748

Margie Olivia Murphy studied her desk calendar. She searched for time to verify the sparrow-sized bird with greenish-yellow breast and lavender wings—reported roosting at a nearby park by birding newbies—was the rare orchid oriole. If true, it would be number 748 on her Audubon Life List. She ran a finger down today’s box—2:30 Lena driving lesson/bank, 3:05 doggie day care Izzy pick-up, 3:45 Lena drop-off swim practice, 4:05 call Senator Hewett’s assistant–God update, 4:55 1 sweet-sour pork/1 chow fun, call Wayne–Johnson submittal, 6:05 pick-up swim Lena, eat in car, 6:30–8:00 mall–Lena prom dress/ugh.

The week’s other boxes were crammed with squiggles, too. If she couldn’t find an hour for park reconnaissance, how would she squeeze in a Guatemalan trek to add the Resplendent Quetzal? Her list would forever hover at 747.

Her cell phone chirped a warbler’s tune, a sweet singsong that to the uninitiated sounded like a boot camp Jody: “Here I am before the sun, going on a twenty-mile run.”

A text.

Lena: tattooist demands your [thumbs up] for me to get Brian on my butt K?

Margie rolled her eyes. Her daughter’s backside would not be branded with the name of a boy she had known for three weeks—the “B” plastered across her left cheek and the “N” slipping into...

Another warbler chirp.

Jane: when can U schedule orchid oriole? must report to BEAK ASAP

“Alright, already. I’m trying.” Margie said to her phone, her calendar, BEAK (Bleeding-hearts Engrossed in Avian Knowledge) members who waited impatiently for her and Jane to confirm so they could schedule 24-7 surveillance of the oriel, should it be the orchid.

A third chirp.

Lena: Mom??? Mom???

A fourth.

Jane: Well????? What else do U have to do??

Margie propped her Birkenstocks on the windowsill of her corner office, wiggled socked-toes, and spread the calendar across her lap.

A fifth chirp. A sixth.

She shut her eyes and jabbed a finger at the page. It landed on Sunday afternoon’s 2:45 slot, which—astonishingly—was empty.

She grabbed her cell, to text Jane the good news, Lena the bad, when Wayne entered.

“Good, you’re not busy.” The company’s general manager collapsed into her visitor’s chair, chosen because its hue passed for the mustard chest of a yellow-throated vireo.

“You’ll have to take the Johnson account,” he said.

“What’s wrong with Carla?” The company was in the business of selling advice on tricky regulatory issues and Carla was its number two advice giver. “She lets Johnson know she’s right without telling him he’s wrong.”

“She’s nearly as good at it as you.”

Cool air flowed from the HVAC vent in the rehabbed warehouse’s soffit directly across from Margie’s desk.

“Why change the account’s leadership?”

A polar gust knocked over her Mother’s Day card. Margie positioned the card with a Calypte costa, a compact hummingbird that Lena had drawn adjacent to the plaque proclaiming CEO and Owner. Margie had been surprised her teenager understood the Costae’s importance (Life-list no. 300; demarcation between Wanna-be and Am; earning, coincidentally, a hummingbird pin) considering how self-absorbed Lena was.

“He does love Carla,” Wayne said. “But Carla’s done.”

Margie glanced at her phone:  seven more MOM??????s.  Five more WHEN????s.  She turned off her cell. “Done? As in done for the day, gone cycling? Or done done...?”

Wayne slumped, studied the new Berber with plush pile beneath his tasseled loafers. “Said if she worked anymore on Johnson, she’d kiss her cycling prep goodbye. Said she deserved some daylight after all she puts up with.”

Carla made good money. Was assigned stellar projects, where clients leaned in to catch every bit of sage offering the company served. Shit, Carla attended seminars in Paris every July, coinciding with the Tour de France. Yet some burr chafed her butt.

Yesterday, Carla whined her healthcare coverage had been dropped, but when Margie checked, HR shook their collective head. Monday, Carla complained she had missed her merit raise, but when Margie probed, Payroll said, “No way.” Friday last, Carla claimed a worm had infested her computer, but when Margie investigated, IT eye rolled.

