by Lisa Lutz
“Did you say kids, plural?”
“Yes. We have an understanding.”
“You and I don’t have an understanding.”
“Right. But David and Maggie and I have an understanding.”
“You must be early for your understanding,” I said.
“No. Eleven A.M. We’ve been at the park for three hours. That’s exactly two hours more than enough.”
I couldn’t argue with him. That’s a lot of park time and Max looked like he needed a break. But that was not my problem. I picked up my phone and called my brother.
“Yello,” he answered. I can’t remember when he started doing that, but I wished I had some electrical cord attached to him so I could shock him out of the habit.
“Some guy named Max is here. With Princess Banana and some other kid. He’s returning both the princess and another kid—”
“Max Klein and Claire,” Max clarified.
“Max Klein and Claire from a playdate. Does that make any sense to you?”
“We had to wait an hour for brunch,” David said. “We’re still eating. Do you mind sticking around?”
“You promised this would never happen again.”
“Please, Isabel.”
“I can’t. I have an appointment,” I said. At the moment, I didn’t look like the sort of person who had an appointment, but my brother couldn’t see that through the telephone.
“Put Max on,” David said.
Max just listened. He said uh-huh a few times in the form of a question mark and he consulted the ceiling.
Then Max said into the phone, “Who is this person? I’m not comfortable leaving my child with her.”
“You shouldn’t be,” I said, taking the phone from Max. “Listen, David, I fell for this once, it’s not going to happen again.”
“Izzy, we just got our food. We will eat like Kobayashi.13 Max has an appointment in a half hour. We promised him we’d take Claire. Two kids for an hour. What’s the big deal?”
“Your daughter is totally uncool.”
“She’s three and a half years old and it’s not our fault.”14
“That was your excuse when she was two.”
“Hundred dollars off next month’s rent.”
“Two hundred.”
“One fifty.”
“Deal,” I said, hanging up the phone. “I’ll take the kid,” I said to Max. “Does she have any food allergies?”
Sydney was in the middle of the living room barking regal orders at a blond-haired, blue-eyed doll. Tea, please. The princess was now trying to affect an English accent. I had a sudden vision of Sydney as an adult, and it wasn’t pretty. I turned back to the father-and-daughter duo in the doorway. Claire, judging by the way she was trying to twist out of her father’s grasp, clearly wanted to join Sydney, or at least be in the vicinity of the television, but Max held tight.
“You’re David’s sister?” Max said, as if he didn’t believe my brother.
“Yes. I know, the resemblance is uncanny.”15
“Do you live here?”
“Not here. Downstairs. But I thought it was safe to be upstairs today. Guess I was wrong.”
“Are you comfortable taking care of children?”
“Absolutely not.”
“How often do you watch Sydney?”
“As little as possible. You’ve met Sydney, right?”
Max sighed, glanced at his watch nervously, and then looked at his shoes as if they would hold the answer to whatever question was on his mind.
“You have an important appointment?” I asked, my manners flicking on like a lazy fluorescent light.
“Yes.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. Then I looked at Claire and said, “How’s it going? You’re Claire?”
Claire just stared at me.
“I’m going to call you Claire until you tell me otherwise. Claire, would you like to go play with Sydney and the blond-haired doll?”
Max loosened his grip on Claire; his daughter brushed past me and found a spot next to Sydney, picking up another doll.
“She’ll be fine,” I said, sensing Max’s epic discomfort. “I’ll keep her out of trouble. We’ll have juice and Goldfish, and David and Maggie will be back in no time.”
“Thank you,” Max said. He slowly turned around and walked to his car, the entire journey heavy with contemplation.
