Pound Foolish (Windy City Neighbors Book 4) (43 page)

     The neighborhood was quiet. Saturday morning. People sleeping in. Peaceful . . . But might as well be full of roaring engines and shouts and lawn mowers, for all the turmoil in his head.

     Greg pitched the last of his coffee into the yard. He wasn’t well acquainted with fear. As he went back into the house to take a shower and get dressed, he tried to remember times in his life when he’d been afraid. There’d been a few—like the bully he finally stood up to in the seventh grade, the tornado that crossed I-55 forcing him to take refuge under an overpass, a knee injury playing football, getting lost while deer hunting in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Those times usually involved an external threat he could fight.

     But this time the fear was rising from within over things he’d caused and now couldn’t control, and he didn’t know how to ride it through. Its tentacles gripped his heart—not just the possibility he was facing financial ruin, but that he might lose his wife and kids too.

     At first he spent much of his energy resisting it, but that seemed to merely feed it, causing it to grow into waves of panic. Every time he went into the living room, he looked at the computer. Certainly by now his Internet was back up, and he could find out what had happened. Even if it was still down, he could go to the Chicago Public Library branch down on Clark Street and do the same thing.

     But he resisted. Something was happening inside him by following Harry’s plan. Not knowing what else to do, Greg got out his Bible and read a lot of scriptures about fear, about God promising to “never leave or forsake” his people, and about the Holy Spirit whom God sent to be the Comforter.

     As the hours passed, he was slowly gaining confidence that maybe God’s presence was still with him.

     The doorbell rang Saturday afternoon. For a nanosecond Greg’s heart leaped. Nicole and the kids? But she wouldn’t ring the bell. He opened the door. “Hey.” Harry Bentley stood on the porch. “Dropped by to see how you’re doing.”

     The two men sat in the living room and talked. Greg was a little surprised Harry didn’t ask whether he’d checked his computer, though it was probably obvious—either he’d be euphoric over a win or devastated by a loss. Instead, Harry started talking about how hard
he’d
found it to be unemployed from the Chicago Police Department, especially when his wife was still working.

     “Huh,” Greg said, “some people would’ve considered early retirement a dream option.”

     “Yeah, I know, but that wasn’t me. I was just old enough—startin’ to feel my age, you know—that sittin’ around even with a pension made me feel useless. Estelle was still working, but who was I? Did anybody need me?” He shrugged. “I volunteered at Manna House, that shelter for women, and that helped some. But when we bought the two-flat and needed a little more income, I took this job with Amtrak—and frankly, Estelle’s just as glad I’m not mopin’ around the house. Just sayin’ I can understand how hard it’s been for you since your job ended, and you didn’t even have a pension, so of course you need an income. Don’t want you to get the idea I disrespect your efforts to launch a business on your own.”

     “Thanks. Appreciate it.” Greg heaved a sigh. “But I’m in so deep, I can’t even imagine how I’m gonna dig myself out. You think”—he hated to even say the words—“you think I’ll have to declare bankruptcy?”

     Harry shrugged. “You don’t know how deep you are, do you? Have you looked?”

     “No, no, I haven’t looked. I’m just talkin’ about the bigger question of how I’m gonna support my family.”

     “You’re right about that.” Harry nodded thoughtfully. “Can I ask, where was your wife in all this? Did she think this binary options thing was a good idea?”

     Ouch! The man didn’t mess around. “Never asked her, but I’m sure she didn’t. Have to admit she’s been skeptical of Pastor Hanson’s prosperity teachings all along.”

     “There you go.” Harry slapped his knee. “You have any idea how many jams Estelle’s kept me out of? I mean, there’s a reason God gave me a helpmate. And there’s been a few I’ve guided her out of too.”

     “Yeah, but . . . you’re still the head of the family, aren’t you?”

     Harry looked thoughtful for a few moments. “Yeah, though back in the day I used to think that just meant I’m the boss. But since I married Estelle, I see it more as a unique responsibility for the well-being of my family. But that doesn’t always mean ‘Father Knows Best,’ cause I don’t. And that’s a fact. Take money: Some men know how to handle it. Some women know even better. But usually it takes both.”

