Just In Time

by Joan Lindstedt Jackson

  At the end of February a letter came to Steve from Dr. Rita. She had taken ill and recommended someone else for Steve to see in the meantime. He didn’t tell Nancy or his sister, instead tucking the letter into his metal strong box on the upper shelf in his closet, where he kept important papers or mementos: birth certificate, social security card, tassel from his cap at high school graduation, baptism certificate, several black and white photos of himself laughing as a baby (to prove to himself he was happy as a child), and grades from his three years in college (to prove that he did fairly well). Steve figured Dr. Rita would be well soon enough, and he’d wait for her to recover. He didn’t see her that often anyway, maybe once a month. Dad didn’t see any need to pay her for more than that. Why should I even have to go anymore? Steve thought. I take my meds. But his cover was blown one day when Sylvia called.

  “I haven’t talked to you in so long,” she said. “I keep missing you— you’re always ‘at the office!’” Nancy was the one who coined the phrase for his hours away at his local haunts. Going to the office? Have a good day at the office! Yep, he’s at the office again.

  “But I don’t really work—I just sit there and drink iced tea,” Steve said.

  “That’s what a lot of people do in offices, except they sit all day and drink coffee,” Sylvia said.

  He chuckled, “You’d know. You work in an office. Is that what you do all day? I’ve never worked in an office, and I hope I never do.”

  “If I’m not busy, I can waste a lot of time yakking on the phone,” she said.

  “Dad said that about Mom, always yakkin’. I don’t like talking on the phone. I usually say the wrong thing.” He mumbled something sarcastically about saying the wrong thing no matter where he was, then Sylvia told him he didn’t say the wrong thing, that he did fine, that he always had a gift for gab even with strangers, and that people liked him. It was their usual round and round, Steve tearing himself down, Sylvia trying to build him up.

  “It sounds like you and Nancy are getting along pretty well,” Sylvia ventured.

  “She’s so happy all the time. And she cooks for me. I like her spaghetti, but she ruins steak. I don’t tell her that though.”

  “That’s good you’re eating regular dinners.”

  “Except I’m getting fat. Dr. Keller told me to walk to lose weight, but I hate to walk.” Steve’s weight hadn’t changed in twenty years. He hovered around 220 pounds but carried it well—he looked heavy, not fat, but forever compared himself to his track era thinness.

  “And not eat burgers and fries?” Sylvia asked.

  “I hardly ever go to McDonald’s anymore,” which meant he hadn’t gone for a day or two. His sense of recent time was negligible.

  “Speaking of doctors, how’s Dr. Rita?”

  A long pause. “She’s okay,” he said quietly.

  “When did you see her last?” Sylvia realized he probably wouldn’t know as soon as she asked it. “I haven’t seen any cancelled checks for her.”

  “Oh. Well . . . she’s been on vacation.” Steve sneezed, then coughed hard.

  Sylvia waited.

  “I guess I have to tell you the truth. She’s sick.”

  “Maybe I should call her,” Sylvia said.

  “No, you don’t have to. I’m sure she’ll be better soon. I’m fine. I don’t need to see her.”

  “It’s pretty important, Steve.”

  “I never saw her that much when Dad was alive,” he said.

  “I’ll call her and see how she is anyway,” she said.

  “She sent me a letter.”

  “What did it say?”

  Steve finally told her the whole truth. Sylvia said he needed to call the other therapist Dr. Rita had recommended, but he refused, so she said she’d call for him. He dug his heels in and wouldn’t give her the name or phone number. Once he made up his mind, there was no way to change it. Sylvia didn’t know what to do. Working directly with Steve was still new to her. When her parents were alive, she usually heard about him through them. When she did talk to him on the phone, they only had light conversations during which he rushed to get off, handing the phone over to their mom or dad. Should I get Nancy involved? Sylvia wondered. Steve said Nancy didn’t know about the letter, but wouldn’t she notice he wasn’t seeing his therapist? If so, why didn’t Nancy tell Sylvia?

