Any Minute: A Novel

by Deborah Bedford

  “I thought I pulled that for him last week.”

  “Right. It’s in the mail. Double-check.” Leo hesitated a beat. “Oh yeah. Your husband called to confirm tonight. You can get him on his cell; he’s still at the shop.”

  “Oh, right. Joe.”

  “He says to remember that you promised them.”

  “I remember.” Her tone said she was half deserving of this prompt and this was half none-of-his-business.

  “DarCo guy will be in town Thursday. Wants to talk about upgrading software.”

  “Leo. Hey. In case you haven’t noticed, that’s why we’re paying you the big bucks around here. So you can get rid of people like the DarCo guy.”

  “This is an unpaid internship,” he reminded her.

  She ignored his comment.

  “Leo McCall takes care of the DarCo guy.” He scratched the item off his list with zeal.

  “Those plans for tonight?” Sarah announced happily, and anyone could tell that, for the moment, everything felt satisfactory in her world. “Did Joe tell you? I’m meeting him and Mitchell at the Cubs game.”

  “Oh man.” Leo’s voice flooded with envy. “Joe got tickets to that? It could be the best game of the year.”

  Sarah pondered the panoramic view of Chicago, what seemed like miles below their enormous window—the plaid grid of sidewalks and streets, the occasional turquoise patch of a rooftop swimming pool, the elevated train track that sliced the fabric of The Loop like an oversized zipper. One of the pools caught her attention; she liked the idea of installing a pool when the baby got older. Mitchell and Kate would love a pool once Kate got old enough to take lessons. Maybe it was too early to plan, but a pool would ensure her children plenty of friends during the sweltering Illinois summers. After all, having things like swimming pools was what she was working so hard for. I want my children to have the best of everything, she thought. Anytime Sarah felt even a twinge of guilt about all the time she spent away from her family, she always convinced herself she was doing it for them.

  “Back in Michigan I told my friends that when I lived in Chicago, I’d be close enough to Wrigley to lean out the window and spit on the field,” Leo said.

  “I thought you lived in Bucktown. With five roommates,” she reminded him.

  “Back in Michigan, I exaggerated sometimes.”

  A Midwestern whiz kid come to conquer the city. There would always be an endless supply of them. Sarah smiled.

  “I’d give my right kidney to go to that game,” Leo said.

  “I’ll phone the medics for you,” she said, teasing. “Let them know they can drive right over and pick it up.”

  He rolled his eyes at her calling his bluff. “You get the Roscoe corporate seats?” Although the company had cut back, Tom Roscoe had not given up the baseball tickets. Phone in hand, Leo looked ready to call the CEO and make sure everything had been arranged.

  She shook her head. “The bleachers.”

  “You? A Bleacher Bum? What happened with that?”

  “It’s Joe’s deal, for once. He says the bleachers are the best place to experience the people of Wrigley.”

  “I’d give anything to be in the bleachers. But knowing you, are you sure that’s the experience you’re looking for?”

  A yellow warbler flittered past outside the mammoth window. Sarah wondered absently how such a small bird could find a place to perch this far above the ground. How had something so small flown so high?

  Sarah followed up with her husband as she settled herself atop Leo’s desk to sort through pages of numerical data. Can you make sure these add up? she mouthed as she fluttered two pages in Leo’s direction. “Joe,” she said after she heard the click. “Joe?” But she’d only gotten the recording.

  “See you when I see you,” she said after the beep, picturing him with a customer, their heads together beneath the hood of his latest car project.

  As fond as Sarah was of conversing with her husband, she was glad to leave a message. She didn’t have time for anything else right now. But maybe she ought to add extra information so she wouldn’t sound too abrupt.

  “It’s been another one of those days over here.”

  She narrowed her eyes conspiratorially at Leo, who shared this madhouse with her and understood. For the hundredth time she couldn’t quite believe her luck that she’d gotten an intern this year. Leo McCall, at the top of the Kelley School of Business from IU at Bloomington, who’d ridden his scooter to save gas money and parked it on the sidewalk for each one of those grueling Roscoe interviews. Leo was determined. Sarah liked determined people.

