Just In Time

by Joan Lindstedt Jackson

  That afternoon, Ted arranged a conference call with the director who was unexpectedly encouraging and spoke highly of the volunteer program at the Stow-Munroe Falls Library. They arranged an interview for Monday afternoon, the day before Sylvia’s departure. Now all she had to do was tell Steve.

  When she spoke to him that evening, he sounded excited, at first.

  “Really? I could volunteer at the library? Dad used to tell me I might like working in a library. What would I do?”

  “We’ll find out on Monday when we meet with the director,” she said.

  “Like an interview? I can’t do an interview. What if he finds out I’m a mental case?”

  Sylvia had to admit she’d questioned that herself—would Steve be considered capable in the director’s eyes? She assumed the director would know he had a disability, since Steve’s case manager arranged it. It was probably politically incorrect, actually illegal, for the director to ask. “Having a mental disability doesn’t mean you can’t do volunteer work. And it’s not really an interview, just a meeting so he can explain what you might do there.” Essentially, though, it was an interview, a term that threw many people into nervous prostration because their livelihood depended on getting the job. Even without such pressure, Steve regarded the prospect just as seriously. He still had to look presentable, engage coherently, and give the impression that he wanted to work. In other words, he had to be on his game.

  Steve thought for a minute. “What’s the director’s name?”

  “John Morenti.”

  “Sounds Italian. He probably has a temper. Are you coming? Is Ted?”

  “Ted will be there, and I’ll come if you want me to.”

  “I have to think about this,” he muttered, shifting on his feet. “Can I leave now? I want to go to Pizza Hut.”

  As the weekend wore on, Steve became increasingly anxious. Sylvia wondered if she told him too soon—too many days for him to dwell on it. Then again, he usually needed time to make a decision. He never liked something sprung on him at the last minute. The proverbial rock and a hard place. And she needed to let him process, without coaxing, without encouraging, without mentioning it at all. She thought she might need duct tape to cover her mouth. Just sit tight.

  Saturday night, he told her he was sorry but he didn’t want to go.

  “It’s up to you,” she said calmly.

  “Are you mad?”

  “No, I’m not mad.” Why does he always ask me that? she wondered. “You don’t have to decide right now.”

  Sunday afternoon, he woke up at three in the afternoon and went to Pizza Hut. At dinner that evening he said he might go.

  “The waitresses said I should. They made me feel better about it. How many hours would I have to work?”

  “Probably as many as you want. Remember, it’s volunteer work—you don’t get paid,” she said.

  “Oh, right.” He looked down at his shoes. “I’ll need to polish my shoes before I go. What should I wear? Do I need to wear a tie?”

  Sylvia had to laugh. “No, no need for a tie. Let’s go look in your closet and pick out a nice shirt and slacks.”

  Steve meticulously laid out his olive green cords, a pale, sage green Polo shirt, socks to match, and his leather dress belt. She complimented his choices, but unable to avoid making suggestions, she mentioned the khaki raincoat he should wear. He had a habit of pulling out old, worn jackets that were too small. She wanted to hide them or give them to Goodwill, but he loved them and she didn’t have the heart.

  “I never wear that coat,” he said.

  “It’s supposed to rain tomorrow and it looks clean cut, sort of professional,” she said.

  He scoffed. “I’m not a professional! I’ll never fool anybody.”

  Sylvia backed off. What difference did the raincoat make? Tomorrow he could change his mind again about even going.

  But he didn’t. He polished his shoes, showered, shaved, and ended up wearing the raincoat. (It was raining.) Handing Sylvia the car keys, he asked her to drive the short distance to the small neighborhood library. Ted was waiting for them when they arrived, just inside the front doors. Steve seemed almost relaxed and happy to see him. The spacious entryway opened to a reading room on the left and the checkout counter on the right. They walked further inside toward the circular information desk. About ten bookshelves stretched to the back along both walls of the main floor. There was an air of hushed activity, much busier than Sylvia had expected, but she imagined Steve could feel at home here. The librarian at the information desk pointed them toward the offices at the very back of the room, and John, the director, greeted them halfway.

