The Contract

by Sheila Grinell

  The line went dead. Jo hung up the receiver. She heard the singer, the oud, the chatter of the partygoers, the braying of the camel. She could not move. She could not rejoin the others to play a Middle Eastern game.

  Diane poked her head into the office. “What did the lady say?”

  “The director’s husband crashed his airplane. The project is dead.”

  “Oh my god. I’m so sorry.” She looked stricken. “Are your friends okay?”

  Jo shrugged. “The project is dead.” She was whispering now. “Can you come back to the party? They’ll miss you.”

  “I can’t.”

  Jo turned and walked upstairs. She wanted to disappear. The thing she longed for, the prize for which she had been struggling, the world-class stage on which to present her credentials, ripped away. Her very bones ached in defeat.

  She lay down on their bed. She knew she should feel sorry for the director, but she felt nothing, as if a switch had been thrown and a current had erased her mind. She knew she should feel sorry that Saudi girls would continue to be neglected by the Ministry of Education, but she did not. She knew she should regroup, but she could not. She had read somewhere that extreme joy felt like pain and extreme pain felt like joy. She felt neither; she felt nothing.

  Ev knocked on the bedroom door and pushed it open. He stood over her. “Jo.”

  She didn’t look at him.

  “Why are you up here? You’ve thrown a wonderful party for some good people. Come join them.”

  She had nothing to say to him. He hadn’t cared about the project, not the way she had.

  He sat beside her. “Are you okay?”

  “Go. Party.”

  He stood and walked to the door. She heard him go down the stairs. She heard Carlos call to him and the little girls shriek playfully. She heard a cascade of melancholy chords produced by a lone oud. Joey’s laughter floated up the stairs. She stared at the ceiling. A year of hope and sweat and tears had come to nothing.

  24

  She didn’t rejoin the party. The next week, she didn’t return to her desk. She hung out in the bedroom and took slow, meandering walks. After a while, at Ev’s urging, she got back on her bicycle, and it helped. After a while her appetite returned and she began to assemble light meals. At Diane’s suggestion, she checked out the yoga studio down the hill. She didn’t like it, but her headache faded. She began to brood less about what could have been. She began to read her mail. It did not stimulate her to look for new accounts, but she bent her will to maintenance tasks. She fell into the rhythm of the office, albeit with a dry mouth.

  Then Phil Owen called, and Ev passed the phone to her. She put it on speaker.

  “Well my dear, I’ve been told our final payment has been approved. I will cut you a check for the demo and travel, plus your share of the contingency and profit. I’d like a small consideration in return.”

  She had expected to bicker over pennies. She perked up.

  “I want to show your mothers’ club material to another international client as an example of culturally appropriate programming. The Saudis wouldn’t know or care if I used their intellectual property, but you would, and I want to remain in your good graces. As a potential collaborator.”

  “I’m surprised. I thought you blamed me for opening Pandora’s box.”

  “You closed it again. Tightly. The Saudi system killed the job, as simple as that.” He paused. “What do you say to my proposition?”

  Jo liked the idea of a fat check in the mail. They needed the cash. She liked Owen’s asking to use their work rather than stealing it. She liked his placing blame on an authoritarian culture rather than an unlucky pilot or a warring design team.

  “Sure, if you include D-Three in the credits.”

  They exchanged sign-offs and Jo hung up. Owen’s behaving decently made her feel lighter, and she floated up from her chair. Ev gave her a questioning look and she hugged him. She’d never work with Phil Owen again—he’d called her a whining woman—but the wolf had been banished from their door.

  Ev wrapped his arms around her. “Now are you ready to go back to work?” He gave her forehead a peck.

  She whispered, “Almost.”

  On Saturday, Joey turned eighteen and aged out of the special school in which he’d been enrolled. Diane organized a “flying up” ceremony at her place, although it wasn’t yet clear where he would fly to. She’d invited Jo and Ev, Joey’s aides, and his best friend from school, Megan, with her aides and parents. Jo made an effort to look nice, her first since the plane crash, in honor of her nephew. She wore a dress with a diagonal, purple design and the dangling earrings Joey had played with as a kid. Ev wore a jacket over his jeans. He brought the present he’d purchased, the next video game in the children’s series Joey liked, wrapped in three layers of washi. Joey liked to unwrap, and Ev liked the feel of washi in his fingers.

