The Last Lesson

I saw the shaking peripherally. My pen hung suspended over my notebook as my head followed the motion, and there was Arthur, his hands and wrists contorted and pressed into his chest, his whole body trembling. We were sitting in session at a conference in Philadelphia, and just a moment ago, he’d whispered a question to me as he reviewed our presentation, a moderated discussion between the two keynote speakers, which was up next, and I answered him. He nodded, jotted something down, and now—quivering? I didn’t understand. My brain froze as I watched him tilt over the empty chair next to him, and as he slowly, awkwardly, rolled off the chairs to the floor, convulsing.

I wasn’t the only one who noticed. A ripple moved through the attendees as they saw him and jumped to their feet, a symphony of startled noises rising with them. “You have to get help,” my inner voice prompted, and I finally came unstuck.

My fingers shuddered as I dialed and I stumbled over my words to emergency services, each of their questions scarier than the last, and I stooped next to him but was afraid to touch him. A few helpful souls appeared at his side, but I felt protective of him until Gabriel, another partner from our firm, knelt at his head and took control: loosening his tie, rolling him gently onto his side, and putting his own jacket under Arthur’s head. I found out later he’d been an Army medic, but in that moment, I envied his knowledge of what Arthur needed. I felt helpless, which made me more frightened.

Was I watching Arthur die?

The hall was already emptied of the crowd when the paramedics arrived. The tremors had stopped, but he was unconscious and clearly not okay. “I’ll go to the hospital,” Colleen, a senior partner and a longtime friend of Arthur’s, volunteered. I realized that his things should go with him. He only arrived that morning, so his suitcase was under the table, and I hastily packed up his papers and tablet into his briefcase.

Except for his presentation notes: the partners were discussing it and decided the show must go on. But who was familiar enough with the contents to take over the moderation?

“I can do it, but Julia helped write it,” Gabriel gestured at me, my fingers wrapped around Arthur’s luggage handle and his suit jacket slung over my arm, ready to go with Colleen. “You’ll have to stay,” Marjorie declared, “and help Gabe prepare. You’ve got—” she checked her watch, “twenty-five minutes.”

I watched them wheel him out on a gurney. Arthur would tell me to get on with it and worry later, so I swallowed my emotion and prepped Gabriel on the discussion questions. I didn’t let myself cry until that night after dinner, alone in my hotel room, when I called my parents to tell them what happened.

That was Friday. Colleen sent me a few brief emails from the hospital to let me know that it was a seizure and that he was out of immediate danger, but that was it. I wanted to email him but knew I had to resist.

I spent the weekend ruminating on mentorship, which can be as elusive as a romantic relationship, and even more important. There were several paths to success in a firm like ours, but the one most frequently credited by senior partners for their ascent was having a good mentor to open doors for them and show them the way. That created demand for mentors among those of us at the bottom of the ladder. Conveniently, those nearer the top were looking for protégées, not only because they needed associates to successfully complete their projects, but also because bringing people through the ranks reflected well on them. And as Arthur said, it was insurance for his pension to train good people to carry on the firm after he retired.

I heard this spiel about mentorship repeatedly as I was recruited into the firm, so during my first year, in between meetings and late nights, I circled the partner offices to say hello. They were generally happy to chat, though some of those conversations were brief, but my stops by Arthur’s office grew longer, and I actually enjoyed them. Once my project finished, I was assigned to work for Arthur, which I realized was no accident, and after he booked me on successive engagements but got frustrated with competing requests for my time, Arthur told our scheduler to stop assigning me to anyone else; he would fill my hours until further notice.

He was senior enough to pull off that kind of power move, and it was fine with me—not only was I learning a lot from our projects and the comments and corrections he made reviewing my work, but he also gave me other perks and opportunities: airline miles he said he’d never use to book my vacation, firm sponsorship for the summer league kickball team I started with other associates, and an invitation to the dinner for the charity where he served as a Board member. I hadn’t been to a New York society event before, and I was sure the other guests would discover that I definitely did not belong there, but I left feeling that I achieved my only goal: not to be an embarrassment to Arthur! That feeling was confirmed when he invited me again the next year, and each year thereafter.

Our conversations inevitably included valuable advice about succeeding in the firm and in life, all of which I appreciated, but the conversation that was most important to me was really only half-finished. He confided in me that he had, many years before, written a novel. “It’s finished, but in dire need of dusting off,” he said with characteristic modesty.

“What’s it about?” I asked, and he described it to me, but added, “Only very few people have ever been allowed to read it.”

