Pound Foolish (Windy City Neighbors Book 4)

by Dave Jackson

  “You mentioned you go to church,” Harry said. “That’s good. Real good. You got any brothers to hang with?”

  “Brothers?” Greg was an only child and hadn’t mentioned anything about his family.

  “Yeah,” Bentley said. “You know, some guys to pray with and study the Bible. Some of us get together every Tuesday evening. Couldn’t get along without ’em. You’d be welcome to visit some time, if you want.”

  The back gate creaked and swung open before Greg could respond, and an elderly couple came in.

  “Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Molander.” Harry got up to go greet them and Greg followed. “Come right on in. You’re nearly the first ones.”

  “Sorry if we’re early. We were trying to take a nap, but the thump, thump, thump.” He rolled his eyes toward the alley.

  “Sorry about that. You know Greg Singer from across the street, don’t you?”

  The woman stared hard. “I don’t t’ink so. Ve don’t get out much anymore.” Her accent sounded Swedish.

  Harry turned to Greg. “This is Karl and Eva Molander. They live next door. Oh, let me take that for you.” Harry reached for a dish covered with a tea towel that Mrs. Molander was carrying.

  “Tuna casserole, a favorite at the church picnics, don’t you know. We used to have years ago, but the new preacher doesn’t do them anymore.”

  Karl grimaced. “He’s been here ten years already, Eva.”

  “Maybe so, but he’s not like Rev. Johanson.”

  Karl Molander sat down heavily in one of the lawn chairs, panting deeply. Harry eyed him carefully. “You okay, Mr. Molander?”

  Molander waved his hand. “It’ll pass.” He took a deep breath as Greg glanced between him and Harry to see if Harry remained concerned.

  The Molanders’ house was a bungalow like Greg’s, so it wasn’t as if the man had descended three flights of stairs or walked a mile. Yet a gray and haggard pallor had fallen over his face. Finally, his labored breathing calmed and he looked around the yard. “Looks like you’re expecting a crowd.”

  “Not really. Just you and a few other folks.” Harry turned to Mrs. Molander. “Miz Eva, why don’t I take you in to chat with Miz Mattie for a bit? Then I’ll run this casserole up so Estelle can pop it in the oven to keep warm.”

  With Harry Bentley gone, Greg tried to think of something to say. “Uh, guess you folks and Mrs. Krakowski are the true old-timers on the block.”

  “Oh, yeah. We were here before any of the rest. Neighborhood used to be all Swedish and German, except for the Krakowskis. She’s Polish, ya know.”

  “And you’re Swedish, right?”

  “Oh yeah. Like I said, about the only ones left in the neighborhood.”

  “My wife’s Swedish, at least her mother is. She lives down in the Andersonville neighborhood.”

  “You don’t say.”

  The conversation seemed to die again. After a few moments, Greg made another try. “So, are you retired?”

  “Oh yeah. I was a machinist at Klein Tools. Twenty-six years. But I retired—been ten years ago now.”

  “Klein . . . that’s over on Touhy and McCormick, isn’t it?”

  “That’s the headquarters, but I was mostly at the Skokie facility.”

  “Twenty-six years. That’s quite a stint. I bet you—”

  “Greg? Oh, there you are.” Nicole came around the corner of the house. “Could you watch the kids? I forgot my Jell-O.”

  As Greg’s kids came bouncing across the yard, Harry Bentley’s Lab, who hadn’t moved a muscle when the Molanders arrived, gave a little woof and trotted toward Becky and Nate. Greg was pretty sure she was totally friendly, but just to be sure, he got up and stepped between them. “Sorry about that,” he called back to Karl Molander. “Maybe we can pick it up again later.”

  But he needn’t have worried. The dog and his kids immediately became a mutual admiration club—the kids loving on the dog, and the dog eating up all the attention.

  “What’s her name?” Becky asked, her arms around the dog’s neck.