  Diane had pushed a table to the side of the concrete slab in her backyard that served as a patio and covered it with a paper tablecloth in Joey’s favorite yellow. She’d placed a karaoke machine at the other side—it was Joey’s new favorite toy—and ranged chairs along the perimeter. Megan’s parents sat stiffly on two adjacent chairs. The four aides, twenty-somethings, joshed each other and the kids, whooping and laughing. Ev went over to them to show them how to fold origami animals. Jo went to the kitchen to help Diane carry the spread outside: half sandwiches, cookies, cut fruit, slices of cake, chips and dip. Joey preferred peanut butter and jelly to everything else. The dog followed Jo’s every move

  As people helped themselves, Diane turned on the karaoke machine. She selected a slow, sweet Dolly Parton song that reminded Jo of their childhood. Wondering what Joey remembered about his life before Oakland, Jo approached him and took his hands in hers.

  “Remember I taught you how to dance in your old house? Let’s dance.”

  Joey grinned and withdrew his hands. “I want to dance with Megan.” He loped over to his friend, who was talking to her mother, and took her hands. They held each other appropriately and shuffled to and fro in the middle of the patio. The aides clapped and whistled. The dog yelped at them. Jo realized Joey’s being eighteen meant more than she had anticipated, and she felt a twinge at losing priority in her nephew’s affections. She walked over to her sister as the song played on.

  “I didn’t know Joey had a girlfriend.”

  “The aides have caught them making out a couple of times. I don’t think it’s gone further, although he gets hefty hard-ons.”

  “How are you going to handle his love life?”

  Diane held arms akimbo. “One day at a time.” She turned to Jo. “You know, this is a plus. For him, something normal in a sea of abnormal. For me, too.”

  “But it won’t be normal?”

  Diane’s face took on the same piteous expression Myriam’s had all those months ago. “This is Joey’s version of the senior prom. He and I are both enjoying it, just as it is. I’ve learned to control my dreams.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “I just do it. Joey’s a great kid. He loves back.”

  The song ended. Diane put on her filigreed eyeglasses, saying, “Excuse me. Gotta find a fast one.” She scanned the karaoke list.

  Jo was stunned. She’d always considered Diane’s sloppy, harried demeanor a sign of bad character. But Diane wasn’t sloppy when it came to Joey. She was exacting and strong in a way Jo hadn’t fully appreciated.

  Jo drifted across the deck, past Joey and Megan holding hands as they waited for the next song to begin, and took the chair beside Megan’s mother. An old George Jones tune began to play and one of the aides grabbed the mic and starting bellowing. The others gathered around him; someone clapped to the beat and the others joined in. Megan’s mother, who looked pained, pointed to her daughter, still holding onto Joey, and said something to her husband. She turned to Jo.

  “She’s too young for this.”

  “How old is Megan?”

  “Sixt
een. Your sister shouldn’t let them touch.”

  “They seem careful of one another.”

  The woman snorted. “She is going to be heartbroken when Joey goes away. Your sister said she’d bring him back to visit, but I don’t expect it.” She clutched her husband’s hand. “I don’t want Megan to regress.” The woman’s face twisted in what Jo read as hope battling fear.

  “Can you send Megan to Joey’s new school?”

  “Not in another state. We can’t afford to.” She spat out her words. “We’re not those kind of people.” She leaned back and scrutinized Jo. “I don’t know how your sister can afford it.”

  “She works hard.”

  “A single mother? You must be paying for it.”

  Nasty woman! “Good luck with Megan.” Jo got up and walked toward the karaoke machine. Diane was bent over it, adjusting the volume.

  “Megan’s mother doesn’t like you.”

  “She’s having trouble letting Megan grow up.”

  Jo took Diane’s arm, “When were you going to tell me you’re taking Joey out of state?”

  Diane removed her glasses and straightened up. Jo had her attention. “When you were back to your old self. I told Ev.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To either San Jose or Tucson. It depends on the financial aid package.”

