The Last Word

by Lisa Lutz

  Signed,

  Management 2.0

  Upon seeing the note, my father quickly attacked the sign-up sheet and got the first slot: the next morning at eight A.M.6

  My father showed up in a seersucker suit (ah, the good old days when he wore outside clothes) and pulled a pastrami sandwich out of his briefcase, which he bit into only after I posed a question.

  INTERVIEWER: What do you think are your primary strengths?

  INTERVIEWEE: [under or over the sound of chewing] I’m loyal, reasonable, a human lie detector, have twenty years’ experience as a cop, another twenty-two as a private investigator, and I know a good sandwich when I see one.

  INTERVIEWER: What are your weaknesses?

  INTERVIEWEE: [lettuce and bits of mustard have now migrated down to his tie] I could lose a few pounds, get some exercise. I’m no genius.

  INTERVIEWER: Are you questioning your own intelligence?

  INTERVIEWEE: That’s all I’ve been doing these last few weeks.

  INTERVIEWER: Care to elaborate?

  INTERVIEWEE: I lost my business to someone thirty years my junior, who lives in a basement, has a rap sheet, and still doesn’t know how to separate whites and bright reds when doing the wash.7

  INTERVIEWER: Do you even want this job?

  INTERVIEWEE: I don’t know anymore. But you sure can’t beat the commute.

  Not the best interview ever, but shockingly, not the worst. My mother scheduled hers for the following day. At the appointed time, there was a knock at the door and my sister entered in attire so professional I barely recognized her. She wore a pair of brown leather pumps, a houndstooth pencil skirt, a blue button-up shirt with a complementary navy blue cardigan. Her hair was strangled in a bun, and topping it all off were reading glasses dangling from her neck. My sister is petite, like my mother, with an even flatter chest. In jeans and a baseball cap, she is often mistaken for a thirteen-year-old boy. She favors my mother in many ways but is sandy-haired and doesn’t possess Mom’s striking good looks.8 That morning my sister looked like something between an eye-catching young professional and a little girl playing dress-up.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “I’m here on behalf of Olivia Spellman,” Rae said.

  “You mean Mom?”

  “Let’s keep this professional,” Rae said, donning reading glasses and looking over a sheaf of papers in a manila folder.

  “You won’t need those glasses for twenty years.”

  “I’m here,” Rae said, clicking her pen to attention, “to negotiate the terms of Mrs. Spellman’s employment at your agency.”

  “I am not looking to negotiate,” I said. “This is simply a job interview.”

  “Mrs. Spellman would like to cut her hours and receive a ten percent raise.”

  “Why would I agree to that?”

  “Do you know how to do her job?”

  “Yes,” I said, “I’ve been doing it for almost twenty years.”

  “Have you managed the payroll and bills, and liaised with our outside contractors and accountant?”

  “No. But those have always been her responsibilities.”

  “And she would like to be appropriately compensated.”

  “I don’t know that we have the money for that. Anything else?”

  “Yes. Since Mr. and Mrs. Spellman own the property in which you do business, they would like a rental agreement in place. I’ve looked at comparable spaces, with access to a kitchen, bathroom, television, and a view.”

  “What view are you talking about?”

  “There’s a window. We think fifteen hundred dollars a month is fair.”

  “That would mean everyone would have to take a pay cut,” I said, the error of my ways not just sinking in but drowning me.

  “Not everyone,” Rae said, removing her glasses, snapping shut her file folder. “You have forty-eight hours to negotiate the terms.”

  By the time Demetrius was up, the game was over. D arrived promptly for the interview wearing a tweed coat and tie. He sat down across from me and said, “Thank you, Ms. Spellman, for this opportunity.” Then he placed a piece of paper on my desk.

  DEMETRIUS MERRIWEATHER

  CV

  1994–1996: Merriweather Communications

  Owner

  • Procured inexpensive televisions and accessories (i.e., VCRs, stereo speakers) for the budget-conscious.

