by Dave Jackson
“Shavuot,” the man said as he stood up and adjusted his large black hat, sitting atop the small ringlet curls hanging down on either side of his face just in front of his ears. “The Festival of Weeks, sometimes called Festival of First Fruits.” He waved his hand at the greenery. “Tomorrow the children will add flowers.”
Still standing out on the sidewalk, Greg nodded. “So, it’s like thanking God for the beginning of harvest?”
“Suppose you could say that, but it’s more . . . how do I say it? You know anything about the Torah?”
Greg nodded. “Yeah, the Old Testament. Right?”
Horowitz raised both hands in a helpless gesture. “If you say so . . . part of it, anyway.” He leaned back down and picked up another green bough as though he’d finished explaining.
“And . . .?” Greg prompted.
His neighbor straightened and gazed at him a long moment. “Well, maybe you remember Passover, when God freed the people of Israel from enslavement to Pharaoh.”
Greg nodded vigorously, wanting to make sure his neighbor didn’t think him entirely ignorant.
“Well, seven weeks later, Shavuot commemorates God giving us the Torah, the Books of the Law, so we could become a nation committed to serving Him.” The man turned his attention back to the bough he was weaving into the railing.
Greg took the cue that Mr. Horowitz felt he’d revealed enough to this curious goyim. “Interesting. Thanks for telling me about it.”
“Don’t mention it,” Horowitz said without even looking up over the banister.
But as Greg went back across the street to his own home, the idea of First Fruits intrigued him. Perhaps the end of Powersports was more like the beginning of a great harvest? Should he thank God for it with some kind of sacrifice—a special offering on Sunday maybe? Of course, he wasn’t under the Law, so it wasn’t required, but wouldn’t it express his faith and be a way to give thanks for what he wanted to believe God was doing on his behalf?
He tried to recall the words of the song about a new season they’d been singing at church lately. As he climbed his porch steps and hummed the tune, the words came back to him: “It’s a new season . . . of power and prosperity . . . coming to me.”
* * * *
The employees of Powersports Expos were subdued on Wednesday, keeping busy in their individual offices or cubicles, perhaps hoping the bad news would go away if no one mentioned it. Greg was just as glad. As one of the senior staff, he didn’t want to have to deal with people’s disappointment or questions or insinuations that things would be different if he or anyone else had acted differently.
He didn’t agree with Hastings’ decision to shut down the company, and he certainly didn’t want to have to answer for it. He had work to do, but he also took every opportunity when he was on the phone with one of their clients to ask how business was doing and to subtly inquire whether there were any senior marketing openings. Again, he was sobered by the responses. Opportunities seemed to be drying up, so it was good he was getting a jump on his search. But he had to be careful to keep his inquiries casual and vague enough to not reveal that he’d soon be out of work.
Last-minute details for the Burnham Harbor show were coming together, but it was hard for Greg to keep his mind on his work, and it wasn’t until Thursday afternoon that he listened to an earlier voice message from the Chicago Park District saying they had denied permission to use Northerly Island as a landing and takeoff strip for ultralights. The “island,” actually a peninsula east of the harbor, had once been Meigs Field, a small airport until Mayor Daley ordered bulldozers to destroy the runways in the middle of the night so he could turn it into a park.
Feelings among some citizens were still too raw to be reminded of the fact the land had once been an airport. To Greg, it didn’t matter. He thought the ultralight demonstration had been a good draw for the Waukegan show, but Hastings no longer seemed so enamored by it.
Greg almost punched the button to advance to the next message when he realized there was more from the Park District. “Please be informed, construction begins June first on Waldron Drive east of the Museum Campus Drive, so the only way vehicles will be able to reach that side of the harbor will be through the McCormick Place north parking lot.”
What? Why was he just now hearing about this? This would surely curtail casual visitors to the show and inconvenience the determined. And for the two days before the show, there would be vendors and even exhibitors who needed to get their trucks in there. Frustrated, he had to spend the rest of the day sending out emails and making phone calls to let everyone know about the change in directions.
Friday morning, Greg arrived at work to find a yellow Post-it stuck to the center of his desk with a cryptic message from his boss: “See me now!”
What was that about? Couldn’t be much worse than the bomb Hastings had already dropped on everyone. He headed toward his boss’s office. Maybe Hastings had changed his mind and was going to keep Powersports alive. On the other hand, the drapes were still pulled. He knocked.
“Enter.”
“You wanted to see me?”
His boss looked up and watched as Greg closed the door behind himself. “No need to sit down. You won’t be in here that long.” His voice was as cold as his stare. “I asked you to let me notify our clients about Powersports. You understood that, didn’t you?”
Greg’s eyebrows went up. “Yeah, I heard you.”
“But you couldn’t wait for the green light before trolling for another job . . . and letting the cat outta the bag, could you?”
Greg felt his heart pump a little faster. “I didn’t tell anybody you were closing.”
Hastings snorted. “I’ve had three people tell me they already knew . . . from your phone calls!”
“What? But I didn’t tell anybody.” His skin prickled under his boss’s glare. “I might’ve casually asked about other professional opportunities for myself. You can’t blame me for that. But I didn’t say anything about Powersports.”
