Chapter 7

Wednesday, June 19

Wednesday afternoons, at thirteen-thirty (one thirty p.m., try to keep up), was the mental health team meeting. To keep from eating into everyone’s time, I’d arranged it so that the children’s service met for the first thirty minutes, the adult outpatient service for the next thirty minutes, and the Community Maintenance Project and Closer to Home services for the final thirty minutes. The last section often went longer. The staff -- psychologists, social workers, counselors, technicians, and specialists -- were expected to show up for their own section, and could attend others, if they had a valid clinical reason, a limitation I imposed for confidentiality purposes. I facilitated all three sections. Mike McGovern, the jail nurse, usually attended the last section, though he’d attended others, to become more familiar with both the services and to learn more tradecraft. The psychiatric staff, as I’ve mentioned, had their own weekly meeting; I usually attended theirs the first week of the month.

One thing I’d learned: if I had a new idea to float, I did not do it at the team meeting. Most groups, anywhere, include one or more members who abhor change, of any sort. So, while I was as interested in consensus as anyone -- at least under the limitations of non-democratic management -- I’d learned that certain people loved to shoot down ideas, no matter how promising those ideas might be. As a result, if I had something new I wanted us to try, I’d go around, weeks in advance, speaking individually with staff, dropping hints, lamenting problems, asking for suggestions, sometimes going so far as to make some person think that it was his or her idea to begin with. Does that make me a bad person? Underhanded and manipulative, maybe, but not really evil -- giving myself the benefit of the doubt.

When I’d finally lay my cards on the table, asking the staff to change some procedure or to take on new responsibilities, I actually had three aces in the hole.

First, they all knew that it was my oft-stated philosophy that work should be “fun.” By fun, I meant fulfilling, satisfying, purposeful, successful, and with a minimum of necessary tedium.

Second, I always assured them that, if the new thing didn’t work out or proved too onerous, that we’d quit doing it. And I meant it.

Third, they knew that I’d participate in whatever change or new duty I might devise, so I was in it with them.

That’s how I got the CMP staff to take turns providing services on weekends and holidays, risky times to leave marginally sane people on their own while the rest of the country had recreational family time. I took my turns at that, too, taking client groups on picnics on summer holidays, camping or fishing on weekends, movie nights on the Center’s big flat screen on Saturdays, and I was always present for the group Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. I routinely took crisis call at the Christmas holiday, too. Then Greta and I usually took vacation time for a week or two after the New Year, driving the RV somewhere warm in southern Nevada, Arizona, or California.

Lately, I’d been prepping the CMP staff for another new idea.

I’d been working the bakery for the past six months and I’d never filled the vacant rehab specialist position. In order to meet the state requirements that would allow us to bill Medicaid for our services, that position had to be held by someone with at least a bachelor’s degree in a helping profession, like psychology, social work, or education. Our CMP client, Denny Kelly, had a degree with a double major, agriculture and psychology.

I knew that the state vocational rehabilitation department had its own support program for people who had been determined by the Social Security Administration to be disabled but who were attempting to rejoin the work force. It included on-site support and an hourly stipend to supplement their wages. That sort of thing was necessary because, once the disabled individual reached a certain low threshold of monthly employment income, an amount well below federal poverty level, they’d lose their SSI benefit and often other assistance, like housing benefits and nutrition assistance (aka, food stamps). With those benefits, they were only living at a subsistence level. Going back to work often made things even worse for them, financially.

It was a risky proposition for someone who was disabled to try to make that leap. In fact, I didn’t think that Denny was anywhere near ready for full-time employment. I was thinking maybe sixteen to twenty hours a week, and see how it went.

I’d already talked it over with Hank Nolan, Denny’s Community Maintenance Project case manager, as well as the other case managers and rehab specialists working in CMP, and everyone thought it might work. Hank had also talked it over with Doctor Bartkowiak -- whom we referred to as “Doc B,” most of the time -- Denny’s psychiatric caregiver, because there was little doubt that the process would prove stressful for Denny and might have symptomatic repercussions. None of us, however, had mentioned it to Denny, because I wanted to make sure, at a team meeting, that everyone was officially on board before we built up his hopes -- or scared the shit out of him, as the case might be.

