Back Where He Started

by Jay Quinn

  She smiled. “HIPAA stands for the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act. It’s also a massive pain in the you-know-what. But, I can explain all that eventually. I’ll be right back.”

  I liked her. She seemed very intelligent and self-assured. More than that, she seemed very gracious as well. The thought suddenly occurred to me that I might have sounded like an idiot, asking what the HIPAA deal was. I hoped Father Fintan had explained my inexperience.

  Cathy returned with two mugs of tea and sat carefully in the seat across a low coffee table from me. She extended my mug of tea, and I took it from her and sipped at it cautiously. When she was satisfied my tea was okay, she said, “You’re very dressed up. I should have told you we’re more concerned with being comfortable here than we are with business wear.”

  I smiled. “That’s good to hear, because to be honest, this is my only suit. I don’t have much of a business wardrobe.”

  Cathy returned my smile. “Let me explain to you what we need here and find out if you’re still interested.”

  I sat my tea mug carefully on the low table between the copies of People, Time, and Ladies’ Home Journal, then settled back in my seat expectantly.

  Cathy leaned into the curve of her seat as well and began. “As I told you, Tony is my husband. We have a daughter—four years old—and now we’re expecting again.”

  “Congratulations,” I interrupted. “You certainly don’t look old enough to have a four-year-old.”

  Cathy accepted the congratulations and compliment with a serene nod of her head, then continued. “As you might imagine, there’s a lot of paperwork involved with a medical practice. Insurance alone is a full-time job. What we’re hoping to find is someone who can transcribe Steve’s session notes—he records them into a small pocket tape recorder after each appointment. We type the taped notes into hard copy to keep in the patient’s permanent files. I hate doing that. I don’t mind the insurance work—in fact, I enjoy it. But I don’t like trying to juggle the phones, the transcription, and the insurance work. We hope you might be interested in working about 30 hours a week, handling the phones and the transcription.”

  It seemed like an excellent opportunity. “I’m very interested,” I said. “But, in all honesty, I have to tell you: My typing skills are very rusty. I’ve not typed more than an e-mail in years.”

  Cathy nodded. “That’s no big deal. You’d get better with practice. We’re more concerned with finding someone who’d be a good fit with our work environment. We are so small right now—just Tony and me. We would really like to hire someone we feel we could work with. Do you like children?”

  My face must have lit up. “I have three of my own,” I said. “I don’t know if Father Fintan told you or not, but I’ve just spent 22 years as a househusband. I was the kids’ primary caregiver—I like children a great deal.”

  Cathy allowed a genuine smile to spread across her sunny face. “That’s good to hear for several reasons. I sometimes bring our daughter to the office. She’s very well behaved, but she’s a child, nonetheless. When this baby is born, it’ll also be coming to work with me as long as I’m breast feeding. Also, we have quite a few children and teenagers as patients. While you won’t be interacting with them a great deal, it’s a help to have someone who understands kids’ peculiarities in addition to their personal difficulties. Some of our kids are quite antisocial, and some are very manipulative. The fine art in being our receptionist lies in learning to distinguish between a genuine emergency and a temper tantrum.”

  I nodded. “I understand. I don’t think that’ll be a problem. Could I ask what the position will pay?”

  Cathy sighed. “Unfortunately, not what we think it’s worth. But we’re willing to be flexible about your work schedule, the stress level here is really low, and I think you’ll like the people you’d encounter. We can offer you $500 a week. That translates to $24,000 a year for a 30-hour-a-week job.”

  I winced. It seemed like a small amount of money, considering my expenses.

  Cathy acknowledged my reluctance but countered it with an explanation. “Chris, I know that sounds low. I said it wasn’t what we think the job is worth, but you have to consider it’s really in line with what people really make in Carteret County. Compared to Raleigh, it’s a poor area. The median income is only $12,000 a year down here. Of course, that affects what we can charge our clients. So, you see …”

  I nodded and smiled for her. The jobs I had called about in my job search actually paid a lot less. Minimum wage seemed the going rate, even for more demanding jobs.