“You think these people are that stupid, not able to read through the lines?”
“Hey, if anyone figured out you were shutting down from one of my calls, it was a wild guess.” But even as he said it, a hot patch crept up Greg’s back and neck. Tony Barns down in Brenton had guessed, and right while they’d been talking. But he couldn’t be held accountable for that.
Chuck Hastings raised both hands. “I’m not gonna get in a chicken fight with you, Singer, about how much or how little you said. Whatever it was, it was too much, and it was directly against my instructions. I don’t feel good today. I don’t feel like takin’ any crap. You’re finished. Pack your personal belongings and be out of the office by noon.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
They stared at each other for a few moments before Greg turned toward the door.
“One more thing. If there’re any more details for the Chicago show, pass ’em on to Marvin.”
Greg stopped with his hand on the door handle, his back to his boss. He’d just been fired on the spot without just cause, and now his boss wanted him to do the favor of helping one of the other employees pick up the work he should be doing—his work. It was tempting to flip off his boss and walk out the door. By sheer willpower, Greg restrained himself. Never burn your bridges. You might need to recross ’em sooner than you think!
He turned around slowly. “Chuck, I’m sorry if I let any information slip, unintentional as it was, and I’ll be glad to bring Marvin up to speed. But can I ask a favor of you? If I need it, will you give me a solid reference?”
His boss stared at him a moment, and then shrugged. “Sure. Why not?” He broke eye contact and shuffled some papers on his desk as though moving on to other tasks.
Greg nodded. “Thanks . . . and how about my check? Will you pay me through the seventh, like the others?”
“For two weeks of work you won’t be doing? Whadda you think—”
“Hey, I�
��ll stay and do it if you want.”
“Nah, nah. I’ll pay you.” Chuck waved his hand dismissively but shook a finger at Greg. “At a time like this, I have to trust my people to do exactly what I ask. So just give Marvin what he needs.”
Greg gritted his teeth as he turned and left his boss’s office. At least he’d controlled himself enough to negotiate a reference and two weeks of pay.
Chapter 9
Riding home on the commuter train in the early afternoon, Greg felt certain everyone must know why he was carrying a large cardboard box on his lap, the box that held his personal items from the office. The picture of Nicole and the kids that sat on his desk, several framed prints from his wall of fishing trips, snowmobiling, an ATV trek into the jungle-bound hills of Jamaica, waterskiing on Cumberland Lake—all adventures he’d enjoyed while representing Powersports Expos.
The box also held pens, pencils, his small travel Bible, a clean shirt and tie—just in case—and the CD with all his contacts and recent correspondence.
But anyone who looked twice could tell that he was not bringing home the bacon in that box on his lap, not dressed like a businessman at this time of day.
He’d been fired!
How was he going to tell Nicole? He should’ve told her on Tuesday when his boss first announced the closing of Powersports Expos. Then it wouldn’t be such a shock that it was all ending two weeks ahead of schedule. In fact, he could’ve explained his early release as a gift, a paid two-week jump on finding a new job.
He ought to look at it that way himself. This was a blessing. Why waste two weeks sitting around while Powersports ground to a halt when he could be looking for his new “dangerous opportunity”? Yes, he needed to come up out of his pity pit and see this as a blessing. He lifted his head a little higher and looked around the train car.
But no one was paying any attention to him one way or the other.
Thirty minutes later when he got home, he was glad to find the front door locked. The neighborhood was fairly safe, but he still encouraged Nicole to keep the doors locked when he wasn’t home, especially if she and the kids were downstairs and might not see someone coming to the door. She often didn’t do it, with the kids running in and out, but today she’d remembered. He let himself in. “Hello! Anybody here? I’m home early.” He closed the door and went to the head of the basement stairs.
“Hello! You guys down there?”
No answer. That was strange. He went to the second floor stairs and called louder, still without any answer. He walked through the kitchen and looked out into the backyard. No one there. Hands on his hips, he stood in the middle of the kitchen, rejecting the tiny glitch of concern that grabbed him. They had to be around somewhere. He went upstairs to the kids’ rooms and worked his way methodically down to the basement looking for any clues as to where his family might’ve gone. Books were open on their school desk. Becky’s half-finished paragraph showed she’d been working on her cursive.
Today wasn’t Nicole’s usual shopping day, but perhaps she went out for something at the store. Yeah, that had to be the explanation. But just to make sure, he went out to the garage to make sure she’d taken the Jeep.
The Cherokee was still there.
He returned to the house and sat down in the kitchen breakfast nook. So far they’d managed with just his cell phone and a landline for the house, but he really ought to get Nicole a cell of her own. That way when she was out like this, he could keep in contact. It’d be a safety feature too. What if she needed help or one of the kids got hurt?
Greg sat in the breakfast nook for five minutes thinking about what he ought to do before he concluded there was nothing he could do right then and nothing to be alarmed about. They’d be back when they were done with whatever they were doing—playing in the park, visiting friends, going to the lake. Or maybe they’d walked to the corner of Howard and Western for ice cream at Baskin-Robbins. Yeah, that was probably it. The kids were always pestering Nicole for ice cream.