  “Corky.” Harry Bentley had arrived at the bottom of the steps, his arms piled high with paper plates, napkins, cups, and plasticware. “And if you’ll toss that tennis ball for her, she’ll bring it back to you all afternoon.”

  Becky started tossing the ball for Harry’s dog, but Nate tugged on Harry’s shirt as he put all the paper goods on the table. “Mr. Bentley, why did your dog have to go to jail?”

  “To jail? What makes you ask that?”

  “My mom said you were a policeman, and I saw you putting Corky in the back of your police van like they do with bad guys—you know, with bars and everything.”

  What in the world was his son talking about?

  Harry Bentley laughed. “No, no, young man. Corky’s my partner, and that’s where she rides.” He closed the grill lid over the ribs. “Here, come with me for a minute.”

  Beckoning the Singers to follow him into the garage—the thump, thump from the alley and thuds on the garage door were louder in here—Harry showed them the dog carrier in the back of his SUV. As soon as he opened the side door, Corky jumped right in, and Greg realized what Nate was talking about. The specially designed transporter filled what would’ve been the backseat and rear compartment. Bars separated the space from the front seats and covered the tinted windows. The walls were covered with metal. No wonder Nate mistook it for a police van.

  “Corky loves it.” Harry grinned. “Look here. See the fan? And the air conditioner even blows back here too. Go on—you can get inside.”

  Finally extracting the kids and the dog from Harry’s SUV, Greg herded his kids back to the picnic. Estelle Bentley had come down and was introducing everyone. Eva Molander and Mrs. Krakowski had joined the group and Michelle Jasper from across the street had arrived. “Jared sends his regrets. He had to work today. I think all three of my kids are already here.” She nodded toward the alley.

  “We invited Farid and Lily too”—Estelle pointed to the house just north of them—“but they had somethin’ else goin’ on. And Grace Meredith across the street is out of town, has a couple concerts this weekend. But Rodney should be here any time—that’s Harry’s son.” She added, “DaShawn’s daddy.”

  Okay, so the boy shooting hoops out back was Harry Bentley’s grandson. Greg hadn’t known for sure.

  “We gonna eat soon? Don’t wanna miss my TV program,” Mattie Krakowski groused. “Dancing with the Stars comes on at seven.”

  Estelle and Michelle went upstairs and brought down a couple of trays of appetizers—chilled deviled eggs and hot pizza rolls. The moment food appeared, the basketball stopped bouncing in the alley as if by magic, and the teenagers joined them. On closer look, Greg realized one of them was a girl. Must be one of the Jaspers—the mom had said three of hers were out back.

  By this time, Karl Molander was on his feet and moving with everyone toward the tables. “Aren’t we going to bless the food first?”

  Greg saw Estelle give Harry a look. Harry grinned back at her as though they shared a private secret. “You bet.” Harry winked at his wife. “We’d planned to pray before the main meal, but now would be fine.” And he launched right in.

  “O Lord, we thank you on this Memorial Day for the freedoms you’ve granted us, and we want to express our gratitude for the men and women who’ve served our country in defending those freedoms. Comfort families who’ve lost loved ones in conflicts near and far, and bring healing to those who were wounded. And . . . and bless this food we are about to receive. We thank you for it and ask you to protect us from all impurities, in the name of Jesus, amen.”

  Protect us from all impurities? What was that about? Greg disguised an explosive laugh as a cough. Maybe Harry was thinking about the Molanders’ tuna casserole.

  Estelle quickly stepped in to direct traffic by telling the teenagers they needed to wait until other people had served themselves. Greg noticed that Becky and Nate gravitated to the Jaspers’ daughter—“Tabby,” he
r brother called her. The young black girl seemed very patient with them. Nice. Too bad the father couldn’t be here, someone more his age. What was it Nicole said the man did—air traffic controller out at O’Hare? He never would’ve guessed. Maybe they should get to know the family better.

  Well, he could think about that when his job question got settled.