  Her son’s troubles were the most Sylvia could handle at the moment. She’d finally heard from him when he’d wrecked his car. Thank God he wasn’t hurt. Slowly, one step at a time, she was attempting to make him responsible for his actions, to stop picking up the pieces, stop being the mommy who babied him, enabled him, and overprotected him. It was the only way to save him, she was told, “Stop being a mommy or he’ll die.” So she put his car insurance in his name while the car was being repaired. She didn’t think he should have a car at all, but he’d had it since high school, and it was paid for. And he was persistent. “How will I work?” he’d asked. He was delivering take-out food from restaurants all over LA. “And where will I sleep?” On the advice of drug counselors, Sylvia had kicked him out a year ago because he was using. It seemed heartless to take the car from him now. At least she and her husband wouldn’t have to bear financial responsibility the next time he had an accident. Besides, he told her he was considering going back to rehab. This time she didn’t offer to find a treatment center, to set up a detox, or to take him. She kept her mouth shut and waited, which was progress, but it was all so hard.

  When Sylvia told Nancy about Dr. Rita’s letter, she sounded shocked (with an undertone of guilt) and apologized for not paying enough attention to notice he hadn’t met with her. She confirmed that he was still taking his meds regularly, seemed more withdrawn but overall okay. Sylvia asked her to keep an eye out for the letter, but figured he’d probably thrown it away.

  “Are you kidding? He doesn’t throw anything away, not even junk mail. And he won’t let me do it, so I toss it when he’s at the office.” Nancy said the piles were getting pretty deep.

  Weeks passed and neither one had any luck. Sylvia didn’t know who else to call and was frustrated that there was no back up. The network seemed disconnected, each professional separate from the other: the case manager worked for the county, the psychiatrist didn’t consult with psychologists, and the internist had no contact with the mental health community. Sylvia, already overwhelmed, shoved it under the rug. She’d deal with it in June, once she was back in Ohio.

  At the end of April, Nancy called Sylvia, “The letter from Dr. Rita was sitting open on the dining room table. It was dated in February! I wonder why he left it out.”

  “We’ll never know the answer to that,” Sylvia said.

  “I have names and numbers of two psychologists, a man and a woman.”

  Sylvia took down the information. “I’ll call the woman first. If Steve does agree to see someone else, I doubt that he’d consider a man.”

  “I wonder why,” Nancy said. “You’d think he’d be able to relate to a man better.”

  “We’ll never know the answer to that either. All I care about right now is finding out about Dr. Rita.”

  Sylvia reached the woman, Dr. Nora Ingram, the next day.

  “I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you, but Dr. Rita passed away in early March. She’s had heart problems for years. I’d be happy to meet your brother whenever he’s ready, but he might need some time.”

  Sylvia had to sit down. What a blow. Another unexpected death, and within a few months of their dad. How would she ever tell Steve?

  6

  MAY 1999

  Steve woke up in the middle of the night. He had to go to the bathroom. The bedroom door was ajar and he saw a flickering neon glow on the hallway wall. It was spooky and he was afraid to get up. Low voices and light laughter—was it Nancy’s television? She always fell asleep with it on. On his way to the bathroom, he slowly pushed her door open and peeked in her bedroom. She didn’t stir. Sammy, curled up on his bed, looked up a
t him with those bug eyes. They gleamed. He looked like a demon dog. Steve quietly pulled the door shut and went to the bathroom. He couldn’t get the dog’s eyes out of his mind. He flushed the toilet and went back to his room.

  He had fallen asleep in his clothes again, but it didn’t matter to him. He turned on the bedside lamp and lit a cigarette. Leaning on his elbow, he puffed away, one after another. Mom and Dad never had the TV on all night. Nancy watches it all the time. It’s so annoying. Maybe I should shut it off. Better not. It’s her room now.

