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“Go out and see the sights.”
“It’s not my first time in DC,” said Cole. “My parents took me to all the museums and I’ve already waited in line to see Congress and t
he Declaration of Independence and I’ve climbed the Washington Monument to the top.”
“Then go to Hain’s Point or Great Falls of the Potomac and say ooh and aah, and get on a bicycle and ride the W&O trail from Leesburg to Mount Vernon. Or stay here and I’ll give you a whole box of pencils to sharpen.”
“What are you working on while he’s gone?”
“I’m the division secretary. I work for all the officers, including the Colonel. Once every two months, Major Malich gives me something to do. Other than that, I take messages for him and explain to his confused subordinates how they can kill time till he comes back so he can tell them nothing in person.”
“Tell them nothing—you mean even when he’s here he—”
“Why do you think you’re replacing a good man who only stayed for one month? Who replaced another good man who lasted three months because Major Malich gave him a huge pile of scutwork assignments without ever telling him what they were for and then thanked him and left him to sharpen pencils?”
“So you don’t expect me to stay.”
“I expect you to grow old and die on the job here.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” said the secretary, “that I’ve given up trying to understand Major Malich’s role in this building and I’ve also given up trying to help young officers who are assigned to him. What’s the point?”
So here he was, three days later, with his pencils sharpened, having seen the statue of the giant at Hain’s Point and the new World War II Memorial and the FDR Memorial and the Great Falls of the Potomac. Was it too soon to put in for a transfer? Shouldn’t he at least meet Malich before trying to get away from him?
Cole could imagine Major Malich’s arrival in the office.
“What have you been doing while you waited for me to get back,” Malich would say.
“Waiting for you, sir.”
“In other words, nothing. Don’t you have any initiative?”
“But I don’t even know what we’re working on! How can I—”
“You’re an idiot. Put in for a transfer. I’ll sign it and hope that next time they’ll send me somebody with a brain in his head and a spark of ambition.”
Oh, wait. That wasn’t Malich speaking. That was Cole’s father, Christopher Coleman, who believed in only two things: That people named Coleman should have really long first names (Cole’s was “Bartholomew“) and that nothing his son did could possibly measure up to his expectations.
Malich probably wouldn’t even notice Cole was there. Why should he? As long as Cole was doing nothing, it didn’t matter whether he was there or not.
So Cole left his office and crossed the hall to the secretary. “What am I supposed to call you?” he asked.
She pointed to her nameplate.
“So you really go by DeeNee Breen.”
She glared at him. “It’s the name my parents gave me.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “That’s even worse than Bartholomew.”
She didn’t smile. This was going well.
“I need some information.”
“I won’t have it, but go ahead.”
“Is Major Malich married?”
