The Contract

by Sheila Grinell

  She pleaded with him. “This job is the bird in the hand. You’ve already excited the staff about spinning. Let’s run with it!”

  He shook his head and stood. He took a few steps toward the slope and shaded his eyes with his hand to watch the sun disappear behind the hills. He turned back to Jo. “I need more time.”

  “So do I.” She stifled the rest of her words, tallying the hours she spent caring for house and business so he could watch a tree shed bark.

  He must have read her change in tone. He spoke softly, “Let’s go down before it gets dark.” He led her back along the ridge to the truck. She followed in silence.

  As they headed downhill, she resented his spoiling the sunset. Yeah, he had a point about struggle, but there was so much he didn’t understand about the business. About how hard she worked to keep them afloat. About how important this job was to their future. That it was now or never for her. He didn’t get it. Other couples had trouble communicating here and there, but she and Ev had a mountain to climb. It made her weary. She hugged herself and breathed deeply. By the time the truck pulled into their driveway, she had managed to reconcile with the status quo. She opened the passenger door and said, in what she hoped was a neutral tone, “Salmon or chicken for dinner?”

  On Monday, Becca came late to the staff meeting. The others had pulled their chairs up to the whiteboard, where Jo wielded a marker. Becca slipped behind Diane and stood, head lowered. She swayed from foot to foot as Jo walked the team through a best-case timeline for the Saudi job: one week for Owen to mobilize, two weeks for coordination, and then the clock would start ticking. The staff had no questions, and Carlos gave huzzahs. They went back to their places.

  Becca approached Jo with hunched shoulders, looking smaller than her five-foot-eleven. Jo gestured for Becca to follow her into the kitchen where they’d have a degree of privacy to discuss whatever was weighing on her mind. Jo rinsed the teapot, waiting for Becca to unload. She had never been reticent.

  Becca folded hands in front of her chest. “I don’t think I can work on this project. I hope you don’t fire me because I love working for D-Three. But I can’t commit myself to propping up an oppressive regime when I could be doing positive things.”

  Jo paused, expecting her to continue. Becca remained silent. Jo said, “What sort of things?”

  “Things that are unambiguously good. Like, maybe a playroom for a clinic in the flatlands. Maybe we could build one pro bono.”

  Jo shook her head. “And you’d forfeit your salary? What happened this weekend?”

  “The Saudis used a billion dollars of US equipment to smash a hospital in Saana. Don’t you know?”

  “Not a single Saudi four-year-old was to blame. What happened to you this weekend?”

  Becca looked like she wanted to cry. “I met somebody I used to know online. She came to San Francisco for a conference. She’s an American but she lives in India and teaches children whose moms are in a microloan club. She talked about the mothers standing up to their families for the first time in their lives after they made independent money. I want to do work like that. Everything else is a waste of time.” She paused, took a deep breath. “When my parents ask me what I’m doing, I want to be proud of the answer. I don’t want to tell them I’m helping hypocrites.”

  “Don’t you think your folks are proud of how successful you are? A senior designer at your age.”

  ‘My family doesn’t care about titles.”

  “I forget you come from Puritan stock.”

  “This has nothing to do with religion. It’s ethics. I want my work to feel as good and clean as my friend’s.”

  “Did your friend say your work was dirty?”

  “Of course not. It’s me saying I should do better.” Becca’s shoulders hunched tighter. “I’m sorry, but I can’t pretend the Saudis are innocents. I hope you don’t fire me.”

  “Not now I won’t.” Jo abandoned the effort to sympathize. “Take some time to think about it. I expect you to realize that Saudi four-year-olds deserve the same break as any other four-year-olds.”

  Jo replaced the teapot in the cabinet, more concerned than she had shown. She took pride in mentoring Becca—she’d not had a mentor in her own early days—and the girl responded as well as Jo could wish. She didn’t want to lose Becca, especially for the wrong reason.

  “Why don’t you invite your friend to come over and see the kind of work we do?”

  Becca frowned.

  “I’d like to meet her.”

