Authors: Kamy Wicoff
“It’s going to get better,” she reassured him, squeezing his elbow and feeling, as she often did, as though he were one of her boys too. But as she went walk-running down the hallway, late for a meeting she hadn’t even known was happening until ten minutes ago, Jennifer knew he didn’t believe it.
Why should he, when she didn’t either?
B
ILL
T
RUITT HAD NOT
been on the job long, but his office, with its cool gray carpet, big glass desk, and fragrant, hotel-size arrangement of lilies, was much more like the offices of the powerful men Jennifer remembered from her years as a management consultant than the dingy government offices she’d grown used to. (She couldn’t imagine how he’d purged that old-government-office-building smell so fast. Maybe it was the lilies.) On the walls hung what Jennifer and Tim privately referred to as Bill’s Wall of Fame: photos of him with a who’s who of wealthy New York, many of the photos prominently featuring Mayor Fitch. They were an odd couple, Bill, the African American former all-American football player and New York real estate heir, and Mayor Fitch, the fair-skinned, thin-lipped managerial numbers type who never got a
tan and played golf only because he had to. Being fellow members of the .01 percent, however, with multiple homes, wives with staffs, and children in the Ivy Leagues, had apparently closed some of the gaps that undoubtedly still existed between them.
After a light tap, Jennifer pushed the door open, and as she walked in, Alicia Richardson stood to greet her. Jennifer had almost forgotten how elegant and striking Alicia was. Her light brown curls were close-cropped as perfectly as Viola Davis’s at the Oscars, and she was wearing one of her signature cream-colored suits, its ivory sheen offsetting her mocha-colored skin. Alicia had always made Jennifer feel like she was wearing mom jeans to a cocktail party. Their eyes met, and despite herself Jennifer felt her body zip up and stiffen. Alicia, however, didn’t blink. She even looked somewhat smug. Which was alarming.
“Jennifer,” Alicia said, offering her hand and smiling. “It’s good to see you again.”
The three of them exchanged the necessary pleasantries and then sat down. Outside the window, the 110-story building that Bill’s company, Bill Truitt Enterprises, had completed just before his appointment as NYCHA’s head dominated the skyline. Bill had proudly pointed it out to Jennifer during their first meeting at his office, but despite the macho posturing (what better than a 110-story dick planted right outside the window to set the proper tone with new employees?), that meeting had been a good one. For a few weeks after his appointment, in fact, Jennifer had thought Bill Truitt was the best thing that had ever happened to her. Almost every day now, she tried to remind herself of this fact: that Bill Truitt—along with a portion of the $300 million of federal stimulus money the new mayor had used his business contacts to extract from a Republican-controlled Congress for
NYCHA—was responsible for reviving the project dearest to her heart, one she’d invested so much in that it had almost been like a third baby: a new kind of community center she called It Takes a Village.
The concept for It Takes a Village was simple. When she’d first begun working at NYCHA, Jennifer had observed (as many had before her) that one of the biggest problems low-income-housing residents had in getting ahead, or even just in managing their lives, was wasted time. There was no central place where they could get job training and pay the rent; pick up assistance checks and get child care; get matched with the best-suited nonprofit resources for their needs and meet with their social worker too. Everything was scattered, and everything took forever. From this problem the solution of It Takes a Village was born: a community center that would house under one roof outposts for all the agencies, services, and resources residents needed, government and nongovern-ment alike. After years of work, both designing the center and lining up the necessary support from private foundations and government agencies, Jennifer had finally completed a request for proposal for contractors to bid on building the flagship site. Just as the RFP was about to go out, however, the economy crashed. Jennifer still remembered standing in her office when the news of a citywide freeze on new projects came down, and the feeling of her heart breaking. The funding drought after that had been so severe that Jennifer had ceased to consider It Takes a Village a dream deferred. Instead it had been a dream DOA.
