Clemmie (6 page)

“Yes sir,” she said. And left, setting her heels down firmly.

As he walked to Purchasing to talk to Chernek, he thought of Paul Ober and what Ober might mean to him personally. U. S. Automotive was known throughout the industry for ruthlessness on the executive level. Competition between top men was savage. According to company
policy, you did not stay in one place for long. You were promoted or weeded out. This lack of paternalism on the executive level seemed to keep the total operation, all twelve plants, more profitable. Though the name was still U. S. Automotive, horizontal expansion had taken the corporation into textiles, chemicals, plastics, and electronics. The Quality Metal Products Division was the only manufacturing facility which still had a substantial share of production taken by the automobile industry, but a lot of that output was flash merchandise for independents and retail chains—side mirrors, hood ornaments, hub caps, chrome stripping, dashboard accessories.

The previous plant manager, Harvey Haley, had reached retirement age in January. Paul Ober had arrived to take over. He had a reputation throughout the corporation and the industry as a tough and effective trouble-shooter. His assignment to Quality Metal Products was an indication of the dissatisfaction of the Board with plant operations. It was rumored that he would spend a couple of years chopping out dead wood and tautening operations and then be assigned to the next problem plant.

Ober brought with him one tall, blonde, plain, chilly private secretary named Commerford—frighteningly efficient and apparently emotionless—and one small, fat, impassive man with thick glasses named L. T. Rowdy. Rowdy attended all executive conferences and never spoke. He could stand for two hours watching one manufacturing operation without seeming to move, or breathe. On rare occasions he would make a notation in a dimestore notebook with a slim, gold pencil.

Ober was not as ominous as his two assistants. He was a tall man in his early forties, without office softness or office pallor. He dressed casually, had roan, bushy hair worn too long, glasses with heavy black frames, a shaggy mustache, and a pipe. He was languid and gracious and soft-spoken. The hair, mustache, pipe and glasses made it difficult to remember just what he looked like. But you couldn’t forget the eyes. They were large, brown, moist eyes, harmless as a puppy’s. He had the absent-minded manner of a visiting professor. He seemed to know the personal history of every executive at Quality.

As the weeks went by they learned he was unmarried,
that he was living in one of the newest apartment buildings in Stoddard, that he drove a rented car. He kept casual working hours and took frequent trips. One by one he entertained the executives and their wives at his apartment. When Craig and Maura had been invited, it had been a disarming evening. Ober left no opening for shop talk. He was amusing in his own quiet way. The excellent dinner was served by a Negro named Howard.

On the way home, Maura had said, “I hope we passed inspection.”

“Why do you say it that way?”

“He’s a very intense man, darling. Intense and watchful and guarded. And cold as a snake. There is a word for him.”

“Dedicated?”

“No. That seems to imply moral values. Committed is a better word. He is one-hundred per cent committed to his function, and it leaves no room for anything else. No room for softness or friendship or love. He would be frightfully impatient with anyone who isn’t also committed.”

Craig knew that Ober made him uneasy. He had been too long in his present job. Though it was not his fault, the job was a dead end job. There seemed to be no place to go. He knew he did the demanding work well, but the record would show that he was static. There was really no reason to be uneasy.

He went over the new materials list in Bill Chernek’s office, and they changed the scheduling on two orders to give a less dangerous safety margin.

Craig sighed and stood up, glancing at his watch, and said, “I’m off to see the wizard.”

Bill grinned. “Take away the hair, mustache, pipe and glasses, and what have you got?”

“You haven’t got Shirley Temple.”

“Stop dating yourself, Fitz.”

“Okay. You haven’t got Julie Harris.”

Bill crossed his fingers and said, “Don’t lead with the right.”

Ober’s private office adjoined the main conference room. It was the first time Craig had been in the office since Haley had retired. He had half expected to see it
unchanged, but the redecoration was extensive. It was no longer an office. It seemed like a small private lounge, with leather chairs, draperies, decorator colors, a large photomural of the industrial complex on the east side of the river, showing Quality Metals and the neighboring plants. Miss Commerford showed him in and closed the door behind him without a sound.