The girls eventually fought over the blond doll even though there were three brunettes available. I distracted them from the doll fight with television. I started with a classic SpongeBob. Claire was intrigued, but Sydney shouted, “No Izzy,” at the television, which makes absolutely no sense. I moved on to Phineas. Claire started cheering, but Sydney put the kibosh on that as well with a tear-jerking demand for “Dora!” I asked Claire if she was cool with that and Claire shrugged her shoulders agreeably. I located a Dora the Explorer DVD, which did the job. As in, it hypnotized the girls long enough for me to trash (as in, throw in the trash) the conflict-laden shiksa16 doll.
Within fifteen minutes of snack time, David and Maggie returned home. I didn’t bother with a babysitting debriefing or a reminder that forced child care is unacceptable behavior, even among family members. I simply said, “You just paid one hundred and fifty dollars for ninety minutes of babysitting. That’s my standard rate from now on. Think twice, next time.”
Then I slipped out the back door and returned to the safe haven of my dungeon.
• • •
It was past midnight when Slayter phoned. The ringing jarred me from deep sleep and I awoke gasping for breath.
“Hello?”
“I have an idea,” Slayter said.
“Then you should write it down and call in the morning,” I said.
I heard a couple of clanking and shuffling noises on the line.
“I’m sorry. I lost track of time. Ethan and I were playing chess all night. He won a few times,” Slayter said.
“I’ve lost every game of chess I’ve ever played,” I said.
“He’s never been able to beat me,” Slayter said, concern edging into his voice.
“You’re distracted. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“I’m noticing things. Last week I couldn’t remember my secretary’s name. She’s worked for me for seven years and I didn’t know what to call her.”
“I have a few suggestions.”
“It’s getting worse.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Just Slayter breathing. He’d never done this before, called me in the middle of the night in a panic.
“It’s late,” he said.
“I know,” I said. “But you had something you wanted to tell me.”
“Right,” Slayter said.
“What is it?”
“I don’t remember.”
* * *
1. We had a meeting with all employees in attendance.
2. It was more of a reward system, which I’m not sure they stuck to stringently. Let me put it this way: Bernie can drink eight beers easily.
3. Oh how I wish I could say “was.”
4. During rush hour, however, you are a fool if you don’t take public transportation.
5. The Avoidance Method™ at it best.
6. In ten years, the same math will apply.
7. “None taken,” Charlie would say.
8. Seriously, anyone who goes for clam chowder in a bread bowl over a burrito should have his head examined. Tell Dr. Ira I said hi. (Some people will know what that means.)
9. I realize I might seem slightly obsessed with this topic, but sometimes I wear sandals.
10. No offense, Dad.
11. Why are we giving Irish people the credit? They’re already taking credit for Irish stew and Irish bread under questionable circumstances.
12. Also known as Agent P, Perry works for the OWCA. (Organization Without a Cool Acronym). Heh.
13. Takeru Kobayashi, also known as
Tsunami, arguably the most famous competitive eater in the business.
14. If Sydney appears to be aging at an alarmingly fast rate and this is bothering you, see appendix.
15. It isn’t.
16. For the record, I have no problem with blondes. Just blond dolls.
INSIDE JOB
MEMO
To All Spellman Employees:
I will be out of the office Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings for the next few weeks. Please make sure that someone is in the office and available to answer phones.
Signed,
Isabel
Slayter never remembered why he called me, but when we next met, he most definitely had an idea. Without any direct evidence or testimony about the hushed sexual harassment claim at Divine Strategies, Slayter thought it might make sense to get a more personal assessment of the office climate. He’d used some clout at a local temp agency and managed to get me a part-time job as a receptionist. One of the employees was on maternity leave and the company needed a little extra help to pick up the slack.
“It won’t take up too much of your time,” Slayter said. “Three mornings a week, answering phones, reading magazines, and . . . I think you’ll need a new wardrobe.”
“I have professional-looking clothes.”
“You don’t want to be too buttoned up, if you know what I mean.”
“I don’t.”
“You should look more like Evelyn.”
“I take it you’ll pay for the breast augmentation.”
“I don’t mean to be indelicate, and if any of this makes you uncomfortable, please let me know and we’ll nix the whole idea.”