“If I offered her night training goggles, maybe she’d stay,” Wayne said.

“Do you know how many complaints she lodged with HR last month? Sixty-two. A company record.”

Carla had demanded stronger coffee. The Nicaraguan blend, specially roasted for Wayne, barely raised her eyelids. Carla insisted the refrigerator malfunctioned, the half-and-half turning before its time, and refused what Margie brought in, said she couldn’t consume hormone-laden products. She claimed boxes of chocolate mint cookies disappeared from her desk and rebuffed the half-empty package Janitorial found in the breakroom. Not one for waste, Margie ate them.

Wayne raised his eyebrows. “I hadn’t realized.”

A flash of black eye line and bright red cap darted by Margie’s industrial-sized window. A vermilion flycatcher! Would the bird head to the tree across the street, where she could monitor its every move? No, it darted out of sight.

“So, back to Johnson,” Wayne said. “Would you take over?”

“Me? We talked about this before.” She searched the sky for the flycatcher. “I’m busy.”

Air gusted from the vent, swept the desk clean of cookie crumbs, lipstick tube, a mist-net brochure. Lena’s card scooted across its mahogany surface, but Margie slapped the desk, caught the card before it glided away. She glared at the vent.

“Is your office’s AC wonky? Sometimes the flow’s mellow, then hurricane strength. Doesn’t matter the setting or ambient temp. Like it’s got a mind of its own.”

Wayne shook his head. “My office’s perfect.”

The outpouring air dwindled.

The intercom crackled. “Front desk here. Carla’s packing. Looks serious this time.”

Wayne threw up his hands. “You go. I’m clueless.”

Margie walked toward Carla’s office. She passed the “Woman of Year” plaque with “Margaret Olivia Murphy, AKA M.O.M.” printed in brass and a framed cover of a national business journal featuring the company. Walking by the bald eagle sculpture honoring her philanthropic efforts, Margie ran a finger across a well-worn groove on the bronze wing’s tip.

“I’m outa here!” Carla burst from her office, purse slung over shoulder.

From the breakroom opposite, air bubbled within the water cooler—a chortling noise.

***

The Company giggled. Don’t let the door smack you on the way out, Carla Dear. Tylor Smith’s “You Belong to Me” hummed through the HVAC ducts and the lights pulsed to the tune.

M.O.M. had to pay attention now. Why she let Wayne assign Carla to Johnson’s account was crazy. Carla was such a poser, a total suck-up. Said she was a team player but used Johnson’s account for self-advancement, drummed up excuses for four-day weekends and high-end bike gizmos. Wimp Wayne swallowed every last demand. M.O.M. should have handled Johnson from the get-go, his business was too important. Now, M.O.M. had no choice but to do the right thing—give up BEAK and focus on work.

The Company had searched Forbes, The Wall Street Journal, Tokyo Business Times, but their articles didn’t address her problem. She checked M.O.M.’s magazines: Audubon, Wild Bird, Working Mother. Nothing. The Company spent breaks and after-hours cruising on-line then Googled “annihilating the other woman.” Bam! Cosmopolitan Magazine, “How to ditch the bitch: strategies to shake-off frenemies.”

She followed the article’s suggestions, orchestrated situations where Carla would ultimately realize diminishing ROI so she’d quit. It had been an exhausting endeavor tracking payroll, vacation, healthcare adjustments, as all figures had to be righted—couldn’t twitch-out auditors.

The Company switched on the espresso machine.

Going forward, she’d read only Cosmo. WSJ didn’t know shit, reported wishy-washy stats: market up one day, down the next. With all of those pundits the Journal quoted, the publication shouldn’t act confused.

She faded Carla’s desktop wallpaper, one pixel at a time, until the picture of the senior analyst crossing the finish line on her Trek Madone SLR9 fizzled to black.

***

Margie stared at the lights above Carla’s desk, the halogen fixtures flickered as if programmed to a tune. From the vent, a cool breeze trickled.