  * * * *

  Greg awoke with the sun on June first, eager to hear from Potawatomi Watercraft about his position. He lay staring at the ceiling while Nicole continued to sleep peacefully. He sure hoped he could settle this job thing soon. His marriage needed some maintenance.

  But he needed to focus on the job first, right? After all, he was like a farmer: Plant the crops before you build the house. A new house would be of no value if you were starving.

  It sounded like proverbial wisdom, but Greg knew it didn’t quite apply. They weren’t facing imminent starvation, but his relationship with Nicole felt rocky. Not that it was an either/or situation. Still, it felt as if he could focus on her so much better if he knew what he’d be doing jobwise.

  He slipped out of bed and went into the kitchen to make coffee. While it brewed, he sat in the breakfast nook and thought about Harry Bentley’s prayer for him the day before. Harry prayed differently than Pastor Hanson—not that he’d ever had Pastor Hanson pray for him personally—but the pastor prayed such bold prayers, almost like he was commanding God to do this or that “in the name of Jesus.” It really instilled confidence in the power of your own prayer.

  Harry had also prayed in Jesus’ name, but he hadn’t prayed for a specific job. He’d prayed that God would be with the Singers during this time of transition, make his presence known, and protect them from anxiety and fear. Greg didn’t think he was anxious or fearful, but the lack of opportunities had stirred some worries—though he knew how God could fix that real quick. Just give him the Potawatomi job with a great big raise.

  After praying for Greg, Bentley had told him he’d just come through a period when he had a hard time figuring out what God was doing. He’d thought God was leading him in a certain direction, and then things kept changing. And every change that came along felt like all his plans got derailed, but now he was beginning to see God’s hand in more and more of the journey.

  Harry’s words replayed in his mind: I’m just sayin’, it’s like that verse in Isaiah where God says, “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.” The older man had slapped him on the shoulder, and they’d dropped the subject as he got up to check the ribs again.

  Greg didn’t know if he went along with that. Pastor Hanson certainly seemed to grasp God’s ways well enough. And that kind of confidence was what he needed today: “Believe it and you’ll receive it!”

  Thuds from the ceiling above told him the kids were getting up. He poured his coffee and took the cup onto the back porch. He wasn’t quite ready to face the day with the family. But Becky and Nate found him, and soon it was breakfast and showers and hustle and bustle until Nicole herded them down to the schoolroom to begin their lessons.

  “Uh, Nicole, wait a sec.”

  She paused halfway down the stairs.

  “I’m expecting an important phone call anytime this morning, so I’d appreciate it if you’d make sure the kids don’t bother me or make too much noise.”

  “Is this the dealership that owns the cottage we stayed in?”

  “That’s the one, probably the best option in the Chicago area, so—”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t let them bother you. But let me know when you get the word.”

  Greg nodded.

  It was business hours. He went to Potawatomi’s website and reviewed every page—the products, the special offers, the executives, the company history page. He wanted to be ready to step onboard as soon as he got the call.

  But minutes, then hours ticked by. No call.

  He surfed the websites of boat manufacturers for which Potawatomi was a dealer to get background on each model, though he already knew most of them.

  But by noon, when the call hadn’t yet come, he began strategizing how he could call Roger Wilmington without appearing too desperate. Maybe he’d say he’d been out for the morning and wasn’t sure his voice mail was working properly, wanted to make sure he hadn’t missed the call. But that wasn’t the truth.

  By two o’clock he’d exhausted his patience. His insides felt wound up like a rubber-band airplane. He had to know. He punched in Roger’s number.

  The phone rang and rang and rang. Finally . . . “Potawatomi. Wilmington here.”

  “Hey, Roger. Greg Singer. I wanted to get back to you about the sales position we talked about last week. I think you said today you could—”

  “Oh, yeah, Greg. Listen, I’m right in the middle of something here. Can I call you back a little later?”

  Chapter 13

  A little later didn’t happen Tuesday afternoon, and by dinnertime, Greg’s stomach was so tied up in knots he couldn’t eat more than a couple of bites of the teriyaki chicken Nicole had fixed.