  “Pick San Jose.” Jo wanted to grab her and hold her in place.

  Diane shook her head. “Even if we go to San Jose, I couldn’t commute to Oakland.” She lowered her voice. “I hate leaving you. But I have to take care of Joey. I’m not like you, Jo. I’m not engaged in the business. All I ever wanted was to be a mother. A good mother. I have Joey, and I’m blessed.”

  Jo fought to keep back tears.

  Diane dropped the eyeglasses and embraced her. “We’ll visit. You can’t get rid of me, Big Sister.”

  “I don’t want to.” It was true! She wanted Diane near her. To care for her and to be cared for by her.

  Diane gave a squeeze and let go. “Time for another song.” She turned to the machine and picked up the playlist. “Maybe Joey will dance with you now.”

  Jo looked over her shoulder for her nephew. He was at the center of the karaoke crowd, still holding one of Megan’s hands. She turned back. “I think not.” She retrieved the eyeglasses and handed them to her sister. “I’ll start to clean up.”

  She went into the kitchen to hide from the noise. Ev was at the fridge, scrounging a beer. He looked up.

  “Ready to go?”

  She nodded. Diane’s announcement had broken her open, and the past month’s events whirled in her head. She needed the calm of home to think. Someone else could clean up.

  It was sweater cool on the patio that evening. She sat in the Adirondack chair the house’s previous owners had left behind and watched Ev behind the studio glass. He was wrapping plastic around the last of his refurbished displays to transport to San Francisco over the weekend. A xylophone in the shape of a giraffe, where the high notes climbed higher up the neck. He had thought it would give users a visceral feel for pitch, but it had proved too cumbersome; kids didn’t climb on the attached stepstool and raced past. Ev thought it might charm adults.

  The lights went off in the studio. He emerged carrying his notebook and noticed her sitting there in the half light from the house. She gestured for him to come. He pulled a storage box over beside her chair and sat.

  Jo said, “I’ve been thinking about sweaters.” She stroked the front of hers.

  Ev raised his eyebrows.

  “When I was a kid I used to think a sweater made you warm. You put on the sweater when it got chilly, and the sweater made you warm. I didn’t understand for years—for decades, until you said something about insulation—that you made you warm. You were the source of the heat. The sweater just kept the heat in.” She paused. “I’m having a sweater moment.”

  He looked interested.

  “For years I thought Diane was a purposeless flake. Uh uh. She’s passionate about motherhood.”

  “Yeah. She copied you.”

  “Me?”

  “She once told me she followed you around when you were kids, and she wanted to take care of things like you did. And then she named Joey after you.”

  Jo sat up. “No! She named him after his father, Jimmy something.”

  Ev shook his head. “You are stubborn.” He stretched and arched his back. “Are we done?”

  She nodded. He got up and headed for the house.

  She leaned back in the chair. Oh my god, she thought, he’s right. A wave of pleasure flowed through her.

  Then she knew.

  She hadn’t been mourning the Saudi job, she’d been mourning justice denied. She’d expected acclaim about the job to make up for every slight the profession had given her, to make her glamorous at last. So puny an ambition compared to Diane’s!

  Or to Myriam’s.

  Another sweater moment. She didn’t miss the Saudi job, she missed Myriam. She missed her wisdom and her power. No small feat to bore from within. She wanted to reach halfway around the world to celebrate sisterhood with her, with or without the veil.

  It had gotten cold. There was a limit to how much comfort one thin sweater could provide. There was a limit to how many raw, pregnant thoughts she could entertain. She grasped the chair’s arms and raised herself to standing. She went into the house to get ready for bed. She hoped Ev was already asleep since she was not prepared to talk.

  25

  Jo helped Ev carry the giraffe-xylophone from the truck into the warehouse behind the gallery. The gallery staff—a pale young man and a chubby woman who wore very good clothes—had arranged all twenty-five of Ev’s pieces along the rear wall. Eying the giraffe, the young man began to slide a few pedestals together to make room. He helped Ev maneuver the instrument into place and then went to find the boss.

