CHAPTER ONE
On the following two Mondays, Bob noticed that the light was still on in the young CEOâs office, but he made it a point not to disturb the busy man. He waited until the CEO left to clean the elegant corner office. This Monday, Bob was just starting to prepare his cup of green tea before he launched into his well-choreographed cleaning routine that took him through the entire office, top to bottom, nonstop in two hours flat. After retiring from his prosperous business career, Bob had taken this job as a way to get out of the house and stay active while doing something useful at the same time.
Bob turned the work almost into a fitness circuit. He found that he really enjoyed the manual work; it freed up his mind to give shape to his thoughts. Ever since Alice died two years ago, evenings were the hardest time for him because that was when they would usually sit down and talk about the events of the day. It was the little things that Bob missed the most about Aliceâthe smell of her hair on the pillow, her way of folding his paper in the morning so that he would see the comics before the news (reading bad news first thing in the morning has to be bad for your heart, she would say). She was kind, his Alice; she was smart and very, very kind. They had a sweet, long life together and three beautiful children who had produced the most wonderful gift time can bringâthree healthy, ebullient grandchildren.
As he waited for the water to boil, Bob made some notes in the little spiral orange notebook that he carried everywhere. The door opened behind him, and the young CEO came in, carrying an empty mug.
âGood evening, Mr. Kimbrough,â Bob said.
âPlease call me Roger. Iâm sorry, I never caught your name,â the young man replied.
âBob Tidwell,â Bob said with a nod, getting up to pour his tea.
âWhat are you writing, Bob?â
âOh, itâs just a habit of mine. I keep writing the same notes over and over, trying to get them perfect. Iâve been at it for two years.â Bob signaled to Rogerâs empty mug. âCan I get you something?â
âIâll do it. You sit down and tell me more about opera. What do you drink?â
Bob was amused at the role reversal. âGreen tea. Itâs good for you.â
âOkay. Iâll have the same then.â
Bob sat down, and Roger poured two steaming mugs of green tea and handed one to Bob. He sat down across the table and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
âTired?â Bob asked.
âBoy, Iâm bushed,â he said.
âI noticed that you often work late,â Bob ventured.
âOften is not the word. Always is more like it. I practically live in this office. I used to enjoy it so much.â
âBut you donât anymore?â
âI donât know. It feels like Iâm living to work. I get home, and my wife and girls are already asleep. On weekends I always have some function to go to, or I spend half my time on the phone. I donât get to spend any time with them.â
âThatâs a shame. They grow so fast,â Bob observed.
âDo you have kids?â Roger asked.
âYep. Two sons and a daughter. All grown now, and I have three grandchildren.â
âGot pictures?â
âOf course. Youâll be sorry you asked!â Bob took out his wallet, which had a foldout with one picture each for all the family members. The first one was Alice.
âIs that your wife?â
âYes, thatâs Alice. She passed away two years ago.â Bob tightened his lips.
âIâm sorry,â Roger said.
âThank-you. I miss her every day. She is the love of my life. We were very happy together.â
âReally? Not many people can say that these days.âRoger seemed surprised.
âAbsolutely. Alice was a formidable woman. She was a great partner, a good mother, and a very wise person. Sheâs the one who got me hooked on opera and classical music. She was interested in everything. She enjoyed cooking exotic meals for our friends, and she made even the simplest thing beautiful. She taught me how to live. Thatâs why Iâm writing these notes. Iâm trying to remember her six directives for living a happy life both at home and at work, and I keep correcting them to get them exactly right.â
âThat sounds interesting. Why six?âRoger was intrigued.
âI have no idea! Youâd have to ask Alice.â Bob chuckled with glee. âBut I can tell you that they work.â
âCan I read the six directives?â Roger asked, pointing at the little orange notebook.
âOh, no, Iâm not even close to getting them right yet,â Bob replied, tucking the little orange notebook back in his shirt pocket.
âCome on, Bob,âRoger teased him, âI can use some help.â
âReally?â Bob thought a moment. âAre you really interested?â
âWell, I figure that at the rate Iâm going, either my wife will leave me and take the kids and half my earthly belongings with her, or even worse, Iâll have a premature heart attack and pop my clogs right here in this office.â
âThat bad?â Bob asked in a softer voice.
