This story is reconstructed based on FBI records.
The first thing I couldn't find was a statement, and the second was a good reason not to ask for it. I had spent enough years in the city offices in Dixon, Illinois, to know how easily a temporary arrangement became somebody's permanent responsibility. Now Gordon Pell's chair was empty, his leave marked unpaid on the calendar, and a stack of work had been moved to my desk.
Before he left, Gordon had shown me where he kept the folders I would need. He stood beside the cabinet while I wrote down his directions, one hand resting on its dented top. He was our comptroller and treasurer; I was Lenora Voss, the employee who could generally be counted on to cover a gap without making much noise about it.
“The usual things are all here,” he said. “If you follow the previous month, you'll get through.”
“And if something doesn't match the previous month?”
“Make a note. Don't get yourself tangled up.” He said it pleasantly, already reaching for a folder I had put back crooked. I thanked him. There was nothing remarkable in the exchange, except that I remembered it later when making a note no longer seemed sufficient.
That fall of 2011, I expected coverage work to be inconvenient rather than difficult. I knew the smell of the warmed copier, the drawer that needed lifting before it would close, the people who would wait patiently for an answer and the people who would not. Knowing a workplace that well could make an unfamiliar duty feel familiar too. By midmorning, I had discovered the difference.
An entry referred me to a statement I didn't have. I checked the folder twice, then the neighboring folders, keeping each pile squared so I could restore it. There were enough papers to suggest completeness. That was not the same as being complete. I wrote the missing item on my pad and sat with the telephone receiver against my palm before picking it up.
I asked for all the city bank statements, not merely the one I thought was missing. When I was asked which ones, I repeated that I needed the complete set to do the coverage work. It felt excessive for perhaps ten seconds. Then I looked at the unfinished page in front of me and gave the address where they should be sent.
At closing time I put my notes inside the work folder. My brother Otis was expecting me at his garage, and I had already kept him waiting once that week. He had cleared a space on the bench for two cups and a sheet of figures. Under the bench sat an electric drill with its cord neatly looped, the first possible job for a business we had not yet begun.
“That one pays?” I asked.
“Not until we know what we're doing.” He pushed a cup toward me. “Something we might apply to the whole enterprise.”
Otis was older than I was and had earned the right to tease me about my lists. He had also worked out what we would need for a modest tool-repair venture: bench space, a few purchases, room for customers' equipment, and enough savings left untouched that a slow month wouldn't turn us against each other. He had not included a handsome sign. That made me trust the figures more.
“I can reserve my share,” I said. “I don't want us buying everything at once.”
“Neither do I. But reserving it means not finding another use for it next week.”
I took the pencil from him and drew a line under the amount we had agreed to keep aside. My handwriting looked more decisive than I felt. We had talked about working together after I retired for so long that the talk had acquired the comfort of an old family story. Putting savings behind it made it possible to disappoint him.
“This coverage is temporary,” I said.
“I asked about the money, Nora.” He tapped the paper, not unkindly. “The office gets a vote in everything else.”
I told him yes, the money would stay reserved. He folded the figures and gave them to me to take home. As I put on my coat, he asked whether we could look at used equipment the following week. I agreed before checking my calendar. On the passenger seat, his paper lay beside the work pad I had carried out by mistake, and I drove home trying to keep the two plans separate.