by Dave Jackson
“Are you telling me you’re actually looking for a position?” Roger asked once Greg had plowed the ground, so to speak.
“As a matter of fact, yes. I’m ready to move into a more commercial role.”
“Well, you’d be the man for it. How’d that in-water show go you did a couple of weeks ago in Waukegan? Sorry we couldn’t make it, but we had too much going on here.”
“It was a good show.” Greg took heart. Didn’t sound like Potawatomi was in the kind of financial trouble he’d picked up in other quarters of the industry.
“Any boats sell?”
“Not as many as we would’ve liked, that’s for sure.” Greg knew Roger would find out the facts sooner or later. “But I think it would’ve made a big difference if Potawatomi had been there. Sometimes it comes down to chemistry. Know what I’m saying?”
“Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah. That’s the key.” There was a lull in the conversation. Finally, Roger picked it up. “So you’re thinkin’ about a move. When might you be available?”
“I actually could spring real soon. Chuck and I have had a good working relationship, and I think he understands what I’m looking for.”
“So he already knows?”
“Oh yeah. No secret there. And he’s glad to give me a good recommendation, if you need one. But then we actually know each other pretty well.”
“That’s good. Listen, Greg, let me get back to you on this. We’re due for some reorganization around here, and you just might fit into our future. How ’bout if I get back to you next week, uh . . .” He paused, probably checking a calendar. “Oh man, can you believe it? Next Monday’s Memorial Day. I’ll call you Tuesday, a week from tomorrow. In the meantime, send over your résumé so I can have some talking points when I bring this up to the others.”
“Will do. Thanks, Roger.” He started to take the phone away from his ear. “Oh, and Roger . . .?”
“Yeah.”
“Just thought I’d let you know. You’re the first person I called . . . today.”
“All right. I’ll get back to you.”
Roger had been the first person he’d called today. He almost hadn’t added that qualifier. But then there’d been those calls from the office that had gotten him in trouble. Though he’d counted those more as “feelers” than actual job hunting.
He laid down the phone and leaned back in his chair for a big stretch. God was going to come through. He could feel it already. Blessing upon blessing.
Chapter 11
Greg knew he couldn’t count on the job with Potawatomi Watercraft until it was actually offered, but Roger Wilmington had been so encouraging—almost like it was a sure thing—that Greg found it hard to keep looking. There really weren’t any boat manufacturers in the Chicago area that interested him, but he kept himself on task, calling all the large boat dealers, ATV dealers, and snowmobile people within commuting distance.
Tuesday midmorning he overheard Nicole whisper loudly to Nate as he came up the basement stairs to get their snacks. “Don’t go in the living room. You mustn’t bother Daddy. He’s very busy.”
“But why?”
“Because he’s working at home today. So that’s his office, and you’re not to go in there and bother him.”
“But I use’ta phone him at his other office.”
“Well, this is different, and you can’t bother him today. What he’s doing is very important.”
Nate stomped into the kitchen, and Greg could imagine the big frown on his face, but he didn’t come into the living room.
Nicole’s support eased Greg’s mind. That’s what he needed, for them to be together in this quest. And it crossed his mind he ought to give Nicole that kind of support as well. He should probably drop that thing about Lincoln Paddock. After all, like she said, he was probably just being a good neighbor. They needed more neighbors like that on Beecham Street. He could remember when he was a kid how every parent on the block took charge of the kids. And during the summers a couple of moms would round up all the kids, load them in a van, and take them to the pool for the day. That’s what neighbors were for. Of course, back in the day they were all moms, not some playboy hitting on his wife—
Stop it, Greg! he told himself. If he wanted Nicole to trust him, he needed to trust her. He had to put those suspicions out of his mind. What was it “The Love Chapter” in First Corinthians said? “Love . . . thinks no evil . . . believes all things, hopes all things.” That’s where his head needed to be, especially at a time like this.
