The sun is rarely out when Elizabeth visits Palm Beach. She's made the observation herself, and now people in the office there kid her about it whenever she comes to town.
Today is no different. "It was beautiful yesterday," Brian, who manages the Palm Beach office, tells her with a shrug when he picks her up at the airport. It's his notion of an inside joke, something he says to give the appearance of a familiarity that doesn't exist between them. She's sorry she has ever mentioned the weather, though it's a hard topic to avoid in Palm Beach, particularly when you fly in from New York in the middle of February. People in Palm Beach expect winter visitors to rave about the sunshine and the palm trees swaying in the breeze. But today, with the job she has come to do, the dreary weather seems too obvious a metaphor.
She stands under her umbrella waiting for Brian to drive around from the short-term parking lot. All his kowtowing embarrasses her. She should have shaken off the valet treatment and followed him out to the car--it isn't more than a hundred yards off. Better yet, she could have insisted on taking a cab to the bank's offices, and met him there. But on the phone yesterday, confirming this morning's schedule, he'd practically begged her to let him pick her up, the way he always does when she visits, as though sticking to the ritual reassures him.
Poor guy. He's probably nervous, and welcomes the distraction of an airport pick-up. He's always liked Aurell Martin, has always risen to defend him whenever she brings up the possibility of his early retirement. She remembers that the first time she'd raised the subject, over a year ago now, was also on a drive in from the airport.
"Sure, he's old for 55," Brian had said. "Aurell doesn't click with younger clients."
"How are you defining 'younger'?" she asked, knowing that in Palm Beach the word meant anyone south of seventy. Brian ignored the question.
"There are older customers who love him. Last week he and his wife had dinner with the Bennetts, and they're one of our most profitable relationships. Aurell's like a son to them." Elizabeth said nothing. The biggest mistake you could make was thinking you were special to your clients. A broker was just another service provider, like the cleaning lady or the pool man.
"How's Aurell doing with stocks?" she asked.
Brian concentrated on the traffic, and Elizabeth had let the subject drop. Why press him for information she already had? As national sales manager, she had stats on every broker, updated nightly to reflect the day's transactions.
Aurell was fine selling bonds, especially municipals, but in the 1990's, investors wanted stocks. With the NASDAQ and Dow making new highs nearly every year, his aversion to the stock market had become glaring. He'd basically been ignoring the bull market ever since it began.
"Give me a pre-refunded bond anytime," Aurell would say in praise of the most gilt-edged of municipal bond investments. Elizabeth knew his pitch. He'd delivered it to her on one of his semi-annual visits to New York when he'd come to her office and laid out a college fund plan for Sarah shortly after she was born. A portfolio of municipal pre-refunded bonds figured heavily in his presentation. Elizabeth had asked him what role stocks might play in a long-term investment strategy, feeling sheepish about the little test she was putting him to. He'd looked at her as if she'd proposed mixing vodka into the baby's formula.
"Elizabeth," he said in his earnest way, "If you'll pardon the expression, the stock market is nothing but a floating crap game. You want bonds for your daughter's education. They'll put her through college and graduate school. And you'll both sleep like babies." She'd looked at him bleary-eyed; she and Sarah had yet to sleep through the night.
Complaints about Aurell's aversion to stocks had begun to mount, though Brian never passed them on. He and Aurell were fond of each other. Using Aurell's pronunciation of the word, they called each other "Big Bidness Man." And Brian persisted in defending the older salesman no matter how poorly he performed. It was as if Brian linked his own corporate survival with Aurell's continued employment.
Elizabeth had to face a fact which Brian chose to ignore: Aurell's intractable position on stocks was losing the Palm Beach office money. Most clients were too polite to go against Aurell's advice, and did their stock business with the bank's competitors.
When she called Brian to tell him it was time for Aurell to go, he'd tried stalling. "Couldn't we give him another six months? I could speak to him again about reckless conservatism."
