Company and Conversation

Therese had been writing apology notes since noon. At least she now had an opportunity to use those beautiful note cards someone had given her. Three down, two more to go. It was taking some thought.

    Soon she would have to take a break to pick up Cato from his Montessori pre-school. It was he for whom she was apologizing, but since he’d only been spouting comments she’d obviously made about these people, she was apologizing for herself, too.

“Are you Mr. James? Mommy said you are a windbag! You don’t look windy.”

“I heard Mommy call you Beverly. But I thought you were Beaverly!”

How, at age four, Cato remembered everything she’d muttered about her colleagues was something she couldn’t explain. Did she talk to herself too much? Did she talk to HIM too much? Was she unwittingly telling tales that caught his imagination? True, she’d once drawn a cartoon of Beverly for him, and with a few pencil strokes had turned the figure into a beaver, and he’d laughed. And they’d both laughed about the I.T. guy Fred, calling him “Noodle Nerd.”

As a single mother, she might have been relying on Cato for company and one-sided adult conversation. It wasn’t healthy. But he was so smart and attentive! And cute!

The occasion this past Sunday afternoon had been a combination celebration and sales meeting; it was the first time she’d invited her work "family" to her house. They’d seen so little of each other in person during the past year. Online meetings weren’t the same, and yet together they’d broken sales and profit records during that time, using social media, cold calling, networking, and publicity. Their product, a personalized recycling service, involved both consultations and custom containers. The company was only five years old. The half-dozen people involved each had special skills; Therese’s were related to marketing and advertising, but everyone contributed. Mr. James, the founder, was an inspiration! Why had she complained about his over-long pep talks to Cato?!

At least the food had been good; she had slaved over it, remembering things each person had said about likes and dislikes. She had surprised Emily, the transportation expert, with caviar and special cheeses. She’d pleased Amit, who scoured the land for companies that bought recyclables, with special Indian bread. Even the meeting had been productive until Cato, awakening from his nap, had decided to join the party, adorable and charming in his footie pajamas until he’d decided to match the individuals with things he’d heard about them.

No one had taken offense that Therese could tell, but true reactions might have been suppressed. Each of them had thanked her enthusiastically when taking their leave, and Beverly had said Cato was “precious.” Except for Mr. James and Fred, they weren’t expected back in the office until next week, so she’d have to rely on other than in-person communication, and it seemed that handwritten notes were the way to go.

It was possible that she was mopping up a mess that hadn’t even been made. But she felt exposed. Her perhaps childish way of dealing with conflict, her simple opinions and observations, had been brought to the fore. But it was Cato who was keeping her young! she thought, feeling sudden joy.

She wrote the last two notes. All were then addressed, and stamps were applied. So old-fashioned! She’d drop them off at the post office and hope for the best. She couldn’t wait to see Cato and explain to him what she’d done, and why. Or maybe not. Maybe she’d just ask him about his day. It was fortunate she’d never spent enough time at his school to have opinions about the adults there.

— Macoff