Godless (10 page)

Matthew had
forgotten the massive size of the Denver International Airport. It had been nearly ten years since he last flew. He smiled at the recollection of a California vacation designed to help his mother get her mind off the bad news. The doctor had said her memory would only get worse, that she would eventually need continuous care. Matthew had offered to put his college plans on hold for another year so he could figure out a suitable arrangement. They couldn't afford an expensive nursing facility. Maybe they could find a part-time parent-sitter until he finished graduate school and accepted his first faculty post. Then came the first economic crash, shrinking his aspirations into a few community college classes that he took while working a coffee shop job.

As Matthew's approach parted the terminal doors he swallowed back a lump of grief. Or was it remorse? Either way, the moment reminded him of how much he missed his mother's nurturing presence.

He checked his appointment notes for the location of his meeting with Serena Winthrop of NEXT Incorporated.

“Where can I find the Admiral's Club?” he asked the holographic image of a man eager to offer assistance.

“You'll find the Admiral's Club located near Gate A-twenty-four. You can access Terminal A by train or through a two-hundred-yard bridge located one level above the main security lines.”

Security
! He had forgotten about that delay. Matthew glanced at the time.

“Which would be faster?” he asked the digital projection.

“I recommend taking the walking path because…”

Matthew didn't hear the rest as he ran toward the bridge. He continued his sprint before jumping onto a moving sidewalk, then pulling back to a rapid stroll. He didn't want to arrive with beads of sweat dripping from his forehead or soaking his newly pressed shirt.

He offered his driver's license to the security agent, who seemed slightly annoyed he had interrupted her reading.

She didn't accept it.

“Please,” he said while extending his identification urgently, “I'm running late for an appointment.”

“Aren't you forgetting something?” she asked with a smirk.

He tried to remember airport protocol. Nothing came.

“Your boarding pass,” she said into the next page of her book.

“But I'm not flying today.”

The woman gave an aggravated sigh while handing Matthew a card titled
Security Guidelines
. It included about fifteen bullet points printed in indecipherably tiny text.

“I can't read this,” he said with rising panic. “Please, I have a very important meeting in four minutes. Can't you just tell me what I need to do?”

Fifteen minutes later Matthew reapproached the same security zone with a terminal access pass in hand. He cursed toward the line of fifteen travelers eager to make their flights.

Had Serena Winthrop given up waiting? He wouldn't blame her. Matthew had already violated the first rule of first impressions: show up early, never late.

After tying his shoes and re-buckling his belt Matthew noticed his own dark, expanding armpit stains.

Perfect
, he thought.
Just perfect
.

Ms. Winthrop appeared every bit as put-together as Matthew felt disheveled.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet me,” she said with more deference than he deserved. She had dismissed the transgression of a tardy arrival as par for the course when meeting colleagues in a busy airport.

He followed her toward a semiprivate corner of the room just past a row of corporate road warriors sipping drinks, some scanning messages about who knew what big deal awaiting input or review, while others read the latest edition of the
Wall Street Journal
or
New York Times
on their tablet screens. All of it seemed far removed from Matthew's dreary routine in one drab living room after another across the Denver metropolitan area. He relished the thought of his own life occupying such an energetic space.

“I've been looking forward to speaking to you in person, Ms. Winthrop,” Matthew said after placing his drink on the side table positioned between the leather chairs.

“Serena, please,” she insisted.

The name suited her. In her early thirties, she carried herself with an elegant grace that reminded him of Maria Davidson's older sister Julia: dark hair and long, slender legs that would distract less disciplined eyes. Ms. Winthrop, Serena, was someone Matthew might enjoy getting to know under less intimidating circumstances.

He glanced at the screen she had tapped while placing it on her lap. His newly crafted résumé.

“I was impressed by your range of experience,” she said, the tone of her voice shifting from that of a cordial acquaintance to that of a potential employer.

He smiled, half expecting her to question the slightly embellished portions of his résumé. She instead zeroed in on the parts he considered least impressive, if most accurate.

“In fact,” she continued, “I can see why you came so highly recommended.”

“By whom?” he asked.

She looked surprised by the question and a bit embarrassed. “I'm afraid I can't answer that question,” she said. “Our human resource team does the initial screening of candidates. By the time they reach me I assume such details have been confirmed and sources screened.”

Of course
. He blushed for having asked such a dumb question of such an important executive.

“I see that you have experience in two of the three categories we are seeking for this position. Ten years in senior care?”

He nodded silently. The span had required stretching eight years managing his mother's meds into nine and rounding the month spent with Reverend Grandpa up to twelve.

“And one with MedCom?”

Another nod. “I have one of the highest client acquisition rates in the company.”

“I noticed that,” she said, looking back at the page.

He wasn't sure whether boasting would suggest desperate anxiety or calm confidence.

“Any experience assisting a transition?”

He thought before responding. Did coaxing his mother count? He had walked through the entire process with her, even sitting on the other side of a two-way mirror to witness her final moments. But he couldn't actually claim to have assisted in the procedure.

Reverend Grandpa came to mind. Matthew knew what the authorities had never suspected. No, he hadn't injected his client with a needle or cut the oxygen tube. But he had aided the death by refusing to help the old man after his fall. It had been an act of compassion, lending his own courage to a man who should have volunteered, might have volunteered if not for a lingering religious disposition that would force a disabled dad onto an already stressed daughter.

“Twice,” he said. “But I'm not a licensed transition specialist.”

Even better
, the woman's smile seemed to suggest.

