Dexter’s clenched his fists, but the idea of paying Tracy’s tuition made him relax. “I don’t know how much ditch diggers make, but I’m pretty sure it’s less than I need to cover tuition.”
The man nodded and said, “Leave that to me. I can offer you a job digging for $72,455 a year, enough to match last year’s salary. There’s just one small thing, and this may be a deal breaker for you. You won’t be digging ditches, but graves.” The stranger shrugged. “It’s the best I could do on short notice.”
Dexter’s slumped onto the edge of the bed. “Where?” he asked, though he already knew.
Casually, the man said, “Lake View Memorial Park.”
Dexter gripped the bed. In a tone that sounded more controlled than Dexter felt, he said, “Get out.”
The man remained seated and said, “If that’s what you wish, I’ll be happy to leave. But don’t be hasty. People aren’t exactly lining up to offer you jobs.”
For the first time since losing his job there was a jolt of hope. A dark, vicious jolt filled with pain instead of optimism.
“Somewhere else,” said Dexter, with narrowed eyes.
In a businesslike tone the stranger replied, “Don’t misunderstand me. I’m making an offer, not opening a negotiation.”
Twelve months of unemployment had weakened Dexter, leaving him unable to block the memory of little Camille, Tracy’s twin sister. Buried at Lake View Memorial Park. He stood and walked to the window to hide the unwelcome tears.
Dexter fought through the grief and considered the ludicrous offer. No matter how tenuous, it was still a lifeline. Self-pity wrestled against the possibility of hope as he considered returning to the cemetery.
This isn’t about you
, he scolded himself, and thought of Dru. Not the words of support and the encouragement she’d offered after countless failures in his job hunt. Or her faith as she told him time and time again that if it was God’s will then he would find a job and Tracy would get her degree. The memory he could not expunge was the three seconds of silence on the phone the previous night when he told her that he had given up. That moment stung worse than anything he’d felt in years.
If he didn’t accept the stranger’s offer, then later that day he would be on the phone with Tracy, telling her that psychology would have to wait. He’d have to ask if it was possible to be readmitted after a semester or year break. Every morning when he saw her at the breakfast table, he’d have to look at her and know he failed.
Like he failed little Camille.
It had taken years to suppress his guilt and he had still not forgiven himself for leaving that gate open. In an attempt to make it up to Camille, he gave her twin sister every opportunity.
Dexter wiped his nose across his monogrammed sleeve. After another minute of silence he turned and asked, “How do I know you’re serious?”
The man reached into his briefcase, took out a folded check and handed it to Dexter. It was made out to Dexter Wilkinson for $6037.92. “This is your first month’s salary. After one month you’ll be paid by Lake View. The salary will remain the same. This check isn’t a gift or a bonus, merely a token to show you I’m not playing around.”
Dexter stared at the check with puffy eyes and wet face, not seeing its value, but what it represented. Atonement. One last gift he could give to his precious twins, though he would rather die.
Not trusting himself to speak, Dexter just nodded.
“On to conditions and consequences then. You will be granted the same sick and vacation days as other employees at Lake View. But in order to use them you will need to contact my staff before taking time off.”
Dexter nodded, still staring at the check.
“You will continue employment in the same capacity at the agreed upon salary until the day Tracy graduates. At that point you may continue your employment if you wish, but the salary will decrease ten percent annually until it reaches the standard Lake View Memorial salary, which is surprisingly close to the cost of tuition at Columbia.”
The stranger stood and closed his briefcase. “You will not question my motives, how I obtain my information, why I selected the employment I did, or any other background of our arrangement. You will mention your decision and details of employment only to your wife. No one else.”
He paused to allow Dexter to consider. “Do you accept the conditions?”
“Do I have a choice?”
A small grin crossed the stranger’s face, the first emotion since he entered. “We all make choices.”
“I accept the terms,” Dexter said without further thought.
The man nodded and said, “The consequences—and it is vital you understand these absolutely. I am not a man to be trifled with, Dexter. We will have no written contract, but you can be assured I will use every weapon in my immense arsenal to enforce our agreement.”
Dexter swallowed hard. He had no desire to find out what else the man was capable of.
Gaze fixed on Dexter, he continued. “If you fail in any point of the contract Tracy will never graduate from Columbia. I will see to it. Whether I permit her to finish at another school will remain to be seen. In addition, if you fail to keep the terms of the contract, you’ll never work another day in real estate. Not title, real estate, mortgages, appraisals, or even home inspections. Once you give me your word, do not break it.”
It didn’t take Dexter long to make up his mind. He almost repeated,
What choice do I have
? but instead he said, “I choose to accept the terms of your offer. And I’ll comply with the terms.”
The man shot forward, smiling and suddenly full of energy. He offered Dexter his hand. “Good man. I believe you will.”
*****
Jonathan finished the story. “Dexter spent a week in backhoe training in Sun Prairie, Wisconsin. That was two months ago. Though he steers a wide circle around his daughter’s grave, he does as good a job as any gravedigger ever did.”
Jonathan paused, hoping Susan would ask a question for clarification or follow up. He was greeted only by her simple smile. It was a beautiful, genuine smile, the first thing he had noticed about her when they met.
He concluded the story. “Tracy is registered for fall classes at Columbia. She won’t miss a single day of class. In twelve months she’ll graduate with a degree in psychology. The end.”
Still smiling, Susan said, “That was a nice story.”
The two sat a few minutes in silence.
Jonathan asked, “Is there anything I can get you?”
