Pieces of You (10 page)

“You gentlemen are so much more knowledgeable than I about economics; sometimes I feel I was hired to be the token female. Even though my MBA focus was banking and I graduated pretty confident of my ability to make financial decisions, I’m beginning to believe that what I don’t know is much more important than what I learned in grad school.”

“See, Mark, didn’t I tell you the lady has more brains than ‘you-know-who’!”

“Steve, if you mean more than
J
im
,
not me, I fully concur!”

Denise went on.

“Since I started here, there seems to be no end to the training but it never goes beyond bank policies and sales techniques. Where does customer service fit in?”

“Steve parodied their boss, “Gentlemen and Denise, customer service is a win-win; we serve our customers by fulfilling their dreams if they borrow now, at high rates. We also help them envision a secure future if they save now, at low rates; a double win.”

Mark’s response to Steve’s diatribe fell into the category of yellow traffic signals. Denise gave a half-hearted nod to Steve. Fixing her gaze on both men, she responded.

“I’m really worried, guys. It seems to me that Jim’s scheme is a huge risk to our bottom line. Could I possibly get some direction from a couple of brilliant bankers?”

Their nods were synchronized to the degree that they might have been two heads supported on one neck.

“All right, can we each commit to a little homework tonight and then find a private spot tomorrow to discuss our findings, maybe even our feelings, about Jim’s target?”  Denise suggested and continued.

“Frankly, I feel like we’re being manipulated. It certainly blows my mind to consider such a drastic increase in real estate loans.”

“I hear you, Denise, and I fully agree.” Mark responded. “Let’s return with justification for either denying ole Jim or making lots more money. How about meeting in that little Thai restaurant on Lincoln and Fifteenth after the lunch bunch scatters, say one-thirty?”

Both agreed and the little group broke up, returning to their separate office cubicles.

Mark sat at his desk, staring into space, while the phone rang and the paperwork on a half-dozen loan requests gathered dust. Something inside, to which he couldn’t put a name, was nagging at him. As if that wasn’t confusing enough, there was a ringing in his ear that almost sounded like an alarm clock going off. What was happening to him? Was his conscience trying to awaken some guilt he had pushed deep into his subconscious?

             
To divert his attention from this mental noise, he took out the wallet-sized photo of his long-time girlfriend, Peggy. It had been nearly nine years ago since they’d met in the VA hospital. Even though he wasn’t a ladies’ man—a new date every few weeks had always seemed a waste of time to him—he wasn’t sure that marriage was what he needed either.

Peg’s gentle nagging about having a baby, over the last couple of years, was becoming more palatable. Her contention, that parenting would be a wonderful thing for both of them, was less easily dismissed than when she had first proposed marriage for a baby’s sake. Peggy was pretty, slim and highly intelligent with a driving ambition to be a healer. She certainly qualified as a good match, so why was he procrastinating?

***

Janine was in her Detroit apartment, tossing and turning throughout that November night of 2007. Finally giving up, she propped herself up in bed and grabbed her journal from its prominent place on her nightstand.

How can I sleep? I have received no news from Martin for almost two days, even after I sent him a message expressing my intent to come to his father’s bedside.

Praying makes me feel that I am doing something, but I want to do much more. I want to be holding his hand and looking into his eyes even if he can’t respond. He’ll know I’m there.

Mark, where are you? I’m less independent since I met you. Do you feel the same? Sometimes I sense you knocking at the door of my heart. My heart rises with anticipation, and then sinks with despair when you’re not there. When will you return?

In my heart I know that pieces of you are with me, but I long for your touches and kisses, not just the part of you I hold in my heart. Although I’m trying to apply faith to your healing, the troubling thoughts won’t vanish.

Wrung out by worry, Janine was still holding her open journal in her hands when sleep eventually came.

***

Startled back to full consciousness by the sound of the phone ringing, young Mark looked around the familiar cubicle with the sensation that something was radically wrong. The dream state he left behind had been nightmarish.

He could not erase from his mind the images of a fully-clothed body lodged beneath a suspension bridge; of rows of deteriorating buildings with all their windows broken out and graffiti-decorated façades; of haggard faces that looked strangely familiar.

