The Leading Indicators (15 page)

“Tom, no! Things are not so bad that we need a third job in the family.”

“The car insurance will be canceled if I don't bring in another hundred a week. We're paying on extended plan as it is and I'm still short. And I've got to cover that cash-advance loan somehow. The way they add interest, each week we owe more.”

Once they'd had gold-plated credit, borrowing at just above prime. Now they were borrowing at 23 percent. Those whose situations are secure receive the best deals; those who are struggling get the short end, which holds them back from escaping from struggle.

McDonald's! In one of its locations Margo years ago complained, in a too-loud voice, as though she were visiting royalty, because one of the girls' Happy Meals contained a boy's toy rather than the requested girl's toy. Margo made a cross face at a minimum-wage worker who barely spoke English. The memory of this incident, which lasted perhaps all of ninety seconds, lent Margo discomfort. She might have caused the woman to be taken aside and yelled at by a superior. Even if not, she'd given a low-paid person in an inferior position a hard time about something inexpressibly minor.

Generally people are courteous to their social and financial equals. How you treat those who earn far less than you—it was not the fashion to say “beneath you,” but class relationships continue regardless of fashion—is one of the tests of character. The politician or corporate boss or school principal or football coach who screams at interns or secretaries or sophomores is a person of low character. The incident had been years ago, but Margo felt no small discomfort at the memory of castigating a fast-food worker.

McDonald's! Was it everything wrong with America, or everything right? The company's cheeseburgers are good, and the world was voting with its feet on this point. People benefit from inexpensive cheeseburgers, especially average people who can't afford sit-down dining. Nobody puts a gun to anyone's head and makes the person buy a Big Mac rather than spend the same amount on lentils and fresh vegetables. And wasn't McDonald's adding fruit and yogurt options?

Margo felt that to work in a McDonald's or any similar place as a teenager, or as a recently arrived immigrant learning to fit in, even as a retiree wanting a little extra cash for part-time hours, was impossible to argue with. But for adult breadwinners to be able to find no better employment than a fast-food counter was an indictment of society. She shivered to think of Tom standing by the register on Saturday night, urging customers to add fries to their orders.

“We'll move somewhere small and live simply,” Margo said. “The country is caught up in gotta-have-it, gotta-get-it. Let's move to a small town. Leave the rat race, the traffic jams, the status preening. Watch Fourth of July fireworks from the high-school bleachers. We could be twice as happy with half as much.”

They'd just moved as it was, so Tom knew they could not afford to move again now—maybe in a year. Tom liked the idea of the simple life in a small town, but had looked at the numbers. Assuming they rented a truck and did all the lifting themselves, moving would cost at least $2,000, plus more deposit money upfront to rent in the new location, plus a total gamble on finding jobs.

Why do a billion members of the world's underclass remain in slums and shantytowns? Because they can't afford to move. The same could apply, though in a much different way, to Americans caught in economic currents. When Detroit automakers began their first big retrenchment, in the late 1970s, a few who lost jobs pulled up stakes and moved to growth areas such as Texas or Arizona. There they were known as “black taggers,” for the simple white-on-black Michigan license plate of the period. Most who got out may have been glad they did. But many couldn't afford to move.

And another move would cause the girls to think they had become vagrants. Tom and Margo had engaged in elaborate pretenses to shelter the girls from the family's economic reality. Obviously their daughters sensed something amiss; perhaps they knew everything—children always know more about what's going on than their parents think. But Caroline and Megan did not press for details—what's happening with the family and money is such a scary topic. If they moved yet again, there could be no more pretending.

“I was in Bank of America yesterday—”

“Where before we were VIP Platinum,” Margo interjected. She was amused by the contemporary usage of the word “platinum” to mean “exceptionally special,” considering ninety-nine of a hundred people had never encountered the metal and wouldn't know it if some were placed in their laps.

“They couldn't have cared less what we used to be. I tried to talk to the bank about restructuring what we owe, to move the payday-loan debt into regular financing. They said we're now a bad risk. They were sharp. Laser focus on their own bottom line, plus taxpayer subsidies. Nice work if you can get it.”

His expression became drained, though not for lack of thought. “I was pulling big bucks, I'd met the governor and knew members of Congress, I could have spoken out against the inequity of life and didn't,” he said. “I feel in some way I deserve this fate. Promise me you will be sure the girls do not repeat my mistake.”

Margo assumed that by “fate” he meant their financial circumstances.

She could not stand to hear him forlorn. “Tom, don't speak of yourself like that,” she said, touching his hand. “You are a good man. If only every man was like you! You are what God hoped for when He made the world.”

Tom looked at her as if grateful for the courtesy of a compliment he did not deserve; Margo was not the sort of person to invoke the divine. Then something caused him to decide to tell her.

“I kept up the payments on the executive life insurance policy,” he said, as if to reveal that he had kept up payment were to reveal a shameful secret. “It's one of the reasons we are always desperate for cash. The premium is a thousand dollars a month. I've paid it.”

“Tom, why? We need that money for other things!”

On any subject other than Tom, Margo's mind already would have snapped to the realization of
why
.

“Whenever I'm exhausted, whenever I despair, I console myself with the thought that no matter how many ways I have failed, I have kept up the premiums on that policy. You and the girls will have five million.”

“You don't mean—”

“No, not that,” he said. “Of course I would not kill myself.” He smiled just a bit. “But the world may do it for me. I have a heart condition. It's bad. You remember that was what took my father. I've known about mine since a few months after we lost our health insurance. So I kept up the life policy.”

Margo struggled to speak, feeling something beyond panic. She was angry at Tom for not confiding in her, angry at herself for not pressing him about his secret, angry at God for threatening to take Tom away. She had tried to visualize the divine, or to direct a thought toward the Maker, only a few times in her adult life. Now this had happened twice in a single minute.

