoided collisions up until then. My fellow walkers were in business suits and clearly had important destinations to reach. I had nothing: nowhere to go, nor anywhere I wanted to be, and no one to go to. I envied my fellow walkers, imagining them with contented wives and happy families.

Then I was alerted by a noise, so I looked down into an alley I was passing. There were two men holding open the lid of a dumpster while they searched the contents for scraps of food. Even I could not be envious of them. I had moved a step or two before I stopped to think of their life and mine. I had a challenging job waiting for me. I had the chance to put the past behind me and carve out a new and better future for myself. The dumpster divers had nothing.

At that point, I felt ravenously hungry and became aware that I was standing outside a restaurant right beside the bill of fare. The name of the place was Rossi’s and the menu listed familiar antipasto and pasta dishes. I smiled for the first time since Friday afternoon. My only concern about coming to Tucson was that there would be nothing but Tex-Mex food, which is not my favorite. Now I was outside an Italian restaurant on my very first stop. Perhaps the gods were relenting.

I went into the dining room where a handful of people were finishing lunch. Most of the tables were empty or were being cleared by a couple of waitresses. A middle-aged man in a suit came forward to meet me. “I’m sorry, but we’re just about to close. We open for lunch and then again at five for the evening trade.” He had been walking towards me as he spoke, stopping within hand-shaking distance. He looked at me intently for several seconds before reaching out and clutching my wrist. “I’m just about to have my own lunch. Please, sir, come and join me at the chef’s table.”

A group of diners passed us, and he called on Maria to see them out and to lock the door behind them. “Yes, Uncle Sergio,” she replied, giving me a friendly, rather quizzical smile in passing. He led me to a table with four place settings positioned in an alcove close to the kitchen door. We hadn’t settled in our seats before the chef appeared carrying a tray of twenty or so little bowls of antipasto. “This is my nephew Mauro, Sergio told me. “And this is my youngest daughter Maria,” he added as the woman joined us at the table. I was sure she had called him uncle.

“You’re puzzled?” he said. “You will understand if I tell you the history of the Rossi’s.” Mauro gave a mock groan and retreated to the sanctuary of his kitchen. Sergio waved a hand at the food, inviting me to help myself. Maria picked up a bowl, added some items from the selection and went off to supervise the waiting staff who were now vacuuming the carpeted floor.

The Rossi story.

“My grandfather was an Italian soldier during the Second World War. After recovering from a wound, he was sent to guard American prisoners of war. Then as now, most Italians had a relative living in America, so the atmosphere was very relaxed. The camp gates were never closed, with prisoners and villagers mixing freely. There were plans for escape, but they were never acted on. I think they were all too comfortable to bother.

Things changed when the Nazis decided to take over the camps. The Italian major in charge took the guards who wanted to stay on a forty-kilometre hike, while the rest of the guards led the prisoners north to Switzerland. Partisans provided guides along old smuggling trails. It took six weeks to reach safety, and it caused a big sensation. The American ambassador to Switzerland came to greet them and the story was written up in Stars and Stripes, the army newspaper.

The guards were offered American citizenship. Grandfather grabbed the chance. He had done most of the cooking on the trek, so the senior American prisoner wanted him to open a restaurant in New York. The oldest prisoner, master sergeant Gonzales, said that there was an Italian restaurant on very street in New York, whereas there wasn’t a single one in his hometown of Tucson. Grandfather followed Gonzales west, married the sergeant’s widowed sister, and opened his restaurant.

They only produced four babies, but later generations made up for it. My father was their eldest, born in ‘44 and I am his eldest. Most of the people working in the restaurant are related to me, some are my direct offspring, like Maria, and others the children of my brothers and sisters, uncles and aunts. To avoid confusion, everyone calls me Uncle Sergio, even Maria and her siblings. That’s the story of the Rossi family in Tucson.

When he finished, he looked at me expectantly. I surrendered to his silent plea, giving him the story of my past week since my special night out. While he had been talking, Mauro had been bringing out plates with small helpings of a wide variety of foods and I had been eating steadily. It was almost a week since I had eaten a proper meal, and the food was delicious.