I delayed the discussion about Denny until the end of the meeting. Each of the mental health section meetings consisted of three parts: procedural issues, new admissions, and problems that clients were having. In CMP, it was fairly common that staff encountered clients who weren’t on their own case roster because we had many group activities and we usually had only one or two staff that were in attendance at any given activity. So all the staff needed to have some familiarity with all of the clients. This was especially true when a client was having some sort of problem, like a relationship hassle, money difficulties, landlord troubles, a flare-up of symptoms, or any of a variety of common problems which, in a CMP client’s mentally fragile state, could quickly become a crisis.

Those topics having been exhausted, I said, “I think I’ve already mentioned the idea of hiring Denny Kelly to everybody, but I wanted to be sure before we went ahead. I’m talking about hiring him for the rehab specialist job in the bakery, but just part-time, at least at first.”

“Tired of getting up early, Gary?” Jan Stuart kidded.

“Not so much the early hours as the manual labor. I didn’t take that job just to let it turn into real work. Sometimes I even sweat.”

“Is that what makes the muffins taste funny, Boss?” chimed in Mike McGovern.

“That, and scratching my armpits.”

Jen Uvalde said, wryly, as she put another bite of a muffin into her mouth “Now I’m starting to feel nauseous.”

“Alright, then, back to Denny. I’m thinking sixteen or twenty hours at most, until we see how it goes. Hank, you got anything else of concern?”

“I’ve talked to Doc B and he’s up for this. He thinks Denny will do it without a med adjustment. Otherwise, I’m ready to do this.”

“One thing I wanted everyone to keep in mind,” I added, “is that we’ll be hiring Denny into a professional position. He’ll be part of our staff. He’ll likely be sitting in these meetings, maybe even next week. We need to treat him like a colleague.

“At the same time, unless I can get state voc-rehab to case manage him, he’ll also be a client of CMP.”

Jan said, “Maybe we should transfer him to Adult Outpatient Service.”

“That might be a more realistic approach. In any event, for the time being, we won’t give him the boot. Just be on your toes how you come across to him.” I looked around the table, seeing nods or shrugs.

“If there’s nothing else on this, then Hank and I will meet with Denny within the week.”

First, though, Hank and I drove down to the state vocational rehabilitation office to talk to the supervisor, Betsy Hangerford. She had been enthusiastic about the idea when I first ptoposed it to her. Now she had one of their case managers join us.

Their intensive rehabilitation support program could extend for up to fifty-two weeks. Those weeks did not have to be consecutive, but the program was limited to a twenty-four month period. We came away with a plan to let voc-rehab assume overall case management duties, including the on-site technical support, while we would assume an unofficial support role. On our part, before we’d involve a new therapist from the outpatient group, we’d have Doctor Bartkowiak serve as the primary therapist until Denny was fully confident in his new role. That would keep the CMP team from trying to be both colleagues and therapists, which was starting to cross into ethics territory.

Our desire to hand off the case management and technical support for Denny to state voc rehab stemmed from the same ethical and practical concerns I’ve mentioned about treating your own family members. Essentially, we were at risk of being too close to Denny to be in a therapeutic role. It would be ethically ambiguous to be his employer and his case manager. While I thought the likelihood of an actual problem was remote, the ethics of the situation demanded we not assume even that small risk in the interest of keeping Denny’s well-being as the primary concern.

When we finally sat down with Denny, he was really excited by the idea. He even felt he was ready to start showing up at five in the morning to get things going. I told him I’d be there, too, at least for the first week or two, and if I wasn’t there, a vocational rehabilitation support technician would be, until Denny had enough experience to be confident in the job. The work itself was fairly routine, and that routine was written down, which minimized the learning curve. The added responsibility was in three areas: showing up early, working on his own, and supporting the CMP clients. But Denny was up for it.

One gratifying thing I heard Hank say was in reference to how Denny should supervise the clients in the program.

“Like Gary does it. You know he’s in charge, but he never acts like he’s in charge. He explains the job, then just starts doing the work, and suggests what you might do to help out. He doesn’t demand or order anyone around. You just end up wanting to go along with him because what he’s doing makes sense.” Then he looked at me. “Even he is a dork.”