  His open, warm demeanor put Steve visibly at ease, along with the fact, perhaps, that they were both “big and tall” guys who looked the same age. John ushered them into his office and pulled three chairs near his desk, while Steve battered him with questions and side commentary, barely giving John a chance to respond: “How long have you worked here? What a beautiful office you have. Are you really the director of the whole library? Where did you go to college? Where are you from originally? I ran track there once.” With genuine interest, John pursued the history of Steve’s track days. The two bantered back and forth, as if they were seated at the counter of a coffee shop, sharing customary small talk.

  Steve chuckled, “But that was a long, long time ago.”

  John smiled patiently and took advantage of the lull to redirect the conversation to the business at hand. “Maybe you’d like to hear a little about our volunteer program, Steve.”

  “I always talk too much,” Steve said.

  “Not at all. I like to talk a lot, too,” John said. He took out a lettersize notepad and pen, then he explained that they have ten volunteers and could always use more. “The duties range from returning books to the shelves in alphabetical order by author, organizing videos by title, cleaning CDs, entering information in the computer . . . “

  “I don’t know anything about computers,” Steve said.

  “That’s no problem, many people don’t. Do you think putting books back on the shelves would be something you’d like to do?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “As long as you know the alphabet . . . “

  Steve looked perplexed, “I don’t really know the alphabet that well.”

  Sylvia rolled her eyes and laughed, “Steve, you do so know the alphabet.”

  Ted gave him a teasing nudge on the arm, “C’mon, Steve.”

  Looking at Ted, Steve started to explain himself. Ted interrupted him. “Why don’t you and I step out for a few minutes to look at the way the books are arranged, so you can see if it’s something you might like to do.”

  Ted raised his eyebrows, looking at John for agreement.

  “That’s a good idea,” John said. “You two go ahead.”

  “Oh, you mean the Dewey Decimal System?” Steve shook his head and said he never understood it, but he’d go look anyway. He and Ted got up and left the office.

  John turned to Sylvia, seated to his right, and mentioned that his wife, who was in her forties, was recently diagnosed with bipolar disorder. He had a lot of compassion for her struggle and would help Steve in any way he could. “He’s a really good guy. Working here would do wonders for him, I think.”

  Sylvia was startled to hear about John’s wife. “How fortunate for us to find you,” she said. “Someone who has empathy for mental illness.”

  “There really are no coincidences, right?” he said.

  She nodded. “Right.”

  “Do you think he’ll want to volunteer here?” he asked.

  “I do. He’ll be a bit anxious at first, but one thing Steve has going for him is he wants to belong where he’s among ‘normal’ people.” She told him a little about Steve’s work history, cleaning the courthouse, and how he hated going. “This would be a real boon to his self-esteem, I’m sure.”

  “I can understand that,” John nodded. “I’ll be sure to make him as
comfortable as I can.”

  Sylvia was elated, finally someone else who would be in Steve’s court.

  When Ted and Steve came back, they were laughing.

  “I don’t think I’d want to put the books back on the shelves,” Steve said. “Is there something else I could do?”

  “You can do whatever you feel comfortable doing. How about cleaning CDs to start? Robin, the head of the volunteers would show you what to do. She’s very helpful and will answer any questions you might have. Or, you can always come to me.”

  “Thank you very much, sir. I could maybe clean CDs,” Steve said.

  Pen in hand, John began to take notes. “How many hours would you like to work a week?”

  “Um, I guess one hour a week,” Steve smiled with a glint in his eye, as if he knew an hour was the tiniest of commitments.

  John sat back, smiling, and set his pen down. “One hour?”

  Without hesitation Steve chuckled and pointed to John’s notepad, mocking his own response. “Be sure to write that down.”

  They all burst out laughing.