As the week advanced, his job search proved a sobering process. There simply weren’t a lot of opportunities out there. Tony Barns with Sea-Doo down in southern Illinois had been right—in a job market like this, he’d be smart to stay put. Only that was no longer an option. So he kept working the phone, sending out résumés, searching the web for other opportunities. As perfect as Potawatomi sounded, it seemed smart to develop alternatives. In fact, maybe he should be prepared to accept a slightly lower salary than he’d hoped for if it allowed them to stay in Chicago—and he would, too, if necessary. Though he pushed aside the nagging question of how that would fit with his vision for greater prosperity.
To find alternatives, he stepped outside the field of sports to see what might be open at the Department of Cultural Affairs and Special Events for the City of Chicago. The city sponsored huge events all summer long. Unfortunately, the mayor’s office had hired a new “Relationship Manager”—the position that might have interested Greg—earlier that year, and by all accounts she was doing very well.
Next, Greg contacted McCormick Place, the Allstate Arena, the United Center, the Bears, the Bulls, the White Sox, the Cubs, the Blackhawks—any facility or organization that might need someone with his skills. Theaters, museums, even big hotels required someone capable of organizing and promoting major events. And he was their man.
Only he wasn’t. After five days, Greg turned up only three open positions, and none of them attracted him. FarMor Marketing wanted an events coordinator and described itself as “a company committed to our consumers and results for our clients. Our goal is to expand through cross-training the appropriate individuals in all aspects of business and marketing, to build strong managers to take on additional campaigns . . . blah, blah, blah.” So much jargon Greg couldn’t even figure out what FarMor did. A couple of universities needed events coordinators, but the salaries they posted didn’t come close to Greg’s vision of new—or old—prosperity.
Nevertheless, by Friday afternoon, he felt like he’d done his due diligence in looking for local alternatives. If Potawatomi didn’t offer him a job next Tuesday, he’d have to look outside the Chicago area.
* * * *
In spite of Monday being Memorial Day, Greg went to work refining his “outside-Chicago” call list. Should he start calling those contacts first thing Tuesday morning? Or wait until he heard from Roger Wilmington? What was the balance between faith and wisdom? The old song Pastor Hanson always quoted said, “Take your burden to the Lord and leave it there. If you trust and never doubt, He will surely bring you out.” But that seemed kind of passive, perhaps even irresponsible when he could use his time to get a jump on exploring alternatives.
The fact was, he’d spent the preceding week exploring local alternatives without assuming that was a faithless exercise. Now that those options had proved fruitless, why not go national?
He wanted to get his plan together before the afternoon barbecue with the Bentleys, the older black couple from the two-flat up the street. Aside from that welcome home event for the old lady and waving to him a couple of times on the street, Greg barely knew the man, but Harry had come knocking last evening while he was out walking his black Lab.
“No, no.” Bentley had waved him off when Greg invited him in. “Corky’s been chasing her KONG toy up and down the alley. Don’t want to bring her muddy paws into your nice house. But Estelle and I are inviting a few neighbors over for a Memorial Day picnic, and wondered if you and yo
ur family would join us.”
“Nicole!” Greg had called.
Harry said they didn’t need to bring anything, but when Nicole joined them at the door she insisted on contributing something—her mother’s Jell-O salad recipe, full of whipped cream and fruit, not Greg’s favorite, but Nicole liked to make it, and kids always loved it—so Harry had finally conceded.
“You, however,” he’d smirked, pointing a finger at Greg’s chest, “you could show up early and help me with the ribs. Say about three o’clock?”
Light rain showers driven by distant thunder rumbled through the area midday, but by three when Greg had finished his call plan and done all the background research he could think to do, the clouds were breaking up and the sun peeking through. Looked like a nice evening was in store after all.
He stepped to the doorway of the kitchen where Nicole was mopping the floor. “Anything you need me to do before I head on over to the Bentleys?”
“No, not unless you want to take the kids with you.” She stood and pushed her hair out of her face with the back of her hand.