  She continued her message to Joe. “Leo’s drooling to be in my place. He says it’ll be quite the game.”

  Her intern glanced from the adding machine and gave a thumbs-up sign. With a fortifying nod that said I’m sticking by you, Leo returned to the scads of figures, his fingers skittering over the adding-machine keys.

  “So don’t worry, Joe,” she said with added confidence, basking in Leo’s enthusiasm. “I promise I won’t let anything get in the way of me being there.” She needed a night to forget about work and be with her family and let her hair down.

  “See you in a few hours then, honey,” she said, swinging her leg, absently tapping her heel against the desk. “I might be late, but I’ll be there. You know I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

  Chapter Two

  Sarah’s husband, Joe, would be the first to tell you that nothing much seemed impossible on Chicago’s North Side. You could order a Polish dog from any vendor just the way you liked—dragged-through-the-garden, which meant you got the works, sweet-pickle relish, mustard, a dill-pickle spear, sport peppers sliced thin and topped off with tomato—and have all that in hand, sixty seconds max.

  You could take the “L” train clear from Skokie to The Loop and it wouldn’t cost you more than $2.25 full-class fare.

  You could cruise the Chicago River in a tall boat at certain hours of the day while dozens of bridges rose to allow you to pass. You could stand among the skyscrapers downtown in the center of Daley Plaza on Washington Street and know you stood beneath one of the last pieces of artwork Picasso ever created.

  But there was one particular thing, Joe Harper had to admit, one impossible task, one single feat in Chicago—only one—that couldn’t be done.

  Try as you might this time of year, you couldn’t save a bleacher seat at Wrigley Field. Not in mid-September. Not when the Cubbies were in town playing the Cards. And certainly not when the hopeless Cubs were only a half game out of first place.

  “That’s saved for my wife,” Joe told a portly gentleman who tried to sidle into Sarah’s spot carrying one of the aforementioned hot dogs and an overflowing carton of nachos.

  “Sorry. This spot’s taken,” he announced to a girl dragging her boyfriend down the cement steps as if she thought they might be able to fit into Sarah’s small space.

  “Someone’s already sitting here,” he told a woman waving a poster that read It’s Gonna Happen in his face.

  Joe lost count of how many times he thumped the empty bleacher with his hand, “Seat’s taken,” before he got overruled and everybody starting squeezing in. “Well, dude, I sure don’t see her,” a man in a blue pin-striped shirt insisted as he forced his way in from the aisle. Then he started directing everybody else to where they could sit too. “You got an invisible wife or something? There’s plenty of room for us here.”

  “Look, mister.” The lady with the sign shook it at Joe and said, “We’re here and she’s not. You can’t save the cheap seats. You’re ruining it for everybody.”

  “She’ll be here any minute,” Joe argued, trying to stop the onslaught. “You just have to wait a minute until Sarah gets here.” Then, “Besides, it’s just this one seat. You’re trying to fit three people in here.”

  Joe knew he couldn’t hold on to the seat—these Cubs fans had a fighting nature; everybody knew it.

  As his mother’s space filled in, Mitch
ell looked disapprovingly at Joe and wailed, “But, Dad. There’s no place for Mom now.”

  Joe gave a helpless shrug and straightened his son’s little eyeglasses. “Guess we’ll figure something out when she gets here.”

  The guy in front made a megaphone of his hands and yelled, “Hey, St. Lou! Let us have a win today, will you?” As he offered

  Joe and Mitchell bagged peanuts: “Where is your wife, anyway? She sitting in traffic?”

  “Guess so.” Discouragement took hold of Joe the same way he took hold of a fistful of nuts in the cellophane. Joe had told Sarah to leave the car at the Park & Ride and take the shuttle into Wrigleyville. Maybe she’d ended up coming from The Merc and had taken the Red Line. “Guess so. It happens all the time.”