Maria was sitting beside me when I began my sad story. Before I had reached the part where I left the nightclub, she had taken my left hand in both of hers. When I reached the part where I had turned my back on Emily and Timmy forever, she held my hand in both of hers, brought it to her lips and covered it in tears and kisses. Sergio leant across the table to take my right hand in both of his. “That is the bravest action I have ever heard of,” he whispered, with tears in his eyes.

“I might have killed the harlot and her lover, but I wouldn’t have the courage to leave my children even if it was for their benefit.” The three of us sat, my hands clasped by father and daughter in silent contemplation. Suddenly, Sergio jumped to his feet. “The Rossi family will do anything for you, my friend. We cannot help with your emotional turmoil so we will solve the practical problems.” He gave me directions to my new office and then announced that I should not be alone. There was a small apartment on the top floor of the building housing the restaurant, and I would move in there until I was more settled.

He led the way to a tiny but fully equipped studio apartment. Maria accompanied us, remaining to make up the bed and check that everything was working. Sergio and I strolled a couple of blocks to the bank where the manager rushed out when he heard Sergio’s voice. That was when I realized that the friendship of Sergio Rossi opened any door in Tucson. When my account details were settled and I had paid my first month’s rental on the apartment, I was loaded into a cab and dispatched to the airport hotel to collect my bag. Feeling well fed and more contented than I had since ten o’clock on the previous Friday night, I slept soundly in my freshly made bed.

The following morning, I was stirring early, still on eastern time. I would have slipped out of the side door which gave access to the apartments, but I was hauled into the dining room for a generous buffet breakfast. It was almost nine by the time I strolled the two blocks that brought me to the doors of Wylie Associates. I looked through the glass double doors into the reception area where man wearing a security tabard was tending a display of flowers. I recognized them but couldn’t bring the name to mind.

My intention had been to look in and then move on, continuing my exploration of Tucson. A mellow voice behind me asked if he could help. I turned to face a man in his sixties, I guessed, with a solemn but not unfriendly face. “I start work here on Monday,” I smiled at him, “So I was just making sure I knew where I was going.” He looked at me thoughtfully for long enough to make me uncomfortable. “Am I right in thinking that I’m addressing Mr. James Carlisle.” I told him it was Jim but otherwise I was guilty as charged.

The next few hours were painful. It began when Mr. Wylie introduced me as the incoming boss to the receptionist and the security man. “Mr. Carlisle thought you grew dahlias and not begonias,” he told the guard with a malicious chuckle. Once we were in his office, he attacked more directly. “I assume you’re here as Mizzz” (he made it sound like an angry bee) “Clusterfuck’s hatchet man. The lady who had been sitting at a desk outside his office as we entered, brought in two cups of coffee. “Thank you, Grace,” he smiled at her fondly. “This is Mr. Carlisle our executioner.”

When I stepped into reception, my mood was conciliatory, but by the time Grace left us, I was angry and ready for a confrontation. “Janet Clutterbuck was assigned to a job she considered beneath her abilities and likely to harm her prospects for promotion. I asked to replace her. You have made Wylie Associates a successful business in a little over five years. I’m certain that my company can learn from your work in handling local disputes. I hope to learn from you so that, in due time, I can develop some ideas that I have been playing with.” He made a grunting noise that conveyed deep skepticism.

“Isn’t this job a graveyard for rising executives?” he sneered. I wanted to wipe the smirk off his face, but I calmed myself and ordered my thoughts. “When I read the office memo about our acquisition of your company,” I began, “I got hold of some of the reports of your mediations. After reading them, I asked our finance people for a look at your financial returns. I was impressed although I was left with several questions which prevented me showing an interest in coming here.”

I explained that I had been promoted to senior mediator nine months before and was heavily involved with my first task in the new post. By the time I had the chance to seek answers to my questions, Ms. Clutterbuck was creating mountainous waves, so I decided to back off until the storm had passed. I confessed that a change in my personal circumstances prompted me to make a preemptive strike. “I spent Sunday with my COO, and he arranged for me to be your successor on Monday.