  Cathy returned my smile with an encouraging one of her own. Brightly, she said, “We also can offer you participation in our health coverage. It’s not bad, considering … and, you’ll be given some consideration for sick time and a week’s paid vacation after the first year.”

  Considering my prospects, which were discouraging at best, it was not a bad deal. I decided to take the opportunity and run with it. “When can I start?”

  Cathy laughed. “Are you really so eager? Isn’t there anything you’d like to ask me?”

  I thought a moment. She had answered all my questions, and she’d been generous about my lack of skills and inexperience. There was only one thing more I was concerned about. “May I see where I’ll be working?”

  Cathy gave me a puzzled look and said, “Certainly.” She stood and motioned for me to follow her beyond the reception area’s door. As I walked through the door, I looked to my left and saw the receptionist’s work space. As I suspected, it had a large window that shared the same view as the reception area—looking out over the causeway and across to the marina. I was delighted.

  “I think I would be very lucky and happy to work here,” I said earnestly. “I like you very much and I think the job would be challenging and good for me in many ways. If you’re willing to take a risk on someone so inexperienced, I would love to come to work for you.”

  Cathy smiled, then laughed. “I like you, Chris Thayer. You’re forthright and honest. Are you sure you don’t want to meet Tony before you sign on to work in this lunatic asylum? It gets pretty busy, believe it or not. And Tony has his own little ways about him.”

  I returned her smile and gave her a chuckle of my own. “Cathy, believe it or not, I was married to someone with a lot of little ways for 22 years. I think I can handle that and the busyness.”

  Cathy nodded. “I thought as much. Our hours are from 9 to 5, but yours would be from 9 to 3, five days a week. We stop seeing patients after 3 so Tony can make rounds or get caught up on paperwork. Can you begin Monday?”

  With little to do but wait for Trey and Susan on Saturday morning, I called the church office to leave Father Fintan a message to let him know how well my job interview had gone. Surprisingly, he picked up the phone himself.

  “Hello Father, it’s Chris Thayer,” I said. “I was just going to leave a message.”

  “Yes, Chris. Well, I’m here doing me paperwork. ‘Tis a never-ending job, the priest business. I take it you went to see the Riveras.”

  “I did, and it went very well. I start on Monday.”

  “I thought Cathy would like you. She’s the real boss of himself, the doctor.”

  “I figured as much,” I said. “I think she’s charming. I really believe I’ll be very happy working for her.”

  “I’m pleased you two got on. She’s been looking for the right person for a while.”

  “I’d like to thank you so much for sending me over there. I was getting desperate to find a job.”

  Father Fintan laughed. “It was nothing. I’m glad to have helped.”

  I hesitated a moment, not wanting to tie the poor man up on the phone, then asked: “Father, where are you from in Ireland?”

  “Ah, 30 years in this country and I’m still Irish is it? Well, I can’t seem to lose me accent—nor do I want to—mind you. But it does seem to be sort of stereotypical—being the Irish priest in town. I’m from Kinsale, on the s
outh coast, just below Cork.”

  “I know the town. I’ve stayed in the postmaster’s residence—it’s a bed-and-breakfast now.”

  “Have you now? I know it well, next door to the new post office on one side and the grocery on the other. What took you to Ireland, then?”

  “Nuala O’Faolain, John McGahern, and Edna O’Brien. I’m a big Irish reader. The writers drew me to the place.”

  “You can’t do better than those. My God, O’Brien! Oh, the magnificent anger and talent of the woman. I’m a fan meself. So, you’ve been to Dublin and the west of Ireland as well?”

  “Yes! I’ve had coffee at Bewley’s and I walked to 8 o’clock Mass at Saint Theresa’s in Dublin. It’s a wonderful place, a beautiful church.”

  “And where were you staying in Dublin to walk to Saint Theresa’s for Mass?”

  “I stayed at The Merrion.”

  “Ach! Not for the likes of us working people. I’ll look forward to talking more about your travels and your reading. I need to go now. Unfortunately, I have a funeral this morning. But I thank you for calling.”