  On the field, the first-base coach had sent Derrek Lee to steal second on a wild pitch, and Lou Piniella, “St. Lou” as the peanut man called him, didn’t much like the out. He stormed from the dugout and let the ump have it right in front of everybody, one of those dirt-kicking, hat-throwing arguments that ends in ejection. The lady with the sign uttered something foul, and Joe shot her a look as he covered Mitchell’s ears with his hands. “Do you mind?”

  Joe took chances in the bleachers with a child, and he knew it. He ran the risk of his eight-year-old hearing words that ought to be erased from the annals of human history, never mind introduced to an impressionable boy who might just decide to employ the exotic and enticing new vocabulary in his second-grade classroom. But Joe didn’t mind having a few heart-to-heart talks with Mitchell about people who used not-very-nice words whenever Fontenot missed a tag or Theriot struck out—he thought it well worth it.

  People in the bleachers came alive for baseball. They pursued it completely, from wearing frizzy blue wigs to painting red encircled Cs on their faces to all those It’s Gonna Happen signs. They raced through the gate hours early to claim a spot near the field. They hugged absolute strangers whenever the Cubs hit a home run. They offered high fives when an outfielder made a catch in the vines.

  Sarah often asked him, “Why put yourself through this with the seats? Why not let me get in line for our company tickets? Or we could spend a little more money and buy our own reserved ones instead.” Joe, who loved being a Bleacher Bum, was tempted to come right out and tell her. Don’t you understand? Why show up to the game if you don’t want to stop and enjoy the whole experience?

  True to bleacher fashion, Joe had bought Mitchell one of those foam claws, as big as a bed pillow, to wave around on his hand. When Geovany Soto ripped a pitch for a stand-up double, Mitchell mimed a long bear-cub scratch in the air and growled. Joe wanted to grab him off his feet and hug him to pieces; he was so cute wearing his new glasses and that claw.

  “How about that swing?” Joe pointed to the replay on the JumboTron. He’d been teaching his son about baseball ever since Mitchell had been old enough to walk. But Mitchell didn’t answer. His mind must have gone back to his mother again.

  “Dad?” Mitchell held the huge foam paw now pressed pathetically against his chest. “When’s she going to get here?”

  When Joe moved to hug his boy sideways, the hug was only a trap. He tickled Mitchell’s ribs, hoping he’d stop asking so many questions. Mitchell giggled and doubled over in self-protection. Which set off a chain reaction of elbowing and shoving and disgruntled looks from the spectators wedged along the same row.

  “Hey. We’d better calm down.” Joe gripped the boy’s shoulder and hauled him up. Their eyes met as Joe set Mitchell’s glasses to rights on his nose. Even with Mitchell so young, the two men of the family had an unspoken understanding between them. No matter how hard Sarah tried, she didn’t always end up where she was supposed to be. “She’ll be here; I know she will,” Joe said, sounding doubtful.

  “But how long will it take?”

  “You know the way your mom drives.” Joe shrugged. “How should I know?”

  Tom Roscoe, chief executive officer and president of the futures group that bore his name, gazed out the window of his exquisite new office on the twenty-fourth floor and exhaled with satisfaction. It pleased him greatly, standing this high above Chi-Town. On days like today, when the sun glittered off cars jolting to starts and stops below him, when the street reverberated with noise, horns honking, engines racing, people shouting, it suited him that the frantic activity seemed far below.

  Up here in these luxurious quarters, business had no sound. On days when the breeze carried the smog away, he enjoyed broad, sweeping views of the city. Given a rainy day, he preferred having his windows in the clouds. He liked having someone report to him. He made a practice of speaking to the doorman to find out the weather.

  No need to worry about what’s on the streets below, he philosophized with great pride, when you never intend to lower yourself that far.

  Tom had good reason today for gloating. He’d been working for months to convince the Cornish brothers, Chicago’s great global real-estate financiers, to move their investment assets to his company. Andrew Cornish had phoned this morning to say they might be convinced.

  The status of managing such a prestigious account would make him the most influential commodities broker in the Windy City’s financial district. Tom could already taste victory like steel on his tongue. The Cornish brothers were stopping by for a casual discussion just as soon as they could get away from their own granite-clad high-rise on the north side of The Loop.

