by BJ Knapp
Tim glares at me for a moment, and I look back as if to say, “What?” Then he turns his attention to Portia. “Mother, I don’t want to get a divorce. Would you please be nice?”
“Then darling, why on earth did you tell me you’d moved out?” she asks.
“Um, Tim?” I ask, tugging on his arm. “May I please have a moment in private with you—darling?” I smile at Portia. “Would you excuse us for one moment?”
Tim scowls at me but agrees to walk out of earshot of his mother. “Are you fucking crazy?” I hiss. “You told her that we’re getting divorced?”
“No, I didn’t. She called me on my cell and came and met me at the shop one night, and she figured out that I was staying there. She got onto this divorce stuff on her own.”
“Tim,” I say, sighing, “is she going to sic her crazy lawyer on me now?”
“No, I’ll ask her not to. She’ll listen to me.”
I don’t really want to come between Tim and his mom. It’s great that he’s so close to her; but she does need to get a life of her own. I had always figured that, if I ignored it long enough, eventually she’d warm to me. After thirteen years, it hasn’t happened yet, as evidenced by her willingness to help Tim divorce me—even when he says he doesn’t want a divorce. Something has got to change, and it’s obvious that Tim won’t be the one to make it happen.
“Will you please tell her to go home?” I ask. I don’t want to give Portia even more of a reason to hate me, but the last thing I need is her involvement in this mess. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but we have enough going on here without her getting involved.”
“You’re right.” He runs his hands though his hair. “I’ll get rid of her. But Brenda, you gotta tell me what’s going on here.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re acting like a fucking groupie, Bren. I saw you guys come out of the woods together, and you were fawning all over him.”
“What? No, he was fawning over me, Tim.”
“Well then, maybe he’ll write a song about you, and then you can get over it—” He’s cut off by Portia Interruptus.
“Is there a problem here?” She came up behind me as Tim and I were talking. I bristle at the sound of her voice; she is skilled at sneaking up on me when I least expect it, like some kind of snooty ninja. Tim doesn’t acknowledge her, but raises his eyebrows at me. So, he’s chickening out and not telling her to get the hell out of here? Nice.
“No, Portia, there’s no problem here. Just having a private discussion with my husband.” I sigh, hoping she’ll take the hint and back off. I wish I could add, “But if there were, your presence would only be making it worse.”
“Well then, who could be fawning over you, dear?” She raises her eyebrow, not one crease shows on her Botoxed forehead. She looks me up and down as if it’s impossible that any man would find me attractive. “Are you threatening my son?”
“I’m not threatening anyone,” I say, glowering at her. Where the hell would she get that idea? God, she’s so infuriating. I wish I could just tell her to go fuck herself. Maybe next time.
Tim would absolutely kill me—kissing another man and telling his mother to fuck off in the same week would push him right over the edge. Though I am pretty sure the look on her face after she registers that I’ve said “go fuck yourself” would be absolutely priceless. That is, if her face is still capable of expressing emotion, what with all the Botox. I wonder if anyone’s ever said it to her before; I can’t see how she’s gotten this far in her life, acting the way she does, without someone saying that to her. But I don’t really see the ladies she lunches with talking to her like that.
“Mother, Brenda and I have a lot to talk about. Can I call you tomorrow?” Tim kisses her on the cheek and nudges her toward her car. Good, Tim’s stepping up. Now I don’t have to cuss her out. She lingers on the driveway, tapping her foot; she’s probably thinking I’m rude for not asking her in for a gin and tonic. Sorry, honey, fresh out of gin and Newport niceties. She sighs and reaches up to air kiss Tim on the cheek.
“Timothy, shall I set up a meeting with Albert for tomorrow?” she asks before heading to her car.
“Mother, please, it’s not necessary,” he calls out after her. I look up at him, thankful that he doesn’t find her bulldog divorce attorney necessary. She dismisses him with a wave, and we watch her slip her probably very expensive sunglasses onto her face and back the car out of the driveway. I can’t help but smirk a bit because nothing’s going to change the fact that Keith peed on Portia’s car.
