As Luck Would Have It (12 page)

Tim was up there speaking now; my head swimming more and the pace of my queasiness escalating.  I heard him say something about
structural reorganization
and the need for commitment.  He had prepared a speech and had produced some index cards
with notes on them.  Of course
he had to know this was coming, but still he had sniffed around my office for clues about what I knew, for what reason I couldn’t dream up.  My head was hurting more as I tried to stay focused and steady myself, but when I stared directly at him, with his smug expression, his condescending dribble, and his irritating nasally voice, the spinning in my head worsened suddenly and I knew I had to get out of there and fast. 

The room was crowded and I started walking over people, towards the only door and my
singular
escape, which was directly behind where the three of them were standing.  Excuse me, excuse me, was the best I could manage, until I was just about to the door when Tim reached out and grabbed my arm and said I’d have to wait until he was finished.  I tried to pull back and I made a weak effort to explain, but Tim was firm, and technically speaking was in charge
now
, and I’m sure in his mind, in his new capacity as our boss, he wanted to appear in control and show signs of power or confidence, but in reality he was making the first of what were to become many bad business decisions, though I can’t imagine that he would regret any of them more than this one.  In a final effort to mitigate the inevitable humiliation that would surely follow, I tried one more time to pull away, but an unwavering Tim jerked my arm harder, forcing my body close to his, at which point I caught a whiff of his foul breath and proceeded right then with a complete and total lack of grace or refinement to vomit all over him.

Although Aunt Doreen had objected
decidedly
to the presence of Mr. Casslemond, as it turned out, he was not going to be easily deterred.  Maybe when he first showed up his intention was just to eyeball me and satisfy himself that I was at functioning with at least some degree of normalcy, or perhaps it was to ease what was certainly a tremendous amount of guilt in some yet to be seen way.  But after our first meeting, he made it clear that he wanted to stay in touch, visit perhaps, and get to know each
other
better, that is if I was agreeable.  The truth is that I
never had a very close relationship with
my one living grandfather,
and things were no better after the accident.
  His daughter’s death had taken a painful toll on him and his health had deteriorated considerably over the past few months.  I liked Uncle Jack OK, but he was hardly around and we did not have much in common, the relationship being cordial but nothing more. 

I liked Mr. Casslemond right off, even if my aunt did not share in my fondness
for
him.  He was
always polite and gracious while in my presence.  Doreen argued with both Uncle Jack and me about it, claiming it was not only an inappropriate relationship, but also a potential conflict of interest on Mr. Casslemond’s part given the legal circumstances.  Jack suggested that she discuss it with our attorney, who was handling the details of the accident and the distribution of my parents’ estate, which Doreen apparently did because I overheard her complaining one night to my uncle about whether he had retained the services of a competent lawyer.  I was quite confused by all of this and was becoming irritated by my aunt’s opinions and more than a little bit suspicious of her motivation.  Go talk to the lawyer, Joseph suggested finally. 

So I decided to show up unannounced one day at attorney Greenbaum’s office to ask him if he might explain to a naïve
14-
year
-
old what actually was going on.  We were on spring break, so Joseph and I took the bus into the city without telling anyone, avoiding the very distinct possibility of resistance from one or more of our blood relatives.  We had never tried anything that bold before; maybe we were feeling a little like Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn by that time, so even if our little adventure was not quite up to the
ir
level
,
off we went on it secretly anyway, not down the mighty Mississippi as they had, but rather down
the
almighty Interstate 94 in
stead.
 

The law office was a bustling place on the 45
th
floor of the Sears Tower downtown.  There was a large plush waiting area with a pleasant looking receptionist at her desk, alternately fielding phone calls and greeting clients as they entered. 
Heller, Greer and Greenbaum
was etched in large letters on the stone wall behind where she sat.  Several people in business attire were waiting and all of them looked up from their reading materials and gawked when we entered, much more curious about us I’m sure than the other way around.  No, we did not have an appointment, was our response to the lady, but yes, it was quite important that I get to see Mr. Greenbaum.  She frowned and hesitated for a moment before dialing the phone, but after announcing our arrival, proceeded to escort me immediately down a long corridor towards his office, while Joseph waited with the others reading
Business Week
and drinking the Coke that Mr. Greenbaum’s secretary had brought for him.

I had never seen an office like Mr. Greenbaum’s before, nothing at all like the cramped and
austere
one my
dad
had taken me to once when his company had a father and son day at work.  I was about
ten
at the time and remember being less than impressed by his work
place
environment, with the noisy typing pool just outside his door and his window with a view of the parking lot and dingy looking alley that adjoined the building.  Now I was sitting in a comfortable leather chair that Mr. Greenbaum had pulled right up beside his, at a beautiful mahogany colored desk, with its ink well and calendar and a telephone
like
I’d never seen before, with its
multiple
flashing yellow lights, all neatly arranged around his desk blotter.  The office was so large, with a separate sitting area with couches and a stunning slate-top work table.  The windows went all the way to the ceiling and afforded an amazing view of the city, from which I could see the traffic below and even the airplanes flying in the distance.  The walls were made of dark paneling with built-in bookcases that held huge legal volumes, as well as drinking glasses, an ice bucket, even liquor bottles. 

I was afraid that Mr. Greenbaum would be intimidating, but he was actually very nice and told me he was glad I had come.  He showed me the pictures he pulled off the window sill of his wife and daughter
Tiffany
, who he said was about my age and in the ninth grade.  I told him that she was pretty, which was less than true actually; she was beautiful.  He seemed completely sincere when he asked how things had been going for me the last few months and then how
could he help me.
 

