The Contract

by Sheila Grinell

  “So you’ll contract the work with us?”

  “No. They want me to run the campaign in house. I’ve already done half the research.”

  “On my time.” She wanted to slap him.

  He backed away from her. “Listen, I tried. I’ve known the CEO’s family for years, that’s how I got my foot in the door in the first place. I tried to swing him your way. But he’s made up his mind.” He looked chagrinned. “You knew I planned to go back East eventually.”

  “All I know is you led me on. All those trips to the branches. You must have thought me a sucker.”

  “No, no. I honestly thought it would work out. I’m very sorry it didn’t.”

  “Not sorry enough to refuse the job offer.” She could not contain her anger, or the shame breaking through it. How foolish she had been to follow a callow man’s lead. “If you have no other business to deliver, get out.”

  On the drive back to Oakland that evening, she squirmed behind the wheel, worried about Ev’s reaction. She knew he wouldn’t say “I told you so”—he didn’t keep score—but he might criticize her for barging into a field she knew nothing about. And he would be right. He might accuse her of letting a fancy man get into her head. Yeah, but he didn’t get into her bed. Ev would know that, wouldn’t he? Contrite, she stopped at a supermarket close to home to pick up the makings of a meal. Over the pasta, Ev took the news calmly, and she blessed him silently. He told her they needed her back in Oakland. The next day, at her desk in the office she discovered why.

  In the nine months she’d been chasing modernity with Skinny Flynt, the design side of the business had floundered. Ev had taken on no new clients, because no one who’d sent a query had appealed to him. She had known he wouldn’t concentrate on sales—nothing managed to hold his attention for long except his models, and Jo herself—but not a single new client? And he had fulfilled only half their contracts. Evidently, he’d been playing with new ideas in the shop while their crew idled. Two techs and the accountant had quit, and the books were a mess. She discovered they were out of cash, with two mortgages, a loan repayment, and payroll coming due. In a panic, Jo appealed to the bank and was told they’d advance funds if she would divest the print shop. So she made plans to sell it to the employees as quickly as possible.

  At first, she’d been furious. Why hadn’t Ev told her about the problems? When she’d checked the financial statements, the bottom line had seemed okay. Now she knew why: he hadn’t bought materials or paid a full staff. For weeks she woke regularly at three in the morning to rehearse the litany of his errors and, truth be told, her own. She should never have left him in charge. He couldn’t manage a picnic. She worried the design business might have been dealt a fatal blow. She could make peace with losing the print shop, but the damage to D-Three terrified her. Their livelihood, and their identity, hung in the balance. She began to question Ev’s ability to function as a full partner. She spoke to him only when necessary; they stopped eating meals together. He retreated to his machines.

  Over the next few months, thanks to Jo’s dogged persistence, things slowly righted themselves. Jo paid the bills with the bank’s cash, and they sold copies of Ev’s old exhibits to a group in western Canada that wanted to open a museum in a hurry. The partial crew went back to work full-time. Business began to feel normal except for the giant loan hanging over Jo’s head. Her parents’ ineptitude had taught her to loathe compound interest. She swore to repay the loan in record time.

  Then, one day, Jo’s sister showed up saying she was thinking about moving to the Bay Area and did Jo have any advice? For as long as Jo could remember, Diane, her baby sister, had needed help, and Jo, the eldest sibling, had provided. Tuition, finding jobs, finding doctors for her nephew and paying them … With a sigh, Jo realized she would continue to provide. She offered Diane a part-time job, out of conscience rather than affection, and the fact that D-Three’s books now needed keeping.

  Diane and her teenaged son arrived two weeks later with a jumble of clothing, equipment, kitchen tools, and a slobbery dog. Jo reacted with disgust to Diane’s mess, but Ev embraced it. He helped Diane and her special-needs boy find a cheap apartment, settle in, make order, and feel good about the move. He built a dog run out back behind the studio so Diane could bring her family to work without, he said, getting in Jo’s hair. He invited her nephew into the studio and helped him finger the tools. Jo saw his attentions work wonders for the boy, and her resentment began to thaw. She admired the underlying tenderness that made Ev an inspired designer for children, and, she remembered, a good lover.