The meaning was unclear to him, but he was certain it had something to do with the meeting earlier in the day.

Picking up the phone, he heard the shrill voice of Doris Stuard, the stodgy department receptionist, stumbling over the last name of his 4:15 appointment.

Mark had been on the interview team for the receptionist position, battling doggedly with colleagues who preferred a stunning face and figure to a diligent and affable disposition.

“My dear Mrs. Stuard, I am sincerely grateful that our customers are never ignored or subjected to personal phone calls or gossipy conversations. If only we had a few more like you!”

Doris smiled at the straightforward compliment. Mark never resorted to the flowery, hollow expressions of the more extroverted loan officers.

“Mrs. Stuard, please tell Mr. Jewel I’ll meet him at your desk in five minutes.”

In the cubbyhole that passed for an office, he took a seat opposite Ron Jewel at the bistro-sized round table
.
Mark focused exclusively on his customer, grateful to dismiss the daydream or whatever it had been.

“Mark, I need $45,000 next week or I could lose all that I’ve invested in the shop.” Ron blurted out his request so forcefully, almost tripping over his words, that it was clear he was in trouble. His current financial statements confirmed the bleakness of his situation.

“I’d like to see your candy store again, Ron. I’m sorry to say, the only time I was there was during your grand opening. I’m not really the candy and flowers type and your store is not near the mall where I generally shop. But, heck, I’ve got a little time to spare. Why don’t we go right now?”

Ron had seemed about to object but
only
asked “Your car or mine?”

Seated in the passenger side of Mark’s 1982 red Z28 Camaro, Ron appeared to be close to losing his composure.

“Man, I thought I would be driving a sporty car like this in a couple of years—you know, hard work and its rewards
—
but if things don’t turn around soon I’ll be using public transportation! I thought I was the luckiest guy on earth when State Farm offered early retirement and I could finally do what I wanted.”

Mark, keeping his eyes on the road ahead, responded.

“Ron, when you came to me for a loan last year, I tried to talk you out of buying a candy store but you wouldn’t budge. I cited all the research on why small businesses fail, with ‘lack of experience’ and ‘poor location’ in the top five, but there was something driving you. I hope that same force is still with you.  Will you tell me the whole story now, Ron?”

“Okay. It’s more than a personal passion for sublime chocolates.” Some of the strain went out of Ron’s voice as he replied.

“I can close my eyes and envision the expressions on the faces of satiated customers; especially my grandmother’s face.”

“Is Grandma the driving force, the story you never told?  I’ll treat you to the best authentic Mexican meal within fifty miles if you’ll tell me
,
” Mark offered.

“Please don’t think I’m asking you to reveal family secrets, Ron. I may be wrong but I’m sensing a good story and maybe some insight. I endorse Abraham Lincoln’s philosophy:

‘We are not duty-bound to succeed but to live up to our light.’
I’d just like to know where your light comes from.”

“This could take a while. How much time do you have, Mark?”

Parallel parking in front of the Gringo Grill took all of Mark’s attention for almost a minute; then he turned to Ron. “Promise me some hope that doesn’t have to be uncorked and I promise you my undivided attention for the next hour. After that, I have to deal with some issues at the office. I’d still like to see your store but maybe we could delay that for a couple of days.”

“Uh, Mark, you won’t see much there. My suppliers have cut off my credit. The display case of Grandma’s Candy is the only one that’s fully stocked.”

“Do you really have a case with that label?

“
It conjures up images of peppermints and lemon drops that grandmothers keep in their purses.”

“Not my grandmother! She was not the peppermint type. In memory of her I display some of the best chocolates that money can buy—candy that she would have never bought for herself.

I was the only grandchild who visited her regularly, and I dearly loved that woman.
With her, I could talk about almost anything.

“
She knew just what I liked to eat and would always serve it, including fudge, chocolate cake and double chocolate donuts.”

“God, I hope you didn’t eat all that every day! But she does sound like a sweet lady.”

“My grandma also loved sweets but a few years ago she told me that her mother had never prepared Christmas stockings, birthday cakes or Easter baskets.

