Part 5
Malcolm reached for the phone, then withdrew his hand.
Andrea waited. When he offered nothing else, she picked it up and went to collect Nora.
He stayed in the office until the volunteers began turning off lights.
At home, he opened the campaign on a larger screen and read everything he’d approved. The child’s distress occupied the first paragraph. His decision occupied the second. By the third, the company had become the center of the story.
He remembered how pleased he’d felt when someone in communications called it powerful.
His dinner cooled beside the keyboard.
The next morning, he told the team to stop the campaign.
The manager brought him a schedule of completed work. The ads were ready. Placements had been arranged. The holiday window was closing.
“We can replace the language,” she said.
“Take it down.”
By noon, Wallace Brandt, the board chair, was on the phone.
“I’m told we’re abandoning a finished campaign because a mother objected.”
“We used something that wasn’t ours to use.”
“No one was named.”
“That doesn’t make it ours.”
Wallace allowed a long silence.
“You have the authority,” he said finally. “You’ll also have to live with what follows.”
Malcolm ended the call and returned to the revised program papers. He didn’t call Andrea. He’d already asked her to accept too many things on his schedule.
At the next planning meeting, he waited until everyone had arrived.
“The company’s name won’t be attached to the program,” he told them. “And taking part won’t give us permission to use anyone’s photograph, words, or experience. You’ll decide what you share. Including nothing.”
Beatrice rested her knitting in her lap. One parent looked at another and nodded.
Andrea listened without interrupting. When the meeting ended, she gathered Nora’s things and left without stopping by his chair.
At home, she poured cereal for supper. She’d meant to cook, but the clean saucepan was still in the drying rack and she couldn’t face starting another task.
Nora sat in her pajamas, chasing the last flakes around her bowl.
“Are we going to that supper on Christmas Eve?”
Andrea turned off the faucet.
“I haven’t decided.”
Nora nodded and tipped her bowl to reach the cereal.
Malcolm sat beside the unfinished tree that evening. One loose branch had slipped beneath the sofa. He retrieved it, laid it on the box, and picked up his phone.
This time, he pressed Luke’s name.
Three rings.
“Dad?”
Malcolm gripped the phone more tightly. His son’s voice had acquired a deeper note he didn’t remember.
“Hi, Luke.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yes.” He looked at the half-assembled tree. “I wanted to talk. If you have a few minutes.”
There was a pause, then the sound of a door closing at Luke’s end.
“I’ve got a few.”
Two days before Christmas Eve, the board withdrew Veylan’s matching contribution.
The notice arrived in a short memo. Without the promotional campaign, the board would not authorize the planned release of funds. Nearly half the neighborhood table’s budget disappeared before the first supper.
Malcolm read it twice, then called the director.
Andrea heard the news at work. For the rest of the shift, she kept remembering the meeting, the volunteers writing down her suggestions, Beatrice saying she hadn’t been out for a holiday meal in years.
Perhaps she should have let the advertisement go. Perhaps she should leave them to work it out without her.
Teresa listened while pulling on her coat after their shift.
“I’m not asking you to make excuses for him,” she said. “But you helped build this thing.”
“And now they’ve lost the money.”
“You didn’t take it away.”
Andrea looked toward the parking lot.
“Walk off if you want,” Teresa continued. “Just remember who’ll be left making the rules.”
On the ride home, Andrea watched the road ahead instead of answering. At the apartment, she put Nora to bed, found a sheet of notebook paper, and began writing.
She crossed out the first heading. It sounded as though she was asking permission.
By morning, she had a page of conditions.
The planning room smelled of yesterday’s coffee when she arrived. Malcolm was there with the director and several others. Beatrice had brought her knitting again.
Andrea remained standing until the director offered her a chair.
“I’m staying,” she said. “But I need these things settled.”
Malcolm put down his pen.
“Families have to agree before anything about them goes into an ad. Clear permission, not a signature hidden at the bottom of another form.”
The director nodded.
“Parents and seniors need permanent places on the committee. Votes. Not invitations to come tell sad stories.”
Beatrice drew the yarn through one final stitch and looked up.
“And people should have choices about what they receive,” Andrea continued. “We can’t keep packing boxes and assuming we know what belongs in them.”
She glanced down once, though she knew the last point by heart.
“The program runs through places people already use and trust. Schools and churches. The library, the union hall, the senior center. No corporation standing between a family and the help.”
Across the table, someone shifted in a folding chair. The director looked toward Malcolm.
He reached for the page, stopping short of taking it from Andrea.
“Yes,” he said. “Every condition.”
Andrea handed him the paper. Beatrice’s needles resumed, a brisk little sound in the quiet room.
The calls began before anyone left.
By Christmas Eve, a Methodist congregation had promised nine pies. The local veterans’ post paid for fuel so volunteer drivers could collect older guests. A family grocery along the county road supplied a ham, and several of Andrea’s coworkers signed up to serve.
It didn’t replace the missing money. It would get them through supper.
Andrea also completed an application she’d been avoiding. The center’s transportation fund had existed long before Malcolm’s involvement and operated separately from the new program. It could pay for a discounted radiator repair.
She filled in the income boxes, attached the requested documents, and added a note offering twenty dollars a month through March.
“That isn’t required,” the director told her.
“I understand.”
The director put the application in the folder without another argument.
Malcolm said nothing about Luke at the meetings. Their call had lasted only a few minutes. His son had listened while Malcolm apologized, then said he couldn’t pretend that a phone call settled years of coming after the business.
Malcolm had wanted to explain. He’d pressed his lips together until the urge passed.
“Would it be all right if I called again after Christmas?” he’d asked.
Luke had taken his time.
“Yeah. That’s okay.”
Now Malcolm kept the phone close, but didn’t call early…
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