“Oh, I get it. You’re sending me in as bait.”
“I wouldn’t use that word. You’re measuring the temperature of the office. See what happens.”
“I hate to break it to you, but I’m just not the kind of woman that men sexually harass.”
“Maybe if you stopped slouching, you would be,” Slayter said in all seriousness.
“I’ll work on it,” I said as I slouched out of the office.
“Knock it off,” Slayter shouted.
When I passed Evelyn’s desk, she was chatting with Arthur Bly, Edward’s head accountant. He was smiling at some delightful thing she had said, which I found highly suspicious because she’s never said anything delightful to me.
“Hi, Arthur,” I said cheerily.
His response was a cold nod.
“Hey, Evelyn,” I said. “What’s a girl got to do to get her parking validated?”
“Park in the garage,” Evelyn said.
“Fair enough.”1
On the way to the elevator bank, I passed Damien’s office. I tried to make myself invisible (by walking really fast) but he spotted me.
“Hey there, Isabel the detective.”
My fast getaway foiled, I turned back and hovered in his doorway. “Hello, Damien the lawyer,” I said. “How are you settling in?”
“Good. I had a nice time the other night.”
“I hope you made note of that to the boss,” I said.
“Maybe we could do it again sometime.”
“Eat burritos? I think you need something more filling.”2
“What are you doing tomorrow night?”
When people, men specifically, ask me this sort of question I tend to respond to it as polite conversation and don’t figure out until much later that it might be something else.
“I haven’t thought that far ahead.”
“I’ll pick you up at eight,” Damien said.
• • •
“Good afternoon, Spellman Investigations, how can I be of service to you?”
I heard the all-too-familiar cold, staccato voice from the hallway. I almost walked right out the door then and there, but an explanation for her presence was required. I was still clothed in my Divine Strategies uniform. A white silk blouse, buttoned decently; a pencil skirt; and pumps that gave me, I loathe admitting, a newfound respect for Evelyn, or at least her feet.
• • •
Wait, I’m jumping ahead of myself.
Just four hours earlier, I’d started my first half day on the job playing receptionist at Divine Strategies. I answered the phone, “Divine Strategies.” Just the name, no other baloney.
Maureen Stevens, the office manager, greeted me and gave me an uneventful tour of the office and made a few introductions to members of the support staff—Amy Cohen, Brad Gillman’s executive assistant, and Layla Bryant, Bryan Lincoln’s assistant. There was also the bookkeeper, Betty Peters. Objectively speaking, I would have sexually harassed at least three of the four women ahead of me, but there was still a chance I could play confidante.
Whether it was by design or circumstance, I was not introduced to a single male in the office. I gleaned the identities of the two men named in the complaint. Brad Gillman, fifty-two—a carnival guesser would have put him at least five years older—wore expensive suits that strained at his gut and shoulders, as if he wasn’t willing to accept that he was never going to lose the most recent ten pounds. Bryan Lincoln, same age, appeared fit and vain and had the uniform hair tone of a man with a mediocre dye job.3 There were other men in the office whose identity I could only ascertain through the nameplates on their doors: Noah Stark and Steve Grant, head programmers.
The phones rang at an alarming rate, at least compared to the phones at Spellman Investigations, which left less time than expected for office gossip and personal introductions and that magazine reading that Edward promised. I took a bathroom break when I saw Layla head into the ladies’ room and attempted girl talk while I pretended to check my face.4
“So how long have you worked here?” I asked.
“Six years,” Layla said.
“You must like it.”
“I do. They’re good to their employees here.”
“How’s your boss?”
“Maureen is great,” Layla said. “But I don’t think of her as a boss. More like a colleague.”
Two thoughts came to mind: It was intriguing that Maureen was considered the boss, and maybe I should stop referring to myself as a boss and go with colleague.
“If you need anything, let me know,” Layla said as she returned to her desk.