“She didn’t have a lot of money; in fact, when she retired, Social Security was all she had to live on.
She still remembered all the kids and grandkids on our birthdays and at Christmas.

“
When I got my first job at seventeen, I surprised her with an Easter basket, one with all the goodies. I remember that she cried.

“
For the next several years, I had a basket delivered in time for Easter, even when I was away at college and, later, on work assignments.”

“I’m impressed!” Mark said, smiling. “I always chose nice boxes of candy for my mother and girlfriends for holidays, especially Valentine’s Day, although I sometimes thought they would have been happier with a gift card.”

“Well, I never got that feeling with my grandmother, but shortly after her death I made a shocking discovery. I learned that she never ate more than half a piece of the candy in any of the baskets I gave her. The priest who did her memorial service told this story about her:

‘Several years ago I got a call on Holy Saturday from Mrs. Jewel asking if I could come over, either that evening or before the Sunday service, and share communion with her. At 6 a.m. I was ringing her doorbell. When we were seated around her coffee table, she brought out a beautiful Easter basket overflowing with chocolates. When I responded to her offer to take my pick, she cut the chocolate I had chosen in half and asked me to use it instead of communion bread.

“
After we had shared the grape juice and eaten half a chocolate each, she insisted I take the basket with me to the service and offer the contents to members of my little parish, most of them living below the official poverty level.

“
The next year we did the same thing. When I got to the church the second year, there were several more candy-filled baskets to add to her gift. You can imagine the look on the faces of the congregation, young and old, many who had never before received such a token of love.

“
This has continued every year, her basket being combined with many others and all shared freely at Easter.’

“Well, Mark, now you know why I love the candy so much. Since my grandmother’s death, I sent several baskets in her name, all from the display case of Grandma’s Candy. “

Ron’s tone became slightly pleading.

“I’m determined to continue the practice; which means I must have more sales to keep the store open.”

Mark’s job as a loan officer did not make him a big brother to clients and he was required to be impartial about their ability to repay.

Whil
e
empathy caused him to feel a tightening in his chest, Mark could not assure Ron that help was possible. Then again, all the underwriting rules seemed about to change, to meet the outlandish goals that seemed imminent if Mark’s boss got his way.

When they returned to the bank exactly one hour later, Mark was honest with Ron.

“I have to study your financials some more, but I don’t think you need me to tell you that we need a miracle or, at least, some creative genius in repackaging your loan. All I can guarantee, right now, is that I will do all I can. You’ll hear from me at the start of the week.”

“Thank you, Mark. You are an unusual banker; you make me feel like you care about what happens to me. I didn’t want to put you on the spot, but neither do I want to lose my life savings or cancel my goal.” 

Much later that evening and j
ust before Mark left his office
,
he made a note on his calendar for the Saturday before next Easter Sunday:

‘Order Easter baskets to be delivered to the northern Baton Rouge Parish of the Sacred Heart.’

Lugging an armful of reading material and with a heavy heart, Mark unlocked the door to his apartment.

Burning the midnight oil, he gradually began to see a very different economic picture to the one that had been painted during the morning meeting.

He hoped that he had missed something or that his colleagues were coming to different conclusions; otherwise, there was surely trouble ahead.

With sleep came a new set of nightmares but which shared a theme with the one before: disaster and desperation; was this the consequence of an overworked mind or an early warning?

***

Promptly at 1:25 p.m. Mark trudged into the Thai restaurant; concern weighing him down so much that his feet had to adjust their pace accordingly.

He could see Denise, just stepping out of her three-year-old BMW
,
a vehicle she often said she wouldn’t trade even for the perfect guy.

He couldn’t see her face clearly enough to gauge her mood.

As he looked around for Steve, he spotted him at a corner table engaged in animated conversation with the Barbie-doll waitress.

He slipped into the seat across from
his friend. Steve
raised his hand in his traditional hello salute, stared at Mark for two heartbeats and then turned back to the waitress. Harboring the sensation that he might be the only concerned one in this crowd, Mark tried to calm himself with a few deep breaths.