"Do you really think that would change him?" Elizabeth said, exasperated. Brian should have been on top of this: Palm Beach was his responsibility. He should be coming to her with the recommendation to replace Aurell, telling her how he planned to handle the situation. Anyone could ignore the unpleasant parts of this job. Did he think she enjoyed letting people go? It was a manager's job to fix things that were broken, and to replace those things he couldn't fix.
She took a breath, then continued more gently. "It's better to let him go now while the market's strong, while there's still demand for someone like him. The outplacement service said Aurell would find another job within a month."
"Maybe that's right," Brian said without conviction. "He jokes about being next in line for 'the package.' Maybe he won't be too surprised."
Unlikely, Elizabeth thinks, two weeks later, waiting on the curb as Brian pulls his BMW around to where she's standing. He leans across the front seat to open her door. She slides into the car, pulling her umbrella in after her. Rain pelts down, and he adjusts the windshield wipers, which beat like a metronome set for a scherzo. As they drive away from the airport, he asks, "Can we run through the schedule again?" She looks at him clutching the steering wheel. His normally ruddy cheeks look pale. There are raindrops on his face.
"You and I will meet with Dave, the outplacement counselor, in your office," she says, patiently taking him through the multistep task as though he's a toddler. "Then you'll show him to the private conference room where he'll wait until you and I are finished talking to Aurell. Then you'll bring Aurell to see Dave. Afterwards, Dave will let us know how everything went." Brian's role doesn't amount to much more than an escort service.
"You sound experienced with all this."
"I've been through it a few times." She pictures herself the way Brian must be regarding her: a professional hit woman flown in to handle the job. She imagines asking him for a cigarette, even though neither one of them smokes. The impulse to light up and dangle a Camel from her lower lip is almost irresistible.
He says, "I've never fired anyone before."
She says, "'Den I'll do da talkin'"
Brian turns to gape at her, and almost plows into the car ahead of them. The near-collision snaps her back to her senses.
"I'm sorry. A little gallows humor. Don't worry, Brian. It'll go all right." She's never planned on him saying anything, anyway. He'd break down and cry, and then where would they be?
Aurell's retirement package is one of the best she's ever engineered. But her wanting Brian to acknowledge how hard she's pushed for Aurell is ludicrous. Does she think it will square things with him, her spraying the runway with foam before bringing Aurell in with his wheels up?
Brian shows Elizabeth into his office where they wait for the outplacement counselor, who's running late. It's a beautiful room with an unobstructed view of the Atlantic, unless you count the row of palms at the edge of the sand. Firing Aurell in such an idyllic setting suddenly feels all wrong. Maybe she should have summoned him to New York, from whence bad news emanates. At least, she'd have put him on his guard.
Dave, the outplacement counselor, apologizes for keeping them waiting. A burly man in a three-piece suit, he wheezes a little with the exertion of getting back on schedule. "A lot of folks like yourselves are upgrading staff. It creates opportunities for everyone." He opens his briefcase and pulls out a file. "Your bank's relationship is very important to us. I'm handling Oral myself."
"Thank you," Elizabeth feels she has to say. "And it's 'Aurell.' The accent's on the second syllable. He's sensitive about it." She pauses. "Actually, I'm the one who's sensitive about it." After fourteen years with the company, a man is about to be dismissed. At least they can get his name right.
"Or. L." Dave says, writing the name out phonetically on the folder he's balanced on his knee. "Got it." He looks up at Elizabeth and Brian. "Have you done much of this before?"
"She has," Brian says. She, the cat. The feline from headquarters.
"Then you know it's better to be direct," Dave says, addressing his comments to Elizabeth. "Break the news within the first minute, keep the conversation to five--ten tops. No one's listening much beyond that anyway." He rechecks the manila folder. "Or. L. may have questions. Tell him I can help with those. Sometimes talking things over with a stranger can be consoling." Elizabeth searches Dave's eyes, but there is no irony in his expression. The counselor turns to Brian. "It'll go easier for everyone if you maintain your composure." Brian drops his chin, and nods.
"You said on the phone you're pretty sure you'll find him something," Elizabeth says.
