by BJ Knapp
After I’m done getting set up, I rifle through the fridge for something to settle the butterflies in my stomach, but I don’t find anything I want to eat. Instead, I brew a cup of peppermint tea but let it go cold while I pace in the dining room, practicing my speech. Then I realize I’m only making myself more nervous, so I take Vito outside to play. Maybe I just need to stop thinking about it and relax with him.
Of course, I can’t take him out in the front, with the fan corral. I can’t believe they’re all still out there, barbecuing and playing Frisbee. I can see Trisha doing yoga. Is she trying to impress Ben now? In the back yard, I don’t scold Vito for dropping a bomb near Tent City. I don’t scoop it, either. I am so over trying to accommodate these people. Maybe I should just have him continue to shit there so they get fed up and leave on their own. I laugh to myself. If only a beagle soiling their camp could make a difference, I would have allowed him to do it weeks ago.
But seriously, the thing I need to remember is what I learned in my negotiation seminar in grad school: ask for what you want and then shut your mouth. The silence will make the other person so uncomfortable that they’ll find themselves saying just about anything to break it. I actually tried that when Tim and I bought my car. It worked, and we paid way less than the sticker price. That’s also what I need to do right now: bolster my confidence by remembering past victories.
Just after dark, Erik and Toni come in through the back door and heat up the dinner that Angela left earlier in the day. After they start eating at the kitchen table, I walk in with Vito and chat with them awhile—until Erik notices the whiteboard.
“What’s this?” he asks. Toni wipes her mouth and stands beside Erik to examine my work.
“Looks like some sort of media communications schedule,” Toni murmurs as she reads. “Whoa.” She is taken aback at the end.
“Did you do this?” Erik turns on Toni, gesturing to the board. “Are you fucking with me right now?”
“Of course not,” she replies. “Why on earth would I do any of this?” They stand shoulder to shoulder and read it all again.
“Un-fucking-believable,” Erik mutters.
It’s obvious that they’ve forgotten that I am still in the room. I clear my throat from where I’m still sitting at the kitchen table. Both of them turn to face me, their mouths hanging open.
“It would seem that you have forgotten,” I say, “that I am a public relations specialist at one of the top firms in the state. Until you guys moved in, I was in line for a promotion to vice president at that firm, that’s how good my work is. I might even be a partner in the firm someday. Though my specialty is building a reputation, not tearing it down. But in your case, I’ll make an exception.”
“Congratulations,” Erik says, with a slight sneer to his voice. But I can’t help noticing that he doesn’t terminate the conversation with his iPhone: he knows this is important.
I stand up from the table and walk over to the whiteboard. “What you see here is a schedule of proposed communications that I will release to national media outlets if my demands are not met.”
“And what would those demands be?” Erik asks. Even though he knows what I have to say is important, I can tell he’s trying to make me feel weak. I’m sure he knows what my demands are. What the hell have I been asking him for this last week? Is he going to say next that the band doesn’t negotiate with terrorists? I smirk.
“I want Hydra and the entire entourage out of my house by the end of the week. If they are not out, I will start off with letting the media know where they are staying and where they are recording. Once the press gets here, I will introduce myself, and then I will fill them in on the last few weeks of life here at the Dunkirk residence. As you are aware, Erik, prostitution is illegal in the state of Rhode Island. I am sure those hookers would love to have their fifteen minutes of fame.”
“Oh, who cares? Do you think it’s big news that a rock band is into hookers?” Erik sneers. “Stop the presses!” He waves his hands in mock hysteria.
“Erik, the presses would stop for Vincent D’Amico’s daughter,” I reply.
“Ooooh, Vincent D’Amico,” Erik sneers. “Who the fuck is that?”
I hold up the picture of Molly D’Amico taken at the fundraiser and raise my eyebrows. He rolls his eyes; obviously he has no idea who she is when at one of her daddy’s fundraisers. Then I hold up the other picture, the one I doodled on at work today, and watch the recognition register on Erik’s face.
