A prequel short story to Restitution

October 2004. Ashford, Iowa.

Seven members of the Linden House board are about to make a decision that will shape the organization for the next twenty years.

The board meeting was scheduled to start at six.

By 6:16, I was still sitting in the conference room at Linden House, listening to two grown men argue about hiring an executive director. We’d been having the same argument since August.

Harold Mercer shuffled through the board bylaws. He did that at nearly every meeting, and I couldn’t remember the last time he’d found anything. Across the table, Dr. Frank Bell kept checking his watch. Someone from the Methodist church had brought a plate of oatmeal cookies. Nobody had touched them.

I grabbed one. I’d skipped supper, and my coffee was already cold.

“Well, I still think we ought to wait until January,” Harold said.

“That’s what you said in August,” Frank replied. “And would you please put those papers down?”

“But I was right in August.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re right now.”

Harold turned to Walter Price, our board president. “Walt, surely you can make an executive decision, and we can vote on it later. We’ve gone this long. Another couple of months won’t hurt.”

I bit into the cookie. Hard as a rock. Probably Sandy Meyer baked them.

For someone who spent half his time studying the bylaws, Harold was awfully willing to ignore them when it suited him.

My mind drifted to Ellen Jensen.

I’d run into her at the grocery store that afternoon. She was standing in front of the canned vegetables, holding two cans of green beans and looking as though she’d forgotten why she picked them up.

“Ellen?”

She turned, nearly dropping both cans.

“Oh, Peg. Goodness. I didn’t even see you.”

She looked exhausted. Of course, with a toddler and a second grader at home, I suppose that came with the territory. One of many reasons I’d decided against having children.

“You look like you’ve got your hands full.”

“I am so burnt out,” she said, laughing. “All I came in for was milk for this guy.”

She ruffled Daniel’s hair. He sat in the shopping cart, grinning at me.

“Somehow I ended up buying everything except milk. And I’ve still got to get Finding Nemo back to Blockbuster.”

“How’s Glenn?”

“Good. Working too much. I wish he’d spend more time at home, but you know Glenn. He’d rather stay busy.”

I remembered sitting beside Ellen at church while Glenn was in treatment. One Sunday she’d arrived alone, still wearing her coat when the service started. She’d been awake most of the night worrying about him. Afterward, I took her home, and we sat at her kitchen table until she felt like talking.

I couldn’t do much for her then. Mostly I listened.

Five years later, she still complained that Glenn worked too much. I liked hearing that.

“How’s Natalie?”

Ellen rolled her eyes. “Peg, that child. She’s got a question for everything. Yesterday she asked why we have to go to church on Sunday instead of Tuesday. I told her because that’s when we go. You know what she said? ‘Who decided that?’”

“Fair question.”

“Don’t encourage her. Glenn tried explaining it, and she asked why God couldn’t just change the schedule.”

I laughed. Daniel made a face at me, and I made one back.

“I’d better go,” Ellen said. “Natalie’s out of school in half an hour, and I still don’t have milk.”

She started pushing the cart, then turned around.

“Can you believe Glenn’s been sober five years?”

“I remember when neither of us was sure he’d make it five days.”

Her eyes watered. She hugged me again and promised she’d see me Sunday.

Five years sober.

“Peg?”

Walter was looking at me.

“Sorry. What was that?”

“Anything you’d like to add?”

I set down what was left of the cookie. “Actually, yes.”

I’d been on the board for less than a year. Walter had asked me to join because I knew people in the community and had helped with church fundraisers. I’d agreed because of families like the Jensens.

What I hadn’t expected was how much time we’d spend discussing things without doing anything about them.

“I think we need to hire an executive director.”

Harold sighed. “Peg, that’s what we’ve been talking about.”

“I know. We’ve been talking about it since I got here.”

Frank smiled into his coffee.

“We keep calling it careful,” I said. “It’s just waiting.”

Walter folded his hands. “Who are you proposing?”

“Nick Granger.”

Harold looked at me. “We’re doing this again?”

“Yes, Harold. Again.”

“We’ve reviewed his application,” Frank said.

“And interviewed him,” Nancy added.

“Then what’s stopping us?” I asked.

“Experience,” Harold said. “The man has never run a residential treatment facility.”

“Neither have I. That’s why I’m not applying.”