  Over the next few weeks, life at the D-Three house got better: Diane’s conscientious bookkeeping lifted one of Jo’s burdens, and Ev emerged from the shop to talk whenever Jo wanted him. They landed a complex job: a kids’ museum to be operated by an existing science museum without competing with the latter for the four-to eight-year-olds who might be comfortable in either place. Jo and Ev worked closely together for months, solving one problem after the next. Her love for him returned. As a bonus, the job finished in the black. As did the next one, and the next.

  Then they were asked to submit qualifications for the Saudi project, a world away.

  Jo rose from her desk and turned off the light. She hefted her purse, fattened by the checkered headgear she’d had Peter purchase for her nephew, and made her way to the stairs in the blue glow from the router. As she climbed, she felt determination descend on her shoulders. These good people who had waited to greet the boss deserved her fullest effort. D-Three had made such progress since the print shop snafu. She would not let things backslide. She would keep her eyes open and scope out the Saudi deal. This she knew how to do.

  6

  In the morning, Jo woke to the sound of muffled voices below. The clock displayed a red 9:48; evidently Ev had let her sleep in. She washed, dressed, and descended the stairs. There was Ev, standing in the middle of the office, whirling a loop of rope on a contraption that looked like an old-fashioned spinning wheel. The loop expanded and then snapped into a beak-like shape, as Carlos and Becca watched. She skirted them, heading to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Ev called out, “Hola,” and resumed spinning.

  She stood at the sink to fill the tea kettle. Ranged along the windowsill in front of her were eight tiny terracotta pots containing Ev’s experimental garden. When they’d arrived in Oakland, he’d decided to grow saguaro cactus from seed. Why? To nurture something tree-like, he’d said, that would still be portable in case of fire, and to remind himself that California lacks water. He’d germinated the glossy black seeds in a makeshift greenhouse, producing tiny, succulent, green gems with a miniature tuft of spines in the middle. After a year, the seedlings looked cactus-like, and he transplanted them into the pots. At five years, they were a whopping four inches tall. Ev admired them every time he watered. Jo shook her head; she hoped the spinning experiment would not last as long as the cactus experiment.

  As she took a muffin from the fridge, she overheard them. “I used a chain in Riyadh,” Ev said, “but kids can’t handle chain. The little ones poke their fingers into the links. I may need to abrade the rope to make it more flexible.”

  “What’s Riyadh like?” Becca asked.

  “Weird. In the men’s’ bathroom, there’s a bank of hooks on the wall just behind the door. The toilets are squatters, so the men have to take off their robes to take a shit. Jo says there’s hooks in the ladies’ too. The Saudis have a dress problem.”

  Carlos grasped the rope and fingered it slowly. “Where’s this idea come from, anyway?”

  “Knots.”

  Calling out from the kitchen, Jo said, “Have you ever pulled a power cord or a hose and accidently made knots in it? Ev thinks that’s how organic molecules evolved from the primordial soup. The next step is life.”

  “Heavy,” Carlos said.

  Diane burst through the front door, leading her son. “Sorry I’m late. Found out Joey’s school was closed for maintenance when we g
ot there.” She sat the boy at her desk and tucked her bag beneath it. Joey shook his head side to side, got up and ran to Jo and hugged her. She’d taught him to play Chutes and Ladders once, at least a decade ago, and he’d had a thing for her ever since. Jo remembered the checkerboard head gear—Joey loved hats—and led him to her desk. She fished the headgear out of her purse and draped her nephew’s head. Joey beamed. Holding his head with both hands, he let his mother take him back to her corner and settle him down again. Diane mouthed “thank you” to Jo. The two women joined the others standing around Ev, watching the rope spin.

  “Is this for the Saudi job?” Diane asked.

  Ev said, “It could be.”

  “The Saudis want to prepare toddlers for careers in renewable energy. Imagine that,” Jo said.

  Diane looked doubtful. “Do little kids understand the concept of energy?”