"Oh, yes. Your people place very well. They're well-trained and have a degree of refinement other brokerage houses are looking for." She smiled wanly. "All right then," he says, standing up. "Good to meet you both." Brian looks as if he might keel over, and Dave grips him hard at the elbow. "Will you show me to the conference room?"
When Aurell comes through the door to Brian's office, Elizabeth winces. He seems so unsuspecting. "Welcome to Palm Beach, Elizabeth," he says in a courtly manner.
"How are you, Aurell?" she says, trying to make her handshake warm. But she doesn't go beyond that. Somehow she should be signaling him: Run! I'm not the person you think I am.
"And I'd have ordered better weather," he says, falling back on the old tease.
"I'm afraid it wouldn't have made any difference."
When Brian, who's been observing the awkward small talk from the far end of the sofa, doesn't speak, Aurell picks up on the mood in the room, and backs over toward the sofa, waiting until Elizabeth sits down before doing so himself.
She makes herself face Aurell squarely before she begins. "We've been analyzing our business here in Palm Beach, taking a look at the clients, their preference for equities, and their activity with us, and we've come to the conclusion that we need to make some changes," she said. She feels the color spread from her neck into her cheeks. His pale lashes blink once or twice, as he takes everything in. Then he exhales, and slumps back against the sofa cushions. She's broken the news.
She rattles off the rest of her speech the way a television cop reads a suspect his rights. She concludes with the final detail of the package: "We've also retained a firm to help you find your next position. One of their partners is waiting in the conference room to meet with you."
"He's here now?" Aurell says.
"Yes. Whenever you're ready." She understands why the arrangements are always so carefully planned. They eliminate the ability to maneuver, close off any means of escape.
Despite the chilled air in Brian's office, she feels hot and clammy. But she can't remove her suit jacket; she's sweat through her beige silk blouse hours ago.
"Well, I see your predicament," Aurell says. "And you're right about me and stocks. I tried to recommend them, but I couldn't stay with it. Hard to suggest something to my customers that I wouldn't do myself."
"I know," she says. His tie has twisted around so that its label side faces front. L. L. Bean. She'll probably never see Aurell again. She's been so focused on getting through this conversation that she hasn't thought beyond it.
"You're good to make the trip to tell me yourself," he says, smiling wistfully at her. "I appreciate the gesture."
She quietly nods in acknowledgment.
"And this guy!" Aurell says, rallying, a little, for the three of them. He extends his arm across the sofa to clasp Brian's hand, and raises it in his. "I'm going to miss working with this Big Bidness Man." Brian, near tears, doesn't look at Aurell or try to speak, but trains his eyes on a flower in the sofa fabric.
Looking at the two of them, Elizabeth feels like an interloper. Brian has sat in on this meeting, but he hasn't been part of it. That's the trouble with him, she thinks: He does nothing to improve his own prospects. That kind of indifference to the future will eventually catch up with him, even in Palm Beach. But she realizes that it has also preserved his relationship with Aurell, who now turns to Brian as a friend, for whatever consolation they can offer each other.
There's no sense in prolonging this. She sits forward in her chair. On cue, Brian rises and says to Aurell, "I'll walk you down to meet Dave. He's a good guy. I think you'll like him." In the daze which now seems to descend upon him, Aurell lets Brian lead him toward the door, and stands back while he opens it for him. She stands up, but doesn't step away from the chair. She tries to think of something to say that won't sound insincere. But Aurell is leaving the office, and now Brian closes the door behind them. Neither one of them looks back.
Elizabeth turns and walks over to the plate glass window. The downpour all but blocks her view of the ocean. She decides to take the next flight back to New York. When Brian returns, she'll ask him to arrange a taxi to take her to the airport. This way, he'll be around when Aurell finishes talking with Dave. Her part in the day is over.
She watches the rain run down the office's glass walls. Stepping closer, she presses first one side of her face, then the other, against the pane, to cool the burning in her cheeks. When she steps back from the window, she notices the smudges her skin has left on the glass. She rubs them away with her fingers and, hearing the rotation of the knob, turns to face the door.
Susan Gherini Bell, '73