“Oh.” He wasn’t sure if it was an offhand idea or a request. “Kids downstairs?”
“Nate might be. Becky just went up to her room. Said she was bored.”
“Not sure what they’d do over at the Bentleys. There’s no one for them to play with.” He waited in case Nicole had a better plan.
“That’s okay. Forget it.” She shrugged and went back to mopping.
The wistful tone in her voice didn’t sound like it was really okay. He listened for kid sounds. Nothing. “Sounds like they’re doing okay for now.”
“Yeah. I’ll bring them with me later.”
“About five, then?”
She nodded and Greg left, grabbing his Cubs cap from the peg in the coat closet.
* * * *
Nicole watched him go, feeling irritated. She’d frequently wished Greg could spend more time at home, especially with the kids. But over the last couple of years, his travel schedule had taken him away all too often. Now, however, she was having second thoughts. His presence in the house did not mean he picked up more of the housework or took more responsibility with the kids. It simply meant she had more things to coordinate.
The simple lunches that had been adequate for her and the kids weren’t satisfying to Greg, so she had to fix larger meals, which inevitably meant she ate more as well . . . and had put back on a couple of pounds. Also, somehow she didn’t feel so free to do her exercises while Greg was upstairs working on the computer.
Last Thursday while the kids were doing their reading, she’d been doing her exercises when he came down to the schoolroom. He stared as if he couldn’t understand what was going on. Finally he’d said, “Did you wash my blue Van Heusen shirt yet?”
“No. Monday’s my wash day.”
“Oh. Well, if you get a chance . . .” And then he’d drifted back up the stairs.
But the steam had gone out of her exercises. He obviously had expectations. Flouncing into the laundry room, she’d started a load of laundry, including his Van Heusen shirt.
And now today, supposedly a holiday. She could’ve used a break, but no. He was the one getting a break. Sure, he’d been working most of the day, but so had she, typical wash-day-Monday stuff, but now he’d gone over to the Bentleys early and left the kids with her, even though she’d tried to hint that he take them with him.
Nicole gave the floor one more angry swipe with the mop. She knew single moms who had more free time than she did, especially when the kids were with their ex.
* * * *
Turning in at the Bentleys, Greg followed the sidewalk around to the backyard. At first he didn’t think anyone was there and that he’d come too soon, but then he heard some rummaging going on in the garage and realized the side door was ajar.
“Hello? Anyone in there?”
“That you, Singer? Just getting some chairs.”
A black paw caught the door and swung it open as Bentley’s black Lab trotted out and give a halfhearted woof, tail wagging.
Greg reached down so the dog could sniff the back of his hand. “It’s okay, girl.” The kids probably would’ve liked to play with the dog.
The older man stepped out into the sunshine, lugging several folding chairs. “Ah, you’re right on time, but I’m a little late gettin’ started. Didn’t want everything to get wet with the rain earlier. Here, take these chairs, and I’ll grab the bag of charcoal.”
In a few minutes, Harry Bentley had his chimney starter filled with charcoal and lit. “There, that won’t take long. Come on up and help me bring down a few things.”
It took a few trips up to the second floor and back down, but it wasn’t long before the coals were burning evenly, four racks of ribs were on the grill, and the two men finally sat down under the shade of the spreading sycamore tree while the Cubs versus Pirates game murmured quietly from the boom box hanging from the fence.
Harry flipped open the lid of a large cooler beside him. “Want somethin’ to drink? Got Pepsi, some bottles of water, maybe some lemonade in here.”
“Water. Thanks.”
Harry handed him a bottle of water. “So, how you doin’?”
“Oh, good. Real good.”
Harry lifted an eyebrow. “Is that good as in copacetic or good as in you don’t want to talk about it?”
Greg didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know for sure what the word copacetic meant.
Harry chuckled. “What I mean, is, you ask somebody how they’re doin’ and they’ll usually say, ‘Good’ as long they’re this side of death’s door. But I was actually askin’ how you’re really doing. I’m interested.”
