Chapter 17 Random Genetic Drift
RANDOM GENETIC DRIFT
*Samantha*
Monday afternoon, in the sanctum of my biology building office, after ten nights of exceptional sleep, I was the goddess of bioremediation at the height of my dissertation writing powers.
What stunned me most these days was how much easier everything had become once I was free of shared resources, broken power strips, and unsolicited opinions about post-structuralism from the PhD psychology students who would wander into the communal office area.
All it took to triple my productivity was a single-occupancy office and my own dedicated lab space.
Plus, you know, sleep.
My computer screen was a horizon of tracked changes and citation manager pop-ups, the kind of thing you only appreciate after four years of learning how to format figure legends.
My desk was arranged for maximum efficiency: laptop dead center, phone to the right of my mouse, mug of emergency pretzels to the left, coffee within reach.
Every so often I’d pause, lean back, and bask in the idea that, for the first time in my academic career, nobody could judge me if I wanted to nap on the floor under the desk because they’d never see me do it. This is heaven.
Which is why, when a knock hit my door, it felt like a trespass.
I blinked, checked the time, and found it was almost 4:00 PM. Today wasn’t a lab meeting day, I wasn’t late for anything, and the only person I expected was Dmitry at 5:00 PM. It might be an undergrad, looking for help.
“Who is it?” I called, hoping the edge in my voice would serve as an adequate warning that I was not in the mood for “quick questions” about the semester’s next animal protocol submission.
“Quinby from HR. Just here for a quick chat, if you have the time, Ms. Jarlston.”
The voice was male, with that overly calm, blandly courteous cadence I associated with insurance salespeople. I frowned, saved my document, and wondered what HR could possibly want with me.
“Please come in,” I said, and turned my chair to face the door.
It swung open to reveal a man in his mid-thirties, dressed in a mid-gray, mid-priced suit. But the tie looked like it was Italian and expensive. He smiled tightly, then crossed the room and extended a business card to me.
I accepted it—KENNETH QUINBY, HR Director, Faculty & Academic Divisions—and gestured to the only other chair in the room. He sat, a tablet balanced on his knee.
“Thank you for seeing me, Ms. Jarlston,” he said. “I promise I’ll be out of your hair in a few minutes. I’m here for a quick check-in, to ensure you’re feeling good about everything, see if there’s anything we can do. You know, basic stuff.”
“I have never in my life been visited by anyone from human resources, so forgive me if I’m a little confused.”
“Well, that’s a good thing, isn’t it?” He offered the smile of a man who’d been to a lot of webinars about active listening.
I returned his smile with one of my own. “Everything is great. Ten out of ten. Would recommend. No notes.”
He nodded, made a scribble on his tablet, and said, “Good. That’s good. Well, there is one more thing.”
I waited. I’d learned this trick from watching Dr. Hauser. Don’t help. Wait and let people fill the silence.
He did. “For a period of time back in November and early December, you were reporting to an assistant professor—just a very short period of time—and I wanted to check in with you about that experience.”
I blinked twice, my brain switching gears. “Do you mean Dr. Nieminen?”
Quinby tapped something on his screen. “That’s right. This is an informal conversation, off the record if you want, no pressure here. We were just wondering if you had any feedback on James Nieminen, as his direct report. Or perhaps any comments on him as a—uh—maybe a mentor?”
I leaned back and let my gaze drift to the bookshelf behind Mr. Quinby, wondering what this might be about. Had someone said something? Wait. Did Andreas call someone, like he’d offered to do months ago?
Almost at once, I dismissed the notion. Andreas and I had been cohabitating for ten nights. I’d sleepwalked into his room almost every one of those nights. And we’d discussed work, his days, my days, food, movies, all manner of things. But not once had James Nieminen come up.
My professional interactions with Dr. Nieminen were brief. I hadn’t wasted time or energy on the man since Dr. Hauser took back over as my PI.
“Why do you want to know?” I finally asked. Academia was a very small world. If someone had suggested HR speak with me, I wanted to know who.
Quinby’s mouth twitched. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”
So, this was an investigation. Or at least a prelude to one.
“I suppose if you’re asking about his mentorship, I can say I don’t have enough information to draw any conclusions.”