“Our prescreening process discovered that your own mother volunteered. Is that correct?”

Another hesitation. “Yes,” he confirmed on a technicality. “Two years ago.”

“I prefer team members with personal experience on that front,” she said coolly. “It helps them empathize with our clients.”

“Clients?” he asked, realizing he had absolutely no idea what the job entailed. He knew it involved research and development. Nothing more.

Serena set her tablet aside to face Matthew squarely. “I'm sorry,” she began. “I should probably tell you a little bit about the project.”

“Yes, please,” he said.

“What do you know about the wrongful death lawsuit against NEXT the courts finally wrapped up this past January?”

He probably knew more than Ms. Winthrop. It was the case that had kept his mom's estate out of reach for over a year, which in turn had forced him to drop out of college to work for Reverend Grandpa. By the time the case finally did end, releasing his inheritance, Matthew had already descended into the dark place.

“I know that it put us pretty far behind the targets established by the Youth Initiative,” he said, echoing the drum fiscal conservatives had been beating for the prior six months.

“That's right,” she said, “and put increased pressure on my department to come up with innovative ways to make up for lost ground.”

Matthew suddenly understood why he had been recommended. Who better to help figure out how to grow the pool of volunteers than a top recruiter at MedCom Associates?

“We introduced a new home-based-transition kit several months back, something we had hoped to make available last year. The lawsuit kept us from taking it to market due to the usual oversight headaches. But now we are free and clear.”

“How's that going?” he asked. “I mean, are many volunteers using the kits?”

“Not as many as hoped, which leads to our present situation. We expect whoever wins the upcoming election to ask for more aggressive strategies. Both parties know we've got a major problem on our hands. Other than the initial wave of transitions that included all of the low-hanging fruit, we've fallen behind on both projected revenue and savings in every quarter.”

“Low-hanging fruit?” Matthew asked, unfamiliar with the phrase.

“Easy pickings. People who were eager for the Youth Initiative to pass because they were sick or depressed. They flooded into our clinics during the first few quarters. Most volunteers since have required a bit of convincing.”

“Right,” he said knowingly.

“Which leads to the project. We've learned that families need more than a self-serve kit. No matter how much they agree it's in everyone's best interest for a loved one to volunteer, very few family members seem willing to actually stick the needle into an arm in order to inject the serum.”

“PotassiPass,” Matthew added to suggest fluency.

“That's right,” Serena said with a smile. “So we've decided to test a new service that is more hands-on. We believe families will be willing to spend part of their inheritance on something we are calling a
transition companion
.”

She paused, watching Matthew's reaction to the label. “We think it sounds warm and supportive,” she added.

“It does,” he agreed.

“If we're right, the extra fee will more than cover the healthy bonus we intend to pay our client representatives. And if we're right, everyone wins. We should see a higher ratio of volunteers transitioning their resources to the young while reducing government entitlement outlays, all funded by family members willing to sacrifice a few thousand dollars for a service that makes the much less expensive at-home option seem more viable.”

Matthew sat quietly, trying to imagine whether he would have used such a service when his mother volunteered. Would it have made the decision easier or not? His first reaction suggested not. There was something safely abstract about driving to a clinic where medical professionals handled the procedure and the disposal process. A highly trained
transition specialist
seemed professional and hygienic.
Transition companion
sounded cozy and slack.

“What about the organ donations and disposal process?” he wondered aloud.

“Nothing would change on that front. That process is already working well in most instances. Of course, the transition companion would handle scheduling disposal instead of relying on the family; another benefit to the service that will make the local authorities happy.”

“Why's that?”

“People are only human, even volunteers. They forget to schedule the cleanup, or enter the wrong date. Officers seem to dislike calls about a decomposing corpse in the neighbor's bathtub.”

“So the job doesn't include disposal?”

“Goodness no!” said Serena. “The process runs more like an assembly line. Just as the recruiter will hand off to a transition companion, the transition companion hands off to a member of our follow-up team. We actually have more follow-up personnel than we can keep busy. Our challenge has been finding candidates qualified for the earlier steps.”

She took a sip of her drink before continuing.

“The time-consuming part will be spending time with clients who, on occasion, might get cold feet.” Serena paused to retrieve Matthew's résumé, then eyed it briefly before looking back in his direction. “We need someone right away to cover the Front Range area. What do you say?”

Matthew realized he had been offered the job. “I'm flattered,” he said, although
disappointed
would have been more accurate. He didn't know what he had expected a research and development job to look like. Certainly more prestigious than the role Ms. Winthrop had described. A comfortable office with a window view? Travel to and from New York, Los Angeles, or D.C.? Hardly realistic, he knew, for a man with such a thin résumé. But one could dream.

“You'll want compensation details,” Serena was saying while handing him a slip of paper.

Twice his current monthly income plus a signing bonus!

“You'll also receive three percent of the transition estate value for each client served,” she explained.

He mentally tabulated the possibilities. The job, while beneath the stature he had imagined, would provide the funds needed to get back to school twice as fast as his present path. He tried concealing his enthusiasm, but his face betrayed an eager acceptance.

“We would like you to start right away.”

“Not a problem,” he said.

“In fact,” she continued, “I have your first assignment with me now.”

Odd. A first assignment prepared in advance of his first interview?

She handed him a sealed envelope. “Inside you will find a series of confidential details required to access our Research and Development hub. Simply enter the pseudonym listed and then the pass-code. You'll find several training videos and the specifics needed to begin.”