CHAPTER 6
Excerpt from Petra Polly: Chapter 2—On Collaboration
Not only is there not an I in ‘teamwork,’ there isn’t a U either.
Expect all of your employees—including yourself—to work together. Seem obvious? Well, consider the following questions. How often do you allow office doors to remain shut? Cancel group meetings because of perceived busyness? Allow conversations to be held entirely electronically?
The company is a singular, multicelled organism that must work in complete harmony to bring life to your organization. When one cell goes rogue or isolates or mutates, the organization becomes ill, sometimes perilously so. The prescription is simple. Breathe the same air, ponder the same ideas, eat together whenever possible, and encourage real-time, in-person conversations. There is a T in ‘teamwork,’ and it stands for ‘togetherness.’
“If we start going to the bathroom together, that’s where I draw the line.” Jackie spoke into my ear so the others wouldn’t hear her mutinous comment. The employees of Guh sat on the postage-stamp-sized patch of lawn behind Gossamer Space, discussing Petra’s latest words of wisdom. The farmers’ market had returned, so outdoor real estate was at a premium, but the weather was near perfect, and all of us wanted to get outside. Lukas demanded we all eat lunch together for the foreseeable future; however, he was conspicuously absent, spending his lunch hour at the municipal building, officially putting the name Giacomo Advertising and Design to rest and replacing it with the single-letter designation. I would have paid a fortune to see the look on our village clerk’s face. Mrs. Cruikshank was ninety and had known Big Frank since he was born.
Glynnis was the only one smart enough to bring a blanket. It was the serape variety, the kind you get at tourist traps and (once upon a time) Dead shows. We were huddled on it, Glynnis, Rhiannon, Jackie, and me, our lunches held precariously on our laps. Seth and Byron sat with their backs against the building, long legs stretched in front of them, vape pens at their mouths.
“Vaping? You guys are such losers,” Rhiannon announced.
“Two of us are going to be losers,” Byron said. “By the end of the summer.” He had a knowing, sardonic way of speaking, so even the most mundane comment begged a reaction. Glynnis smiled at him. She had a crush.
“What I don’t understand,” I said, “is how we’re supposed to work as one body and still engage in healthy competition.”
Rhiannon snorted. “That’s the beauty of Petra Polly. She doesn’t have to make fuck-all sense.”
“It works,” Seth countered. “She’s number one on the New York Times bestseller list.”
Rhiannon shook her head, not budging. “That only means she’s trending, or has a fantastic publicist. It doesn’t mean her stupid rules work.”
“You don’t seem to have any problem following her stupid rules when Lukas is around,” Byron countered.
“I need this job,” she retorted. “Do you know how long it took me to find it?”
“We all need the job,” Jackie said miserably.
We ate in silence for a while.
“I have an idea,” Glynnis said, her voice nearly inaudible. “We still have some time left, and we’re supposed to be bonding or something, right?”
“Don’t even think of suggesting we do trust falls or play truth or dare,” Rhiannon snapped.
Glynnis shifted so she could rise to her knees. “Nothing like that. I think we should go around the circle and say one interesting thing about ourselves. Something memorable. Let’s humanize each other.”
Seth made a noise of protest. “Are you kidding? Not going to happen.”
Glynnis clapped once, sharply, and then offered a timid smile. She must have been a Girl Scout in a prior incarnation, or an eager church group volunteer. “It can happen if we keep it simple,” she said. “Answer this question—why did your parents name you what they did?”
Jackie pointed at Rhiannon. “Well, she’s got the most obvious story.”
“Why?” Seth asked. “I don’t get it.”
“Fleetwood Mac, you dolt,” Rhiannon said, covering her head with her hands. “Why didn’t they name me Stevie? I would have liked that better.”
“Rhiannon’s the white witch,” Jackie said. “I think that’s pretty cool.”
“You would,” Byron muttered.
“What about you?” I asked him. Byron was starting to grate on my nerves.
“I thought that was obvious. Lord Byron.”
I had to admit that was impressive. “Were your parents academics?”
“They own a dry cleaning business.”
“Oh.”
“Well, that’s interesting,” Glynnis remarked. “Did you work there?”