âLet me give you an example of how my life goes. It was my wifeâs thirtieth birthday last week,â Roger said. âI promised we would have a romantic dinner, just the two of us. I even made reservations. Then I forgot. I got home, and she was already asleep. There was a huge bunch of flowers on the entrance table, with a card signed by me. Except it was not sent by me. Becky,my assistant, had remembered and sent it in my name. She had also tried to remind me, but my mobile phone was turned off.â
Roger continued. âI was in the middle of closing a deal with a big Chinese client. I had been working on it for months. The meeting was scheduled for the day before, but the flight of the Chinese reps got canceled, so they arrived a day late. I had to change all my meetings at the last minute, it was a mad rush, and they were leaving the same night for their next stop. I took them out to dinner, with a translator, and ended up signing the papers at the airport, right before they boarded their flight. Everything moved so fast. I remember driving home in my sleek luxury car, feeling like Superman. Then when I saw the flowers and realized I had forgotten my wifeâs birthday, I felt like I couldnât breathe. My wife has not spoken to me since. So there you have it, Bob. I am a cockroach.â
âHardly,â Bob said.
âWhat do you mean?â
âTo me, it sounds like you are very human, and you are just working too hard.â
âI donât know why Iâm doing this anymore. My home has turned into a battlefield. I sometimes feel like Iâm living with a stranger,who just keeps me around to pay off the credit cards.â
âOh, boy, I think you do need the six directives.â Bob thought a moment and reached a decision. âI tell you what. You give me a week, and Iâll get the first one ready for you next Monday. I bet you that in six weeks, one directive at a time, you can turn your life around and enjoy both your family and your work again.â
âI donât mean to be rude, Bob, but that right now sounds impossible.â
âI thought you wanted to read the six directives a minute ago?â Bob wagged the little orange notebook in the air.
âAll right. You have me intrigued now.What do I have to do?â asked Roger, smiling for the first time.
âThatâs better.â Bob smiled back. âYou just make me a cup of green tea on Monday evening, and Iâll come by half an hour early to share the notes with you. But you have to give me time to get them right, so only one directive per week. Deal?â
âDeal.âThen pointing to the empty tea mug, Roger added, âBy the way, that tea better be good for you. Man, that stuff is bitter!â
They both broke out in a relaxed chuckle as they went back to their jobs, Bob to clean the office and Roger to run it.
CHAPTER TWO
Roger Kimbrough let himself in through the kitchen door to a house that was still, silent, and dark. On the kitchen counter, there was a platter covered in plastic wrap, with a note written in an unsteady scribble. It read Daddyâs Dinner and was signed Becca. Roger was more tired than hungry, but popped the plate in the microwave anyway. He looked at the note one more time and noticed something written on the other side. It was a picture of a big heart encircling four stick figuresâtwo big ones for Mom and Dad and two small ones for the girls. Roger smiled at Beccaâs signature. Their elder daughter, Sarah, was only two when Rebecca was born. The closest that little Sarah could bring herself to pronounce her baby sisterâs name was Becca, and the name stuckâeven though Rebecca was now five and Sarah seven.
I bet thatâs the way a lot of nicknames are formed. Older brothers and sisters mispronouncing their siblingsâ names.
Roger reflected on how Becca could now write a note to her daddy. She had grown up so quickly. The last couple of years were a blur. It seemed that she had skipped directly from cradle to play school. But she was still very definitely the baby of the house, chatting incessantly about her friends at school or the amazing adventures of her invisible friend, Chuck. Sarah, on the other hand, had developed a quiet self-assuredness and was growing up into a competent young girl. She gave no trouble at school and always went to bed on time. Roger worried more about Sarah.
The beep of the microwave seemed unduly loud in contrast to the quiet kitchen. Roger took his dinner out of the microwave. Grilled chicken, corn, and spinach. Darlene was a good cook; she prepared thoughtful, healthy meals. The chicken had probably been very tasty at some point, but Roger had left it in the microwave too long, and it had turned into a rubbery mound. He poured a tall glass of water and swallowed two aspirin tablets to loosen his stiff neck. He finished his dinner and slipped the dirty plate in the dishwasher. He realized too late that the dishwasher had just finished the cleaning cycle and his dirty plate had splattered food all over the clean dishes. He recognized the girlsâ colorful plates, decorated with the letters of the alphabet, their drinking cups, and the other dishes, probably from Darleneâs dinner. He felt a pang of sadness. His dirty plate now seemed out of place with all the ne...