“My wife left me in the middle of a nightclub a week today to spend the night with a football star. I wanted to move as far from her as I possibly could, so I swallowed my misgivings about this job and here I am,” I added in answer to his question. “My employees deserve better than a bitter cuckold running away from his wife,” he shot back at me. I stood and made for the door. “Oh, sit down,” he growled. “Tell me why you thought this job is a good opportunity.” I began with the improving profitability over the five years for which audited accounts are available. Then I analyzed the reports of two of his mediations highlighting the part local knowledge had played in reaching a satisfactory conclusion. We discussed these issues at length until he asked if there was anything more. “The thing that stopped me applying in the first place was a question that still troubles me: why are you quitting now, just as your business is proving a success? Another five years and you could have sold out for four or five times the present value.”

He did not answer. Instead, he rose and led the way out of the office to take me to lunch. He was noticeably warmer towards me as we left the building than when we had entered it three hours before. He turned right as we reached the sidewalk, so it was no great surprise when we entered the Rossi restaurant. Sergio came to greet us addressing my host as Charles. “This is Mr. Carlisle, our new CEO,” Mr. Wylie introduced me. Sergio gave me a bear hug: “I missed you at breakfast, Jim. Did you sleep well.” I told him I slept like a log, then he beckoned Maria and told her to take me to my usual table.

Charles Wylie watched this interaction with his mouth open and a look of bewilderment on his face. Maria led us to the chef’s table where we sat while Sergio explained how he and I met and our conversation that led to him renting me the apartment on the top floor of the restaurant building. I could see Charles, as he insisted I call him, visibly reassess his concept of me. He might not yet be convinced that I was the right man to succeed him, but he was more than halfway there when we returned to his office. This time, as we passed her desk, he asked Grace to bring her notebook and pencil. “Grace is the widow of a soldier killed on active service – an American hero.

“What ideas do you have that us country folk missed, Jim?” he began, smiling to remove any offense. “As a mediator, I use experts from other departments to supply facts I need in negotiations. There are rules governing our interactions. I report through a VP and Executive VP to the COO; but now I am a senior mediator I can bypass the system and talk directly to the COO. I still don’t understand all the connections. It’s like being in a maze with ten-metre-high hedges; I can navigate the paths I’m on, but I can’t see the bigger picture. Your company has the same sort of structure, except that in your maze, the hedges are only knee high. I will be able to see more clearly how all the elements fit together.”

Grace was making notes (using an iPad rather than paper and pencil) but now she looked up, straight at Charles. “Told you so!” she crowed. He grinned and told me that he and Grace talked constantly about strategy and tactics to improve the company. “She’s the bold, imaginative partner in our discussions, while I’m the anchor, keeping us grounded.” They told me some of their ideas, then Charles asked me to give them a verdict on their feasibility.

“I’ll tell you in a month,” I replied. “My plan is to spend my first month getting to know the staff, finding out what they believe are the obstacles at present and their suggestions for improvements. Once I can consider your proposals in that context, I can begin to give you an answer.”

For the next three months or so, I stuck to this plan. Grace and I became a formidable team which was founded on mutual distrust. Linda had undermined my faith in women; Grace seemed to be loyal to the company, but she was a woman. Her husband was her Mr. Right and any minor flaws in his character had been erased by his heroic death in defense of his country - like a fly in amber, he was perfect but untouchable. As a widow, she was frequently hit on and had developed a distaste for men. We tried hard to find fault with any ideas proposed by the other.

After three months we had learned mutual respect and our joint report to head office of our plan had been very favorably received. The COO asked us to provide updates and it was during the preparation of one of those that the status between Grace and me changed. I had proofed a document over the weekend and Grace typed it up on Monday morning. I was hovering, waiting for her to finish so I could send the paper to the COO. She rubbed her right shoulder, so I casually asked what was bothering her.

Her six-year-old son Lou had discovered baseball, so she had spent the weekend throwing and catching a ball. In a moment of weakness, I offered to teach the kid how not to throw like a girl. It was like opening Pandora’s box. Grace is a local girl living less than a mile from the family home still occupied by her parents. Her in laws moved from Wisconsin after the death of their son in action to be close to their only grandchild. The two older men had, until now, been the male influence in Lou’s life. Grace’s father has high blood pressure and her father in law has arthritis, so neither can throw or catch a ball.