Might as well spend the afternoon setting himself up with a desk where he could do his job search. Greg wandered into the front hallway, visualizing each room. Their bedroom was too small, and it wouldn’t work to make calls from the family room while the kids were doing their lessons. But he’d need to use one of the computers. They had two desktop computers, both set up in the basement family room. Nicole paid bills and did correspondence and homeschool research on one, while Becky made use of the other one. Nathan rarely needed one yet. But it was a “new season.” Nicole and the kids could share one while he brought the newer one up to his new “office.”
Greg surveyed the living room. It was really the only place. He could use that small table out in the garage. They’d meant to get it refinished, but it’d have to do for now. An hour later he’d commandeered a corner of the living room. He brought in the table, set up the computer on it, plugged in a lamp, found a paper stacker, and set up the picture of Nicole and the kids from his office box. Everything was plugged in and ready to check.
Nicole might not like it when she saw what he’d done, but it’d have to do for now, and he wouldn’t need it for long. He borrowed a dining room chair, sat down at his “desk,” and turned on the computer. It booted up just fine, and the Wi-Fi worked. He smiled, happy with himself that they hadn’t relied on hard wires. Who wanted wires running all over the house?
He was checking email when he heard the kids scamper up on the porch. Glancing through the front room windows, he saw a fancy black sedan pull away. Looked like one of Lincoln Paddock’s Town Cars. Had they come home in that?
Squeals of delight erupted when the kids saw him. Nathan and Becky galloped across the living room and hugged his legs as though there was not enough of him to share. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, you’re already home! Mommy said you wouldn’t be here till later.”
“Well then, surprise.” He looked up at Nicole coming through the door with a couple of bags slung over her shoulder.
“Hey,” she said casually. “What brings you home so early?”
“A new job.” Why not put the best spin on it from the very start?
“New job? What new job?”
Greg untangled himself from the kids’ hugs. “Well, it seems Chuck Hastings got himself in some financial trouble with Powersports, and he’s gonna shut it down.”
“Shut it down? Why?” Her face seemed to pale as she stood in the archway into the living room. “Greg, what’re we gonna do?”
“Now calm down, honey. Everything’s gonna work out. Hastings is keeping some people on until after the Burnham Harbor show, but I got released early—with pay too. So we’ve got a little cushion while I land a new job.”
“But . . . what? Where?”
“Well, I don’t know yet. But I’ve got lots of contacts, and the Lord’s gonna provide. Remember my vision? I think this may be part of its fulfillment.”
“But—”
“Hey, come on in here and check this out. I set myself up with a little office.”
Following his gesture, she turned toward the corner. “What? In here? Greg!”
“Don’t worry, it’s only temporary. Soon as I find something, I’ll clear it all out.”
Nicole stood in the middle of the living room, her hand over her mouth, staring at Greg’s new “office.” “But what are we gonna do when people come over? I mean—”
“Oh, come on, Nicole. When was the last time we had anyone over . . . other than your mother?”
Nicole dumped her bags on the closest chair. “That’s not the point, Greg. I’ve been wanting to have some people from church over, but now this is gonna look like . . . like an office.”
Irritation tightened Greg’s shoulders. He’d just lost his job and she was worried about a corner of the living room looking like an office? But he kept his voice upbeat. “Hey, if it helps, I promise to keep the area neat, just like it is now. A lot of people have a household desk in their living area. It’s no big deal.”
Th
e kids had drifted into the kitchen, and he heard them rummaging in the refrigerator. Nicole sank down on the couch, took a deep breath, and blew it out slowly. “So . . . when did this all happen with Powersports?”
He shrugged. “Hastings told us Tuesday, and I’ve been scrambling ever since. I wanted to make sure I’m in the best position to find another job. I’ve got all my contacts, so it’s just a matter of choosing the best ones and deciding where we should go.”
“Go? What d’you mean, go?”
Uh-oh, big mistake. He hadn’t wanted to mention the possibility of moving until he could list all the benefits of the new location. “Well, with every career advancement, there’s always the possibility of relocation, but of course we’d make that decision together if it truly benefits the whole family . . . including the kids.”
Nicole closed her eyes and shook her head slowly, as if this was all too much to take in at one time.
Greg sat down across from her and leaned forward. “Look, Nikki, this could be a real opportunity for us. I’m not eager to move either. Trust me, that’ll be the last option on my list and only if it really serves us. I’m looking at this on the bright side, glass half full, you know. In fact, better than that, I think this may be the fulfillment of that vision the Lord gave me.”
“Yeah, you already said that.”
“But really, I was thinking He had in mind a little side business for you and the kids, but I think He may be opening up a major career opportunity for me.”
Greg stopped, gauging whether he was getting anywhere with her. She looked a little teary. Moving over beside her on the couch, he pulled her close. “Look, hon. Let’s celebrate. Let’s take the kids out to dinner this evening. It’s Friday, and you’ve had a full week. I bet you could use a break. And if we look at this opportunity right, it’s gonna turn out right.”
