The Contract

by Sheila Grinell

  She reached for the glasses, soaping and rinsing them under the faucet one at a time. When she moved on to the big wooden salad bowl, submerging its lower half into the suds, an idea occurred to her. Perhaps the two firms could share both halves of the job. What if she took Phil Owen’s place on the research team and collaborated with him on the plan? D-Three might be able to achieve a degree of independence as well as make a profit.

  She picked up the oily Pyrex cup in which she’d whisked Ev’s favorite salad dressing. If Owen agreed, she and Becca could get in gear right away. Damn. Becca, who now wished only to serve some exalted purpose. She needed Becca to make the deal work. No one else in the office would be as accurate yet imaginative. Getting her to want the Saudi job was the problem. Getting her to open her mind! Becca needed to learn that building a museum for a Junior Leaguer was no holier than building one for a woman shrouded in a veil. Becca needed to learn that, in the real world, “good” and “bad” were sometimes indistinguishable.

  Could she keep Becca on the project? Ev would know. Ev could share a beer with her. Or, Diane might be able to help persuade the girl. The thought of depending on Diane made her shudder.

  She lifted a spatula from the soapy water and used a scratchy to remove the cheese encrusted at its tip. Something rankled the pit of her stomach. What if Becca’s objections were valid? What if the Saudis tried to manipulate her into violating first principles? She shook her head. A strong-minded person could stick to her values no matter what. She had a plan, a good one. If the director would still back her.

  She dried her hands and found her phone. It would be morning in Riyadh. She dialed Myriam.

  Jo said, “Owen and I have been talking about exchanging some of our roles. The proposed work will still get done, and Ev will still be creative director. Will that affect you?”

  “If you are happy, we are happy.”

  “What if I accompany the research team instead of Phil Owen?”

  “Excellent! The sooner you come, the sooner you learn how we do things. I want you to meet the leaders of the Riyadh school district.”

  Jo took a deep breath. “I think Owen has already planned the visit.”

  “Then you must change the plan. I want you to meet the school district.”

  “Will you come with me to translate?”

  “I will go to the female division, Inshallah. They will tell you the truth. You will have a male interpreter for the male division. They will be formal.”

  Jo thanked Myriam and hung up, heart swelling in anticipation. This new arrangement had possibilities. She wanted to meet the female leaders of the school district and hear “the truth.” She was bound to learn a thing or two, regardless of what Phil Owen said and did. She turned off the kitchen light and went upstairs to find Ev.

  14

  At eight o’clock on New Year’s Eve, Jo and Ev stood on the threshold of Diane’s apartment. Diane opened the door before Jo could knock a second time. She had asked Jo to fill in for her regular babysitters, who were all partying. Jo hadn’t planned anything special for New Year’s and Ev had said he’d help, so they’d agreed to sit. Joey could be fun.

  Diane wore tight black pants, four-inch red heels, and a white blouse that slipped off one shoulder. Over forty and still a looker, Jo thought. The living room smelled faintly of dog. Diane’s new mutt raced past and jumped up to sniff the box in Ev’s arms. Joey emerged from his bedroom and lunged after the dog. He beamed at his uncle and aunt, shouting, “Hell-o, hell-o” in his man’s voice with its childish inflections. Ev had brought a box of homemade blocks, expecting to build forts and bridges with his nephew. Jo had brought her laptop, expecting to work while the guys played. Both men could concentrate on towers and bridges for hours.

  Diane said, “Hairy needs to go out back before bedtime. The landlord wouldn’t let me put in a doggy door, but the yard is fenced. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

  Ev said, “No problem,” and laid the box on the coffee table. Jo saw him survey the room looking for the best construction site.

  “Any other instructions?” Jo asked.

  “Joey usually goes to sleep at ten, but he can stay up later tonight. He’s excited to see you.”

  “Does he go to sleep by himself?”

  “He knows what to do. Ev should watch him in the bathroom, though. And it would be great if you read to him. There are some books beside the bed. He sleeps with a nightlight.”