“Well, I just came to get some clean clothes,” Tim says, shrugging. “See ya around, Bren.” And then I watch him get into his car and pull out of the driveway, too. I briefly wonder what he’d done with the dirty ones. Angela’s going to have to wash them; no way in hell I will, at this point.
I stand on the driveway and try to process exactly what just happened. This morning when I woke up, I tried to be angry with Tim. Even when I tried to imagine going on tour with Keith, I really couldn’t be angry at him. Imagining being Keith’s girlfriend just felt all wrong. But now, as I watch Tim pull out of the driveway, I can kind of picture it. I mean, it’s not like Tim wants me to be his wife right now.
I wonder what the hell he told Portia about us. Whatever it was, it was not cool for him to do that. Though, to be fair, he could probably tell her that I buy my underwear at Target instead of Nordstrom, and she’d insist he divorce me. As I walk up the deck stairs, I wipe the tears from my cheeks and wonder when the hell I’m going to stop crying.
When I get inside, Keith is at the table with a cup of tea. I notice that there isn’t any paper or pen in front of him. He’s not writing. Why isn’t he writing? He doesn’t say anything at first; I bend down to stroke Vito. He gives my hand a sincere lick and thumps his tail on the kitchen floor; he knows exactly how to soothe me. I tell him he’s a good dog.
“Off to the studio, then.” Keith sighs and opens the back door. “Thought I’d ought to make myself scarce, seeing as how my last meeting with your mother-in-law went terribly.” Thankfully, Keith knows when to exit a scene—surely pissing on Portia’s very rare and very expensive BMW did not endear him to her, anyway. He pauses, thinking maybe to say something before walking out the backdoor. He has a look of concern on his face, and I wonder if he overheard the scene play out on the driveway. How embarrassing to have Portia show up, on top of everything else. But he doesn’t say anything else, just walks out the door and closes it behind him.
After Keith leaves I pace around the house for an hour or two until I get bored. I try to read, but then I realize that though my eyes are moving across the page, they’re not absorbing any of the words. I can’t fathom another month of this without Tim.
I need to see for myself. Are they really working as hard as they say? Will it really be a month? Before I know it, I am behind the wheel of my car and a few minutes later, I am pulling in to Del’s driveway. I let myself in and open the door to the basement then I tiptoe down to the bottom step where I can listen undetected.
Chapter 23
WHEN I FIRST SIT DOWN, I hear Erik shout over the band, “No, no, no, stop! It’s not right. Start again.”
Gill rips out a scorching riff on his guitar to release his frustration. He’s on his acoustic, so it comes off a bit stilted; I can hear the band members groan.
“Come on then, let’s get it right,” Erik says. “These tracks won’t record themselves.” He’s trying to sound cheerful, but I am sensing from my perch on the bottom of the stairs that the guys aren’t taking it that way. This is nothing like that afternoon I’d spent watching Keith record the wind-chime song. The tension in the studio is stifling.
The band members grumble and start the song again. First, I hear Jeff tap out four beats on his drum sticks. Then Ben starts to sing, “She says I’m an asshole, but I know she wants me anyway.”
My breath catches in my throat; I clamp my hand over my mouth. Unbelievable! Is this s
eriously about me? But the song feels all wrong. It’s too slow, too mellow. Why is Gill on the acoustic? The bass line is soft and fluid, almost jazzy. I hear Erik pipe up, and they stop again. Is this really what their process is like? There’s no way in hell they’re going to finish this album, ever, at this rate.
“The feeling of this song is all wrong,” Erik says “Is this a fucking love song, or is it a ‘she doesn’t want me, so she can bugger off’ kind of song? If it’s the latter, then it needs to be faster and a bit bluesy. Not this lame, fluffy love bullshit. We need to re-work this one. Gill, get on your electric guitar.”
I listen as Jeff taps out four beats again, this time faster. Gill plays the same riff on his electric but faster. Keith’s bass line booms, sounding like a loose rubber band bouncing along to the beat. Ben puts on a raspy voice and sings about a man chasing a woman who says she’s not interested but is clearly a tease. I brace my hand over my forehead and wince: is this how Keith perceives me? I am being made to look like a tease. This is bullshit. Man, what if Tim hears this?