“No. No thank you.”
Giving her hand a soft squeeze he reached up and wiped an invisible smudge off her cheek, just next to the corner of her mouth. The gesture made her smile.
“Goodnight, my love.”
“Goodnight. Jonathan.”
When Jonathan entered Control the next morning he felt a familiar, quiet buzz. The three night shift workers—Barsaat, Bob and Britney were engrossed at their workstations. The Busy B’s, as the other shifts called them, didn’t appear to notice him enter.
Eighteen work stations were spread across the open space in Control. The Busy B’s occupied three adjacent stations in the corner furthest from the elevator. Techs on the other shifts always worked with at least one desk between them, but not the B’s.
It struck Jonathan as unusual that the night owls would band together. He would have expected them to be individuals. Loners. Especially considering their varied ages, genders, and ethnicities. They worked superbly together, as productive as any four of his other techs.
Jonathan crossed the space to their workstations and looked over Barsaat’s shoulder and the huge headset he wore. The Skype logo was at the top of the monitor on his left, and pages thick with text filled the monitor on his right. Bob was typing word after word into various search boxes. He switched from one program to another so fast Jonathan wondered how he could register, much less analyze anything. Jonathan could explain the other two being able to work at lightning speed. They were both raised in the digital age, but Bob was ten years Jonathan’s senior. PCs hadn’t become household features until Bob was out of college.
Britney’s two monitors were divided into four quadrants each. One of the quads displayed what appeared to be signal strength; another flashed red, bolded words once every few seconds. The third quadrant displayed a map with a stationary blip on the right side. The remaining screen space was taken up by lines of text. Jonathan noticed a large number of interspersed emoticons and abbreviated words. She must be monitoring text messages or chat rooms.
Jonathan walked past them, not disturbing their technological trances, into his corner office. The view of Detroit had once inspired Jonathan, a symbol of all he strove to obtain. At the time, investment in real estate was a field in which a monkey with darts could succeed. Jonathan cherry-picked money by the millions. Three and a half years ago, when he suddenly decided to quit, real estate had reached an all-time high and he retired with a net worth just a fraction shy of one billion dollars.
The old Jonathan would not have slept until he made up the dozen million or so. The new Jonathan would have given anything for five minutes alone with the old Jonathan to try to change his priorities. He only kept the office as a reminder of the mistakes he had made in life. A constant and personal Ghost of Christmas Past.
Organized in neat rows on the wall were over three hundred pictures, mostly of individuals. The majority were framed in white. Less than twenty percent had black around them. Many had yet to receive a frame. He checked the basket on his desk and saw that none of the photos required updates.
He spent the next hour reviewing new folders in his
Prospects
file. Most were denied quickly, a handful got
More Info
stamps, and two were approved with dates penciled in for the following week.
Marcus arrived as Jonathan finished reviewing the files. At six foot eight and two hundred fifty pounds, Marcus filled the entire doorway. People often compared him to Lebron James but Jonathan always saw him more as a young Evander Holyfield.
“The concert’s tonight,” said Marcus, picking up the stack of files.
“I know,” replied Jonathan. “Tell the swingers I’ll be here tonight to watch this one live.” He still chuckled at the term that had been applied to the second-shift techs. Though he set no dress code, he couldn’t remember the last time he had seen any of the four swingers without a sweater on. In the case of Katherine and Annaya it was high-necked sweaters and full length skirts or pants. Casey and Paul went back and forth between full sweaters and sweater vests over long-sleeved dress shirts.
“I’ll be here for this one, too,” said Marcus. “I need to see how it turns out. I think we have it covered but there is a real chance this one could blow up in our faces.”
The uncertainty thrilled Jonathan. “We don’t make choices for people, just give them opportunities.”
“You didn’t give the girl a choice.”
Jonathan raised an eyebrow, surprised at Marcus’s sudden defiance, and waited for him to continue.
“Some of the techs were surprised that the girl is getting the concert for free. They can’t figure it out, but there are two theories.”
“This should be good,” said Jonathan.
“Barsaat said it’s because she’s had such a crappy life you feel sorry for her. Bob says it’s because she stands to lose so much if things don’t go her way. Like you decided to throw the dice for her. I know you well enough to realize it’s neither of those, but I can’t figure it out.”
“Maybe it’s neither,” said Jonathan. “Maybe she’s just ancillary. You are right about one thing. I never give anything away.”
“Why? Can’t you ever just give a gift without putting someone through hell? A true gift.”
“That’s not a true gift,” answered Jonathan with a smile, ready for the debate.
“I don’t think you even know what the term means,” said Marcus, stepping into the office.
“What you are talking about is an unearned gift. Give one of those and the person might appreciate it. They might thank you. But you would be doing them a disservice.”
“By giving a gift?” asked Marcus. “How so?”
“When a person receives something they did not work for, their faith in natural laws is undermined. Any time the news airs a story about a lottery winner, most viewers are taught that life and ‘The Universe’ regularly reward people handsomely for insignificant or foolish acts, such as paying a dollar for a lottery ticket.”
Jonathan couldn’t remain sitting any longer. He paced slowly behind his desk. “They’re deceived, of course. An intelligent person approaches a lottery like this: ‘I am willing to contribute a pittance so that one of us can be elevated, and the state can benefit in the meantime.’ Nearly half of lottery money ends up in state coffers, after all. The odds are so poor that in reasonable terms the lottery is nothing but a tax for people who are bad at math.”
“That’s not the point,” said Marcus. “We’re talking about gifts.”