“Can you expand on that?”
“Well, he didn’t give me much in the way of direction or mentorship, and he required extensive daily logs of my activities, which we reviewed every Friday evening even though he had access to my daily logs via the shared drive.
But it was a temporary thing. I have nothing to offer about his long-term mentorship skills. ”
He made another note. “He never asked you to meet him outside of work?”
That gave me pause.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Could you repeat the question?”
“Certainly,” Quinby said brightly, then read from his screen again. “Did Dr. Nieminen ever ask you to meet him outside of work? Related, were you ever uncomfortable in your interactions with Dr. Nieminen?”
I thought and blurted my question at the same instant: “Did James Nieminen sexually harass his new postdoc?”
Quinby’s eyes went wide, but he held fast. “Why don’t you tell me about your experience working with Dr. Nieminen.”
Putting my elbow on the desk and propping my chin in my hand, I shrugged.
“Fine. He bought tickets to a Broadway show and assumed I would attend with him. He also suggested that we grab dinner before curtain. I said no and told him I wasn’t comfortable meeting with him outside of work.
In response, he was less than friendly. That night after work, he waited for me outside the building and demanded I complete what I considered a ridiculous amount of work before the next morning, suggesting I quit if I couldn’t accomplish the task and that my funding might not continue if I couldn’t keep up.
” I said it all in a tone that, even to my own ears, sounded more bored than aggrieved.
But I wasn’t going to dress it up for him.
Quinby nodded again, lips pressed together. “Did you tell anyone about this?”
Technically, Andreas had witnessed the conversation outside the building, but something kept me from mentioning him. Why did I need a witness? Why wasn’t my word enough?
I decided not to mention Andreas.
“Not really,” I said, deciding it was technically true.
Quinby looked disappointed. I guess I’d failed to provide the proper paperwork for my own trauma.
“Why not?” he pressed.
“Well, it’s embarrassing, isn’t it? And also, at the time, I was a poor grad student who had trouble making ends meet.
I didn’t want to make any waves and potentially lose my place in the program.
Nor did I wish to be labeled difficult or dramatic.
The situation wasn’t cut-and-dry, right?
Maybe I’d misunderstood him, maybe I’d overreacted.
I suppose I second-guessed myself and talked myself out of it. ”
He narrowed his eyes. “But you’re not in the same circumstances now. Why not tell someone after your circumstances changed?”
I could have told him that not everything was about leverage or “safe reporting,” but instead I said, “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’ve been very busy and haven’t given that man any thought since coming back from winter break.”
He tried one more time. “But how come—”
I cut him off. “Look. I’m telling you now. Believe me, or don’t believe me. But you came here and you asked. And so I told you what happened.”
Quinby sighed, typed something. I watched his thumb move on the screen, probably toggling the “difficult” or “hostile” button.
Feeling my temper spike, I added before I could think better of it, “And I’d just like to point out that maybe the reason more women don’t ‘say something’ in these situations is because they’re grilled with twenty questions after it happens, and then they’re not believed anyway.
So, isn’t that just a waste of our time?
Not only that, but you’re asking me to relive something that was truly awful to experience—when all I want to do is forget it—and then you’re treating me like I need to convince you it happened. ”
He shook his head, eyes softening. “Ms. Jarlston, I am absolutely not doing that.”
I stood up, my patience at an end. “I don’t have time for this. I answered your questions. Please leave.”
He also stood, smoothing the lapels of his suit. “Ms. Jarlston, I just have one more question—”
“Fair warning, if you ask me what I was wearing, I might get violent. So, please leave. Seriously, leave.”
Quinby drew himself up, like he wanted to say something else, but I had already picked up my mug full of pretzels and turned my back to him, saying, “If you want to talk to me about this, you’ll have to speak to my lawyer first. Goodbye.”
That did the trick. Saying nothing, he left, and the door closed quietly. I didn’t breathe until I heard his shoes recede down the hallway.
Returning to my chair, I set the pretzels down and picked up my coffee. Staring out the window, I savored the peace of my private office.
Other than the dedicated lab space and the solo office, maybe the best thing about inheriting sudden wealth was being able to tell people to speak to my lawyer if I didn’t feel like answering their questions.