That did not prevent them resenting my presence, doing a job they couldn’t. Lou and I bonded from the moment we met, the grandmothers smiled benignly at me, but the granddads scowled. Everything changed when they invited me on a boys fishing weekend. By the Sunday afternoon, Lou at six could drop a fly inches from his target. I, on the other hand, could hit nothing but cotton. The others wore shorts and short-sleeved shirts; I wore my thickest jeans and long sleeves, which ended the weekend full of hooks. Everyone laughed at me, but they did afterward forgive me for my ability with a baseball.

Grace and I became androgenous friends: we still despised the opposite sex, although we trusted each other as people. She and her family became an important part of my social life, as did the Rossi clan who included me in all of their family activities. My other important social contact was through Sindy, our receptionist. She is a barrel racer from a family who breeds rodeo horses. She is married to a rodeo cowboy. What with the Rossi’s and gifts of food from the grannies, I was getting plump until Ralph, Sindy’s husband, took me in hand and taught me rodeo sports. Riding, tying, bull dogging may be less controlled but are as effective as gym apparatus for getting you fit.

About five months after Linda’s Night of Bliss, I was content, if not altogether happy. Lou is the same age as Emily and the same sex as Timmy, so he split my heart every time we met. He reminded me of my children and only partly replaced them in my heart. Work was going extremely well. Grace and I had submitted a sort of operating manual for mediators based on our ideas and we were gaining a good reputation in Arizona and neighboring states for my practical demonstrations. My personal life, on the other hand, was completely in the doldrums. I had friends but no one special of my own and I sorely missed the companionship.

It was almost exactly six months after the dreadful night at Morrisons that Karma yawned, had a scratch, and decided to turn my life on its head. It began with an email from head office demanding my attendance the following Monday and Tuesday for three separate meetings including one with the board. I could get no further information from any of my usual sources. A big meeting on the Saturday before my visit with Grace’s tribe and the Rossi’s, concluded that it would not take three meetings to sack me, so my job was probably safe. The only other positive suggestion was that I should take leave for the remainder of the week to catch up with Eric and my other friends in my native town.

The company booked me into a city center hotel for Sunday and Monday and I would stay with Eric and Phoebe for the rest of the week. I collected my hire car, drove to the hotel, and enjoyed a meal in their dining room with my friends. I would spend Monday night alone in the expectation that the Monday meetings would leave me with work to do to prepare to meet the board on Tuesday. The first meeting was chaired by Brad, the COO, and centered on the new ideas Grace and I had developed. It proved to be a rollercoaster ride.

Brad began by heaping extravagant praise on my head, adding that a cash bonus was winging its way to my bank. That was the slow grind to the top of the ride. Now the speed increased, and the thrills came thick and fast. A panel would consider how ideas developed for a small operation like ours in Tucson could be adapted for head office. My hopes soared. “Janet Clutterbuck will lead the panel with the acting rank of VP. If all goes well, her rank will be made substantive as the head of a new development division”. My heart was now in my boots – Mizz Clusterfuck strikes again!

I was late for my next meeting. By the time the buffet lunch was wheeled in I was already late, so I grabbed a couple of sandwiches and sprinted to a part of the building I had never before visited. I knocked on the door of an office labelled ‘Publication Division’ (who knew we had such a thing?). Inside, a very well-dressed lady of indeterminate years commanded that I be seated. Her face had the features and supercilious look of a camel. It had been decided, she told me, to issue the mediator’s manual as a university text. To this end they had appointed a ghost writer who would take over where Grace and I left off. He probably wouldn’t bother us, but we weren’t to worry our pretty heads.

Big mistake! The job I should have had was handed to Clusterfuck in return for a mess of pottage, as the Bible has it. I certainly wasn’t going to let a snooty woman push me and Grace out of any kudos that would accrue from the publication of a textbook. “Forget ghost writers,” I bellowed, “All we need is a decent researcher to dig up actual examples of the things we suggest.” I wasn’t altogether clear in my mind what I meant by that, but I needed everyone to know that Grace and I were not letting anyone else muscle in. It took until six that evening, but I left with an agreement that a researcher would be seconded to Tucson to work under my direction.