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I mean, it’s sort of like—”
    Vivian slammed her chopsticks down on the table, and one of them flew into the air, landing on the next table. “What do you mean, not an activist sort of person? Does that mean,” she spoke in a singsong as she continued, “‘I’m too busy starting my fancy New York career and going out to bars at night to do what I think needs to be done, so I’ll just let others do it for me?’ Is that what it means?”
    â€œDon’t give me that crap, Vivian. I just gave two years of my life for something I believe in. Save the radical speeches for people who deserve it.”
    â€œBullshit. You did Peace Corps because your parents didn’t want you to. You did it because it made you feel good, not because it helped people.”
    This traditional conundrum for Peace Corps Volunteers was like a Zen riddle: If you felt good about giving service, were you really being an altruist, or just doing what made you feel good? Who is the greater altruist, one who loves to give service or one who hates it but does it anyway? Still, it shocked Ruth to hear it thrown in her face.
    She quietly put her chopsticks on her plate, took a sip of water and wiped her mouth with her napkin. She returned the napkin to her lap, carefully insuring it had no wrinkles, then said softly, “You know, Vivian, if I’m not radical enough to be your friend anymore, just tell me.”
    â€œYou said it, not me.” Vivian fished a five-dollar bill from her jeans and flung it on the table. As she stormed out, she called back, “Have a nice life.”

CHAPTER 4
Jeremy Rules

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    WHEN THE ELEVATOR SLOWED and the doors whooshed open to the tune of the too-perky ding, Ruth hesitated for a second to let her eyes get used to her nine-to-five bleached landscape: white floors and desks, white-on-white artwork, framed in white, on white walls. The exuberant floral displays in matching vases supplied the only color, as if the walls were the canvas and the bouquets the paint. Breathing deeply, she detected “Moi, Moi, Moi,” the scent of the week
    She marched with a determined stride, each step compensating for her measly five feet two inches by stretching a little further than was comfortable. An instructor in an Executive Presentations course had once referred to this stride as her “I may be little but I can lick any guy in the place” walk, and suggested she try more of a “fairy godmother” style. Yeah, right.
    In the sanctuary of her office, the windows directed a gentle morning light on her collection. Soft black-and-white photos of faces dominated. Her favorites were the strong unsmiling profile of the Senegalese man in his village whom she knew to be gentle and loving, and the withered Indonesian woman hunched over her garden with an ancient tool.
    Masks occupied the wall behind her desk, next to the window, all variations on the theme of camouflage and disguise. Most were African masks, brown wood with some accoutrements like shells and straw. The few Balinese masks with exaggerated facial gestures and wild colors were a stark contrast. There was even a papier maché mask Josh once made with garish polka dots resembling measles from outer space.
    She allowed herself a few minutes vacation, basking in last night’s glory. There were already lots of emails congratulating her, including one from the head of the Foundation for Children with Scleroderma. She spread the newspaper out on her desk and thought yes, we really did it this time.
    Would Jeremy eat humble pie? Probably not. But maybe he’d be nice about it, only throwing in one or two snide remarks? She thought of Dean, the pre-Jeremy, or maybe the anti-Jeremy, and how glad she was that he’d let her start the Charitable Giving program when she made the switch from Human Resources to Marketing. Not only were the benefits fun, they helped even up her moral balance sheet. What a