  She bustled around the room, straightening throw pillows and gathering purse and shawl. “I’ll be back around one. Thank you so much. I really appreciate this.” She hugged her son. “Listen to Aunt Jo, okay? I’ll see you in the morning.” She kissed him and stepped to the door. “Happy New Year, all.” She closed the door behind her.

  Diane’s living room looked a lot like her childhood home: threadbare furniture, an old-fashioned TV, nothing on the walls except for a poster of redwoods from AAA. The kitchenette was festive in comparison: Joey’s artwork festooned the fridge and cabinets; flyers covered a bulletin board; an oversized calendar bore color-coded notations and stars for good behavior. On the wall above the Formica table, Diane’s associate’s diploma hung in a cheap frame. Jo unloaded her laptop on the table, popped a bottle of bubbly into the fridge, and stepped into the hall. It had been a while since she’d visited, so she intended to snoop.

  The master bedroom where Joey slept was impeccably outfitted. On one wall, shelves full of books and toys and electronic apparatus; on another wall, a desk with reading lamp, computer, and colorful notebooks from which papers protruded. Near the bed, a cabinet for medicine bottles, jars of herbal remedies, and a humidifier. On the floor, a spotless area rug and a doggie cushion in the corner.

  Across the hall, in Diane’s bedroom, which was barely big enough for her bed and bureau, piles of clothes lay on the floor in front of the closet, as if they had had toppled there when she last opened the door. A basket on top of the bureau held too many lipsticks and vials of makeup and hair gunk. Pictures of Joey were taped haphazardly to the wall beside the window. Jo thought, if Diane can keep house for Joey, why can’t she keep house for herself? The chaos made her shudder.

  Noise came from the living room: the clatter of wooden blocks spilling onto the floor and Joey whooping. Jo returned to see Ev carefully positioning blocks on top of the coffee table. Joey sat next to him, running his fingers over the shapes and grunting in obvious pleasure. The dog cruised the table top, nudging things askew with his snout.

  Jo asked, “Do you want me to take Hairy into the kitchen so he doesn’t bother you?”

  Ev said, “Nah, he’s fine here.”

  “He’s playing, too,” Joey said.

  Jo nodded. Ev had a soft spot for dogs as well as kids. He sometimes put dog food out behind the studio in a metal dish scrounged from one of his projects and played with the creatures that came to eat it. She was indifferent to animals.

  She went into the kitchen to plug in her computer. Glancing around for an outlet, she noticed a mess of dirty dishes and pots in the sink. She whispered “shit” and turned on the hot water. Cleaning up after her sister—what a way to ring in the New Year! But this new year promised better, and the thought of all D-Three might accomplish in Saudi Arabia gave her heart.

  They let Joey stay up with them to sip champagne and watch the New Year Ball descend. Ev offered to read him to sleep and escorted him to his bedroom. Ev soon emerged and sat down beside Jo to share the rest of the bottle.

  “Joey’s a sweet kid,” Ev said. “I’ve been thinking. If Diane ever needed it, we could take him in.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He needs to be cared for by people who understand him.”

  “Did Diane say anything to you?”

  “I could take good care of him. In her absence, I mean.”

  “We don’t have time to care for a handicapped child.”

  “I would find the time, if you were agreeable.”

  She was no
t, and he knew it.

  Ev stood and stretched. “I’m going to snooze a while. Join me?”

  She shook her head. They’d settled the children issue years ago. The champagne must have got to him. She did not relish ignoring his desire to nurture. It pained her to deny him. But she had no choice. She had other priorities. She took another sip.

  Jo woke, shivering on the couch, as Diane slipped into the living room at four in the morning. Jo turned on the lamp, thinking she must have fallen asleep over the last of the wine. Her throat hurt and she had to pee.

  Diane said, “Sorry I’m late. I met a guy and I had a great, great time.” She sounded drunk.

  “You’re in bad shape. How did you get home?”