  “I’ll ask if she has the time.” Becca left the kitchen.

  Fingers crossed, Jo thought. Now, maybe they could all get to work.

  At four o’clock Becca ushered a pregnant young woman into the office and seated her on the couch in the cubby D-Three used for meetings. She hung up two jackets and stepped over to Jo.

  “You told me to bring my friend. I’m driving her to the airport at five. I’m going to show her our museum portfolio, if that’s okay.”

  “Of course. May I join you?”

  Becca gestured to the cubby. Jo followed her there and took a seat opposite the young woman, who smiled, really smiled, eyes crinkling in the corners.

  “You must be Ms. Dunhill. I’m so happy to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about your work.” She wore bangles on both wrists and filigree earrings but no makeup. A pleasant, plump face. A cotton dress tied loosely over the swell of her belly.

  Becca said, “Jenn lives in India and runs a school for poor children. I told you she came to San Francisco for a conference.” She pulled one of their portfolios off a shelf and spread it open on the coffee table. She began to turn the pages.

  Jo said, “Now, that sounds like interesting work. How did you come by it?” She wanted to draw Jenn out a bit, see why Becca had befriended her.

  “My husband was originally from India. We both wanted to give service, and somehow we wound up doing what we do.” She readjusted herself on the seat. “My husband and I partner with a microloan organization, but we are educators. He helps the adults and I tend to the children.”

  “Working with children is the best part of our design practice. You can have such an impact.” Jo turned to Becca, “I think you agree?”

  Becca squirmed and withdrew her hand from the portfolio. The page she’d been about to turn fell back in place.

  Jenn said, “Actually, I came to here go to a workshop on ‘kitchen science.’ One of our donors thought it would be useful.” She shook her head. “Kitchens in the deep countryside where we work are not equipped like American kitchens. I was hoping to learn about simple apparatus, like the ones Becca says you make.”

  Becca said, “Maybe we should go to the studio and see what’s on Ev’s workbench?”

  “In a minute,” Jo said, not ready to let go. “If you see something you like, we’d be happy to ship drawings to India for you, pro bono.”

  “Thank you! But I’m not going back to India for a while. I’ll be staying with my mother in New Jersey until the baby is born.”

  Becca frowned. “I didn’t know that. Why?”

  “My husband wants me to deliver our baby in the world’s best hospital.” She waved jazz hands. “But he’ll have to settle for Englewood, near my mom. I’ll go home as soon as the baby can travel.”

  Becca’s brow furrowed. “That doesn’t seem right. Like it’s a slap in the face to your clients. You’re putting your baby into a different class.” Her voice sounded tight, as if her throat were constricted.

  “I wish every one of our babies and moms could get the world’s best health care. But they can’t, and I have a first duty to my child. Arun will keep our promises to everyone back home.”

  “They may never trust you again. You’re acting like a colonial.”

  Jenn leaned back. “I understand your concern.” She folded her hands. “I think it will come out right. We’ve earned their respect.”

  “You’re healthy, aren’t you? Why risk losing ground?”

 
“Becca, I’ll only be gone six months, max.”

  “This time. And then you’ll come back to put the kid in a better school.” Becca spoke with a flat voice, no teasing in her tone.

  Jo stood. She didn’t want them to argue. Something had made prickly Becca even more prickly this afternoon. Poor kid. “Let’s go check in with Ev.”

  Jenn rose heavily and the three of them walked to the studio. Jo opened the door, and Ev looked up from the workbench, a question on his face.

  Becca said, “This is my friend Jenn. She’s interested in science exhibits you can make with simple materials and tools. She lives in the backwoods in India.”

  Ev looked back and forth between them. Jo followed his gaze: Becca tall, blonde and exigent; Jenn short, dark, and pregnant. Ev said, “Come on in. How do you know each other?”

  “We met in an online class on situational ethics a couple of years ago,” Becca said. We read each other’s submissions and decided we needed to talk. This is the first time we’ve been in the same place physically.”

