Behind the Bonehouse (3 page)

“Can he?” Bob was studying Alan now, his eyes cool and considering, his firm mouth skeptical. Then Bob looked away again, out across the lawn at the willow back by the pond, as he locked his hands behind his neck. “What's the root of the conflict?”

“I'm the VP of Science and Technology. I'm a chemical engineer trying hard to improve things, and they don't like my input impacting the way they've always worked.”

“That's not unexpected. I would've thought you would've anticipated that reaction and gone out of your way to avoid it.”

“I did, and I
have
gone out of my way. You brought me in to evaluate Equine Pharmaceuticals' existing product line, and help you determine what needs to be developed. To help the lab design reliable test methods too, for products and raw materials, and improve the way you test new products in the field. You've also wanted me to help your lab and production people take what's formulated in the lab and scale it up from a beaker-sized batch to full commercial volume.”

“Correct.” Bob said it as though Alan were stating the obvious and wasting valuable time.

“I don't know the veterinary science that enables you to develop vaccines and antibiotics and cutting-edge equine drugs. I can formulate other treatments, and help refine the health care formulas to optimize ingredients and improve production techniques. But I never could've started the business, or come up with the drugs you have.”

“I do grasp the distinctions, Alan.”

“Then why would I be stupid enough to minimize your contributions and imply that you're behind the times?”

Bob didn't say anything till he'd finished the last of his tea. “How would you evaluate Carl's and Butch's performance?”

“Carl has a degree in chemistry, and he's able to perform lab-tech-type bench work under your and my direction, but he doesn't have the curiosity or the experience to do the more sophisticated thinking and development that I think a lab director should. It may be attitude, rather than aptitude, I can't say. I do know he's very determined not to get his hands dirty by helping with any of the scale-up work, and he resents my presence here, and the relationship you and I have had, because of our shared perspectives.”

“And Butch?”

“He doesn't have the education and the training to be effective at the scale-up work, or develop new manufacturing techniques. I think he questions his own competence, and I think Carl has influenced him to be more negative and resistant to change than he might've otherwise been. He's capable of making the antibacterial shampoos and ointments, and the new fungicidal treatments, as well as the other equine health care products in the line, once we've developed the processes for him.

“But the new de-wormer paste, that's a whole new process, and I think it's got him panicked. But instead of being cooperative, and willing to say, ‘I don't know how to do this, help me and let's work together,' he's fighting whatever is new and unknown and doing you a disservice.”

Bob Harrison loosened his dark blue tie, before he glanced at Alan. “I've seen evidence of that myself, but I'd like to be able to salvage him, and Carl as well. Carl especially. He's was the first person I hired in the lab.”

“Then that must make it hard.”

“I did everything myself when I started the business. The microbiology, working with Elvis Doll at UK's Vet School. The fermenting and the formulating, along with the manufacturing. I washed the floors and took out the garbage and did the packaging. When you're first starting up, you don't have the luxury of scouring the country for someone with the best degrees and the deepest experience, you hire the person you can afford and hope to be able to develop them. That's how I hired Carl, and I don't want to have to let him go.”

“I'm not suggesting you let either of them go. But I would like you to look at the memos in this file. Annette did the day-by-day transcribing. You can corroborate their authenticity with her.” He pulled a manila folder from the briefcase he'd set on the arbor's brick floor and handed it to Bob Harrison.

Bob read it, while Alan drank tea and patted Emmy, the boxer-and-something-else, who'd been lying by his chair since he'd first sat down.

“Your position's documented, I can see that. Carl's resisted too many reasonable requests, and seems to be more interested in standing on his own dignity than putting the health of the company first. Butch too. Though, as you suggest, his insecurities may play a larger part.”

“I have
tried
to be collegial. I've invited them to dinner, separately and together, and tried to talk in encouraging terms, without being critical. I've described how chemistry and production methods are beginning to develop more rapidly, and how we could learn so much, and contribute so much, if we could work together. But it hasn't seemed to help.”

“I see that in the lab and production reports.”

“But I think there's more too. They both really respect you, and they feel as though I've come between you and them. That you and I work together more closely now, and some inside position they once had has been unfairly ripped away. I also have to be honest and say that Carl's attitude is such that I have real doubts that he can be turned around.”

“It's an unfortunate situation.”

“It is.”

“I would like to speak with Vincent. It's not that I don't trust you—”

“I understand. And I've asked him if he'd be willing for us to stop by this afternoon. If that's something you have time to do.”

“It'll be difficult for him. With his background.” Bob was looking out toward the pond, shielding his eyes with one hand. “Look at the great blue heron.”

He'd landed for a second, but then gathered himself and flown off again as Alan turned to look. “I don't know anything about Vincent, except that it's hard for him to talk to people, and he still uses a list to clean the offices every night, even though he's cleaned the building for years.”

Bob Harrison smiled as he reached for the sport coat he'd hung on the back of his chair. “The fall before Pearl Harbor was bombed, Vincent was finishing his doctorate dissertation in mathematics at Harvard when a paper by a physicist at Oxford was published that anticipated his work. Vincent couldn't come up with a new dissertation topic, and he left Harvard on his own volition and came home to live with his parents, whom I've known for years.

“He tried to enlist, but his eyesight disqualified him. He took a job as a mail carrier for a while, but the personal contact with that many people was very difficult for him. In '55, when I was able to hire a person to clean the offices and the lab, I decided to try Vincent. It's suited him very well. He comes to work as everyone else is leaving and works till midnight, or so, then studies mathematics and astrophysics on his own during the day.”

“I had no idea.”

“Few people do. He finds it impossible to discuss.”