  “Good one, Steve,” John said. “Maybe you’ll want to jump to two hours a week in the future?”

  “Maybe,” Steve said, still smiling at his own resistance. Just showing up once a week would be enough for now.

  To Sylvia, Steve’s self-recognition—to take it slowly without embarrassment, to be honest with what he felt able to do—was a milestone. He didn’t cower to what might “look good,” unlike herself.

  Steve chose to work Fridays from eleven to noon. John took them on a quick tour of the library. The children’s section was on the second floor—good news, since Steve became unnerved around little kids. He would be working behind the check-out desk, in a room closed to the public areas.

  Steve smiled, thanking John, then he shook his hand. Ted led the way out of his office with Steve close behind. John reiterated to Sylvia that she could check with him anytime or he’d get in touch if need be. In the parking lot, Ted told her that he’d be sure and introduce her and Steve to his replacement before he left.

  How all the moving parts had fallen into place left Sylvia stunned. On the drive home, her relief was so palpable that she was overcome with fatigue and could barely keep her eyes open. She could now look forward to relaxing on the long flight back to Los Angeles.

  19

  SEPTEMBER 2001

  Over the past few years, Nancy had become friends with Andrew, who photographed children with Santa and the Easter Bunny at the grocery store. She offered to act as Santa’s Helper or pass out Easter candy in brightly colored plastic eggs, and she dressed accordingly: green, faux-velvet elf outfit and pointed hat for Santa; white, puffy-sleeved blouse and gingham apron for a homespun, countrified Easter effect.

  Since Andrew had his own photography studio and worked at the grocery store only during the holidays, Nancy didn’t see him that often. It was pure happenstance that Andrew and his father, Martin, who was visiting from England for the summer, came to the store the day Nancy was working in the bakery. Andrew introduced them, and though Nancy and Martin bantered for only forty-five minutes, it seemed they’d known each other forever. Martin was jovial and engaging, trim and good-looking in an outdoorsy sort of way, and Nancy’s heart was aflutter just listening to his sophisticated British accent. In those brief moments, Martin told her a lot about himself: he was retired and pushing seventy (nine years older than Nancy), he volunteered, driving a shuttle for the mentally deficient, and he was an avid fisherman.

  “Andrew tells me you’ve dressed as Santa’s Elf when he’s taking the children’s photos.”

  “Oh my,” Nancy laughed, “he told you that?”

  “It’s a bit incredulous actually, because I dress as Santa Claus for the disabled.”

  “No! What a coincidence,” Nancy said, picturing herself by his side as Mrs. Claus, dressed and ready for the part.

  But the icing on the cake—Martin was a widower with four grown children. Nancy had four children, too. There was only one hitch: he was leaving the next day. Home to Manchester, England. He wouldn’t return until the following summer, a whole year away. How could she possibly get a relationship off the ground?

  When Nancy later learned from Andrew that Martin would receive an award as Volunteer of the Year in his hometown, she asked for his address so she could send a card to congratulate him. The correspondence began.

  Within two months, they were writing each other weekly letters. Martin wooed Nancy with his poems, sent pictures of his family in England, and by late spring hinted about plans to be together. Letters might have been considered an old-fashioned, seemingly distant way to get to know someone, but Nancy found they brought an intimacy to each of their innermost thoughts and feelings, without the distraction of planning dates, facing each other at dinner in restaurants, waiting for a good night kiss (or more), and deciding when to meet each other’s families. Nancy came to the conclusion that letters were an even better way to court. She didn’t know how or when or where, but she was giddy in love and ready to jump in with both feet. The long-distance whirlwind romance from across the pond was the answer to her prayers for the man she’d been yearning to find.