Now that I had reached that point, there were so many things I wanted to ask.  Had he ever met my parents?  Could I move out of my aunt and uncle’s house if I wanted to?  Would I still be able to go to college?  Would Mr. Casslemond have to go to jail?  He patiently answered my questions and explained that any charges against Mr. Casslemond were civil in nature, as opposed to criminal and he clarified the differences for me.  He also explained that C&C Produce had insurance and that in all likelihood a settlement would reached before much longer, and a judge would be assigned to see that the assets were protected by a trust account.  Not to worry, my college expenses would be taken care of as well, he said. 

Who knows how our emotions work exactly or why, what mechanisms control them, or fail to control them, even when we beg them to, but for whatever reason, I was overwhelmed very suddenly with some crazy mix of grief or heartache or despair over what my life would now forever be and I began to cry uncontrollably, for quite some time
actually
, babbling unintelligible apologies,
the
sadness pouring out of me like a broken water pipe unexpectedly flooding the room.  Mr. Greenbaum just put his arm around my shoulder and waited for it to pass saying nothing more than it’s OK, Clifford,
it’s
OK.

When it finally ended and I had dried my eyes with the handkerchief he given me, I asked if it would be alright if I visited with Mr. Casslemond and his wife from time to time.  Yes, he thought that would be alright; in fact he had met Mr. Casslemond twice for depositions and was impressed with him; yes, it would be totally fine.  When I got up to leave, he said that I should come for another visit anytime I felt like it, if I had any questions or just wanted to talk; no appointment needed.

Joseph wanted to see an exhibit at the Art Institute of Chicago, and then we headed to Lake Shore Drive, where we found a hot dog stand and ate our lunch before walking back to the bus station.  We didn’t talk much on the ride home.  Joseph read from a book on 19
th
century American art that he had picked up at the museum; I sat next to the window and mainly watched the scenery blur past. 
I think he figured out
pretty much what had gone down.  He knew all he needed to know just by looking at me, my eyes still a little puffy, my mind drifting.  Thanks for coming along with me.  Oh, I had fun Clifford.  What did you get that book for?  My mom likes books on art.  Won’t she be a little suspicious when you give it to her?  If she asks where I got it, I’ll tell her the truth.  You better
make up something or at least
tell her this was all
your idea.

We were quiet the rest of the way.  I felt better getting some of that out of my system. When I got home, there was a message from Mr. Casslemond.  I called him later that evening and asked if I could come to their house for a visit the following weekend. 

*****

It may have occurred to you by now that my usual good luck might have decided to take
an untimely
sabbatical, and with it out of si
ght
, misfortune may have seized the opportunity to emerge uncontested, resulting in the
unpleasant
vision of Tim McCarty occupying the office now vacated by Mr. Finnernan.  We will have to wait to see if this is true or not, for luck is unlike any object or physical thing that can be measured or observed, say a light either on or off, or a person either at home or away; luck possibly being something that is not present or absent in any sort of concrete way, so that what happens on any particular day,
or
at any particular moment is not necessarily indicative of luck taking a break, turning from on to off, or going from good to bad.  You must also consider the possibility, unlikely as it may seem
right now, that
Tim’s promotion may have in actuality been a result of my good luck, rather than the other way around. 

How to quantify this thing we call luck.  If it can’t be seen or felt, is it something that we just imagine or make up?  Yet most people believe it luck ardently; picture the woman in the casino, her hands raised to the heavens as she gets ready for another roll, calling out aloud and with those around the table cheering her on and begging for luck to intervene, c’mon lucky seven, she cries.  She rolls again and again, each time counting her lucky stars, or clutching her lucky charm bracelet, anything that might intercede to encourage fortune to be swayed off its center
and
in her direction.  The tension keeps building; you can feel its presence in the room as she rolls yet another seven to the delight of the onlooke
rs.  How can
anyone
say that luck doesn’t exist?  It brings order, balances right and wrong, restores faith, and settles accounts. 
It provides opportunity, sustenance and hope.  Luck needs no explanation, requires no appearance or shape, it is a force that can create miracles or crush empires. 

*****

It was late April now and the freezing Chicago winter seemed reconciled to the inescapable trajectory of our planet as it made its way around to the other side of the sun where warmer air resides.  Maybe winter was going to accept its fate, but Aunt Doreen continued to resist the changing seasons of my life, that were as certain as the approaching summer. 
So I decided to wait outside for Mr. Casslemond to arrive, sparing us both an unneeded encounter with Doreen, who had dug in even more when I told her who I was planning to go to the zoo with that Saturday.  It was a breezy spring day with a blinding blue sky and not a hint of a cloud anywhere, the warmth from the sun trying to cut its way into the chilly morning air.  When the car pulled up, she ran flying from the house with my Bears jersey, reminding me that it was still too cold to go without it.

Mr. Casslemond was out of the car now politely greeting us, shaking Doreen’s hand and then my own.  The passenger door opened and a handsome guy about my age came out and introduced himself as Christian, Mr. Casslemond’s grandson.  He was a little taller than me, with a lean build and jet black hair.  He shared the same
firm
confidence as his grandfather and the family resemblance was almost
uncanny
; in front of me was a young version of Mr. Casslemond.  I think Christian’s presence put my aunt more at ease and she chatted for a few minutes with them, commenting on the beautiful weather and how it was a perfect day for visiting the zoo.  An hour ago, she was ready to argue that we should not go because a hungry and ornery lion looking for lunch might escape its enclosure.