  Steve got up and trundled to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and grabbed the plastic gallon jug of milk. He took a few swigs, then realized he hadn’t taken his meds. He went to the dining room table where he kept his pill tray. What day is it? He stood there thinking for a few minutes then decided Wednesday was last night, that he’d missed the dose, and poured the handful of pills into his hand. He went back to the fridge and took another swig of milk to wash them down. He was hungry and fixed a large bowl of Neapolitan ice cream and took it back to his room. Nancy always bought his favorite. Sometimes it was marble fudge or chocolate chip mint, but mostly it was Neapolitan. The digital clock said four p.m. He knew that wasn’t right, but didn’t know how to reset it for a.m. Friendly’s wouldn’t be open until six thirty. He finished his ice cream, set the bowl on his nightstand, lit another cigarette and stared at the ceiling. He wasn’t sleepy. He’d just wait.

  When Nancy got up, Steve was gone. She put on her pink terry cloth robe and pink rabbit-face slippers with the floppy ears and took Sammy outside. “Hurry up and do your business! I’m cold.” Even in May, mornings were often in the upper forties. Sammy ran in circles around the backyard, ignoring her command. She followed him to the far corner of the yard where finally, with back hunched, he was doing his duty. She didn’t have a plastic bag, so she left it and hurried back inside, Sammy trotting along behind. She grabbed a cold can of Coke from the fridge and headed to the bathroom to get ready for work.

  On her way to the garage, she decided to leave Steve a note and went back to the dining room table, where she always left her notes for him.

  “Hi, Steve, Sorry I missed you! I’ll be home early today, around four or five. Remember you have work tonight! Chuck roast is in the Crock-Pot—it’ll be ready before you go! PS: Don’t forget your morning meds!” She dashed out the door with a second can of Coke, started the car, and turned on her favorite cassette, The Carpenters, which always reminded her of her sister who loved them, too. They used to sing in the city chorus together, mostly show tunes, but she died of lung cancer four years earlier and it had taken Nancy almost that long even to want to sing again. Her sister was her best friend, her pal and confidant, and they had seen each other several times a week. They played bridge every weekend and watched movies. And they smoked like chimneys. Then she got a cold that wouldn’t go away. After the diagnosis, she was gone in three months. Nancy quit the chorus even though she loved it. It was just too hard to be there.

  She began to sing along: “I’ll say good-bye to love, No one ever cared if I should live or die . . . So I’ve made my mind up, I must live my life alone . . . “ But Nancy hadn’t made her mind up. She would find somebody again. Anything was possible, even at her age, pushing sixty. She needed a man in her life to make her feel alive again. There was the guy in the meat department, but she thought he was probably gay. Just the same, he was fun and they had a lot of laughs together. And the fella in the deli was kind of cute and seemed flirtatious, even if he was pot-bellied and bald. He was nice, she knew that right off. You never know where love might happen. You could meet somebody anywhere: a parking lot, the post office, a gas station. Her best chances were probably right in the grocery store, where she spent eight hours a day, mostly in the prepared food department. Lonely, single men, usually divorced, bought dinner every day to take home and heat up. And she acted like a waitress, making suggestions, recommending the most popular meals, or even those she loved to prepare, just to show she could cook. Since she was rotated in the store to the various departments, she tried to get that position as often as possible. It was a lot better than in the back where she was out of the public eye. Anyway, her antennae were up, and she kept a look out at all times.

  When Steve got back home he saw Nancy’s note. Work! I hate going there. How can I get out of it? he wondered. He made two chip-chop ham sandwiches with Miracle Whip on white bread. He dug into the bag of potato chips and started chomping away. Broken bits of chips sprinkled down the front of him, but he didn’t notice. He set the open bag on the counter and took the paper plate of sandwiches to his bed. Reclining, he leaned on his elbow and ate. He liked paper plates. It was so much easier than rinsing dishes (he rarely washed them) and leaving them in the dish rack. Mom never used paper plates. I bet Sylvia won’t let me either, he thought. Sylvia was coming home pretty soon. He couldn’t remember if it was in two or three weeks, but he wanted to see her. Then again, maybe not. He still hadn’t learned how to do his laundry, and it sat piled high in the basement laundry room. She’d probably be mad. Maybe Nancy would do it for him before Sylvia came. And Sylvia would want to go with him to his psychiatrist. He’d rather go alone. And Dr. Rita. He wished she were better so he could see her. She’d taught him to write down his thoughts and said maybe she’d make a book out of them. And she thought he could go back to college. Just one course to start. When he was ready.