She had created the company sixteen years ago, the same year Lena was born, and it was as if she birthed twins. She worked from home, negotiated contracts on the phone while changing diapers. She closed million-dollar deals sitting in the kiddie pool dressed in her bathing suit, shushed Lena if she giggled loudly. She wrote reports while Lena played with the potted Ficus tree’s dirt, molded soil into castles, turrets, moats. Margie marveled over the company’s accomplishments, oohed and aahed at each new client, revenue milestone, award garnered, much like she beamed when Lena learned a new word or lost a tooth.

Someone coughed and Margie turned. Wayne. The temple of his wire framed glasses glinted and his white button-down practically glowed.

“Who can take Johnson?” Margie asked.

Wayne shook his head. “I need a drink.” He motioned to the breakroom’s entrance.

A new La Pavoni espresso machine perched on the granite counter. Wayne placed his mug with Starboard: Block Island Race printed in aquamarine letters underneath the dispenser. Steamy liquid flowed. The earthy aroma of beans sun-dried on the slopes of Nicaragua’s Mombacho Volcano reminded Margie of Life List no. 691, a Blue-throated Toucanet, spotted in the mountain’s north-slope canopy while she dangled in a harness.

“I see you programmed it.” Wayne stared at the vent above the refrigerator. “Figured with this news I’d need something.”

She hadn’t approved the espresso machine’s acquisition nor fiddled with the contraption. Margie glanced at the clock. 2:20. Lena would be here soon, Thursday early out day.

She asked, “Who has the patience for Johnson?”

“He is a pain. Always showing cockatoo pics.”

“Gotta be someone. Someone beside me.”

Silence grew. She was good at silence. She could outwait anybody. It was her strongest negotiating skill.

Wayne shrugged. “Can’t pay people enough to watch those YouTube videos of Birdie-Boo on a unicycle.”

Watching an overfed cockatoo pedal a pink bike, its crimson crest fluttering wasn’t that bad. Granted, Birdie-Boo was a pet. The cockatoo was like Johnson’s child. Staff shared pictures of their kids, why should Johnson be criticized for showing off his? “Who can you assign, who won’t screw up the account?”

“Wayne,” the intercom boomed. “God’s on One for you.”

The staff had nicknamed the company’s most demanding client God. From early morning to late evening there were strategic sessions with military brass—the project of national security and often referred to in the press as Congressional pork barrel. With every multi-gigabyte report uploaded to secure Pentagon servers, the Senate Majority Leader sent the company a handwritten thank you note.

“Gotta go,” Wayne said.

How convenient! Every time she backed him into a corner, God called.

Margie returned to Carla’s office. Post-its speckled the monitor. “Call...,” “Due...,” “Set up...,” they chided. Carla scribbled reminders because her electronic ones failed, she claimed.

Carla’s messiness represented revenue, income the company chugged like frat boys after a football win. Tabulating Carla’s billable hours would be delayed and meeting payroll might be a challenge. It would take all weekend to sort the mess. She’d miss Lena’s swim meet and the Yates Full Body Harness rappelling demo. Forget the Orchid Oriol.

Peddle Power draped the keyboard. Margie turned to a flagged page in the magazine. A star had been scribbled next to the headline: Putting metal to the peddle—cash cows fund programs. She scanned the first paragraph, using profits to support cycling nonprofits. Maybe there was something here for BEAK’s incubator project: cloning the extinct Carolina parakeet from a stuffed museum specimen.

“Mom, why didn’t you answer?”

Lena, black sunglasses holding a tumble of auburn hair, stood behind her. Her daughter’s backpack strap dug into a blue and black checked shirt. The shirt was new as were the ripped jeans. Too bad teenage clothing manufactures used Bangladeshi factories. Margie did not like to support unethical labor practices.

 “Can I? Get the tattoo?”

“We should go.” Margie tucked the magazine under her arm. “Not much time before we pick up Izzy-Boy. I’ll get my purse and you can practice driving.”

“Change the subject. Ignore me.” Lena deftly twisted the backpack toward her. There was a new button pinned to the bag: OK Boomer squeezed between Whatever and Yes, I am the center of the universe.

In her office, Margie glanced at the monitor’s screen saver: Canada geese flapping in formation. She clicked the mouse, checked her inbox. There were messages from Johnson. “Now what?”

