The Chair of the Board – Part 2: Minutes

The sentence was read in the same level voice. "For repeated failures of attention, the executive will spend the remainder of the night under the direct supervision of the Chair. He will speak when addressed. He will move when told. And he will be corrected, as the Chair sees fit, within the terms."

"Understood, Chair."

"It is not a question of understanding." She sat, crossed her legs and pointed at the carpet by her chair. "Here."

The night ran on her clock. She set him tasks and watched him carry them out. She made him wait, standing, facing the skyline, until the lights of the city blurred. She made him recite the terms aloud like a pledge. She corrected his posture with a fingertip, his tone with a look, and punished slips with a slow, deliberate severity that was all theatre and all authority, her voice never rising, her hands never rough. At each half hour she asked, "Do you wish to continue?" and each time he answered yes, and each time she gave a single nod, as if signing a minute.

By midnight he was past thinking. That was what she had wanted for him, and it was what he had asked for: a night with no decisions, in the hands of someone who would not drop them.

At one she said, quietly, "The board is adjourned."

The pen went down. The jacket came off the chair and was draped over his shoulders. She sat with him on the sofa under the big window, a glass of water in his hands, her arm round him, and stroked the back of his neck until the shaking stopped.

"Good?" said Margot.

"Better than good."

"I am very proud of you."

"Chair?"

"Margot."

"Margot," said Nate, and laughed, and leaned his head on her shoulder. "Same time next quarter?"

"I will circulate the minutes."

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