I was beyond intrigued. “If you’re ever comfortable sharing it with me, I’d love to be one of them,” I said.

He chuckled. “Perhaps if your next memo is a masterpiece, you’ll earn a chapter.”

I felt gratified that he trusted me enough to tell me about it at all. I hesitated, but then decided not to share with him that I was working on a novel of my own, and that, actually, quite a few pages of it were in his office with us, in the small black notebook that I always carried around, in addition to my laptop. I liked to get down inspiration whenever it struck, returning to those thoughts at more appropriate times to finish them. I wanted to tell him, but I didn’t want him to think I was slacking off when he saw me writing in my notebook. Even though I trusted Arthur, it was safer not to tell him. At least, not yet.

That weekend, I wished I had told him about it. He gave me so much good advice about my future with the firm and about life; what advice could he have given me about writing? Suddenly there was no conversation I wanted to have more.

I had a bad feeling when, back at our office on Monday, I got a meeting invitation from Jessica, our HR representative. Why wasn’t I hearing from Arthur?

She made small talk and did some prefacing before getting to the point: “Arthur had a seizure, but it was caused by a tumor in his brain. Unfortunately, it’s already Stage Four, and the doctors, including several second opinions, think that it’s a matter of weeks.”

My brain froze again. Weeks? Our projects lasted longer than that. How was that even possible, that Arthur would be—I couldn’t even think the word “dead”—in a few weeks?

“Can I—” I choked on the words. “Can I visit him?”

She nodded understandingly, and instead of appreciating it, I despised her for being so calm. “That’s a very good question. I’ll ask for you.”

I moved numbly through the day. I got an email from Jessica saying that Arthur appreciated the support and said visitors (apparently I wasn’t the only one asking) would be welcome starting Thursday. I immediately canceled my conflicting meetings.

Wednesday morning, Jessica sent another email. Arthur had a massive stroke Tuesday night and had not woken up.

He was not expected to wake up.

He did not wake up.

Arthur James Henderson passed away that Saturday, a week and a day after the seizure.

I wore my pearls to the funeral. I met his mother, about whom I’d heard plenty of stories, and his partner Daniel, about whom I’d never heard a word. I had wondered, but I knew that when Arthur started, firm culture was not as open as it was now, and if he didn’t bring it up, I certainly wasn’t going to ask. I was glad to know he had personal happiness, and when Daniel knew exactly who I was, I almost started crying all over again.

I needed a few days before returning to the office. When I walked in, our mail guy Mark greeted me with, “Oh good! I have something marked ‘URGENT’ for you.”

No client work seemed urgent to me at the moment, so I was unimpressed, but I thanked him. He brought me a manila envelope, out of which I pulled my little black notebook and a crisply folded letter.

Julia,

Looking back, it occurs to me that the problem with living a life measured in billable hours is that you don’t realize until too late how few you’ve saved for yourself. The client work may be finished, but what about your life’s work? Apparently the universe thinks my life’s work is finished, because my hours are almost up. It’s tempting to give in to bitterness, resenting the time I thought I’d have but will not, but in reflection, it’s hard to feel anything but grateful for all the wonderful things that were crammed into these busy years. One of those was getting to mentor you, and on that note, I hope you’ll accept one last assignment from me.

It seems you put this notebook in my bag by mistake in the confusion at the conference. I’m very glad you did, because in the small hours, when I forced Daniel to go home (you’ll get to meet him soon, I expect), I got to read these pages. I’d often seen you scribbling and wondered what you were up to, given that you typed meeting notes. It may have been by accident, but I’m honored to be in on your secret now, and it thrills me to give you honest feedback, that there’s an excellent book here.

I met with my lawyer, and I made a provision for a very specific purpose: $20,000 so you can afford to take an unpaid sabbatical to concentrate on finishing this novel. I consider it an investment and a gift to the world. After you’ve finished, show this letter and your manuscript to Daniel, and he’ll share my manuscript with you. I’d love for you to read it, and since I’ve read yours, that only seems fair.

I hope we’ll get to talk about all of this soon, but if I’ve learned anything this week, it’s not to take any opportunity for granted. I hope you’ll seize this one and let me teach you a last lesson: our time is our most precious resource. Use yours.

Your friend,

A.H.

It still astonishes me that in his last days, Arthur not only so generously gave me the gift of my own time to pursue a passion, but he made such a tremendous vote of confidence in me. In my worst moments of self-doubt, I fight back by remembering that a published book sits on my shelf because this person I so greatly esteemed considered me worthy of investment.