Head bowed, pen in hand, I sit in my sundrenched office, pondering a young staff member’s 2001 performance review. How to suggest a change of attitude in a constructive way?  That’s what I’m thinking about when the phone interrupts. I’m not prepared for a life-changing call. 

An unfamiliar voice introduces himself as a member of the company’s legal team. I miss his name. A hasty mental scan of my team’s projects reveals no obvious legal threats. The voice explains that a female member of the management team has made allegations of harassment against her/my boss, the global head of department (GHoD). I’ve been named by both parties as a witness. As the only other female direct report, he says, my testimony will be important. They’ll be in touch in a week or so.

My first thought is my career is over. GHoD is a technology savant, a brilliant mind. He is also a dictatorial leader who plays one manager off against another, and wages relentless campaigns of psychological warfare against those that disappoint, or dare challenge him. Some are driven off. Some hunker down and wait, often many months, for the siege to end. Most of us strive to perform our duties well, without attracting any particular attention. Their conflict places me perfectly in his crosshairs.

The call comes at the worst possible time. I’m about to be promoted to Director. It has never been stated explicitly, but GHoD, a man of decisive action, has not filled the vacant position, and I’ve been included in the last five monthly management meetings (the exclusive domain of Directors and VPs). He seems to appreciate my transparent leadership style and swift, unequivocal ownership of mistakes. He seeks my opinions openly and occasionally listens. Many of my colleagues have asked when the announcement will be.

The complainant is a VP, based in a different location. We’ve collaborated on a couple of projects, and have dinner together when she’s in town. We had connected, more in solidarity than commonality, as two women in a male dominated work-world. She’s a capable leader who navigates that world with poise, I’ve observed, but it is rumored she had not been my boss’s choice; she’d been hired by his superiors while he was out of the country for several weeks.

Fissures in their relationship manifested quietly at first—disparaging comments to her peers, ridiculing her ideas—but had escalated over time into a war of wills. Physical distance and influential allies had shielded her for a while, but now, their explosive phone calls can be heard by all those in proximity to his office. I imagine his frustration rising with every one of her calm, reasonable responses. Her peers are taking bets on how much longer she will last. I empathize with her righteousness and admire her tenacity. 

Individuals surge from their cubicles on the beat of noon, in search of food and sunshine. Usually, I would eat at my desk, but today, I grab my purse, and join them. I need to talk to my husband. He works for the same company and understands the workplace dynamics; he has a knack for restoring perspective.

I’m sure your testimony will be confidential, he says. And even if he does find out what you say, he can’t punish you for telling the truth. A rush of warmth swells my heart. My husband is an innocent – it is one of the reasons I love him.  I take comfort from his unconcerned tone and optimistic outlook. Lying is out of the question, but I wonder if there is some scenario in which half-truths might save me.

The interview with the lawyer is anti-climactic. His tone is that of a kindly uncle. He tells me they have interviewed the other witnesses and have formed a pretty good picture—GHoD is a bully. I laugh in relief and concur. He asks if I believe I am treated differently because of my gender. I chuckle and say, no, he’s an equal opportunity abuser. I regret the flippant phrase before it has spilled from my lips. Had my boss ever made sexual advances, made me feel uncomfortable in that way? he asks. I answer truthfully. No, never.

Good morning, Mrs. S___, GHoD says the following day, loud enough for others to hear. It’s not an uncommon form of address from him, but now I imagine some lurking undertone in the formality of it. Over the next two weeks, there is an absence of contact—no pop-ins, no phone enquiries—but that’s not unusual when he’s busy, I tell myself. The first undeniable indication that something is amiss is the absence of an invitation to the next management meeting. I check with his admin. No agenda items for my group, she had been told. My stomach burns with anxiety.

Days later, I am summoned by email to his office. I anticipate a belated post-mortem; some form of private dressing down; or an expression of disappointment, maybe. Instead, he says he is interviewing someone for a management position on Thursday, and would like my opinion. I should interview him separately and provide my feedback. Of course, I reply, masking a pathetic rush of gratitude. Involving his direct reports in the interview process is common practice for him, but nevertheless implies trust. As I leave his office, the tension in my shoulders dissipates. My husband was right. It is all going to be OK.

My sense of the interviewee is he’s too full of himself. He deflects my questions with his own, and his limited responses lack substance. I catch a glint of amusement in his eyes, at one point. Maybe he’s not interested in the job, after all. As I later explain my reservations, my boss interrupts. He understands my concerns, but he believes the interviewee has potential. He has made his decision. Two weeks later, the announcement is made.  Mr. Full-of-Himself is joining the department in the role I assumed was mine. He will be my new boss. It is an emphatic and cleverly executed revenge. I howl inwardly at the injustice of it.

When I call the complainant to share the news, her voice quavers and she starts to cry. They had determined her allegations of harassment were founded, she tells me, and agreed her current work situation was untenable. I’m confused – these don’t sound like happy tears. They had then tabled a generous severance package, she recounts, contingent upon her signing a non-disclosure agreement. She had won the battle and lost the war. Rendered mute with the weight of disappointment—for her, for myself, for womankind—I can find no words of comfort. I’m so sorry, I repeat at intervals.

Towards the end of Mr. Full-of-Himself’s first week, he ambles into my office and sits with one arm thrown over the back of the visitor chair, facing me. He understands that I might be disappointed, he says, but it is important that I be a team player. A team player! I tune out the remainder of his pre-rehearsed speech and he falters at my impassivity. I will continue to do my job to the very best of my ability, I say, when he finally runs out of steam. He scans my face, seeking the truth behind the words. I manufacture a benign smile, and he leaves with a dissatisfied shrug.

The news spreads like wildfire. Each call of condolence and expression of indignation on my behalf is a fresh humiliation, but these I can handle. It is the doe-eyed looks of pity that cut to the core. I lift my chin a little higher and remain stoic.

In a routine meeting with the head of a different department, I joke about needing a change–a subtle dewdrop to test the strength of the ripples. Two days later, he calls to ask if I’m serious. Despite recent events, we both know GHoD would not want to lose me. I have a reputation for honesty and delivering on my promises. It is also well-known he has friends on the Board, and would likely block a potential transfer if he heard of it. Negotiations with the other department head remain clandestine and succinct.

Three weeks later, I amble into Mr. Full-of-Himself’s office, and sit in the visitor chair, facing him. I lean forward to lay an envelope on the desk. His shaggy brown eyebrows rise in curiosity. As he reads the typed paragraph on the single crisp page, his eyes widen and cheeks flush; his mouth opens as if to speak, then closes again. As we live in a rural area with few other work options, and my husband has an established career with the company, my leaving was deemed unlikely, presumably. A change of department had not been considered. They had planned to manage me until righteous indignation subsided to acceptance. Did they not know me at all?

When I later pass GHoD in the corridor, I catch the match-flare of fury in his eyes. He strides resolutely onward, without a word. I experience a moment’s satisfaction, then a rush of sadness. It did not have to come to this. After 6 pm, when only the most conscientious are at their desks, he stops at my open office door.  You will not succeed in this new role, he states with conviction.

Wishful thinking or threat? I wonder.

No matter. I will prove him wrong.

-Pat Stafford

Pat Stafford lives in Saint Andrews, New Brunswick, and works as a nonprofit leadership consultant. Inspired by nature, both environmental and human, she focuses primarily on life-writing in its many forms. Her work has been published in the Emerge 2021 anthology, and Persimmon Tree; and her personal essay, La riunione (The Reunion) won an award in the Writers’ Federation of NB 2022 Writing Competition.