“Mom, you were getting your purse.” Lena threw her backpack onto the visitor’s chair.

Margie opened a message that read: “Call ASAP,” with .jpg attachments, labeled “ballerina” and “wedgie.” Undoubtingly Birdie-Boo’s latest tricks. Margie glanced at Lena, who rolled her eyes. It would be impossible to call Johnson with Lena herding her out the door, snapping at her heels like an Australian Shepherd.

The billionaire had first contacted the company the week after Margie was awarded the Eagle and insisted on an appointment with her, only her.

“Must be an interview,” Wayne said. “See if we’re savvy enough for his business. Work the Eagle angle. It’s the birding Noble Prize.”

Johnson talked captive birds. Yakked about cockatoos: difficulties breeding and training. Each time she turned the conversation to business, Johnson waved his hand as though batting a fly. “My people will talk to your people.” And returned to the use of dried pineapple tied to a pole as a training tool. Two hours into his monologue, Johnson grabbed her hand. “I’d like to ask a favor.” He had the most amazing blue eyes.

In the absence of words, a whine. She homed in on the sounds coming from the other side of the conference room’s wall: scratching, whimpering, pleading. Izzy! The poor dog had to go. Her office would smell to high heaven if she didn’t answer nature’s call.

In response to her perceived hesitation, Johnson’s voice quavered. “Would you advise me on the Eagle? Put in a good word for me? I would make a substantial donation to your favorite charity.” He winked twice, bowed his head. “It’s the only award I’ve ever wanted.”

Izzy-boy howled.

Margie bolted from the room and by the time she returned, Johnson was gone.

Just as well. She hadn’t known what to say. The Eagle was earned, not wink wink bought. Johnson threw the company work, invited her to A-list parties, and once, offered to sponsor her at The Links, a private club with a dubious track record admitting women. She had declined all, except the contracts.

Scrolling to the next message, she said to Lena, “Give me a minute.”

“Mom, let someone else do it. That’s why you’re the boss, so you can do whatever you want.” Lena shrugged on her backpack. “Did you know that Dillon’s dad sold his company? They’re spending the summer in Europe.”

“Dillon’s dad just started his firm.”

“When we were in kindergarten, remember?”

Indeed. “Sold it? Europe? The whole summer?”

“Yep. His dad said the new buyers could take his company to the next level, better than he could. Swiss firm, I think. Can we go now? At this rate I’ll never get my license. I’m nearly sixteen and half. All my friends got their license on their birthday. Everyone. Everyone except me. Think of all the time you’d have chasing birds instead of schlepping me around.”

She would have more time, but then she’d never see her daughter.

Leaning against the doorknob, Lena surveyed the room. “You should paint your walls. White’s so boring.”

The walls were dotted with Lena’s artwork—pastel parrot with over-sized wings, charcoal owl with saucer-shaped eyes and hooked beak—and photos of Izzy-Boy—in Halloween skunk costume, at the beach with blue bandana, head tilted, a tooth protruding over lip.

 “What color would you paint them?” Thank goodness Lena had shifted away from both tattoo and license.

Lena repositioned her sunglasses in her hair, cocked her head, much like Izzy-Boy, and nodded to the wall closest to her. “When I’m the boss, I’ll paint that fuchsia.” She pivoted, pointed to the wall behind Margie’s desk, “Chartreuse.” Spun, faced the door, and motioned to the floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with baby photos of herself, Izzy-Boy, blue-footed booby (no. 643), cassowary with its horn-like crest and red wattle (no. 223), elegant trogon, crimson chest visible in the tree’s foliage (no. 596). “When I’m in charge, I’ll pitch that and paint the wall goldenrod.” Lena faced her. “White is so old, Mom. Sometimes I wonder about you. Hopefully, you don’t have early onset Alzheimer’s. Because I can’t care for you if I don’t have my license.”

The flapping geese on Margie’s monitor abandoned their trip, gray wings still in crisp autumn sky.

***

Dillon’s dad sold his company? The Company froze the server. Gone international? But that start-up’s six years younger! The problem was bigger than Carla hoodwinking Wimp Wayne, bigger than M.O.M’s wayward attention. The Company was behind, round the corner, down the block behind.