  When Nancy got home, she noticed Steve’s bedroom door was ajar. She peeked in—he was asleep. An empty paper plate sat on the sheet next to him. She’d have to wake him up for work, which she dreaded. She didn’t know why he even had to go. Steve said his parents set it up so he wouldn’t sit around all day, doing nothing. She supposed it gave him a chance to be productive, to learn to show up on time and be more responsible. They had a point, but she couldn’t see what good it did him if he felt worse about himself working as a janitor with a group of drug addicts from the south side of Akron. They bummed rides and cigarettes off of him, and he was hesitant to refuse. Steve was probably an easy target. Most of them were black, which made him feel uncomfortable, like he didn’t really belong.

  Nancy knocked lightly on Steve’s door. In her most light-hearted voice she called to him. “Steve? It’s time to go to work. And dinner’s ready.”

  He groaned and rolled over. “I don’t feel well. I have a stomachache.”

  “Maybe you just need to eat. C’mon, give it a try. You didn’t go last week, remember?”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Well, it’s probably too late to cancel now.”

  He finally got up, ate, and left without another word.

  To get downtown, Steve had to take the expressway, which made him nervous. Everybody drove too fast. He hugged the slow lane, barely hitting fifty. Everyone seemed to pass him. He finally pulled into the courthouse parking lot and ambled over to the waiting group of guys.

  Larry, the supervisor, looked up. “Steve, glad you made it tonight.”

  “I’m not glad,” Steve mumbled.

  “What’s that?” he asked

  “Nothing.”

  They filed into the building, and Larry designated the duties to them. “You’ll work in pairs, like always. Steve, you and Howard will vacuum the judge’s chambers tonight then the courtroom.”

  “The courtroom?” Steve asked. “It’s huge. We’ll never get it done in two hours!”

  “You’ll just have to hustle,” Larry said.

  Steve shook his head, “Three guys couldn’t get it done.”

  Larry stood with his hands on his hips, “Maybe you’d rather clean the bathrooms.”

  “No way.” Steve turned on his heel and followed Howard down the hall to the supply closet where they took out two commercial-sized vacuums.

  “At least it’s a job,” Howard said.

  “You like this?” Steve asked.

  “Don’t even ask myself that, just do the work, keeps me off the streets,” he said.
/>   “You do drugs?”

  “Used to. Two months clean.”

  “So you don’t now?” Steve asked.

  “No, but I’m thinkin’ on it every minute.”

  They entered the chambers and turned on the lights.

  “The carpet’s not even dirty!” Steve exclaimed. “There’s nothing to clean.”

  Howard howled and slapped his knee. “That don’t even matter. Just givin’ us something to do.” He suggested that he do the chambers, and Steve start in the courtroom.

  “Oh, sure. I get the biggest job!” Steve said.

  Howard smirked. “I’m comin’ in there to help when I’m done here!” He shook his head and started his machine.

  Steve went into the courtroom and started at the front. Back and forth, back and forth. He was breaking out in a sweat, beads trailing down his face. He wiped his forehead with his hand, then on his pants. The steady whir of the machine rang in his ears. Larry came in.

  “Hey, Steve,” he shouted over the noise. “You’ve got to make even strokes up and down on the carpet.” He took the machine from Steve, “Like this.”

  Steve smiled, “Maybe you want to do it. You’re better at it than I am.”

  Larry pushed the machine back to Steve, “Get going.” He stood and watched for a few minutes, nodded, and left.

  Howard joined Steve, and after two hours they were told they could leave. On their way out to the parking lot, Howard asked if Steve would give him a ride home. Two more guys from the group, Howard’s friends, ambled over. They all wanted a ride.

  “I guess so,” Steve nodded. It wasn’t that far out of his way since they were already downtown. He unlocked his eight-year-old, white Dodge Spirit, and they climbed in. Howard pointed out the lefts and rights as they wound their way through downtown then to the south of Akron. The bad part of town. The “other side of the tracks” where the Negroes lived, except now they were called Blacks or African-Americans. Steve didn’t know what to call them.