Then Hank presented Denny with a gift-wrapped box, complete with bow.

Denny said, “What’s this for?”

“It’s an employment-related gift. Congratulations on landing your first professional job.”

Denny tore off the gift wrap to find a box that showed graphics and captions that indicated it held an alarm clock. Denny, still a little weak on the social skills, said, “I already have an alarm clock.”

Hank said, “You’ve got a radio with an alarm clock function. This is a plain vanilla alarm clock, no music. The alarm gets louder over the first minute, and there’s no snooze function. There’s an internal battery to preserve your settings for short power outages. This is a serious alarm clock for a serious professional.” He pointed at the box. “It’s just like the one I use at home.”

At that, Denny looked up and smiled.

Hank said, “Come on, let’s go up to the office and get you signed up.”

I’d sent Jimmy an email the week before, letting him know what we planned and that I thought it would be a good example to show the state that we had a serious rehabilitation program. He’d made no reply. I had delivery receipts on all my internal emails, so I knew Jimmy had received the message. I wasn’t particularly worried, in any event. Jimmy’s style was to wait until there was a problem, and then escalate it.

I’d also advised Liz, in Admin Support, what was coming down the line, as her crew handled all the employment paperwork. I didn’t want a weird reaction when Denny was signing up. As it turned out, the admin support folks were gracious and congratulatory, which I should have expected.

Thursday, June 20

Thursday afternoon was Management Team meeting. Besides Grant, Jimmy, Phil, Liz, and me, there was Teresa “Terry” Sloan, RN, the Public Health Services Team Manager, and Lydia Grossman, the Developmental Disabilities Habilitation Services Team Manager. The purpose of the weekly meeting was to discuss the customary issues of operating the Coldwater County Health and Human Services Center. Topics could include planning, problem solving, evaluation, new program proposals, or any matter likely to affect general operations of a department of county government.

I realize that I may have given the impression that the interactions at the management level, what with the shenanigans that I have described, were unremittingly toxic. That wasn’t at all the case. For the most part, the group was serious about the business in which we were engaged. In fact, there were often positive results as the services to the county continued to improve. Jimmy was a clever guy, and he liked to demonstrate this skill by making helpful and insightful comments and recommendations. In the same way, Grant was a good source of strategies for dealing with difficulties with other agencies, despite his own tendency to crawfish when the pressure was on. Liz and Terry were very congenial and seriously dedicated and collaborative colleagues. Lydia Grossman, a skinny, red-haired woman in her early thirties, possessed an acerbic wit and didn’t take shit from anybody. She was a dedicated professional, all the same.

The toxicity was more of an occasional undercurrent.

That morning, Greta had called a halt to her affair with Phil, which she’d described to me at lunch as having been no big deal, almost routine. While I was pleased, it was somewhat unexpected. I figured Phil might at least have tried to persuade her otherwise. But Phil’s only comment had been, “Well, if that’s what you want.”

At the Management Team meeting, both Phil and Jimmy seemed unusually upbeat, which worried me a little.

We went around the table to bring each other up to date on various issues and actions that affected each department. No one mentioned any serious problems. There’d been a new data entry clerk hired in admin services. I mentioned hiring Denny. We discussed a database program we had been considering as an alternative to the rather basic program we were then using.

At that point, Jimmy abruptly adjourned the meeting and invited everyone out to the back parking lot to see the new toy that he and Phil had just bought. Everyone dutifully trooped down the stairs and out the door to be confronted by what turned out to be a burgundy-on-white, twenty-five foot power jet boat, arrayed on a matching trailer. As Jimmy and Phil bragged, it was rigged for skiing, had a depth-finder for fishing, seating for eight and they’d gotten it at a steal. It was less than a two years old, had only eighteen hours on the engine, had been kept under a tarp, and on and on.

I pulled out my phone and called Tate.

“What’s happening, Gary?”

“I’m standing here, in the back parking lot at the Center, looking at the jet boat that has been haunting your dreams.”

“What?”