  “You sick?” Nicole asked. “You usually love this.”

  “I know. It tastes great, but . . . no, I’m not sick.”

  She shrugged and forked another thigh for herself.

  By Wednesday morning, Greg’s anxiety had turned to anger. Why hadn’t Roger called? Even if the answer was no, Roger owed him the courtesy of a call—and a timely call too. But if Potawatomi was so thoughtless, he wasn’t sure he’d want to work for them even if they offered.

  Wait a minute! Twenty-four hours ago he thought it was the ideal company, the only place in the Chicago area for him, and now he wouldn’t work for them even if they offered? Whew! He needed to calm down. With effort, he made himself interact civilly with Nicole and the kids as they ate breakfast and finally headed down to the basement for school.

  Once the first floor was quiet, Greg took his seat at his desk in the living room and turned on the computer, then called up his email.

  There, third one down, a message from Roger Wilmington at Potawatomi Watercraft. He clicked, knowing before it opened what it would say.

  Hey Greg,

  Sorry not to get back to you by phone this afternoon, but can you believe it? Our phone system went down. I was going to call you from home, but I left your number at work. Fortunately, you’re in my email contact list, so I hope this reaches you.

  When we discussed the possibility of you joining us last week, everyone agreed you’d be a great asset to the company, but unfortunately we simply cannot afford someone at your salary level. And it wouldn’t be fair to try to talk you down. So I’m afraid we’re going to have to take a pass.

  But I’m sure you’ll land someplace great. Let’s keep in touch, buddy. There are bound to be times in the future when we can work together.

  Sincerely,

  Roger Wilmington

  Potawatomi Watercraft

  Greg sat for a long moment staring at the email on his screen, anger smoldering. So, that was that. But he wasn’t ready to accept what he’d just read. It wasn’t just that Roger hadn’t called him yesterday. Maybe his techno-excuse was legit, or maybe it wasn’t. Didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that Potawatomi didn’t want him. And what was that crap about it not being fair to offer him a lower salary? Huh. Just Roger putting a spin on it to placate him, that’s what. If they’d been sincere, they would’ve made him an offer and let him decide whether or not he was willing to accept it.

  Greg got up from his desk and stomped out of the house, slamming the back door. He paced around the small yard, shaking his fists in the air and growling. On the fourth lap he crashed the palm of his hand into the gate, breaking the simple latch as it swung open. In the alley, he started north toward the cemetery, only to see Harry Bentley at the far end walking his dog. Before Harry looked back at him, Greg spun around on his heel and headed south. This was no time to face Bentley.

>   He walked down to Chase Avenue and turned left toward the lake. At Rogers Avenue, he angled northeast and continued walking with no plan in mind. Within a block he came to a park on his left and stepped through the gate into a colorful playground—empty, probably because Chicago schools weren’t out yet. He’d been by this park on other occasions, but had never paid much attention to how nice it looked. That was the thing about Chicago: it had parks in most neighborhoods. In fact there were two in this part of the Rogers Park neighborhood, both within easy walking distance of his house. Greg gritted his teeth as he passed a sprinkler pad, thinking of his own kids playing in the water on hot days. He didn’t want to get pushed out of Chicago no matter how good a job he might find elsewhere. This was his city, and he loved it.

  The park was larger than he recalled. Beyond the cluster of trees he saw tennis courts, baseball diamonds, fields marked out for soccer, a couple of outdoor basketball courts, and a large field house. But having left home with no plan and no destination, Greg suddenly realized he needed to find a restroom and had to go all the way around to the other end of the field house to find open doors.

  When he came out of the restroom, he stopped by the front desk. Above it hung a bulletin board listing upcoming activities but topped with the words, “Welcome to Pottawattomie Park.” Pottawattomie? He knew there was a Pottawattomie Park somewhere, but . . .

  “Is this Pottawattomie?” he asked the attendant.

  “That’s right, señor. Can I help you?”

  “No, no. It’s okay. Guess I never knew that was the name of this park.”