by Dave Jackson
Harry Bentley scanned the room again. “Looks like a couple of brothers are missin’ tonight, but this is most of us. Why don’t you have a seat over there on the sofa, Greg, and I’ll take this chair.”
“And,” put in Peter, “looks like you’re the one to open us up in prayer, Harry.” He turned to Greg. “We’ve got this tradition where the last man in before we start has to pray. But you’re exempt . . . at least for now.”
After Harry’s prayer—crisp and to the point—Peter asked the group to turn to First Corinthians and began reading chapter 16. He read aloud until he came to a natural break, and then another man read the same verses in a different translation, more of a paraphrase.
Greg’s ears perked up as they discussed the second verse: “On the first day of every week, each one of you should set aside a sum of money in keeping with his income, saving it up, so that when I come no collections will have to be made.”
“Does that mean we have to tithe?” asked Josh. “If so, what about the person who doesn’t have enough to pay the rent? Some of the people in the building where I work literally spend every penny on rent, the electric bill, and food. And they’re on food stamps too.”
Carl spoke up. “Well, it’s in the Bible. ‘Will a man rob God? . . . Bring ye all the tithes into the storehouse.’ I heard more’n one message on that in my day.”
“I don’t know ’bout that,” argued Harry.
The debate went on until Ben Garfield held up both hands. “Hold it a minute.” He waited until he had everyone’s attention. “I’m not saying you’re right. I’m not saying you’re wrong. But this is why you goyim . . .” He turned to Greg. “Uh, that just means a non-Jew, so don’t take offense.”
Greg nodded. “None taken.”
“Anyway, that’s why you need me, an old Jew who knows a thing or two. It’s not as simple as you make it out to be, you know. The Torah prescribes different kinds of tithes and offerings. So if you want to follow the Law, then you couldn’t brag about merely contributing ten percent of your paycheck. And today Jews don’t technically pay tithes. To whom would they pay them? There’s no temple, so there’s no ordained Levites or priests, who are the only ones authorized to receive the tithes. Instead, religious Jews pay an annual fee for membership in their synagogue—for building maintenance and salaries—and in addition, most contribute to charity. But for me”—he shrugged—“that was my old life. I think God looks at the heart.”
That’s my kind of man, thought Greg.
Harry jumped in. “But a lot of people use that as an excuse to contribute next to nothing to God’s work. And they’re not even regular.”
“You’re right there,” said Peter. “You know, if you make fifty thousand a year and put a twenty in the offering every week, you might be feeling rather proud of yourself, but . . .” He paused and closed his eyes for a moment. “That’s only about two percent.”
“Yeah, and that still doesn’t say anything about where your heart is.”
When they ran out of time discussing the Bible passage, Peter invited prayer requests around the circle. When it was Greg’s turn, he searched for how to say what was on his mind. “Well, I was stuck in a rut in my old job, but God’s given me a great opportunity. I’m starting a new business. So I could use some prayer. And the prayer is, I need the right kind of associates: people who have ambition, people who aren’t afraid to speak to other people about a good product, and people who need to make more money than they’re making now. So, if you’d just pray that I’d find the right people, I’d be grateful.”
Greg was moved that two or three of the group took his request seriously and prayed for him during the prayer time that followed.
After the group was over and the guys were just hanging around talking, Ben Garfield came up to Greg. “So what’s this business you’re starting?”
Ah. A spark of interest. “Well, it’s multilevel marketing, direct sales with the highest rate of return I’ve ever seen.”
“You don’t say. I’m a retired Buick salesman, myself. Number one at the dealership year after year. I think they made me retire just to give someone else a chance.” He chuckled. “Nah, just kidding. But I never would’ve retired if I’d known the wife was about to have twins—at her age, can you believe it? But because of those little rascals, I’ve gotta be flexible. Gotta help Ruth, ya know. So I couldn’t go back to a nine-to-five—though it was usually ten-to-ten. How is it workin’ for yourself?”