  1996–2011: San Quentin Penitentiary

  Inmate

  • Worked in the kitchen, laundry room, and library. Familiar with the Dewey Decimal System.

  • Specialized in dispute management and kitchen fork retrieval.

  • Had only one disciplinary citation in fifteen years.

  2011 to present: Spellman Investigations

  Assistant Investigator

  • Research assistant; specializes in database research and background checks; in-office catering; types 35 words a minute.

  • Specializes in dispute management and food preparation.

  • Employee of the month 12 months running.

  • Other interests: Getting innocent people out of prison, origami, cooking, television, Judge Judy, Zumba.

  “What’s Zumba?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” D said. “But everyone lies on their résumé.”

  I looked over D’s résumé and said, “You’re hired.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Spellman. I promise you, you won’t be disappointed.”

  “This was a dumb idea, wasn’t it?”

  “Girl, what were you thinking?” D said, finally out of interview character.

  “I was drunk,” I said. That’s not a figure of speech. I really was drunk.

  “Were you drunk when you wrote all the memos?”

  “Not the filing one. That was a stone-cold-sober calculation. The interview was just payback. When I was eighteen or something my dad made me interview for a job I already had.”

  “What did you do?” D asked.

  “I wore a ridiculous outfit, ate a sandwich, and called him Mr. Mellman repeatedly.”9

  “You didn’t think he’d remember that?”

  “Now what do I do?”

  “Watch your back,” D said.

  “It’s not that bad, is it?”

  “It’s worse than you think.”

  “What are they going to do?” I asked.

  “There’s something you need to put in your mind. Spellman Investigations, to most clients, is Albert and Olivia and the relationships they’ve maintained for twenty years. The office is in their house. They’re entitled to thirty percent of the equipment if they decide to go their own way.”

  “You don’t think they’d branch off and start their own business, do you?”

  “How hard would it be? Same location, switch the name a bit—you don’t have a copyright on Spellman. They could downsize, take only the cases they want. It could be perfect for two people thinking about retiring,” D said.

  “What would be the advantage of that?”

  “They’d be their own bosses and wouldn’t work under the dictatorship of Madame President Isabel anymore.”

  “Is that what it looks like to you?”

  “I’m Switzerland, remember?”

  “So you’re telling me they have all the power.”

  “They have most of it.”

  “If that happened and they offered you a job, where would you go?”

  “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Who gives me the better offer.”

  • • •

  After the interviews, my parents took a disappearance to Big Sur. I left a series of increasingly apologetic messages on their cell phones. None were returned.

  Three days later, when I pulled up to 1799 Clay Street, I was elated to discover Dad’s Audi in the driveway. I raced out for bagels and lox from some bagel shop10 and pastries from none of your business; picked up flowers, champagne, and orange juice from a store; and attempted to improve m
orale with a sleep-inducing feast for all. My parents partook of the buffet, filled their bellies with baked goods and cured fish and drank at least a bottle of champagne on their own. They appeared rested and restored from their holiday, and I thought this might be the time to say a few words.

  “I think I owe you all an apology, especially Mom and Dad. When the company structure changed, I didn’t fully consider the ramifications of my actions, nor was I sensitive to my parents’ feelings about the manner in which I handled the transaction. While I still do not regret my decision to buy out the company shares from my siblings, I must admit that all of my actions since then have been immature, lacking in leadership, and utterly pointless. Please accept my apologies. I hope we can restore the office to its previous state of mutual respect.”11

  “Anyone need a nap?” my dad said, tossing his napkin on his plate and stretching his arms in a long, leisurely yawn.

  “I’m in,” Mom said, not even considering clearing the table. “Thanks, Isabel. That was an excellent spread.”

  After my parents ambled up the stairs, Vivien said, “Maybe the champagne was a mistake.”

  Viv carried a stack of dishes into the kitchen; I turned to D, hoping for an explanation, guidance, anything.