“Phil and Jimmy bought a twenty-five foot jet boat and are showing it off to everyone.”

“This I got ‘a see. Be there in five.”

Tate pulled up in his old cruiser a few minutes later. He got out of the car with his citation book in hand and walked over to Jimmy.

“I’m sorry, sir. This boat is blocking a fire lane. I’m afraid I’m going to have to confiscate it.”

“In your dreams, Dudley Do-Right. That old beater that you’re driving couldn’t catch this if all we had was a heavy dew.”

“Reckon you’re right about that, Jimmy. What’s the horsepower, blah, blah, blah...” I tuned out of the discussion. The only thing I knew or cared about boats was that they could sink.

At that point, Greta arrived on the scene. She whispered to me, “So, this is why Phil wasn’t heartbroken. He’s got a new love.” Then, louder, “We need something like this.”

My head swiveled toward her. “What the heck for? You don’t like to fish. Do you want to learn to ski?”

“Nah. But I could see the loungers in the bow from my office window. I’d look good stretched out on one of those in that bright blue bikini.”

“Promise to take your top off and I’m in.”

She went back to whispering. “Tonight, lover. I’ve missed my usual dose, today.”

“Whoa back, lady. What have you done with my wife?”

I don’t know if it actually was her canceled “date” with Phil, the Sunday talk with Louise, the possibilities of a fuller relationship with Emily, or the fact that I was now packin’ a real pistol in a sexy off-the-shoulder holster, but six minutes after we got home, Greta had my erect penis in her mouth and was slurping at it like she was trying to skin that eager beaver-seeker by the friction of the papilla on her tongue. And, unlike every other time she’d had my member between her lips, it looked very much like Greta was enjoying herself. I knew I was.

By the time we both fell back to our pillows, thirty minutes later, exhausted by our various permutations of love-making and climactic achievement, that session proved to be possibly our most intense, if also possibly among our shortest, on record.

As to my speculation about the cause of Greta’s uninhibited enthusiasm, the answer was pretty much, “e. All of the above.”

After a nap, which took us into the evening, and after taking the edge off our hunger by chowing through a large, thin-crust, sausage, mushrooms, and onions pizza, Greta took a swallow of her diet cola and said, “That was fun.”

I knew she didn’t mean eating pizza, so I just looked up at her and raised my eyebrows. Why is it that a gesture with one’s eyes means that you are listening for more? Like the Buddha said, Humans are weird, dude.

When Greta went back to eating pizza without elaborating further, I said, “I thought you were in fine form today. Possibly the best ever.”

This time, she did the raised-eyebrows thing. To help keep the meaning of the gesture alive in Western culture, I decided to respond to its tacit query.

“You displayed notable eagerness to participate in carnal activities not normally among your preferred coital techniques.”

“I did, didn’t I?” She looked pleased.

I held a spoon out toward her, a stand-in for a TV reporter’s microphone. “Missus Mazur, to what do you attribute your exceptional performance today?”

She paused in her chewing, then leaned in toward the spoon-ophone. “I was really horny.”

I persisted with the interview, first bringing the spoon closer to me. “Some are saying it was caused by you missing an earlier bout with another contender.” I held the spoon back to her.

“Sort of, but not in the way you might think.”

“Well, what way would that be, Missus Mazur?”

“I didn’t so much miss the sex as I felt free of the, uh, contention.”

“Ah, I get it. Contender, contention. Good one. However,” I persisted, “others claim it was the preparation you received from Coach Louise Plummer that may have, so to speak, turned the trick.”

“Very funny, uh, what’s your name, anyway?”

“Gary, ma’am.”

“Haven’t I seen you lurking around here before?”

“Quite possibly. I took advanced lurking in graduate school. But what about Louise Plummer’s advice, ma’am?”

“It definitely played a part, but that’s all I’m willing to say, right now.”

“There’s also speculation that it was your anticipation of being able to, uh, contend with Emily Iverson at some as yet undetermined date that sparked your unrestrained zest during today’s, uh, bout.”

“It certainly did. Emily promises to be a challenging contender and one I look forward to giving a thorough licking.”