Greg clapped the man on the shoulder. “Well, maybe we should get together and talk. You got a phone number, Ben?”
Chapter 18
Nicole had been up half the night with Nathan. He had the flu—at least she hoped it wasn’t anything worse. The poor kid had been erupting at both ends from midnight to 4 A.M. before the Pepto-Bismol finally slowed things down. He had a fever, too, as far as Nicole could tell by touching his sweaty forehead, but now that he was finally asleep, she didn’t want to waken him to check it.
When the sun’s rays broke into his room at half-past-five, she got up from the cushions on the floor by his bed and closed the blinds. The kids’ bathroom was a testimony to the poor guy’s battle and desperately needed cleaning. And it smelled as bad as it looked. Down on her hands and knees, she scrubbed the floor, the toilet, and the bathtub. She took all the towels and the throw rug down to the basement and started the laundry.
On her way back up to the first floor, Greg called from their bedroom. “Nicole? What’s all the noise? Isn’t it too early to be doing laundry? I was hoping to get another hour or two of sleep.”
She stepped to the bedroom door. “Nate’s sick.”
“What? Sick? I’m sorry. Is it serious?”
She sighed. “Don’t think so. Seems like the flu. I’ve been giving him Pepto-Bismol, and he finally fell asleep about twenty minutes ago.”
“That’s good. How ’bout you? You coming back to bed?”
“Just cleaning up the mess.”
“Oh. Well, don’t take too long.” He flopped back down and mumbled groggily, “You need your sleep, too, honey.”
Yes, she did, but Greg hadn’t offered to take over, had he? Nicole climbed to the second floor as quietly as possible, put out clean towels in the kids’ bathroom, and opened the window a few inches. The vent fan might make noise. She peeked in on Becky. Thank God, she seems to be sleeping okay.
Back downstairs, she curled up on the sofa and pulled the afghan over her. Maybe she could get a little more sleep, but at least she could hear Nathan from here if he needed her.
* * * *
Greg’s voice woke her from their bedroom. “Oh, no. It’s nine-forty! Nicole, did you turn off the alarm? I’ve got an appointment with Ben Garfield in twenty minutes, and I’m not even showered. Could you make some coffee and toast for me?”
She hadn’t turned off the alarm, but she hadn’t set it either. Ever since Greg had stopped going in to Powersports, there’d been no need to get up with an alarm. She always awoke at about the same time and would give Greg a push when she got up to get him started on his day. Ten or fifteen minutes either way didn’t make much difference. But of course, last night had messed with her internal clock.
Nicole staggered into the kitchen to start the coffee, then went upstairs to check on Nathan.
“Mommy, my head aches. I still don’t feel good.”
Nicole checked his forehead. “Hmm. I want to take your temperature. Maybe we can give you some Tylenol. How’s your tummy?”
“It kinda feels glooky.”
“Like you’re gonna throw up again?”
“No, just glooky.”
Greg’s voice came from downstairs. “Nicole, did you make my toast?”
“Sorry. Came up here to check on Nate.”
“Is he worse?”
“No. Better. Sorry about the toast. Can you make it yourself?”
“I don’t have time, Nicole!” She heard the frustration in his voice.
“Then drink on
e of your energy drinks.” She felt guilty the moment she said it, but good grief! The man wasn’t helpless.
Greg didn’t answer, but she could hear him grumbling and banging around in the kitchen. He was obviously worried about his appointment, but she couldn’t be in two places at once even if she wasn’t so tired.
When she came down fifteen minutes later, he was gone. They needed to have a talk. This business of him being around the house all the time without taking more responsibility for the kids—or himself—wasn’t working. She’d sometimes thought the claustrophobia of being cooped up in the house all day would be eased if she just had another adult to talk to. She’d even called some other homeschool mothers to see if they wanted to combine their kids on some days just to have company. Nothing had worked out so far. But having Greg around wasn’t solving anything either.
* * * *
Greg was ten minutes late arriving at Ben Garfield’s house.
