Page 31 of The Associate
“Sit,” he said, in lieu of greeting.
Samuel took his usual seat to his father’s right. The chair was too hard. He placed his hands in his lap, forcing them to be still. The silence was thick, broken only by the rustle of newsprint and the distant clatter of dishes.
His mother brought out the roast, placing it ceremoniously in the center. It was dry at the edges. No one commented. His father folded his paper into sharp, precise creases and finally looked at him. The gaze was assessing, like a foreman inspecting machinery.
“So,” he began, the single word loaded. He carved the roast with surgical strokes, the knife scraping against the bone china platter. “Voss & Wise. A serious firm. You understand the opportunity you’ve been given?”
Samuel’s spine locked. He kept his eyes on the intricate pattern of the tablecloth. “I understand the opportunity, sir.”
“Understanding and capitalizing are different things.” His father served a slice of meat onto his own plate, the gesture dismissive. “Tell me about the workflow. What’s your typical day? Don’t give me platitudes. Specifics.”
Samuel’s mind scrambled. His typical day was a blur of anxiety, haunted by a specific, imposing presence. He couldn’t say that.
“I arrive early. Review the case load for the day. The Afton-Meyer merger is the priority. I’m tasked with financial discrepancy analysis, so I’m usually deep in ledgers and audit trails by nine.”
“By nine?” His father’s eyebrow arched. “What time do you arrive?”
“Between six and six-thirty.”
A slow, considering nod. “Early is good. It shows initiative. Or desperation. Which is it?”
The air grew thinner. Samuel’s fingers twisted together in his lap, knuckles whitening. “Initiative,” he said, but it sounded weak, defensive.
“Hmm.” His father took a bite, chewed slowly, his eyes never leaving Samuel’s face. “And the partners? The one you report to; Wise. What’s his impression of you? Has he commented on your work?”
A cold sweat broke out at the small of Samuel’s back. Gael’s face, impassive and intense, flashed in his mind. The memory of his own trembling hands in that office kitchen rose up, choking him. “He… he’s given me direct assignments. With tight deadlines. He expects perfection.”
“I should hope so.” His father set his fork down with a softclick. “But that’s not an impression, Samuel. That’s a job description. Has he praised you? Corrected you? Have you given him reason to do either?”
Corrected you.
The words echoed in the hollow space where Samuel’s courage should have been. He saw the glass of water placed before him, heard the quiet, undeniable command.Drink.
His face grew warm with a flush of shame and something else, something traitorous and deeply confusing. “He has… provided direction. He’s exacting.” It was the safest, most sterile truth he could manage.
“Exacting.” His father leaned back, steepling his fingers. The posture was eerily familiar, a mirror of something that sent a jolt of dread through Samuel. “Exacting men have no patience formediocrity. They can spot weakness the way a hound smells fear. Have you shown him weakness, Samuel?”
Samuel’s breath hitched. He couldn’t control the minute tremor that started in his knee beneath the table. He felt laid bare, as if his father could see every flinch, every stuttered ‘sir,’ every time his composure had cracked under Gael Wise’s gaze. He felt a confusing, horrifying fusion of the two men in that moment; both seeing him, both demanding something he couldn’t name.
“I… I’m performing the work to the standard,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
“Look at me when you speak.”
Samuel’s head jerked up, his eyes meeting his father’s. The man’s gaze was cold, probing, searching for the crack. “The standard is the minimum. I didn’t ask if you were meeting the minimum. I asked if you’ve shown weakness. Has your… sensitivity been a problem?”
Samuel’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, trapped thing. His palms were slick. He was drowning in the scrutiny. “No,” he forced out, the lie brittle. “It hasn’t been a problem.”
His father held his gaze for a long, excruciating moment, then finally looked away, picking up his fork again as if the interrogation was a minor, concluded matter. “See that it doesn’t. A firm like that will chew you up and spit you out if it smells fear on you. You have to be harder than you are.”
Samuel felt hollowed out, his insides scraped raw. He nodded mutely, his appetite gone, the roast on his plate looking like ash.
Then, his mother spoke, her voice a bright, poisonous birdcall into the silence he was crumbling inside. “I ran into LindaCovington after service today. You remember her daughter, Penny?”
He kept his eyes down, his focus locked on a single, pale pea crushed against his plate as he shook his head.
“Oh, she’s just blossomed into such a lovely young woman,” his mother continued, laying down her fork. “So sweet. So devout. She teaches Sunday school for the toddlers, you know. And beautiful, Samuel. Truly. A classic beauty.”
She reached beside her chair and produced a small, gilt-edged photograph, sliding it across the polished table toward him with the reverence of presenting a holy relic. “I showed her your graduation photo from law school. She was very impressed. Said you looked ‘distinguished.’”