“Very graphic, ma’am. There’s also a less popular, but some would say valid, school of opinion that it is your manager’s acquisition of a wearable firearm which may have lit your fuse.”

This time, she pushed the spoon down to the table and covered my hand with her own. She looked at me without the humor she’d been exhibiting.

“Yeah, I didn’t buy that bullshit about risky crisis calls. That gun made me realize how serious Tate took that attack last week. It reminded me how precious you are to me, Gary. How close I came to losing you.”

I added my other hand to the grip, as did she.

“Thank you, Sweetie. I love you. Tate sort of scared me about that business, too. I’m still not quite sure when I’m supposed to carry that gun. But I could wear it in the shoulder holster when we go to bed, if you think it might...”

“Might what? Lead me to shoot you for being terminally idiotic? I wouldn’t chance it, if I were you.”

“So, that use is out. Oh, by the way, have you mentioned that rifle to anyone? The one I found in the dumpster?”

“No. Hardly anyone’s asked me about that business, except to ask how you were doing. Well, Phil asked me what the hell you were doing out there, so I told him you were trying to dig your cell phone out of the dumpster.”

“Yeah, my good buddy, Phil. Best not to mention that rifle, though. It’s not really a secret, it’s just that Tate didn’t want us to be stirring that pot.”

“Speaking of Phil,” she said, “he told me that there’s a rumor going around that Grant is going to resign, in order to run the store up at the Junction, ‘cause it looks like his brother is headed to prison.”

“What? Grant’s putting in his papers? Oh, that doesn’t bode well.”

“Not only that, but one of my PTSD clients, who works at Leaufroide Realty, said that Grant has had a fire sale on some of those rental homes he owns. Apparently, he sold three of the seven for below-market prices for quick sales. Said he needed to raise money to pay his brother’s lawyers.”

Following the most recent Wall Street-generated-recession, Grant, using some money his wife inherited, bought eight homes that had defaulted mortgages, or unpaid taxes, or whatever made them bargain-basement cheap. He and his family -- his wife and two teen-aged daughters -- moved into the nicest one. He then leased-out the other seven, mostly to County employees or folks that worked at government or non-profit agencies in town. He was expressively proud of those properties, bragging on them frequently, and he made sure they stayed in good shape.

When we moved to Leaufroide, prices were still somewhat depressed. The four-bedroom, two-and-a-half bath, split level we bought would have been out of our range, otherwise. At the time, despite what we’d learned from her ob-gyn in Colorado, we’d had higher hopes of Greta becoming pregnant. Instead, we now had a guest bedroom and his and hers home offices.

“I wonder if he plans to move up to the Junction.”

“Could be. He put his house on the market, too, but for market value.”

“Shit damn! That means that Jimmy will have the inside track for Grant’s job, and his buddy Phil for clinical director. Won’t that be a joy? Grant was no star, but he did keep everything reasonable.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You could do either of those jobs with half your brain tied behind your back.”

“Uhl! Thanks for the image. But no-thanks for the jobs. The clinical director is a wasted staff position around here, and I wouldn’t be the big boss if it came with a palace and a harem. To do it right, you’ve got to be a convincing bullshit artist and a cheerful ass-kisser, and that much of a politician I ain’t never gonna be.”

“I’ll grant you that. The harem sounds interesting, though.”

“Women don’t have harems. They have stables. And I don’t mean horses.”

“Nah. I want you to hold out for the harem. One swingin’ dick is enough for me.”

“Well, aren’t you sweet.” Then, I went on, “But you know who I’d pick, if I wanted somebody to run this show?”

“The Buddha?”

“That would be chaos. No, I’m thinking of your buddy, Veterans Service Officer Chet Weaver, Command Master Chief Petty Officer, US Navy, Retired. That guy’s supervised operations a whole lot bigger than the Center, and in a lot more stressful circumstances. He could manage this outfit in his sleep. And a successful service career at that rank means he knows how to deal with the brass, too. That’s who we need. The way he’s put together his veterans programs shows an awareness of the kind of work we do. Plus, he’s pretty damn mellow for a retired snarlin’ sea dog.”

“Never thought of him in that type of job. He just always seems comfortable doing what he does and figuring out better ways to do it.”

