Raymond, July 23, 2007

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It was on a Wednesday night, a couple of weeks ago. Melissa and I had had a brief meeting, a sidebar if you will, in preparation for the full board meeting the next day. I was escorting her out to her car, when suddenly her back stiffened in fright. A figure was stepping out of the shadows—a tattooed arm, a cordless drill—and speaking my name. Melissa cursed at the figure, who responded in language equally vulgar but far warmer in tone, and in a moment the situation dissolved, as such situations usually do, into hasty acknowledgements of recognition and breathless apologies.

The figure was Gary. It's not unusual to find Gary around the Tangled Bank at odd hours. He displays a certain—let's call it a proprietary tenderness for the physical structure of the place, and far be it from me to challenge his feelings of ownership, particularly when they manifest themselves in frequents acts of unbilled light maintenance.

On this evening, he had stopped by to fix a piece of molding, to which he referred as if I would undoubtedly know which piece of molding, and why it needed fixing. I did not disabuse him of this impression, which encouraged him to mention additional maintenance projects, projects which would require specific budget items, as he no longer had the spare time to devote to such matters, the demand for his art work having taken off.

Of course I understood. And I was happy, and I wanted him to know I was happy, that he chose to keep coming back to the center and keep things in fine shape, but however happy I was, there was no trace of complacency in my happiness, no expectation—

A car door swung shut. Headlights came on. The lights swung to and fro as Melissa backed out of her parking space. She called out to us her sorrow at having to leave so quickly, but her son was waiting. Gary called back his complete understanding. I simply waved.

Gary and I watched her drive off, insects sparkling in the torches of her headlights, a glimpse of the glistening river as her tires caught the dip in the gravel.

I turned back to Gary and reassured him that we on the board understood that we could not count on his continued in-kind donations of skilled labor, and that if we came in under budget in the building maintenance account, it was because of his continued generosity, and that we all understood how his gifts were as good as cash.

He did not respond immediately, and for a moment I had the unusual feeling that I was the one who had been talking too much. Sometimes it seems as if you are negotiating about one thing, when in fact an entirely different issue is in play. In such cases it's best to let the other party tell you what's going on. They always do.

Gary shuffled for a moment, the cordless drill swinging in his hand, a useless tool for the current task.

Eventually he set the drill down on a window sill. Then he turned to me and asked if I meant that the debt had been paid.

There was never a debt, I explained. Samantha was my granddaughter, and it had been my privilege to contribute to her support.