  “No, too abstract,” Ev said. “Got another idea. I’m going to the studio.”

  “If we’re asked to bid, we’ll think of something to satisfy them.” Jo turned to Becca. “We’re smarter than the competition.”

  “But don’t you have to do what they want?” Diane said.

  “Yes and no. Let’s discuss this after lunch. I need to get to my email.” Diane didn’t understand business, Jo thought. Even Ev was savvier.

  The staff dispersed. Jo made a cup of tea and took it to her desk. She powered up, and as Outlook populated, she glanced outside. The sky was a clear blue, and the eucalyptus leaves shimmered in the breeze. It was good to be home.

  Jo had been seven when Diane was born, and her brothers had been four and three. There had been another baby who died that no one talked about. After Diane’s birth, her mom went back to work full-time for her dad, and there were no more babies and little joy.

  Before Diane was born, when Jo helped care for the boys, it first felt like a game. Mom would ask her to do something adult, and she’d manage to do it. She once overheard Mom tell an aunt who questioned the wisdom of entrusting babies to a five-year-old, “Joanna understands everything I say,” and Jo swelled with pride. After Diane arrived, the family called the two girls “Baby Sister” and “Big Sister.” In time, the nicknames morphed into “Baby” and “Sister,” and Jo’s duties steadily increased. The game stopped being fun because it never stopped. She changed diapers and fed bottles when Mom was on the phone or buried in paperwork. After the boys came home from school, she broke up their fights and portioned out sweets. She had the run of the kitchen because Mom knew she would keep it tidy. She learned to distract the boys with television so she could mop the floor. She learned to operate the washing machine and hang out the clothes. Diane toddled around behind her, clutching a doll.

  Her parents praised Jo for mothering the kids, and for a while she was content with her role. A problem developed, though, as Diane grew. It seemed the rules changed: pretty, little Diane had privileges Jo had never had, and it didn’t seem fair. Diane got presents, and frilly dresses like her friends’, and she had no chores to speak of. It was as if their parents were too worn down by their work and the sheer size of the family to discipline yet another child. Jo’s resentment built, but she didn’t let it show. She escaped to school, hanging around her teachers after class. It was a small school in a small town, but it opened the door to a wider world, and Jo gladly walked through it. She went to high school in the next town over, took after-school jobs when the boys were older. Eventually she made it to Virginia Commonwealth University on her own nickel.

  Senior year in college, when Jo called home at Thanksgiving, her mother had begged her to talk sense into Diane. Her mother said Diane had fallen in with a reckless bunch and was cutting school. Her mother sounded beside herself, so Jo went home for the weekend to put things right.

  Diane, at fifteen, no longer looked like a pretty little thing. She was wide-hipped and buxom, with blonde hair teased high. She wore tight black jeans and bright lipstick. A cigarette lighter protruded from her back pocket. She slouched and spoke to her mother with as few words as possible. She seemed happy to see Jo, though, and followed her out into the backyard where, Jo expected, they could talk.

  They brushed fallen leaves off a bench and sat side by side. Diane played with her hands, transferring her four rings one at a time from one finger to another. Jo wondered how to begin the conversation and stared at her own hands.

  Diane said, “How come you’re here? Don’t you like college?”

  “I like learning how to make a living. Different from Mom and Dad.”

  “Yeah, I’ll say.”

  Jo decided to be straight with her. “What have you been up to? Mom’s worried.”

  “Mom doesn’t like my friends. She thinks they’re a bad influence. She acts like they control me. They don’t. I’m doing what I want to do.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I want to have fun! I don’t want to turn into Mom until I’m old.” She pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Everything is gray and tired here. Mom and Dad, the house. It’s no way to live. Not for me.”

  “Mom says you’re cutting school.”

  “You remember Central High? I’m not missing much. I told Mom I’ll graduate. I’ll have the grades. She shouldn’t bother you about it.”

  “What do you do when you cut?”

  A soft smile spread across Diane’s face. “Hang out. Listen to music. You know.”

  “Do you drink?”