“Exactly what we need,” I said. “We need to head this one off at the pass,” I pulled out my cell phone, “and start getting our ducks in a row.” Having mixed a metaphor hash, I punched in the speed dial for Tate.

Greta said, “Be careful, your duck metaphor is about to be trampled by your horse metaphor.”

“Yeah, hoped you wouldn’t notice that.” Just then, Tate answered. I tapped speakerphone.

“Do you know what time it is?” he grouched.

“It’s twenty-one twenty. What, did I interrupt your night-crawler hunt with your bait can only half full, Opie?”

“Just because you don’t have a sex life, doesn’t mean I don’t.”

“You have a sex life? Does Louise know?”

“I was just about to tell her.”

“Okay, sorry. Talk to you in the morning.”

“Nah, go ahead. I think she’s more interested in Survivor: Pakistani Passenger Train or whatever out-of-touch-with reality show that’s on.” There was a slapping sound. “Ouch! Maybe I misjudged her interest.”

“So, tomorrow?”

“No. She’s gone to make popcorn. Maybe she just plans to watch me again, tonight.”

“Wish I could commiserate, pal, but my sex life has seen a notable uptick lately.” Greta leaned across the table and smacked my shoulder. “Ouch! Maybe that’s too much information. But since Louise gets partial credit, you might want to pass that along. Yeah, now Greta’s nodding.”

“So what made you call me in the midst of my impending marital, uh ... I’m getting a scowl from the kitchen. So, what did you want?”

“There’s an unsubstantiated rumor going around that Grant is going to quit his job and move up to the Junction to run the store. On top of that, he’s apparently sold several of his rental properties below market, to pay his brother’s lawyers. That part of the rumor has a third hand source through someone Greta knows down at Leaufroide Realty.”

“That is interesting. The way the county prosecutor tells it, they’ve worked out a plea deal where Sherman will admit to most of the charges and spend five to seven in state prison, while his son will only get probation. Apparently, Sherman’s taking most of the fall so his son doesn’t have to serve time inside. Shouldn’t have had that much in attorney’s fees, since it’s not going to trial. And the son can still work at the store, too.”

“That does seem curious, but that’s the info we’ve got. But, that’s not why I called.”

“What, then? The popcorn only takes a couple minutes, and the smell gives me -- Oops, there’s that scowl, again.”

“Did I mention you were on speaker and that Greta’s here?”

“I don’t think you did. However, I know how you run off at the mouth, so I never figure anything I say to you will remain confidential for very long, anyway.”

“Okay, good, just so we understand each other, Sherlock,” I said, then went on.

“Here’s my problem with this Grant business. I don’t want Jimmy in Grant’s job, or Phil moving into Jimmy’s.”

“Oh, yeah. That would be kind of ugly. So, you want the job?”

“Hell, no. I’d rather test plutonium suppositories.”

Greta interjected, “He wants Jimmy’s current job.”

“In a pig’s eye. I’ve built a near-perfect fiefdom. It even comes with pecan sticky buns. Pecan sticky buns! Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined ... But that’s neither here nor there. If Grant is leaving, I think Chet Weaver would be good for that job.”

“Don’t really know him that well, but I know he’s helped some vets I sent over there. So, why are you calling me?”

“Because you’re a high county official, duh, and you know other high county officials who will be doing the hiring.”

“Yeah, well, me and Burt don’t exactly go to each other for advice.” Burt Rauch was the county administrator. He and Tate sometimes found themselves on opposite sides of county management issues.

“I know that. But you’re pals with a couple of the commissioners. Think trickle-down theory.”

“Yeah, like that ever worked.”

“We’re not talking about money, here.”

“So, you really like Weaver for the job, or is this desperation?”

“I like the guy. I like the way he runs his shop. He does good work. And he was a command master chief petty officer, the top dog non-com on a guided missile cruiser. He could run this whole county with one hand while he wrote Sanskrit limericks with the other. Maybe even give your buddy Burt a run for his money, if it ever came to that. He might be a good influence on the whole shootin’ match.”

“Does Chet know he wants the job?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, we need to know he’s at least willing before I start dropping bugs in ears.”