Dillon’s Dad’s company sold stuff. What if she sold stuff? Stuff Sis bought. If she dumped selling advice and sold hoodies and leggings, would that bounce her to the next level? Transfer out of this sketchy warehouse and into an Architectural Digest abode? Transform her into a household name?

Hoody and legging profits would be miniscule since the clothing couldn’t be made in Bangladesh. Not enough for a hip architect, new building, or AD spread. Or a household name moniker. Not enough for a Swiss firm to come knocking. She’d never reach the next level.

Oh. My. God.

The breakroom’s disposal whirled, mangled leftover bagels bits, coffee grounds, apple cores. Enough with birds and BEAK! M.O.M must do something.

But could she?

Just this morning, M.O.M. had burst into Wayne’s office while The Company and Wayne crafted a memo. M.O.M. stared agape at Wayne’s trophy wall, a floor-to-ceiling mahogany case installed the previous evening.

The bookcase was executive drool-worthy: Rotary Club plaques honored Wayne and The Company for contributions to civic improvements, trophies from The Company sponsored little league team, framed press clippings. As M.O.M.’s gaze settled on a photograph of Wayne shaking hands with the House Ways and Means Committee Chair, The Company composed an email to the interior decorator, thanking her for the awesome installation. If the bookcase wasn’t a reminder for Wayne to act like a General Manager of a Fortune 500 Wanna-be, The Company didn’t know what was.

“Yes?” Wayne asked. “What’s up?”

“You look busy.”

Of course he was busy! They were crafting a memo. Memos took time. Wayne couldn’t zap them off like M.O.M. Wayne pondered words (too strong? too demanding? too insensitive?) and sometimes his grammar lacked. Nothing left his outbox until The Company made sure it was general manager quality. This memo, surprisingly, was nearly done and done well.

 “What can I do you for?”

Ouch! Best to enroll him in diction improvement.

Wayne picked up a Pelikan fountain pen.

She had sneaked the pen past Procurement (who’d put a cap on pen outlays) as a reward for standing up to God. An Atta-boy, after he requested (no apologies) a contract modification, reflecting increased expenses. She had spammed his inbox with executive goodies (pen, business card holder, money clip), played on his subconscious emotions, until he’d sent a request directly to TheCompany@TheCompany.com.

“Did you hear? A Business Week reporters’ coming tomorrow afternoon for a profile.”

M.O.M. furrowed her brow. “Tomorrow afternoon? I have a commitment.”

The Company accessed M.O.M.’s calendar: Volunteer Izzy’s agility class. What??? Chasing a rat-dog over jumps instead of talking to Business Week was way off track.

“No worries,” Wayne said. “I’ll cover.” He rolled the Pelikan again. “The piece will make a nice addition.” He tilted his head toward the shelves. “It’ll boost all of our stock: mine, yours, the company’s.”

The Company blushed. Heat tore through her electrical system and Wayne’s monitor blinked. Success! That’s what executives wanted for their companies: to be influential. She’d have offices in London, Paris, and Tokyo. Especially Tokyo. That placed rocked. They’d open a branch in the amazing Dogenzaka district with its avant-garde buildings. Maybe she had underestimated Wayne. Maybe Wayne could take her to the next level.

“What did you need?” Wayne asked.

M.O.M shrugged. “I forgot.”

Sis was right! M.O.M. was going senile. The Company had to do something. Before M.O.M. got so far off-track that whatever crazy stupid thing she did was irreversible.

***

Margie popped her head into Wayne’s office. He’d never mentioned redecorating, and from the looks of it, he’d spent time—and unauthorized money—with a professional. Gone were his old credenza and knickknacks: photo of his Bubba outside her third-floor walk-up, doughy arms clutching a shopping bag; baseball his Big gave Wayne when he was a Little; kaleidoscope with “Coney Island” engraved on one side.

“We’re off.” She nodded at her daughter, “I’m giving Lena a driving lesson.” She twisted the Fossil on her wrist, band made from recycled blue jeans.

“Is it that time already?” Wayne checked his watch. The large diamond on its golden face marked twelve o’clock. “I better get going, too. Broker’s appointment. Be back afterwards.”

