I arrived at Otis's garage in June with an office folder under my arm and knew, before he said anything, that I had made a poor choice. He had cleared the bench. A dull brass lamp, a drill with a loose handle, and a box of hand tools waited beneath the light. Beside them lay the notebook in which we were supposed to work out what repairs we could reasonably offer and what we would refuse.
"Just let me finish this first," I said, setting the folder on the only empty stool. "Then I'm yours."
Otis took off his glasses. "You said that on the telephone. I thought first meant before you came."
I explained that somebody would need the information on Monday and that I could finish it in half an hour. He asked whether somebody had told me to bring it. I said no, not exactly. It was easier to do it myself than leave a question hanging over the weekend. Even as I said it, I could hear how often ease for the office became inconvenience for him.
"Put it in your car," he said.
"Otis, it's half an hour."
"Then spend half an hour with it in your car and come back another day. I'm not sitting here pretending we're doing this together while you work somewhere else." He did not raise his voice. He moved the stool away from the bench, leaving my folder balanced on top of it. I stood there with my purse still over my shoulder.
I wanted credit for having come. I wanted him to understand that office work had become harder to leave, not easier, since the arrest. Every ordinary mistake seemed capable of acquiring a meaning beyond itself. A late answer could look like concealment; a misplaced page could become one more reason not to trust us. I told him that much. He rested both hands on the bench and waited until I finished.
"I believe you," he said. "But there's always going to be something that ought to be done. I can't plan my retirement around the day you stop feeling responsible for it."
I sat on the stool, holding the folder now. He was older than I was, and I had treated that difference as though it gave him an unlimited supply of patience. We had talked about a modest venture, work we could manage, enough income to help without making ourselves another employer's problem. I had begun behaving as though only my remaining working years had a claim on the calendar.
"Are you saying you don't want to do it?" I asked.
"I'm saying I won't spend the savings until you give me a departure date you mean. Not a season. Not when things settle down." He pulled the notebook toward him. "I can keep fixing what comes my way. I don't need to buy equipment for a partnership that only exists after office hours, if there are any left."
I took the folder to the car. When I returned, he had opened the drill's casing and set its screws in a shallow dish. I asked what he needed. He handed me the light instead of answering. The loose handle had more wrong with it than the outside showed; he kept the parts aligned while I checked which pieces we could safely reuse.
For a while, we spoke only about the repair. He steadied the casing while I seated it, and I held it while he tightened the screws. When the handle shifted again, we stopped rather than pretend it would do. We found the poor fit, corrected it, and tested it once more. I had missed this kind of disagreement, where the thing on the bench could help settle who was right.
Before I left, I wrote beside our savings figure: no purchases until departure date agreed. Otis read it and closed the notebook. We had repaired one tool, not our arrangement. Still, he asked whether I could come the following Saturday. I said yes, then went to my car and carried the office folder into my house without opening it.