Toni appears on the stairs beside me and raises her eyebrows. “Eavesdropping?” She smiles. I stammer in response. “Don’t take the song too personally, Brenda. It’s part of the creative process, and we often have to take liberties with our situation to make the song come out right.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“The story of a man chasing a woman is an age-old rock-and-roll story. And, of course, the man is going to call her a tease, because every man wants to think that, if she’s not going to return the affection. It’s not personal, Brenda.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not taking it personally,” I lie. Of course I’m taking it personally. Keith wrote a song for me; and it’s a song about wooing me. My heart leaps with excitement. Someday, millions of people will hear that song, and they’re going to wish that they were me. They might not know that the song was inspired by Brenda Dunkirk. But I will. When Hydra moved into the house, I never expected Keith to write a song for me. I expected that I would, in a way, help them to produce a great album. But having a whole song just for me is way better.
“So, are you just going to sit here on the steps, or do you want to come in?” Toni asks.
“Uh, I don’t think I should go in there if they’re working on this song right now. I just came here because I wanted to know how far along they are. I keep hearing that this could take months. I want to know if that’s true.”
“It’s too soon to tell, love.” And for the first time, I really believe her. If Erik keeps stopping them every few minutes, how long will it take to finish just this one song?
Right now it doesn’t really matter how long it’ll take. Tim won’t hear me out, whether it takes a day or a month, anyway. And if Keith is getting over his writer’s block by writing songs about me, then who am I to complain, right? So long as he’s writing.
Chapter 24
ON MONDAY MORNING, I pull into the parking lot and see that Amanda’s car is in the spot closest to the door. How early did she get here? Then it occurs to me that she probably spent the entire weekend re-doing the campaign for the Baxter account. I didn’t even think about Baxter all weekend; this is going to be a bad day. I toy with the idea of calling in sick. But I am here already. It just takes one of my co-workers to see me driving out of the lot, and I’m busted.
I walk as quietly as I can into my cubicle and boot up my computer. Just as I am about to get a cup of tea, my extension rings: it’s Amanda. I gulp and pick up the phone.
“Brenda, I need to talk to you right now,” she says. No pleasantries, and none of the usual business-but-friendly tone in her voice. I glance at my watch: it’s 8:02, and I am already in trouble. I’d kind of hoped that I wouldn’t have to actually see her until closer to nine, after I‘d had time to prepare a bit more.
When I walk into Amanda’s office, I see the dark circles under her eyes. She’s been working all weekend, and I instantly feel guilty. “Close the door and sit down,” she orders. She’s pissed. “Now, what the hell was that about on Friday? I tried to call you on your cell, but I guess you had it turned off. Your leaving early on Friday, after we’d just had that meeting about the Baxter campaign, was unacceptable. Do you have any idea how late we all stayed here on Friday? Do you have any idea how many people had to clean up your mess on this account over the weekend?” She pauses to take a breath and sip her tea. “I want to know what is up with you lately. A month ago, you were in line for a promotion. Hell, I was even thinking about partnership for you in a few years. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t fire you right now.”
I stare at her. Nothing I say right now will even come close to an acceptable response.
“Really?” She pauses to bore her ice-blue-eyed stare into my forehead. “God, Brenda, what the hell is going on with you?”
The dilemma races through my mind. If I tell her what is really going on, I’ll break the non-disclosure agreement with the band and be in even more hot water. The walls in this office have ears. The ceilings in here are high, and the individual office walls don’t go all the way up to the ceiling. I usually walk up to the roof if I want to have a private conversation.
My mind fast-forwards to the eventual article in the Tattle Tale. I picture thousands of screaming fans on my front lawn instead of the few dozen we currently have. I imagine people trying to get into my house and more women like Trisha, insisting that Keith’s lyrics are for them. Will they actually fling their panties onto my front steps? I don’t think Amanda would tell, would she? Though these days, I don’t really feel as if I could trust anyone with the knowledge that Hydra is living in my house. I am paranoid that someone else will overhear. I involuntarily shudder.