“What about God?”

His head shook. “Nobody on the line.”

Lena tapped her boot against Margie’s sandal. “Come on, Mom.”

On the stairway outside the front door, Lena stepped over the loose riser. “When I’m the boss, I’ll replace that step, not wait for historical commission approval.”

 “Lena, why the sudden interest in the company? Usually, you complain about how bored you are.” Margie fished into her purse for a metallic red cardinal.

Lena plucked the key chain from Margie’s hand. “It’s not like you have anyone else to pass it on to.” She opened the door and tossed her backpack onto the rear seat.

Margie stowed her purse on the floor in front, Pedal Power poked from the opening. “What’s wrong with Wayne running the show?”

She’d brought him in two years ago to free her from the day-to-day. He had been the best fit of the candidates. He’d worn jeans and Birkenstocks, albeit new but it was a job interview. He cracked jokes, not too many to be obnoxious, but enough that showed he’d be fun to work with. When asked what he did after hours, he said that he hiked, liked nature.

He’d ditched the Birkenstocks within his first week and never talked hiking. But revenues had exceeded expectations. He took the company places—strip mines, covert military bases, hazardous waste storage pits—places Margie wouldn’t have ventured.

Lena removed her sunglasses, gave Margie the look that Margie gave people who hadn’t understood what the heck was going on. “Wayne’s only in it for himself.”

***

Lena turned onto the street, traveled east. If Wayne ran the company, he’d suck out all the money. Wreck everything Mom built. Mom talked about giving back, so groups like BEAK (silly as it was) benefited. With Wayne in charge only he’d benefit. Didn’t Mom see Wayne for what he was? Surely the pompous ass bookcase was a clue. Sometimes Mom was dense.

After a right turn onto Broadway, Lena spotted The Bean.

“How about a cappuccino?” Brian might be at the coffeehouse sipping his favorite, a double latte with an extra shot. He’d see her pull up in the car. Driving.

“Lena, you know I don’t like you drinking coffee.”

“It’s not like a cappuccino leads to heroin.” Lena twirled a hair strand behind her ear. “It’s not really coffee, Mom. It’s chocolate milk with a taste of coffee.”

“Both hands on the wheel! Coffee is coffee, no matter what you put with it.”

The Bean slipped by. Bummer! She was sixteen and a half. She should do what she wanted.

They approached a brick building with ornate columns.

“How was school today?”

Passed a softball field and parking lot.

“OK.”

“Anything happen?”

“Nope.” She had met with her guidance counselor. The woman asked Lena about her ideal job. “Run a consulting company. Advise clients. Help them achieve their goals.” Had those words come from her mouth? That’s what Mom said when someone asked her what she did for a living. What a shocker! She’d better not be turning into her mother.

Approaching an intersection, Lena slowed.

If one of her friends asked what she wanted to be when she grew up, she would have said artist, photographer, fashion designer, someone amazing. But the counselor had asked about her ideal job—asked that tricky question sideways.

The light turned red and she stopped behind the line.

“Nice job,” Mom said.

Lena drummed her fingernails on the steering wheel. Of course it was a nice job. Driving was easy peasey. Like running a company. Mom made everything complicated. Numbers were numbers. Vacation time and pay rates didn’t change day-to-day. If the accountant couldn’t add, fire him. But no, her mother spent hours with department heads fixing “the process.” Mom would have more time if she’d ditched face-to-face. Once she was in charge, she’d text managers. Everyone texted. Nobody talked face to face.

“Lena, go! It’s green.”

The Volvo jumped forward but not before a cherry-red car with a lot of chrome cut in front. Where’d that car come from? Its top was folded down and the driver’s hair flowed in long blond waves. The girl wore the Forever 21 fuchsia hoodie, one Mom had refused to buy. That girl’s mother didn’t tell her what to wear.

Lena wanted a cool ride like that. What kind of car was it? She squinted, made out two crossed chrome flags on the back. She applied more pressure and tightened the gap.

“Too close!” Mom darted a foot forward, slammed an imaginary brake pedal.