  “Wait, Father,” I said. “One quick thing. I’ve thought about it, I was wondering if I could sign up for Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament for, say, 3:30 to 4:30 on Tuesdays? I’ll be getting off work at 3, and that should give me plenty of time to get to the church.”

  “Hold a minute, let me look at the book,” he said.

  He put the phone down noisily and I waited for a moment before he returned. I had thought about this commitment—even going so far as to find my old rosary in a box I’d yet to unpack, in Schooner’s loft. I thought of the luck and blessings I’d ended up with after a long, rough year and decided I could offer a little commitment to prayer in my new life.

  “Chris, there’s exactly the same time open on Thursdays. Could you be persuaded to make it then?”

  “Absolutely, Father. Thursdays are fine.”

  “Well that’s done. There’s a sign-in book just as you come through the door to the chapel. If you would, please just sign it to help me keep tabs on you.”

  I laughed. “I’ll do that. Thanks again, Father, Dia duit.”

  “Dia es Muirre duit. Listen to you, with the Gaelic. You’re a surprising man. See you, then, Chris.”

  I hung up the phone with a smile. I was looking forward to talking more with Father Fintan. I had found another reader—that in itself was a treasure.

  I looked over my rows of books and spotted the lines of titles Andrea called “The Irish Collection.” She found the Irish writers collectively depressive. Zack just rolled his eyes at my absorption, and the boys simply couldn’t be bothered. I thought it was a total abrogation of their heritage on their part. Having no discernable family history of my own—other than generations of shift work or tobacco fields—I eagerly assumed the responsibility of learning more about the heritage of my husband and kids. I was more Irish than they were, intellectually at least. If I couldn’t become a Ronan by marriage, I certainly became one through literary osmosis. Zack laughed and told me I was Irish by injection. Which, come to think of it, I still considered pretty funny.

  In a lot of little ways, I missed Zack a great deal. We shared many jokes where the punch line could be conveyed by a sort of verbal shorthand. There were grand times, like the trip to Ireland we’d taken the year before he’d given himself over to other dreams. And there were all the shared experiences of raising a family together.

  I hadn’t heard from Zack since Christmas. At times I had to practically sit on my hands to keep from calling him to share something funny I’d seen that I knew he’d see the humor in too. A conversation with one of the kids would spark a concern that I’d want to field with him. There were a thousand ways I sorely missed open communication with someone I’d shared a long life with. But, I resisted the urge to call.

  On one level, I felt he didn’t deserve to keep the emotional intimacy we’d shared any longer. It was Zack, after all, that had thrown it away. On another level, I didn’t want to appear as if I were clinging to a past that was surely irrelevant now. Besides, I wouldn’t interlope into concern or involvement with Zack’s new life. It was none of my business, and the life I was working to build was none of his.

  So I decided ruminating on Zack was a waste of my time. I left the bookcase and started toward the guest room to give it a final look when I heard a loud, heavy vehicle in my drive. I walked to the French doors that gave out onto the deck and saw Steve Willis’s truck there. In a moment, the man himself stepped from the cab and walked to the back of his truck.

  I opened the door, walked out on the deck, and called down to him. He looked up from the tailgate, where he was pulling a large red kennel from the truck’s bed. “Hello, Chris. I have a present for you.”

  “I see that,” I replied.

  He lifted the heavy cage from the back of the truck and disappeared under the house. In a moment, I heard his heavy tread coming up my steps to the deck. I watched the cage appear first, followed by Steve. “Where do you want this? It ain’t exactly light.”

  “The bedroom, I guess. C’mon.”

  Steve waited while I got both French doors opened and followed me through the house to my bedroom.

  “Nice house,” he muttered.

  “Thanks, why don’t you put the cage right over there.” I pointed to an empty corner across from the bed.

  Steve sat the kennel down easily, took off his baseball cap, and wiped his forehead with his forearm. “Looks like I got the paint color just about right.”

  “How did you know my bed was lacquer-red?” I asked.