  “People forgive at their own pace,” D said.

  “Maybe you could take them to church with you sometime and speed it up. I hear forgiveness is really big in those places.”

  “So is humility,” D said.

  “Point taken,” I humbly said. Right now D was my only real ally (otherwise known as not-an-enemy) and I couldn’t afford to lose him.

  • • •

  In the days that followed, my parents came to work sporadically and rarely did any actual work. Mom collected office supplies for a decoupage project she’d decided to embark on; Dad made long-distance calls on the company line; Mom filed her nails (she apparently kept her nail file in her desk drawer); Dad played marathon games of Plants vs. Zombies; Mom handled her online shopping. Occasionally one or the other would answer the phone, always with the same line: “Isabel Spellman Investigations. How can we help you today?” If the client was an old friend, my parents would lead with the ugly truth.

  “Our daughter participated in a hostile takeover. Yeah. She’s now the boss. You think you can trust family, but you can’t. What do you need, Bob/Jim/Tony/Sally? Olivia and I are always here to help. You have our cell numbers, right?”

  Since direct communication was fraught with conflict and I had no idea what work my parents were doing for the clients who were in their purview, I would occasionally phone their clients, pretend I had misdialed, make small talk, and ask if I needed to relay any messages to the unit. That’s how I learned that my folks were indeed handling the bare bones of their casework. That’s also how the unit learned I was checking up on them, when I accidentally “misdialed” a client twice.

  While the memo business got off to a bad start, I had to keep it in operation because when I spoke to my parents they would often not even register that I was in the room. Some days it felt like being a ghost. My attempts to draw my parents into conversation covered a range from banal to sensational.

  “Some weather we’re having.”

  “Did you see the 49ers game last night?”12

  “Did you read about the triple-murder cannibalism case in the Netherlands? All connected to bath salts, I hear.”

  Sometimes I’d snow them just to see if they were listening.

  “Did you hear Princess Banana has measles, mumps, and rubella?”

  Mom would promptly call my brother’s house, learn otherwise, engage in a chatty conversation with D, and then take an early lunch or leave the house and not come back until the end of the workday.

  As far as I was concerned, the worst had passed. My parents were accomplishing some work after hours. I’d find database research and background reports for the major clients on my desk in the morning. I assumed this was all a phase that would pass, and since we were getting by, I chose to ride it out.

  Then a slew of past-due bills began sliding through the door, and notices from the IRS and EDD (who the hell are they?). Apparently the payroll taxes were not being paid. Other than me, all the employees were receiving their checks as usual. I simply handwrote my usual check and figured that refusing to write my paycheck was my mother’s only form of fiscal dissension. I was foolish enough to believe that even in our hostile work environment we could maintain the status quo.

  I had always put the bills on top of my mother’s desk. She had always put them in her top right-hand drawer until she paid them. The first part had remained the same; the second part had not. One morning when I questioned Mom about whether the bills were being paid, she opened her desk drawer to reveal a bountiful stash of unopened envelopes and said, “Is that what those are?”

  “Mom, why aren’t you paying the bills?” I asked, trying to remain calm.

  “I thought you were,” Mom said.

  I was lucky to get an answer.

  “That was always your job.”

  “Maybe in the old days, when your father and I had a say in how the company was run.”

  “You still have a say,” I said.

  “Well then, I think—and your father agrees—that you should take over all the fiscal duties. You should certainly understand the financial responsibilities of running a company. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  I didn’t disagree. However, I didn’t actually know how the payroll was handled, nor was I educated on our accounting software. I asked my mother if she could train me on the financial protocol.

  “Of course, dear,” she said. “How does June of next year work for you?”

  So that’s when I officially took over all of the fiscal responsibilities for Spellman Investigations. If I didn’t understand something, I looked it up on the Internet. If I wasn’t sure if there was enough money in the account to pay a bill, I checked the balance and calculated how many checks hadn’t cleared. Every night I read the manual for the accounting software and it put me right to sleep.