  “Nooooo, I’m in goood shape. My handsome prince drove me.” She kicked off her shoes and sank into the chair opposite Jo. “If I hadn’t promised to come home, I’d still be in his bed.” She closed her eyes. “It … felt … so … good. Not just the sex.”

  “Will you ever see Prince Charming again?”

  “Does it matter? An adult male danced with me, drank with me, and fucked me. This doesn’t happen every day.”

  “You’re asking for trouble.”

  “I’m asking for a break. I need a break.” She sat up. “Where’s Joey?”

  “Asleep. Ev gave him two sips of champagne at midnight. He didn’t like it.”

  “Great.” She leaned back and covered her eyes with her hand.

  “So tell me about Prince Charming.”

  Diane shook her head. “He’s the kind of guy you meet at a party. Not the kind of guy you bring home to Mama.”

  “Are you going to see him again?”

  “It’s none of your business!”

  Jo felt insulted. “Don’t ask me to babysit if you’re just going to screw around.” She heard the righteousness in her tone, but didn’t care.

  “There’s nothing wrong with screwing around once in two years! You always suspect me of god knows what.” She sat up again. “I bet you inspected the bathroom for drugs.”

  “Should I have?”

  “Oh, lord. Get the poker out of your ass!”

  Jo had heard those words before, sometimes said with affection, sometimes with scorn. She stiffened.

  Diane rose. “I have to lie down. I’ll see you in the morning. Thanks for everything.” She tottered into her bedroom and closed the door.

  Jo got up to pee, stifling the protest in her throat. She had every right to ask about Diane’s business. Diane had dragged her in. Diane always dragged her in sooner or later. She stepped out of the bathroom and saw Ev standing in front of Joey’s door, the dog at his feet. He shushed her with his finger across his lips. They tiptoed into the living room.

  Ev said, “Do you want to stay here or go home?”

  “Home. I don’t want to see Diane’s hangover in the morning.”

  He let Hairy out the back door. “Joey can take care of himself, and he’ll take care of his mom, too.” He chuckled.

  Jo did not find it funny.

  Ev picked up a few straggling blocks, tucked them in the box, and shoved it under the coffee table. Jo retrieved her laptop from the kitchen. They exited quietly and got into the truck. Ev turned the heat to full blast and backed away. He drove more carefully than usual, “watching out for drunken revelers,” he said with a grin. Jo did not reply, her louche baby sister’s words echoing in her ears. If not for her fight with Diane, the New Year would have started off perfectly well. She kept her mouth shut all the way home.

  Jo sat at her desk reviewing the plan for the coming research trip to Riyadh. Owen had sent an outline, and Diane had annotated it, interweaving Jo’s travel schedule and documentation with precision, with the same level of care with which she organized Joey’s room. Jo thought about what things were like at D-Three before Diane joined the staff, before Diane became adept at Gant charts and everything else she did behind the scenes. The business ran better because of Diane. She depended on Diane, although she didn’t like to. And why not? Because Diane would make another, thoughtless life mistake, and it would be so damn frustrating to watch.

  Jo got up and went to the kitchen, mechanically putting on the kettle while New Year’s Eve replayed in her head. She disapproved of casual sex with a stranger who could be a mass murderer for all Diane knew. It could lead to an STD, or abuse, or at the very least, heartache, and Big Sister would be left cleaning up. But something else festered.

  The poker up her ass.

  The accusation hurt. She considered herself a risk taker, an adventurer of the mind if not the body. She did not consider herself crabby or prudish or rigid in any way that counted. Determined, yes, but not rigid. Yes, some people reacted badly to her drive. But until now, never Diane.

  Her phoned buzzed. Ev texted, “Come to the studio.” She turned off the kettle and put on the jacket hanging by the back door. When she nudged the studio door open, Ev was standing on a stepladder on top of the workbench, working on something suspended from the ceiling. Too wobbly and too high!

  “Will you please come down? I can’t talk to you up there.”