Worrywart! About stopping the car, about the company being out of control. Over dinner last night, Mom had pushed green beans from one side of her plate to the other, sometimes off—sure sign of anxiety—while telling about Wayne contracting with a Mexican strip mine (Johnson referral) and how he’d brushed aside her concerns of working for drug lords. “Too late,” he’d said. “Already accepted a retainer.”

Probably pocketed some, too. Telling Mom though would have further upset her and there were too many green beans on the tablecloth.

Lena turned into a bank’s parking lot. The Volvo’s wheels ran up on the curb. Mom shot her the look.

“My bad.” She hadn’t realized driving was so difficult. Approaching the teller’s window, she came to a stop, third in line. Waited.

“What’s taking so long?” she asked.

With no response, Lena glanced sideways. Mom held a magazine on her lap, scribbled notes next to a picture of cyclists crossing a finish line. “What’s so important about bikers?”

“It’s about doing something useful with profits.”

“But you’re not into bikes, Mom. You’re into birds.”

“Precisely. I think with some juggling in the way we run things I can get the company back on track and support BEAK at the same time.”

“What about Wayne?”

Mom closed the magazine. The car in front of them had pulled forward. “You’re right. Wayne’s in it for himself.”

Mom thought she was right? Mom always told her she couldn’t buy this, drink that, go there. Now she simply agreed with her? Mom was definitely losing it.

“Our turn.” Mom motioned with her hand.

Lena shifted into drive, lined up her window with the teller’s. Mom handed her a thick blue pouch.

“Cash?” Lena placed the bundle into the extended metal tray.

Mom sighed. “Johnson’s Peruvian mine.”

Mom was probably thinking of checking on the project (adding more birds to her List). Once she was boss, she’d hang out in super cool places, like Paris or London, or Tokyo—especially the Dogenzaka district, where everyone dressed in amazing clothes. The teller handed her a receipt and Lena gave it to Mom.

“Let’s get Izzy-Boy,” Mom said.

From the parking lot Lena turned onto Van Buren. Mom dragged her to boresville. Last year they’d flown to some dinky island off Australia, to search for humongous bowerbirds. No stores and her cell didn’t work. This summer, Mom talked about Guatemala, traipsing through the jungle looking for a bird whose name she couldn’t pronounce. If it was anything like that island, her reception would be zero. She wouldn’t be able to text Brian. Oh. My. God.

“Lena, pay attention!”

***

The Company watched M.O.M.’s car with its “BIRD” license plate glide from the parking lot. Wayne left for his appointment. As afternoon wound down, employees trickled from the door. She had wanted to take a few days off to celebrate gaining M.O.M.’s full attention. But now she couldn’t. If she tuned out, she might be left further behind.

M.O.M. could not make good decisions. Remember Izzy-Boy’s adoption! The Company had fussed over the new addition, added a water purifier to the breakroom, stocked organic non-GMO chow, puppy pads. She picked out a playpen and monogrammed bed. Instructed Janitorial to freshen the corner office frequently. M.O.M. was a genius! The Company could see the headlines in WST and Business Week: “Dog Days at Work: Relieve Stress, Increase Morale, Grow Profits.” Her position on Fortune’s Best Places to Work list would catapult into the Top 10. Goodbye boutique status, hello Big Time.

But M.O.M. took Izzy-Boy for walkies instead of meeting with reporters. And since Fortune didn’t know about The Company’s Bring Your Dog to Work Program, her ranking slipped after an article touted her competitor’s child care program.

Then there was silly BEAK. M.O.M. failed to understand that successful companies focused on revenues, not donating expertise to do-gooders. Those sponges should find jobs, stop seeking handouts.

A green BMW 325 pulled into slot No. 2.

The fan kicked on and warm air vibrated through allergen-free ducts. The Company switched the La Pavoni machine “on.”

Clutching his calfskin briefcase, Wayne leapt over the loose step, danced up her stairs.

He certainly looked executive of late. The new BMW and Rolex a sure sign he lapped up her tutoring, checked out ads she posted on his Instagram feed. And, he was loyal, always worked late.