  “I don’t like alcohol.” She looked into Jo’s eyes. “I like weed. Don’t get ballistic on me, I only do weed.”

  “And what else do you do?” Jo began to think her mother’s worry justified.

  “Oh, whatever. Some of the guys are older. They have their options.” She resumed transferring her rings. “I hate it here. I’m going to leave.”

  “Where will you go?” Jo thought Diane had it easy, too easy to understand the impact of leaving home.

  “My friends will take care of me.”

  Jo forced herself to speak calmly. “That’s not enough of a plan.”

  “You got out of here fast.”

  “I worked hard for it, and I went to a safe place.”

  “Well, I’m not as smart as you. I have to do it my way.” She stood. “I’m getting cold. Can we go in now?”

  Jo nodded and followed Diane inside. Diane was no dummy, but her parents had spoiled her. They were about to reap the rewards of their carelessness. After dinner, Jo took her mother aside to say she had no leverage over her sister, but she’d call to check up on Diane from time to time. They’d just have to hope for the best. It pained Jo to leave her sister behind in that dreary house in her present state of mind. But she had to finish the year at VCU to assure her own escape.

  Diane graduated from high school and ran away the next day. Her boyfriend had urged her to, she told Jo much later, and she hadn’t known how to say no. She did not communicate with the family for a year, and they did not ask the police to find her. Jo kept her concern about her sister in the background because her job demanded attention and there was nothing to do for a girl who didn’t want to be found.

  Diane showed up at her parents’ home one evening, dirty, tired, and close-mouthed. She slept in for weeks, gradually regaining color in her cheeks. One morning, out of the blue, she called Jo to ask for help finding a job. Jo told Diane to get an associate’s degree so she’d be employable. Diane said she didn’t have money. Jo offered to pay tuition—she was starting her own company at the time and could barely afford to—and Diane agreed. She enrolled in the nearest community college and began to study, according to their mother. But after eighteen months or so, she dropped out, pregnant. Jo’s disappointment, when she heard the news, bordered on disgust. She kept sending money because her mother begged her to, but she gave up feeling she could influence Diane’s future. Lord knows, she’d tried to teach Diane to be responsible all the years she’d been in charge of her. Evidently Diane hadn’t learned.

  When the
baby was born, something was wrong; he didn’t cry or wave his arms although he had ten fingers and toes. They had to go to Richmond for a diagnosis, and it took a while to figure out the chromosomal disorder—not an inherited disorder, something unique to him—that stunted his development. Jo wondered, pointlessly, if Diane had done drugs at the wrong time, but she said nothing. Diane cried herself to sleep at night, but she devoted herself to her son’s care. She got a part-time job and bought a clunker of a car. As the baby grew, it became clear that she needed help dealing with him. Mom and Dad had no extra money and no extra strength, not with the business as bad as it was. The boys were off doing their thing. So Diane called Jo, who agreed to come home for a weekend to make a plan.

  Diane picked Jo up at the train station. They embraced, and Jo took a good look at her sister. She looked … okay, hair in a ponytail, no makeup, sallow beneath her eyes, and restrained in demeanor. As Diane drove home, she talked only about her son’s progress. She said she’d been taught how to do physical therapy for him. Twice a day for twenty minutes, and he loved it. A nurse’s aide came once a week, from the State, and checked him out. She had found lots of advice online. There was so much to try, she felt things would work out if she could get some help. She stopped talking abruptly.

  Jo asked, “Does Mom help?”

  Diane glanced at Jo. “She takes him for a few hours at a time. She says she’s too old for childcare. I’m not sure she ever liked it.”

  Jo had to agree. “So, what do you need?”

  “I need to be in two places at the same time.” She sighed. “I need to work, and I need to take care of Joey.”

  “Where’s Joey’s father?”

  “He went back to Grundy, to his folks. He’s messed up.” “Can’t you get help from him?”

  Diane sucked in her breath. “He needs help himself. He comes from coal mining people. They don’t understand.”

  “What do you mean, ‘coal mining people’?”

  “They’re poor and plain and traditional. They don’t approve of me and the baby.”