Amanda raises her eyebrows. She’s waiting for a response. In the grand scheme of things, having a rock band crashing at my house isn’t any of Amanda’s concern. She doesn’t care if I have the entire Russian army staying there. The only thing she cares about is that I am not producing at work anymore. I need to come up with a response, and I need to come up with it fast.
“Brenda? I’m waiting.” She looks irritated and impatient. I need to say something. Anything. Here goes nothing.
“Amanda, I have a few things going on in my personal life right now that are kind of difficult. I know that everyone here had to work really hard because I left on Friday, and I am sorry.”
“That’s it?” She raises her eyebrows. “You’re sorry?” She glares at me from behind her desk. She switches into what I call her Nordic ice princess mode. It’s moments like these that a glare from her eyes just might burn though my skin. She clenches her chiseled jaw and stares. When is she going to blink? I brace for the next sentence that will ultimately end in, “you’re fired.”
The possibility of hearing that makes me shrink into my seat. Amanda has been my mentor all these years; the fact that I have disappointed her is absolute torture for me. I want to be Amanda when I grow up, and it’s not going to happen if she fires me.
She takes another sip of her tea and then a deep breath before speaking again. “Look, the CEO of Baxter and one of our competitors are golf buddies. On Sunday afternoon, I got called into a meeting about this campaign because they’re very pissed off about how this has been handled. It used to be that I could give you these sensitive accounts and you’d hit them out of the park. You’ve royally fucked this one up.” She pauses for a moment and then pulls a document out of her top desk drawer and hands it to me.
I begin to read, and then stop. “Amanda, is this what I think it is?” It’s on Amanda Dixon PR letterhead. It’s signed by her. It’s addressed to Ms. Dunkirk; very formal. Too formal.
“This is a written warning,” she replies in a calm and deliberate tone. “After that golf game on Sunday, I was this close to firing you.” She holds up her pinched thumb and index finger. There’s not much space between them at all. “You have thirty days to pull your head out of your ass and get back to work, or you’re out of here
. We will have meetings every morning in which I will monitor your progress on this campaign. I don’t have time to babysit you, Brenda. But it looks as if that’s what we need to do right now. Get it together. I vouched for you with the client. Don’t make me regret it,” she warns.
I wait for her to dismiss me, but she keeps talking. “You are way better than this, Brenda. I saw a spark in you, and I invested in you.” She’s right: she paid for my MBA. I should be grateful. Amanda doesn’t give second chances; nor does she finance advanced degrees. I have a long future at this company, and I need to buck up. I mutter a meager apology, and she continues to stare. “Now, get back to work and show me how good I know you are.”
I practically leap out of the chair and burst out her office door. Once I am standing out in the hall, I feel as if I can breathe again. Everyone is looking out over their cubicle walls at me; I avoid making eye contact with any of my co-workers while I go back to my desk. I am completely humiliated.
What’s worse? Getting fired or getting a warning? At least if I’d been fired, I wouldn’t have to see my boss and my co-workers every day while I grovel so I can keep my job. I look over my shoulder at the walkway between the rows of cubicles. How many of my co-workers know that I am riding the thirty-day warning? I’ve seen it happen to others, and word about it travels fast, especially with the lack of privacy in this place. Surely someone heard her voice echoing over the wall, bouncing off the ceiling, and landing in an upturned ear. I remember hearing others whisper about it and then stop when the victim entered the room; that will probably happen to me, too. I don’t think Amanda would tell anyone; she typically avoids the office gossip and gets on everyone’s case about spreading rumors. But all it takes is one person to know, and then everyone else knows within hours. If Joy at the front desk finds out, that time is cut down to mere minutes.
It is now 8:30, and I have an entire day to prove myself. Hydra may have taken away my marriage, but there is no way I am going to let them take my job away, too. I pull up the Baxter account on the server and look over all the changes that were made to the campaign over the weekend. I read over the notes and check out the mockups for the ads. I figure that if Tim can bury himself in work to get through all of this, then so can I.