“Read the caption,” I say, pointing. I watch his eyes move across the page, but they apparently fail to recognize the gravity of the situation.
“Erik, who is that girl?” Toni takes the pictures from my hand and examines them.
“So, she’s the governor’s daughter. Who cares? Surely she isn’t the first politician’s daughter to pursue a dodgy line of work.”
“Toni, she is the fifteen-year-old daughter of Governor D’Amico. I believe Erik is familiar with her. Erik, how exactly do you know her again?” I smile thinly.
“She said she was nineteen,” Erik croaks.
“Of course she did,” I reply. “And you believed her. And why would you even care to check? Oh, and why would you break the law and hire prostitutes in the first place?”
“Brenda, this story,” Erik gestures to Molly’s picture, “hasn’t got any legs. Nobody will care that a bunch of rockers hired a call girl.”
“All it takes is one phone call to the editor at the Providence Tattle Tale, and this story will go viral. You’ll be busted for contributing to the delinquency of a minor. And if you’d thought the band’s image was bad enough, just wait until this hits the wire. Oh, and need I mention the rumors about Governor D’Amico’s ties to the unions? You’re in for a world of trouble if you don’t give me what I want.”
“And what exactly would that be?” Toni asks, all the while glaring at Erik. I can tell she’s starting to weigh the options—what will it take to keep me quiet? Again, I ask, where the hell has she been all week? She knows exactly what I want.
“If you give me the money owed to Tim and me and move out of here within the week, then I will not breathe a word of this to the media. If not, then the whole world will know what assholes you all are, and your tour here in the U.S. will be over.” I gesture toward the dining room. “In the other room, you will find drafts of all the communications I will use to expose Hydra.”
“If you do,” Erik spouts, “we will sue you for breaching your contract.”
“Go right ahead, Erik. I assure you that my publicity campaign will be far more damaging than your lawsuit. Who has more at stake here? Me or you?” I hold up one of the pieces of paper on the table, and I can feel the adrenaline surge through my body; it’s making my fingers tingle. “I know that Toni is taking over your publicity, but I don’t think that even she can get you out of a mess like this. Piss off D’Amico, and you’re done. Once he talks to the unions, you’ll never play an arena in the U.S. again.”
“I have given my life to this band,” Erik hisses. “I will not have this.” He curls his hand around one of the perpetually-tarnished silver candlesticks on the table and points it at me for emphasis. Then—and I never thought I’d ever see somebody do this in real life—he actually throws it through the dining room window. It falls into the lilac bush near the front door of the house, the shattered glass sprinkled around it.
“And now you’ve gone and broken a window in my house, on top of everything else,” I say calmly. I will not let his temper tantrum make me lose control of this situation. I need to stay cool. “Now you’ll have to pay me for my window, or you’ll have to deal with the lovely headline, ‘Hydra Manager Throws Temper Tantrum and Destroys Window Belonging to Longtime Fan,’ in addition to everything else. The online tabloids love stories like that. So, is there anything else you’d like to destroy today? Or are you done?” I smile tightly. Erik runs his hand through his hair; inwardly, I brace for him to throw the other candlestick out the w
indow.
Toni turns on him. “Erik, how could you let this happen?”
Erik clenches his jaw and is silent.
“I want you out Thursday night by the time I get home from work. If you aren’t out, then this...,” I gesture toward the table, “all hits the wire on Friday morning. I went to college with an editor at MTV News. We keep in touch. One phone call and you’re history.”
And with that, I leave them to their uncomfortable silence. I scoop up my papers and go up the stairs to my bedroom. I’ve said what I needed to say, and I feel great about leaving the room without letting Erik intimidate me or rile me up. I wish I’d had my iPhone beside me so that I could have used it to dismiss him with a few swipes. I’ll call tomorrow and have the window fixed, so Tim won’t even know it happened.
I don’t emerge from my room for the rest of the night. It’s nice to snuggle with Vito and watch mindless TV. At ten o’clock, the band gets home, and I can hear their muffled voices through my closed door. I mute the TV, but I still can’t make out what they’re saying.
