Breeding Ground (17 page)

Both candles blew out in a gust of wind from the south. Alan and Jack sat in silence in the dark till a screech owl called across the night from somewhere above the hill.

“Can you imagine what it's like knowing that people you worked with in France, and in the O.S.S. too, think you're a traitor? That, or a total incompetent who gave the game away?”

“It matters that much? After all these years?”

“
Yes!
How could it not?”

Alan was thinking about his time in France, and the year he spent in the hospital. But all he said was, “I'm glad you told me. I'll call a couple of people I know and see what I can find out.”

“I don't know how to thank you.” Jack's voice was dry and shaky. “Letting me live here. Helping me get a job. At the risk of repeating myself, I don't know what to say.”

“You don't have to say anything.” Alan was glad he couldn't see Jack's face. The wavering voice was enough to make him squirm. All he said was “I'll do the dishes if you put away the grill.”

Excerpt From Jo Grant's Journal:

…And now Reverend Will is sick. Some say it's his heart, but I don't know. He's only in his forties with young kids to bring up. He's the one I respect most and I'd like to hear what he has to say about Mom and Tom and how to get on, but I can't bother him if he has troubles too, even though he keeps asking.

I think I'm still mad at God. It started the day Mom first said she hated me. I knew it was the brain tumor talking. But I had to be mad at somebody, or I would've broken down and been no use at all. I prayed hard for her, and no reprieve happened. She would've said, in her right mind, that God always answers prayers, but this time the answer was “no”.

That could be true, but it's no consolation. At least not at the moment. And there could be no God at all. Obviously. Deciding to have faith's just that – a decision that gets made. At least for someone like me who was raised believing, and slid away, and then came back later. Mostly because of personal experience, mine and other people's, and what I found in the Bible, when I was ready to read it. Pascal and C.S. Lewis were a part of that too. Augustine, and George MacDonald, and Chesterton's books as well.

No, I still think He's there. But there may be evidence He's a sadist.

I don't actually believe that. It just makes me feel better to be rebellious. I don't want to think right now about good coming out of suffering. Even though I know it can…

Tuesday, April 24, 1962

S
pence and his dad spent an hour-and-a-half working on alterations to a custom horse van for Bull Hancock from Claiborne Farm. It could haul eight horses, with tack storage and sleeping space for grooms and drivers, and they were redesigning the mock-up for the partitions between horses, and evaluating new hardware they were considering for the ramps and doors, as well as latches for the halter chains.

When they'd finished, they got mugs of coffee from the employee lounge, and walked outside into the shade of a big broad maple that half-sheltered one of the loading docks. They talked about Bull first, and how much he'd changed Thoroughbred breeding, he and his dad both. Then they discussed the trip they'd be making to study the market in Europe.

Spencer drank the last of his coffee, and turned around toward his dad. “Europe's actually related to a situation I've been wanting to discuss.”

“Something I'm not going to like, I suspect. I can hear it in your voice.” Booker was smiling, as they stood face to face, both of them at least six-two, looking each other in the eye.

Spencer laughed and said, “Maybe. Though that's never stopped me before.”

“True.”

“I don't think Fred is doing what we need as a Marketing Director. He's been here almost a year, and he hasn't accomplished anything. He thinks joining Rotary and the ‘right' golf club, and taking folks to dinner is how you sell trailers. He doesn't understand the difference between marketing and sales. He's done no practical market research. He has no idea how to market out West or up East, or appeal to the jumping and cross country riders, or the rodeo folks at all. I don't expect he's even thought about it. And he's the one who should've researched Europe, and how we should evaluate the market, and he doesn't have a clue.”

“I agree. You know that. It's Bill Watson making it complicated. He recommended Fred, and Bill's been a friend of mine since we worked for John Deere in the twenties. I've just been hoping Fred would get better. And it's tough on him, don't you think? Getting him to move here, only to turn around and let him go this soon?”

Spence nodded and said, “I can understand that,” as he watched a semi back up to the loading dock with the precision of a mallard duck landing on a pond. “But how does keeping him here longer make it any easier? If you don't think he'll get the job done, it might be kinder to let him start looking for another position now. Finding a job at fifty-five's easier than sixty.”

“Pro'bly.”

“We need somebody to do the work we hired him to do. Somebody who gets his hands dirty too. Fred has done next to nothing to learn about our products, standard manufactured
or
customized, not in any kind of depth.”

“I know, but—”

“You want to hear something funny?”

“Sure.”

“You know how Fred sings all the time, at the Christmas party or wherever he can find a piano in public? How he jumps up and starts right in on show tunes and Frank Sinatra?”

“Yeah. Sorry to say I do.” Booker smiled and shoved a hand through his hair, pushing it back against the wind.

“When I was up in Detroit last week working with the parts manufactures, I ran into a guy who'd worked with Fred Heffner at G.M. You know how Fred said that he'd resigned because he didn't ‘like the direction G.M. was going?' Well, this guy said the real story was that the wife of a V.P. in Fred's division liked to sing at cocktail parties and dinners and wherever, and Fred always made a beeline for the piano before she could get there. Apparently she got so irritated with him stealing her thunder, she talked her husband into firing him.”

Spence and Booker both laughed, before Booker shook his head. “Man, I hope that's not true. What kind of commentary would that be on big company decision-making? I mean that's absolutely crazy.”

“I wouldn't be completely surprised, would you? The big three squeeze their suppliers, overproduce intentionally and can't see it's wasteful, and spend so much on executive nonsense it makes you wonder what their boards are up to.”

“You won't get me to argue with that.”

“Don't you think we could find someone really competent to fill Fred's position if we took our time and used an experienced headhunter?”

