Tom Busillo

Legacy

We always thought Lorch spoke with marbles in his mouth – never understandable, like someone talking underwater while skipping every third word. And yet, he was brilliant. The best budget analyst Perkins, Seinfeld, and Clausen ever had.

Eventually, we gave up on attempting verbal communication with him. No more roundtables. No more team huddles. We just Slacked him. We were literally on the other side of him – or right next to him – in an open bay office. We could look each other in the eye over the short divider. But typing just seemed to work better.

On Slack, he was electric. Sharp. Dryly funny in a way that suggested a wit that had been both suppressed and distilled. He quoted Rilke, had an eagle eye for numbers, and even his gif game had a certain elegance.

Then one Tuesday, he keeled over.

No warning. One moment, he was typing. The next, his chair tilted back like it was sighing. He folded slowly to the carpeted floor, limbs curled like a question mark.

Brad from HR bounded out of his office and dropped to his knees. He tilted Lorch’s head back and forced his mouth open to make sure the airway was clear.

“What the hell – ?”

He reached in with a puzzled look on his face and fished around.

Brad removed his hand and opened his palm above the dingy grey carpet.

Out they rolled. First one. Then another. Then a third marble.

They were heavy-looking things. One was cloudy white, with a long blue ribbon trapped inside like a frozen scream. The second was green and gold, swirled like a storm. The last was black – just black – dense and glinting like volcanic glass.

“They were in his mouth,” he said, as if we hadn’t been looking the whole time.

Brad went back to CPR, but Lorch was already gone. When it’s your time, it’s your time.

After they wheeled him out, someone noticed the marbles were still lying there. No one knew what else to do, so we dropped them in a paper cup and set it next to his mouse.

Two days later, his sister arrived. She wore a once-expensive navy coat, now threadbare, her blonde hair pinned in a bun. She gave the impression of someone who'd already cried what there was to cry. We gave her a banker’s box with the few personal things he kept at his workstation, including his absurdly elaborate ergonomic mouse. Then Brad stepped forward, holding the cup.

“These,” he said. “We found them … in his mouth.”

She didn’t flinch. Just nodded once, slowly. Then she looked inside.

“Oh,” she said. “Right. The marbles.”

She turned the cup gently in her hands.

“They were our father’s. And his father’s before that. Three marbles.”

There was a pause. Not uncomfortable – just the kind where the air goes still with the anticipation of a mystery about to be unraveled.

“Thanks for not letting him swallow any,” she said. “There used to be seven at some point, but that was a long time ago.”

We waited for her to elaborate. She didn’t.

After the silence stretched into awkwardness, Brad asked, “What happens now?”

“They go to my brother,” she said. “He lives in Atlanta. Fortunately, he’s a patent
attorney, so he should still be able to function.”

We nodded.

“Better him than me.”

We kept nodding, as if we understood.

She gave a quick “thanks again,” tucked the cup into the box, and walked out without another word.