  Between the “bookkeeping” and the client billing, this added another fifteen hours to my workweek. With my parents’ hours trimmed at least 50 percent and the limitations of delegation to Demetrius (refuses to do surveillance)13 and Vivien (too green for most jobs), I was working seventy hours a week and getting paid the same as before. Given the rampant disrespect and the fact that I was being held hostage by my employees, you must understand that I was itching to fire someone. When my father’s computer caught a virus from what was obviously a dodgy online game, and it spread throughout the office, I phoned Robbie Gruber, our disagreeable computer consultant, to repair the problem.

  He arrived two hours late, soaked in an obscene body spray, which was only camouflaging an odor so rank you didn’t mind the body spray. Every computer has access to the server, but Robbie sat down at my desk, pulled out a bag of Cheetos, and while annihilating our computer virus, chomped on his snack nuggets, licked his fingers, and finger-painted my keyboard with his DNA and yellow dye #4.

  “How much?” I asked when he was done.

  “One fifty.”

  “Your rates have gone up by fifty percent?”

  “You no longer get the friend-and-family rate.”

  “Why is that?”

  “You know why.”14

  “I’m deducting thirty bucks for a new keyboard.”

  “I might not be available the next time you call.”

  “I won’t call. You’re fired.”

  “Al, Olivia. Good luck with your new arrangement,” Robbie said as he wadded up his dead bag of Cheetos and headed out the door. He twisted his beefy torso to throw the junk food carcass into the trash bin and missed, sending a cascade of orange dust onto the carpet.

  There were times when I thought that every move I’d made in the last three months, year, decade, maybe, had been a mistake. I had thought the business might thrive under my new leadership. Now I wasn’t sure if w
e could survive. Apparently, the worst had not passed. But before it gets worse, and I tell you all about it, how about a bedtime story?

  * * *

  1. Coincidentally I took and lost power in March.

  2. A great idea, but to keep even recent files up to date would involve a great deal of scanning.

  3. Didn’t yet trust anyone to be my right arm . . . or my left.

  4. I count my infancy.

  5. It ended up being incredibly annoying and a directive that was quite difficult to shake.

  6. What was I thinking allowing for such an early time slot?

  7. Probably shouldn’t have put my feet up on my desk.

  8. If I went to church, I think this is one of the things I would thank God for.

  9. See document #4.

  10. We’re not known for bagels, so I’m not going to provide free advertising for a meh bagel distributor.

  11. Yes, I did write the speech out ahead of time, and the part about the “previous state of mutual respect” was baloney.

  12. Not the best conversation starter, since football season was long over.

  13. “Why is it so hard for you to understand why I don’t want to follow white people around?”

  14. I blackmailed Gruber a year ago. I kind of had it coming.

  PRINCESS BANANA AND HER WICKED GREAT-GRANDMOTHER

  Once upon a time a modest defense attorney and a slick corporate lawyer fell in love. Maggie Mason and David Spellman were their names. At first their differences made the match seem improbable. Maggie stashed baked goods in her pocket and wore old dresses with the hems coming undone at the seams; David went to a personal trainer a couple times a week and would hide sweets in his house, hoping to forget where he put them. But somehow they made it work, though not by meeting each other in the middle; David bent purely in Maggie’s direction.

  After the unlikely couple married, Maggie had a baby, a little girl named Sydney, and it was Sydney who turned David into a shadow of his former self.

  After the child was born, David decided to give up his old life and become a full-time father. No one remembers exactly when David stopped looking in the mirror and only at his beloved wife and daughter, but it was probably right around the time they brought Sydney home from the hospital. The next thing everyone knew, David’s custom-made suits had found their way to the back of the closet. Jeans, old T-shirts, sweatshirts, pajamas, and bathrobes became his daily uniform. He lost his hairstylist’s phone number and eventually the barbershop around the corner was just fine. He shaved a couple times a week and he went to the gym as often as your average family man.1