Vincent Eriksen was waiting for them on the front porch of the small clapboard house he shared with his widowed sister. It was over ninety and humid, but he was sitting in an old rattan chair dressed in khaki work pants with a long-sleeved tan shirt buttoned at the collar and the cuffs.

He stood up as soon as he saw Bob's car draw up, very tall and slightly stooped, and so thin his black leather belt sat on a ridge of sharp edged bone. His eyes were anxious behind his horn-rims, even more than usual, pale blue and partly hidden under worried eyebrows.

Bob and Alan both said hello as they came up the walk, and Vincent nodded and motioned them toward the two rattan chairs perpendicular to his on the right end of the porch.

They tried small talk for a minute or two, but then Bob asked Vincent if he knew why they were there.

Vincent had been staring at the painted gray floor, rubbing his hands on his knees. “I do.”

“So …”

“You want to know about the conversation I heard in the hall by the lab.”

“Yes.”

“The power failed on July 3rd at 3:52 p.m. The incinerator had been acting up, and I was worried that I was running late, and had consulted my watch a moment before.” His voice trailed away as he stared at the street, his hands gripping his knees.

Bob had taken off his glasses and was rubbing the red places where they sat on his nose, when he said, “I know this isn't easy.”

“I don't care to be a bearer of tales.”

“Is that what you're going to do? Tell us a tale?”

“No. No. I detest disputes. I told Mr. Munro.”

“But?”

“I agreed to speak, and I will.” Vincent crossed one leg over the other and tucked his hands underneath his arms, hugging his ribs without saying anything for what seemed like more than a minute.

Bob said, “Take your time, Vincent. There's no rush. We don't want this to be stressful.”

“I know you don't … I know, I …” He stared at the peeling floor, holding his breath, rocking forward and back, without seeming to notice.

Alan said, “So you were in the hall when Carl Seeger and Butch Morgan and I were talking.”

“Yes.”

He worked his way through it, with lurches and stops, and nervous twitches, but he told Bob Harrison what had been said with accuracy and order.

“Mr. Seeger was wearing his white lab coat, and adjusting the pens in his pocket. Even those two times when he said that Mr. Munro couldn't do the scale-up himself, Mr. Munro spoke politely.” Vincent swallowed hard, as though his mouth and throat were dry, and his Adam's apple shot up and down like a hockey puck sliding under skin.

Bob Harrison said, “Thank you, Vincent. You did the right thing to tell me.”

“I don't want to get anyone in trouble.”

“You haven't. You've helped me see how to do what's best for everyone at the company. We'll have to show Carl and Butch how much they can help if they work with me and Alan here to get our new products to market more quickly.”

“I want to work on my own without interfering with anyone else.”

“No one could do better work than you do. You're an excellent example of the dedication and loyalty we should all aspire to. Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” He was breathing too fast and the color had drained from his face, making him look parched and ill.

Alan said, “I really appreciate your help.”

Vincent nodded, and then stood up and shoved his hands in his pants pockets as though he'd finished a distasteful task. A small ginger-and-white cat shot up the steps, and Vincent stooped and caught it, then patted it without looking up as Bob and Alan left.

Excerpt From Jo Grant Munro's Journal

Thursday, August 1st, 1963.

I
'm five months pregnant and feeling totally unprepared. I don't have nieces and nephews because Tommy died before he could marry. And with Mom dead, and Spencer's Mom too, I don't have an older woman I can ask for advice.

I don't say much to Alan about it, because he's got enough to put up with. Carl's tormenting Vincent now, having figured out where Bob got corroboration for Alan's side of the story, and that makes it even harder for Alan to tolerate Carl.

I saw Spencer's dad at church last week, and I wanted to talk to him about Equine, because Booker's got years of experience with interoffice politics, first at John Deere and now in his own horse van business. It hasn't been much more than a year, though, since he lost Alice, and you can see something's missing. Booker's quieter, and way too thin. And when he doesn't know you're watching, he settles into an internalized sort of stare that makes me wonder if there's something someone ought to be doing to help him more than we are.

He's still riding Buster, and I hope that helps him the way riding Sam helped me after Tommy was killed. Being on a horse with great gaits who's the soul of equine comportment is the best way for me to loosen up my body and soften my view of the world. I've had to stop now, for obvious reasons, but brushing Sam, and talking to him, and watching him in the fields smooths away the interior wrinkles the world lays down every day.

And of course, horses being as delicate as they are despite their size, Sam developed a nasty abscess in his hoof a month ago, and he's put up with daily soakings and packings and occasional cuttings with character and kindness and the common sense of a gentleman, and he's made me evaluate my own reactions to the vicissitudes of life.

There's some progress restoring White Hall, but making practical
and
artistic decisions with a committee of volunteers with no professional experience is enough to make me shoot somebody.

Toss is doing most of the work with the broodmares and babies, and with the part-time guy he's hired, I don't have to do much on the farm, so Emmy and I do everything together with her boxerish dewlaps flapping. She is so coordinated it's amazing to watch her leap and jump and twist in midair.

I dreamt last night about England and Scotland. I still can't believe we got there on our honeymoon. Seeing the landscape, and the cottages, not to mention the great houses and the castles, has influenced my work a lot.

Saturday, August 3rd, 1963

Art Lawrence moved the wooden chairs closer to his desk, then looked at his watch, and dropped into his swivel chair. He opened his center drawer, and the top right too, for at least the third time, then left them partially open. He laid a ballpoint pen on the legal pad he'd already set on his desk blotter, and adjusted his red plaid tie. He sipped his coffee and stared at the door, then consulted his watch again, and walked to the window that overlooked the drive.

When he saw a turquoise-and-white Chevy sedan with U.S. plates, he reached quickly into both drawers, then turned a switch on the gray metal Dictaphone that sat on top of his desk, and rushed out into the hall to open the front door.