  MAY 2002

  Steve overheard some of Nancy’s phone conversations with her friends or her daughter, Lisa, and started to worry that Nancy might be planning to leave. Did I do something wrong? he wondered. Am I too grumpy to live with? He’d noticed the unusual thin-papered airmail envelopes in the mailbox with the return address from England. How would she know anybody there? Who’s Martin Graham? He considered searching for the letters when she wasn’t home, but decided it wasn’t right to read her mail. He also noticed some changes in Nancy: she was happier, lots thinner, and more forgetful than usual, like when she didn’t leave him notes about her schedule or reminders to take his meds or call to tell him she wouldn’t be home for dinner. He thought about calling Sylvia to ask her if she knew what was going on, but he didn’t.

  JUNE 2002

  When Martin arrived, Steve was certain that Nancy was planning to leave. Nancy and this guy seemed crazy about each other. She always had her arms around him, looking at him like he was some hunk (which he wasn’t). He couldn’t believe it. Martin was hanging around the house a lot. He was a nice guy, but Steve started to feel like an intruder in his own home. He didn’t want to walk through the family room where they sat close together, giggling, joking, and watching TV into the late hours. Sometimes Martin stayed for dinner, and Steve retreated to his room even more than he usually did. He sometimes stood out of sight to listen to them, but he couldn’t follow their conversations well enough. He even saw them kiss! It was disgusting. They were too old.

  Steve finally decided to call his sister. She was coming to Ohio in July, and her husband, Adam, was coming later for their high school reunion.

  “I know Nancy’s been falling for a British man she met,” Sylvia said. “I didn’t know he was there yet.”

  “He’s here all the time!”

  “Does he ever stay overnight?”

  “No, he just hangs around a lot.”

  “At least he hasn’t stayed overnight! Do you like him?”

  “He’s okay. He’s nice and talks to me and laughs a lot, like Nancy. They’re always laughing and joking around. Is he going to move in here?”

  “Oh, no. Don’t worry about that.” But Sylvia wondered what Nancy might be thinking. If Nancy was serious about him, he might relocate to the states. She might be hoping he could live there.

  “I’m glad to hear you say that,” Steve said.

  “Are you uncomfortable when he’s there?” Sylvia asked.

  “It’s just cause they act lovey-dovey sometimes, and I don’t really know him.”

  “That’d make me uncomfortable, too.” Another sticky situation, Sylvia thought. First, her son, Danny and now a boyfriend?

  “So, you’re still coming in July?”

  “Yes, I’ll see you so
on.”

  “Do you have your ticket?” Steve asked.

  “Yes, I’m all set.”

  “Okay, great. I just wanted to be sure.”

  A week before Sylvia’s visits, as usual, Steve called her every other day until her departure date, “Just to be sure.”

  JULY 2002

  Sylvia met Martin several days after her arrival. Jolly, with a ruddy complexion, somewhat flustered gaze, and an easy smile, Martin shuffled his feet slightly before extending his firm hand. “Awfully nice to meet you,” he said. “And what a lovely home you have here.”

  “And you, as well, Martin. Thank you. We’re fortunate to have our childhood home, especially for Steve’s sake.”

  “Lucky lad, that. Pretty rare to stay in the home where you grew up.”

  “Very true,” Sylvia agreed. “It’s only been possible with Nancy’s help, of course.”

  “It’s been a good situation for me, too,” Nancy said. “And he’s much more independent than when I arrived.”

  Past tense? Sylvia thought. It’s been a good situation? Was Nancy leaving?

  With everyone on their best behavior, they made small talk for the next half hour, while the elephant sat in the living room. They invited Sylvia to join them for lunch at the restaurant where Nancy’s daughter waitressed, but Sylvia declined, already weary from the cheery chatter with the two lovebirds.

  After spending a week with Martin around, Sylvia decided she liked him well enough. He seemed like a solid, straight forward bloke, not that it was up to her to determine if Martin was right for Nancy. They were obviously smitten with each other. But falling in love had little to do with reality—Sylvia had known too well its hold over rational thinking. So what? Nancy was enjoying a small piece of the sun, no matter how things turned out. Anyway, Adam would be there soon, and he’d get to the bottom of the situation.