The voices grow louder, and I know that things are heating up downstairs. “Erik, it was you who hired those girls, not me,” I hear Keith argue. “This is your fault, not mine.”
“I hired them because you demanded it of me,” Erik replies. “And Mr. Rock Star is supposed to get whatever he wants or else you’ll throw one of your epic temper tantrums!”
“Don’t you dare pin this on me. If you can’t do your job and make sure that I am not in a compromising position, then what good are you, really?” Keith asks.
“You tell me,” Erik says. “You’re broke, if we can’t get this tour off the ground. This is our only option. If we don’t leave, she alerts the media, and we’re sunk.”
“Erik,” Keith says, “she’s bluffing. Are you going to buckle under? That’s not what we pay you for. You keep saying we can’t afford to move, so what are you going to do about it? Have you gone soft on us? Where are your balls?”
I pace nervously in my room and hear my stomach growl. I didn’t eat dinner, but there’s no way in hell I’m going down there now. I consider calling Tim, but I don’t want to jinx anything so decide not to. I get back into bed and feel Vito settle into a tight circle against the back of my knees. I hear the voices downstairs, but I can’t make out what they’re saying anymore. Even though my stomach is still growling, I doze off clutching Tim’s pillow. The ball’s in their court now. What are they going to do with it tomorrow?
Chapter 27
SINCE HYDRA MOVED INTO OUR HOUSE, the kitchen has always been a beehive of activity at any time of day. In the mornings, members of the crew come and go while Angela cooks breakfast to order, and countless mugs of tea go in and out of the kitchen sink. I remember that, when the band Boston released the album Third Stage, they wrote in the liner notes things like how many lightbulbs they’d gone through while recording that album. At the time, I thought it was interesting; now I wish I’d counted how many tea bags we’ve gone through in the two months that Hydra has lived in my house. When I wake up on Tuesday, it’s dead silent in the kitchen; none of the band or crew eating there acknowledges my existence. It would seem that news travels fast. Angela is the only one who says good morning; she flashes me a sympathetic smile. Obviously, she knows about my discussion with Erik, and that, by the end of the week, she’ll have to find another housekeeping-for-hire gig. Yet she still manages to smile at me, and I am thankful for that.
She follows me into the pantry and whispers, “Honestly, I can’t blame you. That Erik guy is horrible. You have to do what is right for you and Tim, honey.” I thank her and pack my lunch. I decide I’ll grab breakfast from the drive-thru on the way to work, since being in the kitchen with these people is now way too awkward.
When I get into my office, I see that Amanda has marked up the drafts I left on her desk last night. She made a note in the margin about researching Baxter’s claims of product superiority a bit more. I let out an irritated sigh and toss the draft aside. The last thing I want to think about is Baxter, since I don’t know yet if Hydra’s going to leave. I check my cell phone again for messages, even though I know there aren’t any.
“Well, good morning to you, too.” Amanda smiles from my doorway.
“Um, hi,” I say, trying to wipe the irritation off my face. Great. Now she probably thinks I find her revisions annoying; I am on thin ice as it is.
“You did a great job on those drafts. You really don’t need to change much on there. I just want a bit more meat to back up our claims. It shouldn’t be hard; we have access to industry studies. Nice job and welcome back.” She hands me a cup of tea. Amanda and I are the only ones here who don’t drink coffee. We informally take turns getting tea for each other, depending on which one of us gets in first. “So, what were you really working on so furiously yesterday?”
“What?” I ask, hoping to appear innocent.
“There’s no way those drafts took you all afternoon. You’re faster than that. And you only logged about ninety minutes of billable time for Baxter yesterday. What else were you working on?” she presses. She’s doing her ice-princess glare thing again; I feel as if her eyes are boring holes in my forehead. Does she think I’m screwing around now, too? I can’t help but feel the paranoia creep in; I’m riding the thirty-day warning, and she’s supposed to know everything I’m working on until the thirty days are up, when I will once again be deemed worthy to work here.