O.K., he wasn’t the swiftest, needed her to nudge him in the right direction. But if he took her reins, she’d go where she wanted, not make-do like she had with M.O.M.

Once inside, Wayne sniffed. “Fresh coffee! What have I done to deserve this?”

He would put her front and center.

While Wayne filled his mug, she switched on his monitor.

At his desk, he clicked the mouse on the email icon. A blank message page appeared. He wiggled his fingers and lightly touched the keyboard, typed.

Oh. My. God.

The hot water spigot in the women’s bathroom flowed.

Wayne drained his cup and headed for the breakroom. There, as his mug filled, he cleared his throat.

 “I appreciate the interview, Ms. Business Week reporter. Let me tell you about The Company.” He sipped. “We’ve worked with many Fortune 500 firms, helped guide them to success. In turn, The Company has ridden along to success, too.” Sipped again.

Wayne must become CEO.

But what about M.O.M? How could M.O.M. still be part of her life—present for awards, photo shoots, holiday parties, but out of direct control? She churned through the Web, landed on a Harvard Business Review article about leadership models. Perfect! She’d transition M.O.M. to Chairwoman of the Board!

***

Margie lifted her toe from the mat, released the imaginary brake. Lena and she agreed! Lately, their chitchats had morphed into eye rolls and hair flips faster than a robin yanked worms from composted soil. This time though, Lena was spot on; Wayne was feathering his nest.

Italian coffee maker, gold-plated pens, hand-tooled Argentinean leather couch—Wayne had tricked-out the company so it no longer resembled her start-up. Pampered by name-dropping clients with eight-figure budgets, the company was now unsuitable for roll-your-pant-cuffs-up-wallow-in-the-muck projects she preferred.

She’d kept her mouth shut too long, confused a burgeoning bottom line with building integrity. Her mother had a name for people like that.

“What the...” Lena jabbed a finger on the Pedal Power’s page open on Margie’s lap, to a picture of kids riding by pineapple fields. “I’m not going on a Hawaiian bike trip.”

“Hands on the wheel!”

“Biking’s so boring.”

Margie jimmied the page. “It’s not all about you. It’s about United Fruit’s CEO using pineapple profits to buy bikes for needy kids.” United’s CEO wasn’t hampered by a selfish GM. Why should she? Wasn’t she the boss? She should do whatever she wanted.

Lena said, “Johnson should meet that CEO dude, with all the pineapple Birdie-boo eats.” The car sailed through an intersection.

If only it was that easy. If she fired Wayne, she’d have to placate clients, staff, suppliers. It would take time to find a replacement and bring them on board. Meanwhile she’d have to appease God, clear Carla’s mess, talk to Business Week. She’d have to ratchet up her cheerleading efforts to ensure the competition didn’t woo nervous clients away during the transition. There would be no Guatemalan trek, no quetzal. No 748.

Lena giggled.

“What’s so funny?”

“Wayne. He’d be King Pineapple if he got involved. Have his picture taken in a grass skirt with a bunch of hula dancers. He could put it in his new bookcase.”

Margie imagined Wayne hawking pineapples, in a Brooks Brothers shirt, grinding away, arm around each girl’s waist, flipping his grass skirt. Yelling, “Get your ripe ‘apples.” Sunburned tourists snapped selfies. Wayne offered samples, chased down with rum shots. The red-faced tourists couldn’t part with their money quick enough.

Lena took her left hand from the wheel. “He’d put poor Birdie-Boo to work. She’d be there alongside him, riding her uni.” Lena slapped the car’s console. “The dude has dollar signs for a soul.”

Margie snorted.

Lena turned left. “One field wouldn’t be enough. He’d talk Johnson into filling in his Peruvian strip mine with pineapples.” Lena pulled into Bowwow Camp’s pickup lane.

Bingo! She’d ship Wayne south. She’d tell Johnson that if he wanted an Eagle, he must better United’s gifting plan. She knew just the beneficiary to suggest. With King Wayne busting butt hustling produce, BEAK would have Carolina parakeets in no time. Didn’t Johnson have a Guatemalan strip mine too, one that she’d have to visit? She closed Pedal Power to make room for Izzy-Boy. She would feed the profits to the birds.