  “Heath. He told me.”

  “Good for Heath. He’s got a sharp eye for color.”

  Steve gave a shake of his head. “No he don’t, smart ass. Since you declined to visit my bedroom a couple of days ago, you wouldn’t know I got a bed just like that, would you?”

  “No I wouldn’t. Where did you find a bed like this one?”

  “I didn’t find one, I built one. I copied the design out of one I saw in Met Home. I had it painted over at the body shop. That’s where I got your kennel painted too.”

  “Well, I appreciate that, Steve. But—”

  “Ain’t you got any coffee to offer a man who’s gone out of his way to do something nice for you?”

  I fought back a grin. The man was nothing if not presumptuous. “How about I make you some fresh?” I offered.

  Steve nodded and followed me to the front of the house. Once we got to the great room, I motioned for him to have a seat at the dining room table. I watched while he took the seat at the head of the table where I usually sat. Sighing with satisfaction, he pulled his cigarettes and lighter from his coat pocket and laid them on the table. Proprietary bastard, I thought as I got busy making a pot of fresh coffee. Task handled, I left the kitchen and pulled out a chair and sat next to Steve.

  He looked at me and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  “So, what do you think?” I asked.

  “Think about what?”

  “Think about my house.”

  “I told you it was nice.”

  “Well, thanks. But I want to know your opinion. It’s pretty obvious you have a great eye. Hell, anybody who can re-create an Italian-designed bed obviously has more talent and good sense than I do.”

  Steve shrugged and said, “Nah, I just have less money and more time. I like your house, but it’s more than I could live with. I mean, it’s nice and everything, but it’s not right for my needs.”

  “That makes sense,” I said. “Now can we get over the design-class warfare thing?”

  “It’s a deal. When you want someplace to kick back and walk around wet from the beach, come on over to my place. You could drag in a ton of sand there and never see it again.”

  I laughed and said, “Okay, and when you want a place to come and kick back, read, and …” I ran out of words. I didn’t know what Steve Willis would do other than what he did, but I didn’t want to g
ive him the impression I had him pegged as some sort of low-class redneck. He’d gone out of his way to make me see he was anything but that.

  “… and how about roll around naked on that big Oriental rug with your new puppy?” he asked.

  I laughed. “It could happen—eventually,” I said evenly.

  Steve snickered, shook his head, pulled a cigarette from his pack, and lit it. There wasn’t any need to ask if he could: There was a dirty ashtray on the table right in front of him. But I knew for certain he wouldn’t have asked even if there weren’t. Like Trey, he was a little king someone had reared to be head of a household. “Aren’t you going to ask how I came to be bringing you a fresh-painted dog kennel to match your interior design?”

  The coffee maker sighed and spat the last of the water into the basket with a hissing of steam. “Yes,” I said. “But first, I want to ask how you knew I’d keep her in the bedroom.”

  Steve exhaled a long stream of smoke and settled back into the chair. “I saw you with that puppy, remember? You’re tenderhearted. You know as good as I do that puppy’ll cry a lot less spending her first nights in a crate if she’s in the same room as you.”

  I stood to get our coffee and gave him a smile. “You have me pegged, for sure. That’s dead-on. How do you want your coffee?”

  “Light and sweet,” he said, looking up at me, blue-eyed and earnest, “like somebody I know.”

  “You’re a real charmer, Steve,” I said skeptically. I walked into the kitchen and reached for two mugs. “So, I appreciate the cage from Heath and the paint job from you. But why so soon?”

  I saw him flick his cigarette and rub his eyes tiredly. “There’s been a change of plans on my part. I’m going to have to give you the puppy a week earlier than we planned on. A guy I’ve crewed for has his boat in Antigua right now and he wants me to fly down and work for him for a few weeks. It’s good money and I can use it. I’m heading down there a week from Monday.”

  I stirred the coffee in both mugs, walked back to the table under the full glare of Steve’s blue high beams, and sat down. He took his mug and continued to watch me. “What about the other puppies?” I asked. “And Petey, and their mama?”