Byron flicked his gaze at her. “Are you kidding?”
Glynnis didn’t skip a beat. “What about you, Paige?”
What about me? I hesitated, wondering if I should reveal too much of myself. What the hell, I decided. “I was named by a nurse at the hospital. My mother had a drug problem and took off as soon as she was physically able. It took a while for my grandmother to find me.”
Glynnis had no idea what to do with that, and neither did the others, their stares vacant, mouths slack. Even Byron dropped his vape pen onto the grass. He leaned over it, assessing me with new eyes. “Are you shitting me?”
I held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
“I didn’t know that,” Jackie said. She didn’t seem hurt, but perplexed. “Did Big Frank know that?”
He had, but I shrugged it off just as he did, unwilling to go down the path of uncomfortable explanations. “It’s not such a big deal.”
They longed for detail, begging for more, but I stayed silent. Reluctantly, they turned to Seth.
“I’m named after my uncle,” he said apologetically. “Not too exciting.”
“That’s nice,” Glynnis said.
Jackie checked her watch. “We need to get back.”
We cleaned up and rose to stretch our legs, moving briefly, as Petra Polly suggested, as one. Then Seth and Byron started goofing around on the grass while Rhiannon reapplied hot-pink lip gloss and Jackie fluffed up her hair.
“We’re forgetting something,” Seth said. “But I don’t know what it is.”
“Then it doesn’t matter,” Rhiannon snapped. “Let’s get back inside, do what we need to do, and get the hell out before Lukas announces that Petra thinks we should work weekends.”
I fell in step with Glynnis.
“I was named for a valley in Ireland,” she said, slowing her pace.
“We forgot your turn! I’m so sorry.” Impulsively, I reached out and tucked a stray lock of her strawberry-blonde hair behind her ear. “Your name is lovely.”
“But your story is better,” she said. We watched Byron and Seth jokingly fight over who held the door for Rhiannon. “I’m going to be one of the losers, aren’t I?” she continued.
“It’s impossible to say. It could be any of us.”
She shook her head. “Some things you just know.”
Saturday morning, I awoke to the sound of male voices arguing. For a moment it was comforting—my house had been quiet for days—and I eased back into lounge mode, but then I heard my name rip through the relaxation. The voice was unmistakable.
Jesse.
Frantic, I leaped out of bed and scrambled for a bra. I ran a comb through my hair and managed to brush my teeth. The capri sweats that seemed so comfortable the night before made me look like a Walmart meme, and there was a large oily stain on the hem of my T-shirt, but they were gray, and he liked me in gray. My head was still fuzzy with sleep.
Paige!
I ran full tilt down the hallway, and then stopped at the edge of the stairs. I’d been with Jesse long enough to know the edge to his voice meant he was annoyed, but that wasn’t why I hesitated.
I wanted to hear it again.
Paige!
There. How many times does a married couple call out to each other during the course of twenty years? Thousands? I’d lived without it for two years now. Part of me knew it was fantasy, but I shoved that part off to the sidelines. I was like Trey—he’d give up sugar for weeks, but sometimes, sometimes you longed for a taste, even though you knew it wasn’t good for you. I’d find him in his room, surrounded by candy wrappers.
“Mom?” Trey sounded unsure.
“I’m coming!”
They were outside, standing at the ragged patch of dirt I’d dug up. It was no longer the size of a grave, but round and approximately the size of an aboveground pool. I’d left the garden spade on the patio. Trails of dirt marked the concrete. The dandelions, dead and wilted, still lay in a pile. Trey took a seat next to the weeds, his eyes watchful.
“Paige!”
The voice I’d heard was not Jesse’s but Mr. Eckhardt’s. I shook the remaining cloudiness from my brain and tried to focus, but grief pulsed in my throat so violently it brought tears to my eyes. Death was final, but grief wasn’t; it was a dirty street fighter who rose again and again even when I thought I had successfully knocked it to the ground. King of the sucker punches. Swallowing my emotions, I turned to Mr. Eckhardt. “What do you want?”
Mr. Eckhardt, his white crew cut standing with the same straight, unflinching posture as his spine, said, “Your son doesn’t believe you did this on purpose.”