“Well, I’m, uh . . .” Greg looked at the older man for a moment, a slight sheen of sweat beading his shaved head and an easy smile crinkling his eyes. “To tell the truth, things are a little rocky right now.”
“You don’t say. What’s up?”
Did he really want to tell this man about his personal life? Weren’t guys supposed to do small talk first? But the man actually seemed interested. And the truth was, Greg didn’t have anyone else to talk to.
Greg shrugged. “The company I’ve been working for the last seven years is going under. Recession, I guess, though I think the boss could’ve managed things better and survived. Anyway, I was the assistant Midwest coordinator—pretty much the VP level, though we weren’t organized that way. I was depending on it thriving. Still think it could. I mean, this recession can’t last forever. But the boss pulled the plug, so I’m out in the cold.” Wait a minute, he’d never used those words before. Crisis meant “dangerous opportunity” and all that, but not out in the cold.
“You get a decent severance package?”
“Not really. Two weeks was all. But at least I don’t have to stay on the job during that time like the rest of the staff. They got two weeks’ notice but will only get paid if they work to the bitter end.”
Harry Bentley nodded and frowned deeply. “Sorry to hear that. Got laid off myself once, though the circumstances were different. Had to take early retirement from the Chicago Police Department—”
Bentley, a cop? That was interesting.
The older man continued, “Involved a big legal case where I blew the whistle on some corruption.” He waved his hand dismissively as though that was another story. “But bottom line, bein’ without a job can be pretty scary, ’specially when you got family to support. I know.”
Greg took a deep breath. “Yeah, well, didn’t think it would bother me at first. But the last few days, the options seem slimmer and slimmer. I have all kinds of business contacts, but . . .” What was he saying? He hadn’t even expressed those fears to himself. But this older guy was looking at him as though he really understood. “Anyway, I’ve got one good lead in the Chicago area. Supposed to hear tomorrow, but if it doesn’t pan out, we’re probably gonna have to relocate.”
“Oh, that’s big time.”
“You�
�re tellin’ me. My wife will have a fit if we have to move, and I don’t want to move either. I just don’t know what we’ll do.”
“What kind of business you in?”
Greg explained the kind of events Powersports put on as Harry got up and checked the grill. When he returned to his seat, Greg told about his hopes for a job with Potawatomi.
“That sounds like somethin’ to pray about. You a prayin’ man?”
That took Greg by surprise. “Well, yes . . . yes, I am.” Bentley’s question reminded him of the faith he’d been nurturing, faith that God would prosper him and his family, faith that he was about to become rich! It was what he wanted to believe, but somehow in the last few minutes, the bottom had dropped out of that bucket. Why? What had happened?
It must have leaked away as he became honest with himself. He needed help. “Yeah, prayer would be good.”
Harry reached his hand out toward Greg’s shoulder, hesitating a few inches away. “Okay to pray for you right now?”
Right now? Greg was a little startled. “Sure, I guess so.”
“Good. I always say there’s no time like the present.”
He let his hand rest gently on Greg’s shoulder and began to pray.
Chapter 12
Before the ribs were ready, the Cubs had lost to the Pirates—broadcast by Bentley’s little boom box hanging on the fence—and Greg and Harry had arranged the chairs under the tree and set up the card tables.
“Catch these plastic tablecloths,” Harry’s wife called down from the second-floor deck. “And put them on the card tables so they’ll look nice.”
Harry caught them, and the two men finished setting up everything while the teenage boy Greg had seen with the Bentleys and three other lanky kids—at least one of them the Jasper boy from across the street—traipsed through the yard with a basketball. Must be a hoop out in back of the garage. Sure enough, the thump thump of the ball against concrete and youthful chatter played in the background as he talked with Harry. Turned out that Bentley was again working as a cop, though now for the Amtrak police, and he seemed to be a sincere Christian.
