In September, Della Keene asked whether I had considered keeping a small part of my work. She waited until we had finished reviewing the training calendar, which made the question sound like the next sensible item. I had my pencil poised over November. There were still several appointments to keep, but none beyond the thirtieth. I had taken some satisfaction in that clean edge.
“Not the daily work,” she said. “Coordination. Someone people could come to when a question crossed desks. We could talk about what that might look like.” She pulled the calendar toward her and left her hand beside it. “I'm not offering you a position today. I want to know whether you'd consider it.”
I asked how often she imagined needing me. Della said she didn't know yet. It would depend on what came up. I nodded as though that were useful information, then wrote coordination in the margin. The word looked respectable. It didn't look like an interruption at Otis's bench, or a telephone ringing while a customer waited for us to finish an estimate.
“You wouldn't have to carry everything,” she said.
“I know.” I said it quickly enough that she looked at me. What I knew was how pleasant it felt to be asked. For months I had been trying to leave a job other people could perform. Now the possibility that they might still require me felt like a favorable judgment on the years I had spent there. I told her I would think about it.
At home, I set the calendar beside the list Otis and I had made for our repair work. We had agreed to begin with tools we already owned and keep spending within a limit we could both approve. There was nothing impressive about the list. It had room for cleaning supplies and a replacement cord, not for proving that either of us was necessary to Dixon.
I began an explanation for Otis while washing a plate. It would only be occasional. We could use a little extra income. I wouldn't let it interfere. By the time I dried the plate, I had reached the part where I would ask him to trust a promise I could not describe. I put the towel down. I had not told Della yes, but I was already preparing my brother to accept it.
I carried the handoff notes to our next review in October. Della cleared a place beside her coffee. We went through the completed trials, including the one that had failed because my directions left out an attachment. The revised page identified the exception and where to check it. Beside a later trial, I had written that the work had been finished without my taking it back.
“This is better than the first version,” Della said, turning the page.
“It ought to be. People have been showing me what I left out.” I put my pencil across the open binder. “About the coordination work. I'm going to decline.” Her hand stopped on a corner of the paper. I had expected relief after saying it. Instead I wanted to explain so thoroughly that she would approve of me for refusing.
Della asked whether a fixed number of hours would make a difference. It was a fair question, and harder to resist than an indefinite appeal. I pictured myself counting the hours while leaving my mind on call. “No,” I said. “I can finish the training we've scheduled. I can make sure the remaining questions are written down. I don't want an ongoing role after November thirtieth.”
“There will be questions we haven't thought of.”
“There are questions now that I can't answer.” I touched the revised page. “This tells somebody where to start. It doesn't promise there won't be a problem.” Della leaned back. For a moment neither of us moved. Then she drew a line through my penciled word in the calendar margin and asked which remaining trial needed her attendance.
That evening I went to Otis's garage before he had to call me. He was brushing filings from a vise into a shallow pan. I waited until he set the brush down and told him about both conversations with Della. His first question was whether I had offered to be available by telephone instead. I said I hadn't. He studied me, then emptied the pan.
“I liked being asked,” I admitted.
“I expect you did.” He wasn't smiling, but he wasn't punishing me either. He pulled our supply list from under a folded cloth. “Then we can still do this?” I said yes and asked which item we should price first. He handed me the pencil. We worked through the list without crossing out our date, and I went home with something to do that did not require me to remain indispensable.