  He grasped the top of the stepladder with both hands before looking down at her. “I’m done.” He climbed down the stepladder to the workbench and jumped from the bench to the floor, looking pink and proud of himself. “New Year’s resolution: install that pulley. Now Carlos and I can lift with the winch instead of our backs. Want to see it work?”

  She nodded. He was going to show her anyway. She took a step back. He attached the rope that hung from the pulley to a crate and pressed a remote control. The machine on other side of the workbench growled, and the crate slowly rose from the floor.

  “Cool, huh?” He pressed another button and the crate lowered back down.

  She gave him a weak smile.

  He approached her. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

  “I am.”

  “So? What’s up?”

  She might as well spit it out. “Diane said I have a poker up my ass.”

  “Ouch.”

  “She was drunk and angry because I criticized her one-night stand.”

  “Kiss and make up.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  He pulled her toward him. She rested her head on his shoulder. He whispered in her ear, “You and Diane just have different styles. Poker versus gin rummy.”

  She pushed him away. “It’s not funny. I have to be the taskmaster around here. No one else is going to make things happen.”

  “You do it well. I’m grateful, and so is Diane.”

  “That’s not what she said.”

  “She is. She’s different from you, but she loves you.”

  Yeah, Jo thought, and she harbors resentments that come out with booze. She would have to be careful around Diane going forward. And she would watch her own behavior in the office. Because sometimes she did feel a poker in her spine. Sometimes it saved D-Three’s collective ass.

  She turned to leave. “Thanks for listening. Don’t climb that ladder alone.”

  “Right.”

  As she crossed the studio threshold, she visualized the time he had tried to erect a scaffold by himself, and she’d found him unconscious and bleeding on the studio floor. She’d panicked, called 911, howled at the thought of losing him. He’d turned out to have suffered a concussion, from which he recovered, but she’d spent two weeks in hell until he’d come back to himself completely.

  He was himself.

  She went back to her desk and powered up the computer, feeling better able to concentrate. Ev had that effect on her, and it had nothing to do with his words. His oblique approach to the world, so different from hers, refreshed her.

  She pulled up the file of questions for which she would seek answers from teachers, school administrators, leaders of extracurricular programs, and, of course, the client’s representatives. It would be up to her to gather qualitative information while Owen’s team ferreted out hard data. The travel itself did
n’t excite her, but getting a better feel for possibilities in Riyadh did. Diane would see that she captained the ship with a steady hand and all necessary flexibility.

  15

  On this February morning in Riyadh, the sky was a cloudless blue. Jo stood outside the hotel, waiting in the mild sunshine for Myriam to collect her. A group of women stepped out the lobby door, chattering and stealing a glance at her in passing. Amazing how quickly you got used to seeing women in abayas. Even more amazing, how quickly you got used to wrapping yourself up in black. The head scarf sitting uneasily on Jo’s curls occasionally slipped backwards, and she hoped a foreign woman’s inadvertent breach of etiquette would be excused. She looked across the street to the pale stucco walls of a building complex. Not much color on these streets except for the occasional commercial sign. She wondered if she could get used to a city made of sand.

  She had not asked Peter to join her because Myriam would translate. Ev had stayed home to design a skeleton structure on which to mount the demonstration exhibits. He’d been sulking since they finalized the subcontract. He didn’t think she should assume responsibility for any part of the research, and certainly not for the “bullshit” strategic plan. She reminded him that she had not assumed control of anything, just taken over Owen’s plane ticket. Owen’s two-man team would do the legwork—visit the zoo, collect demographic data, etc.—and she would conduct one-on-one interviews. She’d asked him to trust her and prepared to proceed alone.

  A gray SUV pulled up. The driver, a young man in Western dress, got out and opened a backseat door, gesturing for her to enter. He said good morning in English. Inside the car, Myriam beckoned. A wide woman, she occupied half the leather banquette. Jo swished in beside her.

  “Your driver speaks English?”

  Myriam laughed in a low rumble. “That is my son, Ahmed. The one who studies physics. I want him to meet you and Doctor Everett. For inspiration.”