  Ev motioned Jenn to come closer to the workbench. “I’ve been playing with a zoetrope today. You can make things spin without fancy equipment.”

  As Jenn stepped into Ev’s orbit, Jo pulled Becca aside. She spoke softly.

  “You seem a little testy toward your friend.”

  “I’m fine. I always tell her what I think. She expects it. She likes it. I’m surprised at her decision is all.”

  Jo didn’t buy it. “Are you still upset over Saudi Arabia?”

  Becca hesitated. “Yes and no. I know you don’t think it’s wrong to take their money. But it’s ignoble. I need more from my work.” She turned away to join her friend at the workbench.

  Jo stood in the doorway, contemplating. She remembered Becca’s once telling her, in another context, that when she was little, she used to rub salt into the cuts and scrapes she got on knees and elbows. She thought the pain would make them heal better, and she always wanted to be better. At the time, Jo had wondered what kind of mother let her kid develop a relationship with pain. Perhaps a mother who was herself a martyr. Jo didn’t pretend to understand the source of Becca’s overweening morality, but she felt its force. She hoped Jenn’s visit would end on a happy note. Becca needed friends.

  Did it make sense for people to seek nobility in their work? Pride, yes. Reward and recognition, certainly. But a job was a job, not a higher calling. She expected to reap a spectacular reward from the Saudi job down the line, but not to earn a place in heaven. Something weird was going on in Becca’s head. Jo sighed. She’d wait until Jenn left before broaching the subject again. She stepped toward the workbench to join the conversation.

  13

  The staff stood around Andy’s table, watching his photos from Calgary unroll in a PowerPoint. Andy stopped the slide show at a picture of a little girl looking at herself in a mirror. She wore three pair of outsized eye glasses, dreadlocks made of wool in her hair, and a metal collar around her neck. Behind her, sepia photos of nineteenth-century men sporting mustaches and sideburns were mounted on the wall, with a sign, “Re-design Your Face.”

  Carlos said, “Where did she get the gear?”

  Andy said, “From bins on the table in front of the mirror.

  Becca said, “Sure makes the point.”

  “What’s the point?” Diane asked.

  “That we construct our identities with props.”

  “Will kids get that?”

  “Yes, if they play around with the stuff.”

  Jo addressed Andy. “Did you find anything about careers we can use?”

  Andy said, “Nada. But they have some good classroom programs. I’ll type up my notes for Becca.” He ended the slide show.

  Jo said, “Nice job.” She turned to the others. “Anybody have anything else?”

  Carlos said, “I didn’t finish the book Ev gave me, but I discovered something. The author, he’s a reporter. You know how he figured out how much money the Saudi big shots make? They get divorced in the US and their wives tell the lawyers.”

  The others laughed. Carlos said, “Wouldn’t happen in my house!”

  Andy closed his computer. Except for Jo, people returned to their work stations. In the few days since Becca’s friend, Jenn, had visited, she and Becca had hardly talked. She decided to take advantage of the light-hearted moment and stepped to Becca’s desk.

  “Ev told me he sent a packet of sketches to your friend in New Jersey. Have you heard back from her?”

  Becca sighed. “She said thanks.”

  Jo leaned over the desk to look into Becca’s eyes. “You don’t seem happy. What’s going on?”

  “Not much.”

  “Come on. Talk to me.”

  Becca leaned back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest. “I’m disappointed. All the time Jenn and I messaged each other, I was excited. Another woman my age who cared about what I cared about. And she was so smart, and humble, and thoughtful. And rigorous. I thought we’d be tight.”

  Jo waited.

  “She’s screwing up, and she’s subordinating herself to her husband.” Becca’s face contorted.

  “What did she say about her husband?”

  “Nothing specific, but I could tell. She glowed every time she said his name.”

  “Becca, you can’t know what the deal is between them. You could be reading your own biases into their situation.”

  “So could you. You like it when one person is the boss.”

  I do and I don’t, Jo thought. Becca was still so green.

  “The men I date say they want equality in relationships. But they really don’t.” She paused. “I have standards.”