“Self-pay, the operation is forty thousand dollars,” Tom began. He wanted her to know he had researched the situation, worked out the practicalities. “The hospital demands half as cash up front, plus my signature on a garnishee agreement that lasts till the balance is paid, including interest and penalties. But if I have a bad enough heart attack and arrive at an emergency room near death, then they operate regardless of ability to pay. The Obama legislation might change this, but not till the year 2014. That may be too late for me.”

“You can't mean—” Her mind had raced to the end of a dark corridor of thought.

“That is exactly what I mean. The only way out is to force myself to have a heart attack. That's why I keep pushing myself. If my heart stops and I am gasping for air, then they will save me. Not because they care. Because they fear the liability.”

Margo, a strong and independent woman, began to sob like a frightened child. She could not find any consoling thought, imagine anything positive to say. Margo wanted to be a little girl again, safe in her bed, calling for her mother to bring her a glass of water. She collapsed into Tom's arms and wept.

“You don't have to worry about this,” Tom said.

Rather than seem frightened or troubled, Tom was resolute. He smiled, showing the calm demeanor of the man who has accepted fate and in so doing, been released from fear.

In that moment, Tom appeared again to Margo as he had when she first saw him on the street in Chicago—a handsome, lean young man of unlimited promise, a catch any girl would want. In that moment Tom knew again the engaging voice and smooth confidence of his youth. He was granted a moment of showing again all the qualities that made him the love of Margo's life, as if they were starting fresh, not approaching the end.

“It's all laid out, one way or the other,” Tom said. “I am likely to have a heart attack. If I do, and the ambulance comes, they'll fix me and we will be together for a long time. If the ambulance doesn't come, then you and the girls are set for life financially. It's all laid out. I vowed to take care of you, and I will.”

Margo was limp, sobbing. Tom knew this was the moment to broach with her the hardest part.

“I've been through every scenario. If chest pains start I can't go right to the hospital. That way they could stabilize me and turn me out. I've got to wait until it's a full heart attack—so they operate.” He said these things confidently and brightly, as if describing a big promotion he'd just won or a luxury vacation in the planning.

Normally Margo would understand instantly where Tom was going, but she was sobbing and could not think. He realized he had to spell this out, and so continued: “If we're together when the moment comes, you must promise not to call 911 right away. I've got to arrive in bad shape. That way, either I get the operation free and am fine, or it's too late and you receive the money. If you call 911 immediately and they stabilize me, the nightmare just starts all over.”

Tom paused. “Promise me if I start showing the signs of heart failure, you will wait five minutes before calling 911.” He said this as plainly as if he were saying, “Promise me you'll be at the restaurant at eight.”

“No! No! No!”

“No!” was the only word Margo could choke out. She pounded on his chest, source of this sudden horror, crying No, no, no, no.

Tom was calm, having reconciled himself to what would come. “This could end with me fine,” he said in his voice of youthful potential. “If it ends with me gone, the girls' future will be secured. As they grow, the girls will know their father acted in their best interest. They will love me and honor my memory.”

Margo was a marionette with the strings severed. She couldn't control her limbs or make her mouth move properly. She pressed against him, trembling, saying over and over again—No, no, no.

“I have steeled myself,” Tom said. “If I am given the chance to choose, I will choose to do right by you and our daughters.”

She continued to sob, unable to construct words. All her life, Margo had charged directly toward problems. This turn of events terrified her so deeply she simply went limp.

Tom held her, stroked her hair and looked on her with deep longing. After a while, Tom carried Margo to the master bed and lay with her, embracing. Though it was early, she fell into shattered sleep. Tom thought if she could rest awhile, when the girls got home, they would take her mind off things. He covered Margo with a blanket and kissed her forehead, whispering into her ear his love for her.

Then Tom slipped off the bed and went down to the kitchen, looking for the dinner he'd missed. He opened a beer, made a sandwich and had taken the first bite when he knew a strange sensation, as if he could feel the inside of his body. Maybe carrying his wife to the bedroom had not been history's greatest idea.

The sensation passed. Tom felt normal again, and thought he might go out for a walk. The area around the building was set up for cars, not for walking: even so, getting some air is always good. When Tom tried to stand to go outside, he needed to brace himself against the kitchen table.

The pain got worse a lot faster than Tom expected. He put the phone into his hand but did not dial. Tom knew he had to be strong and not cry out, since Margo would dial 911 immediately if she woke.

The pain became awful. Tom thought,
Why does it have to happen now, when I haven't said good-bye to the girls?
Then he thought,
I can take this. I have to take this. They'll understand. They'll know this was my duty. They'll be back in a beautiful house and I will be able to see them.

Tom wondered how long was long enough before dialing 911. His breath was sporadic—had he already waited long enough? He decided to wait ten more seconds before dialing 911, and began to count aloud, “One-thousand one, one-thousand two, one-thousand three, one-thousand four…” He heard a voice calling his name, as if from far away. The voice was pleasant, reassuring. Someone was calling to him.

 

Chapter 10

October 2010

Dow Jones Index returns to the level of 2001.

Nobel Prize in Economics awarded for analysis of “frictional unemployment.”

Google speeds searches to half a second, promising this will save one day of a typical person's life.

T
he new place was splendid, though lacking the quirky character of the house she and Tom lost to foreclosure. Recently built homes tend to feel as if designed by machines. Many are branded with model names—the Windsor, the Craftsman Manor, the Apex Grande, the Shana Vista. Customers seeking a new home are supposed to ask for branded models, saying to builders, “I want a Foxwoods Supreme.” If you liked the Foxwoods Supreme look in the front but the Napa Sunset layout in the back, a computer could generate that from software. Having the computer customize your house was said by the sales office to give it a human touch.