Solomon

It was a dreary Monday, the sky indeterminate, the air dense with mist. Priya wiped her face with her scarf as she stepped off the elevator. Her colleagues were turning on their computers and wriggling out of coats as they listened to voice mail. Everyone moved in the fog of lethargy with a post-holiday deflation, mocked by tinsel still drooping in doorways.

Gigovaz beckoned from his office and Priya slung her coat over her arm as she walked in. She was surprised to see Joyce inside, perched on the edge of the desk. Gigovaz skulked, hovering at her shoulder, a lumpy interloper in his own office.

Here’s what we’ve come up with, Joyce announced. Corporate two and a half days a week, immigration two and a half.

Solomon had decreed it: Cut the baby in half. The office had been closed for the holidays. For ten days, Priya’s BlackBerry had remained mercifully mute. When had they hatched this plan? Through text messages on Christmas Eve? Joyce in an apron surrounded by her family, Gigovaz with his greasy hand in a bucket of fried chicken? Already, Priya could see it would never work.

Newtown Gold rejected a buyout offer from CMP Russia, Joyce said. We think the Russians are going to bypass the company and go straight to the shareholders. And you know what that means.

A hostile takeover, Priya said.

That’s why I need you, Joyce said. She handed Priya a stack of binders. Familiarize yourself with the particulars. I’m briefing the team at eleven.

Arms weighed down, Priya waited awkwardly for a moment after Joyce left, wondering if Gigovaz would assign her more work or clarify the arrangement. Two point five days – how exactly did that break down? But he pulled out his chair and waved her away. She left his office feeling that she should have thanked someone.

—

A buzz of tension surrounded the firm’s articling students. After three and a half years, they had rounded the corner on the last stretch of their education. Everyone was fretting, speculating on job prospects and worrying about interviews.

A twelve-month contract, Martha said, turning off the tap. In-house counsel at the City of Vancouver.

Isn’t that part-time? Twyla asked, ripping a paper towel off the roller.

Tough economic times, Martha said. I’ll take what I can get.

Eavesdropping from her stall, Priya cursed her bad luck. Everyone else had already taken their licensing exams, but hers had been scheduled for the last session. In March, she would return to the classroom for ten intensive weeks of preparation. And then what? Would the paltry work experience she’d amassed over the past seven months even qualify her for a job in corporate law?

Returning to her desk, she tried to squelch down her trepidation by thinking of Sellian, who had started school that day. A month in, and Sellian was still miserable in foster care. On Boxing Day, Priya had taken him to visit his father. He’d been cheerful enough on the way there, but the ride home was excruciating. Sellian was frantic, kicking and flailing while she strapped him into the car seat, then bawling all the way back to the Flanigans’, begging her in broken English to turn the car around. She’d negotiated the highway with tears blurring her vision. Afterward, she’d sat alone in the Flanigans’ driveway, with the car still parked, gripping the steering wheel and gathering her wits, knowing that as hard as Sellian cried and as distraught as she felt, it was Mahindan who suffered most.

The phone rang, startling her. Her father’s number flashed on the display. This was odd; he usually called her at home.

Appa?

Ah, ah. You’re there, he said, as if he had expected the machine. Good.

What’s up? She turned her chair to the cabinet behind her desk, stretching the phone cord as she did, to multi-task.

No, no, nothing, he said. Just wanted to call and…and…so? How? First day back everything is fine?

I’m working with corporate again, she said.

Oh.

Priya was bent in half, phone clamped between shoulder and ear, flicking through the hanging folders. Which is good, she prodded. Finally, what I’ve been wanting.

Ah-ah. Yes, he said, distracted.

Where are you? she asked. What are you doing?

Nothing. Just at home. Not doing anything. So, you’re working with your Mrs. Lau again. Well done, pillai.

It’s only half time, she said, pulling out a folder. Fifty per cent corporate, fifty per cent refugees.

Well, what to do, he said. They need you, no?

She had a troubling flashback to three years earlier, when her mother had phoned Priya in the middle of a lecture, then spent ten minutes recounting the mundane details of her day before dropping the atomic bomb: Doctor called this morning.

Priya became very still. Fear droned in her ears. Turning back to her desk, she cupped a hand around the receiver. Appa? Is everything okay?

Yes, yes. Fine, fine. Okay, I know you’re busy. Just wanted to check you’re coming on Thursday.

Of course, she said, scouring her memory. Had her father said anything about a doctor’s appointment? He’d been healthy over the holidays, maybe a little tired, but that was all.

By the way, I was thinking…new year and all…there’s some kind of group, is there? Working with these people…Hema and the others.

The Tamil Alliance?

Are they needing help? Want volunteers?

The ringing in her ears cleared. I imagine, she said. In fact…yes. Do you want me to get the details for Thursday?

No, no. Tamil Alliance? She could hear him rummaging and guessed it was for a pen.

I will call myself. No need to…Tam-il All-i-ance…no need to bring…to say on Thursday.

But –

Baba, I have to go.

Before he hung up, she heard the front door open and Uncle’s voice in the background.