  And they’re getting in your way, Jo thought.

  Across the room the landline rang and Carlos answered. He called over to Jo, saying Phil Owen was on the phone. Jo braced herself to hear Owen renege about something or other. She nodded to Becca and crossed the room to Carlos. She took the handset from him and put the call on speaker; Carlos hovered beside her.

  “I have had a mild heart attack, or so my doctor says. An early Christmas present. Now my doctor is forbidding travel. So I propose to trade roles with you on the ground in Saudi. You supervise the market research as well as the demonstration, and I’ll write the entire strategic plan. We’ll bid jointly on the next phase, assuming there is one.”

  Stunned, Jo said nothing.

  “I’ll make it worth your while, say a ten percent bump on your fee.”

  “I’m sorry you’re ill.” Jo tried to collect her racing thoughts. “I’m surprised to hear your proposition. I don’t think you and I are interchangeable.”

  “Unusual circumstances require unusual solutions. Can you work with me?”

  “Let me talk to Ev. When do you need an answer?”

  “ASAP. The research is scheduled to begin February first. You can fly to London and join my staff for the rest of the trip.”

  As Jo hung up, electricity surged through her, not because Owen had suffered but because she spied opportunity. D-Three could hook up with a research team and run the whole shebang. Surely the director would be pleased. Her heart beat faster; her prospects suddenly looked smashingly good. She turned to Carlos, whose face was screwed into a question mark. She gestured toward the studio and he followed, Diane on his heels. They found Ev sitting on the concrete floor, fitting erector set pieces together. He stopped, hands mid-air, when the three of them tumbled through his door. Jo repeated the conversation word for word. Ev slowly got up and put the metal slats he had been holding into a cereal box.

  “We don’t do research,” he said.

  “What if we get Jeff’s crew to do the research? Their research, our demo, we write the strategic plan. No more Phil Owen. Period.”

  “If we farm out the research piece we won’t make a dime.”

  “Yeah, but we’ll get the implementation contract later.”

  “Can we talk in private?” Ev asked.

  Jo
nodded to Carlos and Diane, who backed away.

  When the studio door had closed completely, Ev said, “Are you sure you want to do the whole thing? It may never go to implementation. Or they could gin up a lower bidder.”

  “Hey, business means risk.”

  “You’re asking for a load of misery. Strategic plans are bullshit.”

  “I’m asking you to agree to a challenge. We can shape this plan so it works.”

  “Is this about revenge on Owen?”

  She was miffed. “Of course not. This is about autonomy.”

  “Is this about paying off the bank? We could get another extension.”

  “Probably not.” She felt a surge of impatience.

  Ev wedged the cereal box into a crowded shelf above the drill press and spoke over his shoulder. “You are overreaching. The Saudis want to import a children’s museum but they don’t want the behavior that goes with it.” He turned to face her. “I don’t want to spend the next two years explaining open-ended play to bureaucrats. I don’t want more heartache, for either of us.”

  Now she was angry. “Don’t talk to me about heartache. I’m the one who cleans up messes around here. We need the business.”

  She spun on her heel and left him behind. He could be so obstinate, and he sucked at strategy. She felt one hundred percent justified. Instead of entering the house, she walked around outside to cool down.

  Ev took his dinner plate to the sink and offered to do the dishes. They’d eaten a tuna salad again, about which he hadn’t complained, again, although he had complained about her perseverating about Owen. She’d tried, again, to convince him they should take over the whole shebang. And he’d resisted, changed the subject to how much he’d enjoyed talking with Becca’s friend the other day. Jo had had to stop listening.

  She told Ev no, she’d do the washing up because she wanted to collect her thoughts. He left the kitchen, and she carried the rest of the dishes to the sink. She squirted detergent into the basin as it filled with hot water and picked up a sponge. Ev had accused her of hubris. He’d been wrong. She could run the whole project better than Phil Owen could. Authentically, without phony hand waving. But they had signed an agreement, and the lawyers would object to breaking it. And it would cost thousands and take months. He’d been right on that score.