That was, until Bill Truitt, builder of big things, came on board and Jennifer decided to take a chance and show him the old RFP. To her delight, he loved it. It Takes a Village, with its proposed partnerships between government agencies and private foundations, and its artist’s renderings of what the
center might look like, combined his twin loves of building and social entrepreneurship. It would, he said, be his legacy. Bill’s ties to the mayor made securing a portion of the federal stimulus funds easy, though Bill had made it clear that would be the only easy thing about it. “This federal money shouldn’t be making anybody feel that things are going to get cushy now,” Bill had told her and Tim sternly, as if they were a couple of lazy babies. “The city is still broke, and all of us have to do more with less. That means longer hours, more efficiency, and more accountability in this office for your time. Having worked in the private sector, Jennifer, you know what I mean.”
She did. But it was one thing to put in an eighty-hour workweek for a job that paid better than most; it was another to do it for a job that paid considerably less. The prospect of finally seeing the center built, after so many years of waiting, had kept her going thus far, but she still hadn’t been working the hours Bill expected, something the tattletale Employee Time Clock never let her forget.
Sitting down, Jennifer noticed that Alicia was holding a copy of the original proposal for It Takes a Village in her hands. Jennifer’s stomach clenched. She was about to ask to what she owed the pleasure, when Bill turned toward his wall, took a photo down from it, and, giving Alicia a wink, pushed it across his desk, gesturing for Jennifer to look. It was picture of a very young Alicia, in a cap and gown, standing next to a very old Bill, with salt-and-pepper hair.
“My father, Bill Senior,” Bill said, “with one of the first graduates of the BTE for Good Foundation’s scholarship program, Alicia L. Richardson.” Jennifer peered at the photo with as much cheerful interest as she could muster. “You two already know each other, right?” Bill asked as he hung the photo back up on the wall.
“Yes,” Jennifer said. “Alicia was here when I started seven years ago. How inspiring about your father, and about the scholarship. Wow!”
Bill smiled. Alicia smiled. Jennifer smiled. She wished she’d had time to read that e-mail. “So, Jennifer,” Bill began, leaning back in the black, throne-like Eames office chair he had purchased to replace his subpar city-issued seat. “You know I hold you in the highest regard. It Takes a Village is the most exciting thing happening at NYCHA right now, and we have you to thank for it. But frankly, things just aren’t moving fast enough.”
“We are right on schedule,” Jennifer said, “according to the plan you and I formulated when—”
Bill cut her off with a wave of his hand. “I want to open the flagship center one year from now. Two years is too long. We should be breaking ground soon, not having another damn residents’ meeting.” Jennifer was about to object, when Bill sat up and placed both elbows on his desk, clasping his hands in front of him. “I’ve built shopping malls in less time than we’ve allotted to build this center. I’m not saying it’s your fault. I think you need some additional help. Which is why Alicia is here. Alicia has been the superintendent over at District Thirteen for several years now, which of course is the district where the center will be built. She grew up in the Marcy Houses. Grew up there and got out! She knows the community, and she’s a leader.”
Jennifer tried not to blanch. What was Bill saying? Was he going to put Alicia in charge of It Takes a Village? From the way Alicia was nodding and smiling, clucking modestly as Bill sang her praises, it appeared he was about to do exactly that.
“I think what Bill is trying to say, Jennifer,” Alicia said, turning to her and speaking in the firm but friendly tones of the high school principal she had once been, “is that since
Binnie Freeman left, you haven’t had someone in the department with a history and track record with the community, something I can bring to the table as the public face of the project.” It was true that Jennifer was an outsider, with her white suburban upbringing and her formerly white-shoe career. Binnie, her former boss and mentor, had been the one with a history with the community. But she had been with the department seven years now, and It Takes a Village was
hers
, body and soul. The idea of being demoted to some kind of behind-the-scenes brain-on-a-stick, good for nothing but number crunching and spreadsheets while none other than Alicia Richardson took the credit for her hard work, was devastating. “To begin with—and Bill agrees with me on this— we ought to change the name. I came up with One Stop.”
“Doesn’t that take some of the poetry out of it?” Jennifer asked.
“It helps if the residents understand what it
is
,” Alicia responded. Jennifer somehow managed a tight-lipped smile before turning back to Bill. When she did, however, she was surprised to discover that he was now fixing Alicia with the same sober, tough-love expression he’d trained on Jennifer just moments ago.