Ignoring him, Trey took my appearance in for one agonizing moment, and then, puzzled, said, “Is everything okay?”
“Peachy,” I responded.
Trey studied the dirt pond, brain obviously scrambling for an acceptable explanation and coming up with nothing.
“You’ll need to get this resodded,” Mr. Eckhardt insisted.
“I’m not getting it resodded,” I said evenly. “I like it.”
Trey nodded, his reaction automatic. “Okay, Mom. Whatever. But what is it?”
“It’s . . .”
“Lunacy,” Mr. Eckhardt finished. “Utter lunacy.”
“It’s mine,” I said, curling my toes at the edge of the pit. “All mine.”
“Your mother isn’t thinking correctly,” Mr. Eckhardt said to Trey. “Now, you’re old enough to talk some sense into her. I won’t have this. She’s breaking the law.”
“Which law?” I interjected, forcing him to address me. “Is there a law about digging in your backyard?”
“Community standards,” Mr. Eckhardt retorted. “You’re violating them. We live in a gated subdivision. Buying property here means you agree to certain terms, one of which is not destroying the character of your portion of the land. Are you having trouble understanding what that means?”
Trey walked over to the older man, his movements uncertain. Jesse and I had impressed upon him the importance of being respectful to adults, and I could see him struggling with honoring those lessons. His fists clenched and unclenched, but before I could intervene, he said, “Thanks for your input, sir. My mom and I are going to have a private talk about it, inside. It’ll be taken care of, no doubt.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Mr. Eckhardt said. “Because if you don’t take care of it, I will.”
“So what’s going on, Mom?” Trey said while putting the teakettle on. “Are you digging your way to China?”
“No, just digging,” I said with a shrug. “It felt good to do it the other night. So I did it.”
“It’s . . . a weird thing to do. You know that, right?” Trey made himself busy around the kitchen, the constant movement a shield against any talk of Jesse. Trey only wanted to talk about his father when he could control all the possible routes the conversation might take. Any possibly dangerous emotional paths were to be avoided.
I shot him my best sane, motherly smile. “I don’t think it’s weird. It’s just . . . something different.”
“It’s irrational,” he said, sounding so much like Jesse the tears almost returned. “And that’s not like you. It’s a little crazy.” He moved to the far cabinet to grab the tea and stopped short. I’d left the two empty wine bottles in the corner because the recycling bin was full and I hadn’t had the time to empty it.
“Did you drink those?” The shock in his voice was almost heartwarming. His mother didn’t drink. His mother did not ever lose control.
“I did.” For some reason, inappropriate as it was, it felt good to admit it. I’d managed to hide the ravages of my grief from Trey. They leaked out at work, mostly, and in the privacy of my bedroom, where some nights I could wring out my pillow and fill a swimming pool.
Trey broke into a broad grin. “Oh, you were drunk!” The explanation pleased him—crazy was difficult and scary; drunk he could handle. “Why didn’t you say so?”
“I wasn’t drunk.” Drinking was one thing; admitting intoxication gave him an excuse to write off what I’d done. “I was drinking, but not drunk. There’s a difference. I was fully aware of what I was doing.”
“And what is that, exactly?” Trey shot me a skeptical look.
I didn’t have an answer I could articulate. “I’m . . . I’m not sure.”
Trey poured me tea and popped open a can of sparkling water for himself. After I thanked him, he shook his head and said, “Just resod it like Mr. Eckhardt said. He’s an ass, but he’s kind of right.”
“But what if I want to keep digging?”
“Why? I think you’re going to need a good reason to keep Mr. Eckhardt from getting in your face all the time. You don’t even have a reason at all.”
“I don’t have to justify my actions to him.”
Trey shrugged, and then gulped down his sparkling water. He needed time to make sense of things, and so did I. Where was this impulse coming from, this need to keep digging up the grass in my backyard until I completely destroyed it? Was this grief in action, or the opposite of that—healing? I needed to figure that out. Until I did, I’d keep digging.
“Let him think I’m going to resod the backyard,” I said to Trey, giving authority to my words. “I need some time. Okay?”
“I guess,” Trey said. “But time for what?”
“To make sense of things.”
“Good luck with that.”