“Let me talk to Alice and see where she stands. Anything else?”

“Yes. I thought I'd take Tara to see them breezing at Keeneland before work some morning. You and Mom want to come along too?”

Something closed behind Booker's eyes. And Spencer saw it for what it was. He cocked his head to one side, and circled his shoulders as though they needed to be loosened up while he watched his dad's face.

“I don't think so, Spence. I do my best work at five in the morning when you'd be going to the track, and I hate to cut it short.”

“That's okay. Let me know what Mom thinks about Fred.”

Alice had a day, by the end of it, that she would've liked to forget. The easy part was talking to Jack Freeman. He'd made an appointment and shown up early in a charcoal suit that looked like it might've belonged to someone larger. The belt was hiked high and the sleeves were too long, but the shoes were new and looked like they fit, and the shirt was neatly pressed.

She'd talked to him about what they needed done, primarily at the plant, but at her house in Midway too. She told him she'd be in the hospital for a few days, and that her husband would be going out of town not too long after that, and she'd like Booker to have a break from working in the yard for the next two or three months.

Jack told her about his experience with landscaping and fix-it kinds of jobs, and she agreed to take him on, doing yard work and exterior building maintenance. He was ready to start right away, but she knew from Alan Munro that he was still recovering from pneumonia, and they settled on the following Monday. She'd pay him by the hour both places and guarantee him thirty hours a week, maybe as much as forty, if he took on some of the interior plant maintenance as well as the work outside.

He hesitated before he said he preferred to work outside, but would certainly be willing to do what she needed in the plant as well.

It had looked to Alice as though he'd had to steel himself to say that, and for some largely intuitive reason, it made her even more willing to give Jack a chance. She liked his seriousness. And his humility. His honesty about his drinking. His appreciation of Alan and Jo, and what they'd been doing for him.

The conflict came later that afternoon when she stopped Michael Westlake in the hall. He'd been half an hour late coming back from lunch, and Alice could smell liquor on his breath. She asked him to join her in her office and close the door behind him.

He was a tall man, six-four or five, but very thin and un-athletic looking, and Alice watched him drop into a guest chair and sprawl against the back. He was sweating, and his limp brown hair looked damp around the edges as he rubbed his eyes with one hand. “I couldn't help being late. I was clear across town having lunch, and I ran out of gas on the way back. I know you said that if—”

“Michael, you've been drinking too, haven't you?”

“NO! No, I haven't. I used some mouthwash in the men's room, but—”

“I wish you well, Michael. I really do. But we're going to have to part company. I explained that to you last week. I'd be glad to put you in touch with someone who could help. I know one of the men who leads A.A. in town, and a doctor who's had a lot of experience, but—”

“I don't need any help. I told you that before. What I need is this job.” His hands were steadier than they had been that morning, as they wiped at his face with a crumpled handkerchief. But his chin had started to tremble, and he lowered it toward his chest, as he said, “Please, Mrs. Franklin. Give me another chance.”

Alice looked away toward the file drawers next to her desk, to give them both time to recover. “Michael, we've talked about the tardiness four times. It's documented in your personnel file. We've talked about the drinking twice. I want to help, I really do, but nothing will change for the better until you can see you have a problem.”

“
You
don't wantta help! What the hell do you know about my life? You and Booker. The King and Queen. So cool and superior! I s'ppose you're gonna tell me you've been praying for me too!” He was leaning forward now, across the top of her desk, his face red, the veins in his neck straining against the skin, the mouth gaping and vicious.

“We'll give you six months' salary and pay for an employment agency, but—”

“You
bitch
!” He was shouting, standing now and leaning over her.

Alice stood too and said, “I want you to leave my office. Go home and call me later when you're ready to talk more calmly.”

“Oh, I'll go alright!” He wrenched open the door and grabbed up the guest chair he'd been sitting in and shoved it toward Alice's face. He twisted sideways, then threw it out the door, where it crashed into the wall on the other side of the hall. “You'll regret this! You and Booker! You better look over your shoulder, bitch, 'cause I'll be coming after you!”

“You better look over
your
shoulder, buster!” Spence had sprinted down the hall and grabbed Michael from behind. He wrenched his arm behind his back and shoved him down a hundred feet of hall and out through the front door.

Michael shouted and swore and tried to break his grip, but stopped struggling, finally, in the parking lot. He laid his forehead on the roof of his car, his upper body shaking, while Spencer tried not to watch.

When Michael stood up and opened his car door, Spence said he could take him home if he wasn't okay to drive.

Michael didn't answer. He found his keys and climbed in his car, then backed out and drove off alone.

Alice watched them from her office window – until Booker ran in from the plant, where Alice's secretary, Peggy James, had found him working with one of the welders.

“You okay? Allie?” Booker walked up behind her and tightened his arms around her waist.

She nodded and leaned back against him, before she said, “I'm fine. It's unnerving though. Seeing someone break down like that. It's got to be horrible for him.”

“I feel the same way when Jeff Grady calls at three in the morning from some bar in Wichita, 'cause I'm the only one he can think of he hasn't phoned that week.”

“Michael's never said anything about his home life. But he must have troubles there, don't you think? That—”

“You can't do anything about that. You had to let him go.”

“Maybe there was more we could've done that we never thought of.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know. I've never thought of it.” She smiled.

Booker laughed and kissed the top of her head.

“I hope I haven't made things worse.”

“This wasn't your fault, and you can't let yourself worry about it. You're having surgery tomorrow, and you need to rest and take care of yourself.”

“I know. I agree. Let's just hope there's not another letter from Tyler in the afternoon mail.” She smiled and turned and kissed Booker, then went and sat at her desk. “Can you leave by four-thirty, so we can meet Martha's plane?”