I search my mind for a suitable answer that won’t get me fired. She braces her hands on her hips, an impatient posture. Screw it, sooner or later I am going to have to explain my behavior somehow. “Remember how last week I had some personal stuff going on? Yesterday I came to the conclusion on how to solve my problem. If it doesn’t work out as I planned, then you will know everything on Friday, as my life as I know it will be over. If it does work out, then you’ll never hear a word about it, and it won’t be a problem anymore.”
“I need you to stay focused, Brenda. You have a lot riding on the next thirty days here. I need to know right now if this personal problem is going to be an issue. If it is, I will find someone else to work on Baxter. Joy’s been chomping at the bit for more responsibility. She wants more than anything to prove herself and get the chance to sit in your chair.”
“It won’t be a problem. Really.” I smile back at her. I hope it comes off as a confident, can-do attitude. She turns on her heel and strides back to her office, chin up, chest out, Nordic princess warrior ready for battle.
I get to work on revising the drafts when Joy rings my extension from the reception area. “Brenda, you have a visitor.” Odd, I’m not expecting anyone. I check my calendar on Outlook just to be sure. Nope, my calendar is wide open for the morning.
“Who is it?”
“Your mother-in-law.”
Oh, shit. What the hell is she doing here? I’m going to strangle her with her stupid triple-strand Mikimoto pearls. And if she’s still alive, I’m going to make her watch as I feed them to her stupid teacup Chihuahua. I take a deep breath and stand up from my desk. I need to conjure the confidence from my confrontation with Erik last night and tell this joker where to go. Past victories. Game face.
I see her standing in the waiting room, appearing afraid to contract a disease if she touches anything. Which is ridiculous, because Amanda is a neat freak who has hired what appear to be a surgical team to clean this office twice each week.
“Hello, Portia,” I say without any expression in my voice. “How about we sit down in here?” I gesture to the conference room. I don’t know why she’s here, and I want her to know she’s not welcome. It’s one thing to show up unannounced at my house; it’s entirely another to show up like this at my workplace. She knows what she’s doing and figures I’ll do anything to make her leave, to avoid a scene. I see Joy trying not to look like she’s spying, but she totally is.
Portia assesses the conference room and then selects a chair. Is she seriously looking for
the most advantageous chair in the room? Before I can ask her why she’s here, she sets a leather folio in front of me.
“Brenda, given the current situation, I have a proposal for you.” She nods at the folio, encouraging me to open it. I don’t comply and shove it back toward her just a few inches. “I’ve taken the liberty of drawing up an agreement between the two of us.” She pauses. “We both know that Timothy is unhappy in his marriage to you. I want us to agree to make it easy for him to move on. And, of course, you stand to benefit as well.”
“Portia, what the hell are you talking about?”
“If you cared to look,” she says, pushing the folio back toward me, “you’ll see that you will be provided with a generous stipend. Enough for you to afford a new home and a few extras. Agree to divorce Tim, and you will be well-provided for, darling.”
“Are you kidding me with this? Portia, you have got some nerve, coming to my workplace and pulling this.” Okay, it is seriously time to smack this bitch down for good. I have had enough of her crap. “Since the day I met you, you have gone out of your way to make me feel inferior. I tolerated it, figuring that maybe you’d come around after Tim and I got married. But you only got worse. Do you have any idea how awful you’ve been to me?” I pause for her to answer; she returns a steely gaze.
“It’s one thing to show up at my house, unannounced, but to come here and do this while I’m at work? You are a conniving bitch, Portia. Don’t you understand that I love Tim? I thought you’d have gotten the hint when you tried to pay me off before the wedding—your money doesn’t matter to me. If you’d bothered to get to know me at all, then you would have learned that I am not a gold digger. You would have learned that I am a good person who is in love with your son and wants more than anything for him to be happy.” I pause to collect myself. “Tell me. Why do you think so little of me?” I pause to allow her to answer. She doesn’t.