“When we first discussed this a few weeks ago, Alicia, we talked about your coming on as the head of this project.” Alicia nodded. “But since then,” he continued, “I’ve reconsidered.” Jennifer now had the pleasure of watching the smugness drain right out of Alicia’s face. “After careful review, I’ve decided that the best thing would be for you and Jennifer to serve as co-heads of One Stop. You will manage the residents and community partnerships, and Jennifer will head strategy and interagency planning.”
There was a pause you could have parked a car in. Then Alicia and Jennifer both began to talk at once.
“Hold on a minute, now,” Bill said. “You don’t even know the whole offer yet!” Opening a file drawer, he produced two sets of blue-backed contracts. “I thought you might not like the cohead idea, Alicia. And, Jennifer, to be honest, I’ve been concerned about your level of commitment. So I decided to do a little innovating of my own. To sweeten the pot for both of you.” Bill passed a contract to each of them.
“Because this is a public-private partnership,” he continued, “it’s possible for me to allocate some additional cash to staff costs from the private-foundation side. If you can meet the milestones set out here over the next twelve months,” he said, “you’ll be given a cash bonus of five thousand dollars
per quarter
, provided by BTE for Good.” Bill sat back again, clearly relishing having leaped from the Grinch to Santa Claus in a single bound.
Jennifer couldn’t believe her ears. A $20,000 bonus in a single year? With that, she could put something away for the boys’ college fund. She could pay off her credit card bills. She could even, she thought, take her sons on a real vacation. (Or maybe just pay off her credit card bills.) With what was effectively a $20,000 raise, she could breathe a little easier— financially, anyway—for the first time since she and Norman had split.
“It isn’t charity,” Bill added. “If you fail to meet your quarterly milestones, you’ll be let go. Simple as that.”
Alicia was looking over the contract, brows knit. Jennifer began to scan hers too. Twenty thousand dollars was a lot of money, but at a glance, Jennifer could see that if she accepted these terms, she’d pay for every penny.
“This is a lot to take in,” Jennifer said, looking up at Bill. “I’m sure Alicia will also need some time to review it.”
Alicia nodded once, already standing.
“Of course,” Bill said, standing too. “But I think you’ll find
it a very attractive proposal. An offer you can’t refuse, as they say.”
As who says?
Jennifer wanted to ask.
Mob bosses?
Coming around his desk, Bill joined the two of them, picking up the copy of the proposal for It Takes a Village—now called One Stop, apparently—that he kept on his desk.
“You know, Jennifer,” he said, “we never really talked about why I took this job. About why I’m taking time out from projects like that”—again with the goddamn skyscraper—“to work on a project like this.” Bill tapped the proposal’s cover. “Alicia knows,” he said, nodding toward her. Bill opened up the proposal to a dog-eared page: a photograph of Coco, a young single mother from the Whitman Houses, on a stoop with her three sons. Jennifer loved Coco. From the look on Bill’s face as he gazed at the photograph, Bill did too.
“I’m doing this for her,” Bill said. “No man in this picture. Just a single African American mom, buried in paperwork and government bureaucracy every time she tries to change her life, or even just get what she needs, stuck in a system that isn’t an opportunity but a trap.” Looking up, Bill met Jennifer’s eyes. Jennifer saw true feeling there, but she also saw a flash of the politician she suspected Bill aspired to be. “That was my grandmother, in public housing in 1950’s Chicago. And that,” he said, pointing to one of the little boys, “was my dad.”
At that, Alicia managed to look at Bill with some of her previous warmth. “Your father was a great man,” she said. Jennifer murmured her assent, though all she knew about Bill Truitt Sr. was that he was responsible for building the real estate company Bill Jr. had inherited, and that Bill, who had grown up summering in the Hamptons, knew about as much about growing up in the projects as she did. Bill, however, clearly pleased with his performance, set the proposal back down on his desk, solemnly thanked them both, and walked them to the door.
His proposition was straightforward, Jennifer thought. That was for sure. If she met the milestones, she’d put an extra $20,000 in the bank. If she didn’t, she’d be fired. High risk, high reward: a familiar tenet of the business world. As she shook Bill’s hand, however, and observed the thick, diamond-encrusted watch that always hung heavily from his wrist—a watch that cost more than she would earn that year by working herself to death—she couldn’t help thinking,
Though while some of us are risking our rent, some of us aren’t even risking our Rolex.