  Which meant his stature would skyrocket and the value of his brokerage would soar and he’d have yet another chance to demonstrate the company’s worth to his two sons, Jonas and Richard.

  Which meant he could someday bequeath his sons a financial enterprise that would set them up for life.

  Which he reasoned meant he had no choice but to insist that every employee’s schedule stretch to accommodate his demands.

  Tom Roscoe needed assistants in the front room to pull files and double-check figures. He needed texts and examples transmitted immediately to his PalmPilot. He expected Rona to carry in the tray with sparkling glasses and tonic water and lime. And maybe she could serve some of those basil tarts she’d spoken about. Yes, that sounded good. Rona could also come up with crusty bread and small squares of cheese.

  An hour later, all this quick arrangement left him swiveling his chair to face his guests with a smile. He assured his potential clients that his company stood on firm financial footing, that his brokerage could handle their trading in real time, in only nanoseconds, in places all over the world. He diagrammed his business model for them, showing in full detail how his employees focused on service, support, and integrity. “I tell you both, you won’t be sorry if you pursue this.”

  Andrew Cornish made a great show of stirring the ice in his glass. “And what about this whiz kid of yours we’ve heard so much about?”

  Tom crossed his arms behind his head. “Ah. You’ve heard about Sarah Harper.”

  “Hasn’t everybody?”

  “You want to work with her?”

  Their smug, twin smiles told him everything he needed to know.

  “She does have a mind for strategy. Brilliant moves. Won’t back down.”

  Andrew shot a discreet glance in the direction of his brother. They’d met with a half dozen traders this past quarter, and there was no doubt they’d found what they wanted. Depending on Roscoe’s sales spiel, of course. “Can she handle it? What about experience with something of this magnitude?”

  “She’s certainly got the instinct. Knows right when to take what’s coming to her. Makes brilliant split-second decisions, better than I do, actually.”

  Andrew surveyed his huge manicured thumbnail from three different angles. “May we see numbers to back it up?”

  Ah. He’d been right to wield a heavy whip on his staff. “I’ll have her assistant bring the spreadsheets.” Tom lifted the receiver. He’d almost finished dialing Leo before he got a better idea. “Tell you what, I’ll make it even easier than that,” he said, hanging up.
“Let’s get our hands on today’s transcript.”

  The two brothers looked at each other with satisfaction.

  “You’d be willing to take her off the other accounts?” Nathan, Andrew’s older sibling, slid a pair of spectacles from his pocket and polished them on his sleeve. “We’d want exclusivity.”

  That’s the moment Tom realized how close they were to closing this deal.

  “She’d have to agree to it, of course.”

  He already knew she would. She’d lost the Nielsen account for him last month, which hadn’t mattered much. That account had been small potatoes, but because he could use it to put the thumbscrews to her, it meant a lot more now.

  Tom made the call to Rona. The three gentlemen made small talk until the requested documents arrived. Rona knocked lightly, opened the door a bit, and handed the pages over to Tom. Tom presented them to the brothers. Nathan steered his spectacles onto his ears and, together, the two men perused the columns. Eventually Nathan Cornish lifted his head and asked, “What do you think, Andy? Would you be willing to write out the check if she agrees?” Then, to Tom, “How about a meeting-of-the-minds over dinner?”

  Andrew nodded. “I’d write the check. Absolutely.”

  Tom Roscoe felt like he might hyperventilate. Everything had happened so fast. “We’re on for dinner then.” Rona could make the excuses to his family. During the years she’d gotten very good at that.

  He didn’t let the thought keep him sullen for too long. They’d done it! They’d roped in the most notable financiers in Illinois! Tom could almost picture his company’s stock climbing.

  “Just give me a minute.” He couldn’t help it; he was practically leaping up and down. “I’ll get your girl on the line.”

  Sarah raced along the cubicle-lined corridor, tugging off her jacket as she ran. She yanked one sleeve off, then started working on the other. She slalomed a chair that had been abandoned in the aisle after most of Roscoe’s employees had departed. By the time she reached the ladies’ room, she’d wadded her entire blazer in her hand.