Ben met him at the door. “Come in, Singer. Sit down. You’re lucky. The twins are at school, and Ruth’s at some birthday celebration at Manna House.”
“Manna House?”
“Yeah, that’s a shelter for homeless women where she and some of her Yada Yada sisters help out sometimes.”
Greg decided not to ask what Yada Yada was. He was here on business, not to write a family diary. He took a seat on a well-worn sofa that sank as low as a pillow on the floor. The house had a faint smell of baking bread and black coffee. Greg felt hungry.
Ben listened patiently while Greg explained SlowBurn and sampled the energy drink without commenting one way or the other on its taste, but Greg noticed he didn’t finish the whole can.
“So who d’ya think is going to buy this energy drink?”
“Anyone. Anyone who drinks tea, coffee, Coke, juice. It’s better than any of those. We like to call it ‘the Time-Release Energy Drink that won’t let you down!’”
Ben threw out a bunch more questions in his gravelly voice, the obvious ones as well as questions that hadn’t even crossed Greg’s mind—like whether he needed to be registered with the state and if not, how they’d collect and pay state sales tax. “’Cause even if you’re not incorporated and are operating as a sole proprietorship,” Ben pointed out, “every retail business has to file a Form ST-1 and pay sales tax.”
“Of course,” Greg said hastily. Hopefully that sort of thing would be covered at the SlowBurn training in a couple of weeks. He still needed to get registered for that. “But you don’t have to worry about that here on the front end while you get started.”
Ben rubbed his chin and flipped the brochure over for the fifth time as if it would reveal new information when he did. “Tell you what I’ll do. Give me a starter kit, and we’ll see how it goes. Maybe we’ll do more, maybe not.”
Knowing the man was an experienced salesman, Greg gently tried to talk him up to the bronze or silver level, but the old man was resolute. “Nah. I’ll know very quickly how people respond to this stuff. If it goes well, I can always move up, right? If not, I don’t want to have more invested in it than I know I can get out.”
“Starter kit it is, then.” And they filled out the necessary forms.
Starter kits usually came in a special box, but Greg had loaded enough individual cases in the back of his Cherokee to fulfill a silver order. “Can I just give you enough individual six-packs to equal a starter kit? You don’t need it in a special box, do you?”
Ben agreed, took his product, and they shook hands.
* * * *
Greg arrived home eager to tell Nicole he’d recruited another rep. Didn’t say one was an old lady with very little sales potential, one was young kid, and the third was an experienced older salesman too cautious to risk much, but he had three reps working for him. That ought to count for a lot. But Ben’s caution had triggered a concern in the back of his own mind—he hadn’t yet sold any product directly to consumers—but that would come. First, he’d needed the time to recruit his team.
“Nicole!” The back door slammed behind him as he came in through the kitchen and went to the top of the basement stairs. “Hey, Nicole, guess what.”
“What?” came her feeble voice from the bedroom behind him.
He turned and peered through the doorway. “You okay? What’re you doin’ in there?”
Nicole raised herself up on her elbow in their bed. “I think I’m sick. Same thing as Nathan.”
“You sure?” He started across the room toward her and then stopped. He couldn’t risk getting sick too. “Oh, yeah. I can see from here you don’t look too good. How’s Nate?”
“A little better, I think. He’s still upstairs.”
“Becky? Does she have it too?”
“Don’t think so. I let her go down and watch a video. You might check on her.”
He nodded. “Okay, I will. Whadda you think it is?”
Her eyes drooped, almost closed. “Probably just the flu. I haven’t thrown up yet, but . . . I’ve got chills, headache. Just feel rotten.”
“Gee, I thought the flu season was past. You sure it wasn’t something you ate?”
“Maybe, but we all had the same spaghetti and salad I made last night. Everything was fresh. You’re feeling okay, aren’t you?”
“Sure.” But the moment he said it, a queasy feeling hinted at nausea and a wave of light-headedness came and went. Had to be the power of suggestion. He hadn’t felt anything before. “I’ll go down and check on Becky.”