• • •
At lunch I went outside and called my friend Len. He and his partner Christopher had recently moved to New York and promptly moved back to San Francisco. We’re not supposed to mention why, but Len is an actor (the kind who auditions but doesn’t act that often) who finally decided to test his mettle in the big city. Apparently his mettle was lacking in something. Christopher had never wanted to move and was glad for the return but had been struggling to deal with his partner’s deflated ego. I’d recently gone over to their loft for dinner and the primary topic of conversation had been Len’s failed acting career. Len eventually got tanked and began lamenting the myriad professional stereotypes that plagued his race and sexual orientation.
“Drug addict, gangbanger, the occasional fashion diva, black lawyer, black judge, black hairstylist, black guy drinking soda.”
“Can you play white?” I asked.
The evening ended shortly after that.
When I called, I could hear a soap opera playing in the background. Len quickly muted the TV set.
“What do women talk about?” I asked.
“I don’t know, Isabel. I’m a man.”
“I’m working a case,” I said, “at a mostly female office. I’m trying to get information from my coworkers in the bathroom and I would like to know what women discuss in bathrooms.”
“If you had more female friends, you wouldn’t have this problem.”
“Why, because we’d be spending all of our time talking about our feelings in bathrooms? I don’t think so. Maggie and I don’t do that, and Petra5 and I certainly never did that.”
“That’s because you and Petra were too busy setting explosives off in the toilet.”
“Later, Len.�
��
Other than a few friendly exchanges with the female staff involving my complimenting their wardrobe choices, I had one office interaction. Brad Gillman—senior executive with the tight suit—approached the reception desk with a sheaf of papers.
He cleared his throat until I looked up.
“Isabel, right?”
“Yes. Hello. You’re Mr. Gillman,” I said.
Avoiding eye contact, Gillman said, “Brad is fine.”
He put the papers on my desk and stepped back.
“Would you be so kind as to make ten photocopies for me?”
“Of course.”
I made the photocopies and put them in the inbox outside his door, as Maureen had instructed me to do.
As soon as I returned to my desk Maureen approached and asked me whether Layla had shown me the filing yet.
“The filing?” I asked.
“Follow me,” she said, walking briskly in the direction of an unmarked door next to the copy room. Inside was an eight-by-five-foot area with wall-to-wall filing cabinets.
She pointed to a phone on the wall. “You can answer phones as you file. And feel free to take ten-minute breaks every hour or you’ll go crazy in here.”
I noticed a small pile of papers on top of the corner filing cabinet.
“Is that it?” I asked.
I followed Maureen’s gaze to a three-foot-high stack of loose pages leaning against the wall.
“I’ll leave you to it, Isabel. Don’t forget to come up for air.”
So, some people might call this karma.
There wasn’t much reconnaissance I could do from the prison of the file room, so I took as many breaks as I could and tried to make small talk in the bathroom. I also tried to study the body language of the office staff as I was en route from the file room to the bathroom. It was like watching people driving bumper cars but deliberately avoiding each other. I didn’t see so much as a pat on the back. The only conclusion I drew that morning: This would be an excellent place to work during flu season.
• • •
After I left Divine Strategies, I dropped by the drugstore and bought a box of Band-Aids for my current and future paper-cut wounds. I entered the Spell-man office that afternoon to find Grammy Spellman playing receptionist instead of toddler etiquette coach. I’m not sure which role she was less suited for. Today Grammy was in her best beige polyester. She sat primly, with the posture of someone with a two-by-four strapped to her back, behind my father’s desk. In between answering calls, she sanitized the surface area of the desk, the telephone, and the keyboard. She looked as she always does, as if someone had just murdered her cat and she was contemplating modes of revenge. Sure, she’s my grandma, but I’d go to the mat against anyone who thought they had a worse grandma. Unless your grandmother is a serial killer. Then you win. Your grandmother is awful, but honestly, she probably has better stories.