     “I don’t get what you’re saying.”

     “Well, take your current situation. Maybe you’re usually good with money and business decisions, but for some reason that prosperity teaching distorted your vision on this one. That’s why God gave you a wife, to bring some balance.”

     “But I thought she was wrong, so how was I supposed to be the head if I let her call the shots?”

     “That’s what I’m tryin’ to say, man. Being the head ain’t about calling the shots! It’s about taking responsibility to act together in unity. Only in the most extreme emergency would it be necessary for you to press ahead against your wife’s counsel.” Harry leaned forward. “Look, after your job with Powersports ended, how many hours did the two of you sit down and explore what direction you should take next?”

     After a few moments of silence, Greg realized Harry’s question wasn’t rhetorical. He wanted an answer. “None, I guess.”

     “Uh-huh. Thought so. I’m tellin’ you, man, when you really work together for a while, you’ll start listening to each other until you come to unity, and you’ll begin to defer to one another in certain areas. She’ll realize you’ve got the best wisdom in some areas, and vice versa. When you get to that point, one of you will probably take the lead on certain things while the other acts more as a check to make sure all the angles have been considered. It’s still a shared thing. But if you want to be the head, my brother, you need to take responsibility for helping the process to work well.”

     Greg’s head was spinning. He almost wanted to ask Harry to give him some examples about how that worked in his own marriage, but the man was glancing at his watch. “Uh-oh. Didn’t mean to stay this long.” Harry stood up, stretching a kink out of his back and pulling a tattered, plaid flat cap onto his shaved head. “Um, don’t usually have to work on Sundays, but tomorrow I gotta make a special run down to St. Louis and back. I’ve got Monday morning off though. You, uh, want me to come by when you get ready to fire up your computer and see where you sit?”

     “Oh, you don’t need to do that,” Greg said hastily. He wasn’t sure he wanted a witness to his downfall.

     “I know, but I’m willing.”

     Greg hesitated, then nodded his head slowly. “Well, yeah . . . yeah. I’d appreciate that. About nine?”

     “I’ll be here.”

* * * *

The emptiness of the house descended upon Greg once again after Harry left. He wanted to call Nicole again, but it was a nice day . . . she and the kids might be out. He waited until after supper, then dialed the house number. Her mother answered, and after going to get Nicole, she came back on the line to say Nicole was busy getting the kids ready for bed.

     “Could you have her call me when she’s done?”

     “Of course. You doing okay all alone there? Sorry to monopolize the kids, but we’re having such a good time.”

     “Glad you’re having a good time.” Didn’t sound like Mom Lillquist was aware of the tension between Nicole and him. “Well, just have her call me.”

     It was nine thirty before his phone rang.

     “Hello, Greg. Mom said you wanted me to call.”

     Gosh, it was good to hear her voice. “Yeah, thanks, honey. Just checking in. You and the kids doing okay?”

     “We’re fine.” But her voice was flat.

     “Good.” He hesitated. “Listen, Nicole, we’ve got a lot of things to talk about. I . . . I’ve made some pretty big mistakes that I need to tell you about. When are you coming back?”

     “I’m not sure Greg. What is it you’re wanting to say?”

     “I’d rather do it in person.” He paused, but she didn’t respond. “You going to church tomorrow?”

     “Yeah, with Mom. How about you?”

     “Ha! You got the car, remember? But it doesn’t matter. I think I need to take a break from the Victorious Living Center.”

     “Really?” For the first time he heard some interest in her voice.

     “Yeah, that’s part of what I want to talk to you about. So when can we get together?”

     “I . . . I’m not sure. Tomorrow’s not good. We’ve got plans all day. Maybe Monday afternoon.”

     Monday. Felt like a long time to wait, but he’d know the lay of the land by then. “Okay. I’ll be in touch.”

     To his surprise, Greg slept well that night and got up late Sunday morning. The waves of panic had become less frequent and had mostly flattened into ripples of anticipating the hard work he knew lay ahead of him—the work of resolving things with Nicole and the work of straightening out their money situation. And Harry was right—it was time to begin thinking of it as
their
money, not just
his
money. But he realized she might think it was a cop-out. He’d created a mess, and oh sure,
now
he was willing to include her in the cleanup.

