like each other or at least get along, but it seems like that’s not how things work out most of the time.”
“Mr. Patterson,” Joanna said kindly, “I can see that you’re under a good deal of stress today. Understandably so.
Why don’t you take the printouts and the change-of-beneficiary forms with you and give yourself some time to think things over and sort them out.”
As she talked, Joanna folded the two separate stacks of paper together into a single letter-sized sheaf and placed them in a blank manila envelope.
“Talk to your daughters and your nephew. If you think it will help. You can wait until tomorrow or the next day and speak to Milo himself about this.
In other words, don’t rush into anything. And if you do change the beneficiary and later on you think better of it, then all you have to do is sign another set of forms.” She smiled. “We’re bureaucrats here, Mr. Patterson. We like doing paper work. It gives our lives meaning.”
For the first time since Harold Patterson entered her office, Joanna noticed the ghost of an answering smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Thank you,” he said, taking the envelope and putting it in his pocket. “Thank you kindly.
Sounds like real good advice.”
He used the arm of the chair for support and awkwardly raised himself up. “I’m so stiff,” he said, “I must be getting old. And I ought to be ashamed of myself, acting like such a damn fool in public. I hate to be so much trouble.”
“It’s no trouble at all,” Joanna assured him.
Harold Patterson held out his gnarled hand, and Joanna shook it warmly, hoping her outward appearance camouflaged the lump in her throat. She didn’t want him to see how much his distress affected her.
Standing before her, he seemed shrunken some how, as though the very act of talking with her about his problems had robbed him of some of his vitality. He seemed far more frail than when he’d first walked into her office a short time earlier. It hurt Joanna to see this proud old man reduced to near tears, awkwardly mumbling apologies and thanks.
There was much Joanna Lathrop Brady should have thanked him for. Buying all those Girl Scout cookies was only the barest beginning. Although she hadn’t learned the truth of the matter until much later, Harold Patterson’s behind-the-scenes lobbying had resulted in Joanna’s being nominated for Girl’s State the year after her father died. And when she graduated from Bisbee High School the year after that, Harold had delivered an inspiring if homespun commencement address.
As they shook hands now in Joanna’s office, she remembered that other long-ago handshake on a warm May night under the lights of the baseball stadium. The principal had called out Joanna’s name, and she had marched across the stage to the place where Harold Patterson, as president of the school board, was dispensing the coveted red and-gray diplomas. Every graduate in line both before and after Joanna Lathrop received a straightforward handshake, and so did Joanna.
But after that, and before she could continue across the stage, Harold had grasped her by both shoulders and held her for a moment. Looking her straight in the eye, he said, “Your daddy would have been very proud.” Then he had winked at her, given her a gentle shove, and sent her on her way.
Other people had said much the same thing to her that night, but Harold’s words were the only ones she remembered specifically. The timely encouragement and comical wink, both from her father’s old poker-playing buddy, had given her a much-needed boost. His kindness had helped propel her across the stage and somehow granted her permission to toss her red cap with its gray tassel high in the air along with everybody else’s when the long ceremony was finally over.
Now, with the tables suddenly reversed, what comfort could she offer him in his time of need?
“We’re here to help, Mr. Patterson,” she said softly “Anytime. It’s no trouble at all.”
Harold Lamm Patterson nodded and started toward the door, where he paused with one hand on the knob. “What’s Milo Davis going to do with out you if you go and get yourself elected?” he asked.
Joanna had been wondering that herself, but it wasn’t a subject she had broached aloud, not with Lisa and certainly not with Milo. It seemed as though talking about what might happen if she won could bring her bad luck, sort of like stepping on a crack and breaking your mother’s back.
She laughed. “Nobody’s indispensable, Mr. Patterson. I’m sure Milo and Lisa would get along without me just fine.”
“Well,” Harold Patterson said, “they may just have to.”
When he finally limped out of her office, Joanna followed him as far as the office window. His mud-splattered Scout was parked out front in the place usually reserved for one of Milo Davis’ several Buicks. To Joanna’s surprise, the old man by passed the Scout. And instead of utilizing the crosswalk, he marched across Arizona Street on a long, jaywalking diagonal, making straight for the bank.
“That poor man,” Lisa said, as she and Joanna watched him cross the street.
“You mean because of his daughters?” Joanna asked.
Lisa nodded. “What a mess. How old is he?”
“Eighty-four?”
“Jeez. And here he is with his whole life blowing up in public before his very eyes. How can he stand what they’re doing? How could anybody?
Lisa was twenty-three years old. Recently engaged, she and her fiance’ were busy planning a big, spare-no- expense wedding that was scheduled for sometime the following summer. Both of Lisa’s parents were still alive and well. Listening to her “Most of the time,” Joanna said quietly, “you are a lucky girl.” Joanna was startled by how young Lisa seemed how young and inexperienced.
“It’s because you have to, because God doesn’t give you a choice.”