  The young man reappeared, with Jack behind him and three other men on his heels. Jack strode toward Ev and Jo, hand outstretched. Ev swaggered over to him—Jo’s skin prickled—and they shook hands. Jack swiveled to Jo.

  “Good to see you again, Jo. Hope you don’t mind my fishing buddies. We’re leaving for Montana from here.”

  He did not wait for a reply. He strolled along the wall, tweaking a lever here and there. His friends followed. They peeled off separately, each stopping in front of a display that caught his fancy. They manhandled the displays, just like kids. They called to each other to come see, just like kids, except in baritone. They regrouped and burst into boisterous laughter. The staff stood at the sidelines, pen and clipboard in hand, watching Jack’s moves. Jo could not read their expressions.

  Jack came to the end of the lineup and turned to face them. He pointed to the pedestal that bore one of Ev’s abstract pieces, a multi-faceted cube suspended in a frame in which it twisted as if on gimbals. The faces were made of dichroic glass that sparkled in different colors depending on the angle at which light struck. Ev had attached an LED lamp to a gooseneck at the base so you could direct a spot of light anywhere you wanted.

  “Now, that’s a beauty,” Jack said. “It’s bright, whimsical. Has your name written all over it. But it could be even better.” Jack motioned to the young man, “Eric, see if you can detach the lamp.”

  Ev took a step toward Eric. Jack held up his hand to stop him. “Easy, we’re not doing anything, just investigating. I know my market. They like mystery.”

  “Tell him not to touch my stuff.” Ev’s back hunched.

  “Sure.” Jack nodded to Eric, who retreated to his place. “We’re just looking.”

  “Why?” Jo stepped forward, sensing she must intervene.

  “I can use half a dozen of these pieces as is. I want your husband to tweak the others. Lizzie will coach him. She’s got great taste.”

  Ev blanched. “I already tweaked them. They’re finished.”

  “Look, you’re a newbie. After we make your name, you won’t need suggestions.”

  E
v shut his mouth.

  “I have a customer in mind who’d salivate over that piece if it had clean lines.”

  Jo said, “It does have clean lines.”

  Jack turned to Ev. “You realize you’re contractually bound to improve the ones I want improved. In your own way, of course.”

  Jo looked at Ev in amazement. His face was blank. She turned to Jack. “What do you mean ‘contractually bound’?”

  Jack flicked his wrist and Lizzie produced a document from a folder on her clipboard. Jo scanned it. Bunch of boilerplate. Ev’s signature at the bottom. He’d signed a contract without telling her. What a jerk! Then she saw an opening.

  “You contracted with Dunhill + Dana + Design,” she said slowly, “not with Ev personally. For deals over five thousand dollars, you need two signatures, Ev’s and mine. This isn’t valid.” She handed the document back to Lizzie.

  Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Signature is a formality. Your husband agreed to the terms of the show.”

  “The formality would hold up in court.”

  He drew himself taller. “Do you want a show or not?”

  She glanced at Ev, still silent and pale. “Not on your terms. But we’ll be happy to negotiate a new contract.”

  Jack broke into a smile. “If you think you can satisfy me, I’ll give a listen when I get back.” He turned to his staff. “Consolidate the stuff. I’ll be back end of the week.” He turned to his pals. “Fishermen, let’s go!”

  At the door, he turned back and pointed. “Take that giraffe thing home. Too gimmicky. It’d turn off the serious collector.”

  The four men cleared out quickly. Lizzie and Eric began to push the pedestals into a corner. Ev’s face turned from white to red.

  “We can leave.”

  “Don’t you want to talk with the staff?”

  “Nope.” He bent to pick up the plastic with which the giraffe-xylophone had been covered. “Help me bring it home?”

  They wrapped the instrument and lugged it to the door. Lizzie stopped them to ask when they’d be back. Jo said when Jack was prepared to re-negotiate. Lizzie looked doubtful. Ev thanked the woman for her help and proceeded onto the loading dock. He and Jo tied down the giraffe and got in the truck. Ev backed away from the building and drove to the freeway with uncustomary speed. Jo raised her eyebrows but waited until they were well onto the bridge, past Treasure Island, before speaking.