     No, he wanted to learn how to work with her more mutually, wanted to include her in the decisions from the outset. If only she’d give him a chance.

     Greg toasted a bagel, buttered it, and then took the bagel, a mug of coffee, and his Bible out on the front porch to take advantage of the mild upper-seventies before the temperature hiked up into the nineties that afternoon. Yesterday when he’d been looking up those verses about fear, he came across one in Romans 8 that he wanted to think about some more. He read it over again several times: “Those who are led by the Spirit of God are sons of God. For you did not receive a spirit that makes you a slave again to fear . . . The Spirit himself testifies with our spirit that we are God’s children.”

    
The Spirit himself testifies with our spirit that we are God’s children
. . .

    
That
was what was happening to him. Something new, something different—something important—was happening within his own spirit. He was experiencing a sense of God’s presence with him in a way he’d never known before.

     How strange that it was within the storm that he was finding the most peace.

* * * *

Greg wasn’t sure how long he sat out on the porch, his thoughts sometimes resembling brief prayers—if he could call them that. More like just talking to God in his head. But the midday heat eventually drove him back into his air-conditioned house. He hesitated at the arched doorway into the living room. The computer sat in the corner . . .

     No. He’d promised Bentley he wasn’t going to look at TopOps until they did it together on Monday morning. He needed something else to keep him busy. Maybe he should do some organizing in the garage. The place barely had room for the Cherokee ever since he’d stored all those cases of SlowBurn in there, and he couldn’t even get to his tools.

     But good grief! It was already nearly two! He should get something to eat.

     Half an hour later Greg lugged a box fan out to the garage, plugged it in, and then stood in the middle of the floor, scratching his head. Where to start? That stack of cases in front of his tool chest, good as any. But as he grabbed the first one he noticed something he’d scrawled on it with a black marker . . . a name.

    
“Destin.”
On that box and on the whole stack.

     A pang shot through his gut. He’d been so focused on trying to make a killing on TopOps, he hadn’t even thought about Destin Jasper all week. How was he doing? Had the younger one even come home from the hospital yet?

     But it wasn’t like he could call and ask. His face flushed as he remembered Jared Jasper’s finger in his face, practically accusing him of getting his boys shot for trying to sell SlowBurn on that rough corner.

     Jasper’s last words flashed through his mind.
“My kid used his college money to buy that junk from you. The least you could do is buy it back, ya know!”

     Greg swallowed. That was exactly what he needed to do. And if he was going to “clean house,” Jared and Destin were a couple of people he needed to speak to. He headed for the side door. No time like the present. Better do it before he talked himself out of it.

     As he came around the side of the house to the front walk, he noticed the Jaspers’ white minivan pulling into a parking space in front of their house, probably returning the family from church. He headed up the street. “Hey Jared,” he called, just as his neighbor started up his steps. “You got a minute? You too, Destin.”

     Destin, who was navigating the walk on his crutches, swiveled to look at him. Jared paused on the steps and looked up at his wife who was entering the house. She glanced back at him and shook her head as if in warning.

     Greg approached, but stopped a few feet from father and son. “I . . . I owe you both an apology for having pressured you to sell more of that SlowBurn, Destin. That wasn’t right. In fact, when you said you were using your college money to buy inventory, I should have stopped you right there.”

     Jared had come back down the steps and stood beside his son, his face unreadable. Destin shrugged. “That’s okay, Mr. Singer. I shouldn’t have done that without talking to my folks.”

     Greg wondered if Jared was going to tell him to bug off. “I had no idea where you’d be going to try and sell it, but I certainly was pushing you. So . . .” He swallowed. “I bear some of the responsibility for you getting shot, and I’m real sorry.”

     “Aw, no, Mr. Singer. I shoulda known that was a rough corner.”

     Jared finally spoke. “Appreciate what you’re saying, Singer.” The father laid a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Truth is, I should’ve been more on top of things myself. I’ve been too busy, but that’s changing.”