Jay Goldman

They were proud of their history, fierce defenders of their once-secret society with a notoriously murky past. Times were different they said. Everyone was now welcome ― in an official sense if nothing else ― though Jones’ judicious rigging of the protocols and fees kept membership very much on par with their predecessors.

Johnson first raised the specter during a weekly leadership ensemble in the main hall. They were gathered around the center of the massive wooden table, reputedly hewn from an even more massive oak by the original Smitty back in ‘04. Official business officially dispatched, glasses at half mast, Johnson broke the familial silence with a sharp throat clearing and a sudden intensity of posture.

“Now listen here.” she said, leaning forward to make sure her companions were indeed listening. “About this elephant.”

Murmurs among the gathered leaders. Everyone well aware of the unaddressed pachyderm lurking in the shadows and perhaps more comfortable with it remaining that way.

“As you are all well aware, the one hundred and fiftieth birthday of our little group is in three months.” Her tone shifted, becoming oratorical. Some eye rolling occurred. Some swirling of ice cubes and shifting in seats. “As you are also no doubt aware, our founding mandate specifically outlined the events to unfold on that day, as it did the great celebration held by our grandmothers fifty years ago.” All heads turned to face the near life size oil painting dominating the room, a depiction of that fateful day tinged heavily in melodrama and liberties taken by the artist.

Johnson rose from her seat, glass gripped firmly in her left hand, right hand clenched and punctuating her points with little air jabs. “We have a commitment.” she began, pausing, thinking of the cases of trophies, figurines with heads held high in triumph, arms raised in victory, gleaming softly in their now eternal celebration in the Awards Chamber down the hall. “Nay.” she said, hanging her head in honor of members passed. “An obligation. A raison-d’être!” she looked up, caught eyes shining in the firelight, edges of seats occupied. L’Esprit de corps thickened, banishing thoughts of wayward elephants. Dawson and Reed leapt to their feet. “Our mission is clear! Our purpose honorable!” Johnson was on the table now, everyone else on their feet. “Onward sisters!” she yelled, charging down the table, right arm aloft, trailed by a cloud of meeting debris. Her fellow leaders followed, imbued with purpose, much as their foremothers had fifty years before.

esprit de corps: (eh-SPREE duh COR) noun: A spirit of solidarity; a sense of pride, devotion, and honor among the members of a group.

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