Frank laughed. Harold didn’t.

“Nick knows how to manage people,” I continued. “We’ve got qualified staff to handle treatment. We need somebody who can keep the place running and help us grow.”

“Those aren’t the same things,” Harold said.

“No,” Walter agreed. “They’re not.”

I knew that. I’d thought about it plenty.

We’d interviewed several candidates over the summer. Two withdrew. One wanted more money than we could afford. Another wouldn’t move to Ashford.

Nick was the only one left.

I interviewed him in September. He arrived early, wearing a sport coat and carrying a bright yellow legal pad. He wanted to know about our waiting list, county funding, hospital relationships, and whether we’d approached any private foundations.

When Walter told him what the county contributed, Nick wrote it down and asked whether it had changed recently.

At one point, Harold interrupted him.

“Do you understand how much responsibility comes with this job?”

Nick set down his pen.

“Probably not all of it,” he said. “That’s why I’m asking so many questions.”

I hadn’t expected that answer. Neither had Harold.

Nick turned toward Frank.

“You’ve been involved here since the beginning, haven’t you?”

Frank nodded.

“Then I’d like to sit down with you if I get the job. I’d rather know what needs fixing before I start making promises.”

Frank liked that answer. I did too.

Harold was less impressed.

Now he leaned across the conference table.

“Peg, we’re responsible for eight men living here. Eight families who’ve trusted Linden House to take care of somebody they love. We can’t hand that responsibility to a man because he’s good at shaking hands.”

“That’s not why I want him.”

“Then tell me why.”

“Remember when the community center almost cut its after-school program last spring?”

Frank nodded.

“The school couldn’t give them any more money. Neither could the city. Everybody agreed the program mattered, but nobody wanted to pay for it.”

“And Nick saved the day?” Harold asked.

“Not by himself. He got everybody into one room. The school superintendent, a couple of business owners, somebody from the city, Kari Ann Markle. I was there for the Methodist church.”

“What happened?” Nancy asked.

“Everybody started by explaining why they couldn’t help.”

Frank laughed.

“Then Nick started asking what they could do. The school agreed to provide transportation. The city helped with building expenses. Two businesses bought supplies. Our church organized volunteers.”

“And the program stayed open?” Nancy asked.

“It did.”

I remembered Kari Ann laughing afterward. She said Nick hadn’t left anybody much room to say no.

Harold tapped his pen.

“That’s nice, Peg. But what happens when something goes wrong here? Who’s making the decisions?”

“Clinical decisions stay with the clinical staff. Nick made that clear in his interview.”

“And who’s watching the money?”

“We are. That’s part of our job.”

Harold put down his pen.

“Peg, we’ve managed to keep this place running without an executive director. It hasn’t been easy, and Walter’s been carrying more than his share. But eight men depend on us. I don’t want us making a bad decision just because we’re tired of looking.”

I started to answer, then stopped. He had a point. I’d been so busy thinking about what Nick could accomplish that I hadn’t spent much time considering what might happen if he couldn’t.

Harold was right about one thing. Running an after-school program and running a treatment facility were different.

“I wish Nick had more experience,” I said. “But the people who do either don’t want the job, or we can’t afford them.”

“So we settle?”

“No. We hire the best person we can find, and we do our jobs.”

Walter turned toward Frank.

“How many on the waiting list?”

“Seven. One man’s been waiting since August.” Frank glanced at his notes. “We haven’t been able to reach him since last week. His phone’s disconnected.”

Nobody said anything.

I looked toward Harold. He was staring at his papers.

“And we have eight beds?” I asked.

“Eight,” Frank confirmed.

Harold shook his head. “We can’t put beds in the hallway, Peg. And we can’t hire counselors we can’t pay.”

“I know.”

“Then what do you expect Nick to do?”

I didn’t want to promise something I couldn’t deliver.

“I expect him to try.”

Harold gave a short laugh. “That’s your qualification?”

“No. I’ve watched him get people to work together when nobody could agree on anything. We need somebody who can do that here.”

Frank leaned forward.

“She’s right about one thing. We’ve talked about expanding for years. Every time we come back to money. We need somebody who can raise it.”

“I’d feel better with somebody who understands residential treatment,” Harold said.

“So would I,” Walter replied. “But we don’t have that candidate. And Nick’s references are good.”