“Thanks. Can you go see how Nate’s doing too? Make sure he’s drinking. He lost a lot of liquid through the night.”
Greg sighed as he left the room. Half the family sick? Not good. Not while he was trying to launch his new business. But with Nicole sick too . . .
Becky seemed to be totally content watching Beauty and the Beast, no flu symptoms, and happy not to be doing schoolwork. “When’s lunch, Daddy?”
“I don’t know, honey. You’ll have to ask Mom.” But as he headed back up the basement stairs, it dawned on him that Mom probably wouldn’t be up for cooking.
Upstairs, Nathan was on his back in bed, staring at the ceiling. Greg approached cautiously as if the germs were ready to pounce on him. The boy looked pale, but when Greg peered into the large plastic bowl next to his bed, there were no signs it had been used.
He sat on the foot of his son’s bed, just out of the boy’s reach. “How you doin’, buddy?”
“Pretty good. Where’s Mom? I called her, but she didn’t come up.”
“I think she’s sick too. She might’ve been sleeping when you called. You need something?”
“Guess not. Just wanted her to be here with me.” He looked at his dad hopefully. “Can you stay?”
“Stay? Well, maybe for a little while.” Greg sat on the end of the bed for several minutes and finally reached out to stroke his son’s forehead. When Nathan drifted back to sleep, he slipped into the bathroom and thoroughly washed his hands, then scurried downstairs and quietly sat down at his computer to register Ben Garfield. Next he’d make some lunch for Becky and himself, but then he really needed to get out of the house and sell some SlowBurn.
Greg blew out a big breath, toying with a pen on the desk. He had to deal with this situation rationally. He felt badly that Nicole and Nate were sick, but how would they have managed if he’d been away at an office? This was just the flu, not an emergency that would’ve required him to stay home from work. All families had to cope with the flu from time to time, and they had to do it without disrupting the whole family’s schedule.
The big issue right now was making sure he didn’t get sick. As the breadwinner for this family, he needed to make getting his business off the ground a priority.
Getting up from his desk, Greg slipped quietly through the master bedroom to wash his hands again in their bathroom. When he came out, he tiptoed past the lump in their bed that was Nicole. But halfway down the hallway he heard her feeble voice. “Greg . . .” She sounded terrible. “Can you come
back? I need you.”
Chapter 19
By Friday, Nicole and Nathan were back on their feet, and so far, neither Becky nor Greg had caught the flu. But Greg felt uptight and frustrated over the amount of nursing he’d had to do. How could he start a business from home when so many domestic demands impinged on his time?
He felt guilty for resenting the help he’d given his family, but what was he supposed to do? Weren’t these the kinds of obstacles God was supposed to clear out of the way so they could get his blessing? He was certainly doing his part.
Greg was in the middle of filling out his online registration for the SlowBurn training for the week after next, when Nicole came in and stood beside him. “Yeah?” he said without looking up from the screen.
“Just wanted to let you know, I need the car this afternoon to do the shopping that I missed the other day.”
Greg remained focused on the computer. “You’ll be taking the kids, won’t you?”
“I’m still not a hundred percent, Greg, so I thought it’d be faster if I left them here, but I—”
“Nicole!” Greg lifted his hands off the keyboard like a pianist ready to pound out a major chord. “If they’re around here, then I’ll have to be dealing with them while I’m trying to work.”
“No you won’t. I’ve already arranged for Tabitha to come over.”
“Tabitha?” He finally turned and looked up at her. “Who’s Tabitha?”
“Tabby Jasper, the girl from down the street I had over for a mother’s helper the other day.”
“Oh . . . oh yeah. Okay. Thanks.” He turned back to his computer. “Just tell them to stay out of my office and keep the noise down.”
She started to leave, but then turned back. “So now it’s your office, huh?”
“Come on, Nicole.” He leaned back and rolled his eyes. “Yes, this is our living room, except when I’m working in here. Then it’s my office. Okay? I’m trying to start a business here so . . . so we don’t have to move to Florida or Canada or—”