“References won’t keep us in compliance.”

“No,” Walter said. “They won’t.”

Someone laughed downstairs. A chair scraped across the floor.

Linden House used to be an elementary school. You could still see it in the wide hallways and the old drinking fountain outside the conference room.

Now eight men lived here.

I thought about Ellen standing in the grocery store, worrying about getting milk before Natalie came home. There’d been a time when she didn’t know whether Glenn would ever come home again.

“Can I say one more thing?”

Walter nodded.

“I saw Ellen Jensen this afternoon.”

“Glenn’s wife?” Frank asked.

“Yes. He’s doing well. Five years sober.”

Frank smiled. “Good to hear.”

“She was tired, trying to get groceries, talking about the kids. Daniel’s three now. Natalie apparently has enough questions to keep both parents busy until she’s grown.”

A few people laughed.

“Anyway, I was thinking about them while we were talking.”

Harold shifted in his chair.

“Nobody’s questioning whether Linden House does good work, Peg.”

“I know. But Glenn isn’t a bed anymore. He’s a husband and a father. He goes to work every day. Ellen gets to worry about ordinary things.”

I looked toward Walter.

“Seven people are waiting for the same chance. I don’t know whether Nick can help us expand. But I know what I’ve seen him do, and I think it’s time we made a decision.”

Walter closed his folder.

“All right.”

Harold looked up. “All right, what?”

“I think we’ve heard enough.”

“Tonight?”

Walter rubbed his forehead.

“Tonight. I’ve been handling most of this since March, Harold. I’m tired. We’ve interviewed everybody we’re going to interview.”

Nancy leaned forward.

“Peg, what happens if we’re wrong?”

I thought about Harold’s concerns and the men living downstairs.

“Then we deal with it. That’s what we’re here for.”

Nancy looked at Nick’s application.

“All right. I’m ready.”

Harold crossed his arms. “I still have concerns.”

“And they’re legitimate,” Walter said. “If we appoint Nick, he answers to this board. Clinical decisions stay with qualified staff. Expansion plans come back to us. Financial reports continue as required.”

“I want a performance review after six months,” Harold said.

“Agreed,” Walter replied.

I looked down at my notes. All I’d written was Nick’s name. I’d underlined it twice.

“Do I have a motion?” Walter asked.

Frank raised his hand.

“I move that we offer Nicholas Granger the position of executive director, subject to the employment terms we’ve discussed.”

My stomach tightened. I’d expected another postponement.

“Second,” I said.

Harold lifted his pen.

“I want the minutes to reflect my concerns about his lack of experience.”

“They will,” Walter said.

“And that I think we should keep looking.”

“So noted.”

Walter looked around the table.

“All in favor?”

I raised my hand. Frank and Walter followed, and two other members did, too.

“Opposed?”

Harold and one other member raised theirs.

“Five to two,” Walter said. “The motion carries.”

I lowered my hand. After months of discussion, the decision had taken less than a minute.

“I’ll call Mr. Granger tomorrow,” Walter said.

Harold began gathering his papers.

“Well, Peg. I hope you’re right about him.”

“So do I, Harold.”

He stopped as though he might say something else, then slid his papers into his folder and left.

The meeting moved on to a plumbing estimate and next month’s fundraiser. I volunteered to help, took a few notes, and checked the clock more than once.

By the time Walter adjourned, it was nearly eight.

Outside, the October air had turned cool. I walked across the parking lot, found my keys, and got into my car.

I’d told Nancy that if we were wrong, we’d deal with it. That had sounded reasonable enough around the conference table. Now I wasn’t so sure.

I thought about the man who’d been waiting since August. Nobody knew where he was.

Tomorrow, Walter would call Nick Granger and offer him the job.

I hoped I was right.

I started the car. I still had a load of laundry to fold, and I’d promised Ellen I’d call before Sunday.

Twenty years after Nick Granger becomes executive director of Linden House, the organization is facing a very different kind of decision.

In Restitution, Natalie Jensen, the little girl mentioned in The Appointment, is now a grant writer at Linden House. When she discovers financial records that don't add up, she must decide how far she's willing to go to uncover the truth, even if it threatens the place that helped save her family.

Restitution is my unpublished suspense novel, currently being prepared for publication.

If you'd like to follow its journey and hear when it's available, I'd love to have you along.