Ober was alone, sitting on a couch, studying papers fastened to a clip-board. Craig felt relieved that Rowdy wasn’t present. Ober put the board aside, stood up and shook hands, and had Craig sit near him on a chair turned toward the couch.

“Maura and the kids enjoying England?”

“Very much, from her letters.”

“Good, good.” Ober packed his pipe carefully. “I’ve been thinking about you, Craig. About your work. Your record is good.”

“Thanks.”

Ober got the pipe lighted. “What you are doing seems to be essential. But I can’t imagine you being satisfied with the work.”

Craig said warily, “Why not?”

Ober shrugged. “It’s pretty mechanical. It has no scope. Got any idea how we could eliminate your job?”

“There’s several ways, all of them impossible.”

“What are they?”

“Put nothing through the plant but large runs of standardized orders. Eliminate design changes. That’s one way. Or tear this down and build a new plant, modern and flexible. That will have to happen some day, when this old crock finally won’t give any return on the investment. We’re operating on the basis of patch and pray.”

Ober nodded mildly. “You’re called an assistant plant manager. You’re a glorified production chaser, Craig.”

“Call it co-ordinator. It sounds better.”

Ober slouched and closed his eyes. Craig sat uncomfortably for several long minutes. Without opening his eyes Ober said, “Here we have a pretty problem. Fifty-five per cent of production proposes no special problems. But we can’t show a profit operating at that per cent of capacity. So we scramble for orders, and shave prices to build capacity up to the point where we get a return on the investment. The plant and at least half the equipment
is obsolete. We get a lot of nuisance orders through the shop. Small quantities. The index of your efficiency, Fitz, is the Percentage of Utilization Report. You fight with the order takers, with engineering, with purchasing, with production. And design. You’re caught in a closed circuit.”

“I guess that’s right.”

Ober straightened up, leaned forward and tapped Craig on the knee. “So let’s come up with the Fitz plan. A plan to get this plant—and you—out of this closed circuit problem. Bring me an idea a week from today, Craig.”

“But—”

Ober stood up and Craig stood up. “It’s an old gambit, Craig. I’m asking you to think yourself out of a job. Fly high. Look down on the jungle. Don’t try to cut a trail through it.”

He eased Craig into the outer office and said, “Commerford, set Mr. Fitz up for the same time next Friday.”

“Yes, sir,” she said in an outer-space voice.

“And bring me the Chernek file. See you Friday, Craig.”

As he went back to his own office he felt a sullen resentment. So Quality Metal Products was tottering along. That was obvious. But there were a hell of a lot of smart people trying to figure out an answer. Why expect one Craig Fitz to come up with a miraculous solution? You couldn’t pick and choose the kind of orders you wanted to fill. You couldn’t suddenly come up with a miracle item and make it and market it yourself.

He was correcting and signing memos when Betty came back from lunch.

“How did it go?” she asked quickly.

“I don’t know how it went. I don’t know what he’s thinking. I don’t know what he’s trying to do.”

“Did he criticize?”

“I don’t know that either.”

“But what did he want?”

He looked up at her impatiently. “Nothing at all. He just wants me to come up with a genius-type idea that will eliminate my job.”

“Dear God!”

The rest of the day was peaceful, relatively speaking. A vacation snarl caused an intricate rescheduling. An anticipated re-order didn’t come in. A breakdown turned out, for once, to be noncritical, as stand-by equipment was immediately available. Stores made an inventory error which could be corrected by an air-express shipment. John Terrill came in to grouse about the jigs and fixtures required for one of the new orders. Even though the troubles were minor, it seemed to Craig that he could very easily react to them too emotionally. He wanted to yell and wave his arms—or break into tears. It seemed like a monstrously long afternoon. He would have to come in Saturday to catch up on some paper work, and then endure the rest of the long, empty week end.

Bill Chernek left at the same time he did and, as they walked to the lot, Bill said, “Ruthie left me. For a week. She took the kids and went up to her mother’s place at Lake Ruskin. So how about we howl a little, brother bachelor? Take off some of the Ober-bearing pressure.”

“Not if you make puns like that.”

“Come on, boy. I join Ruthie a week from tonight when my overdue vacation starts. You’ve looked and acted sour for weeks. You’re stale, my friend. We’ll get tight and act loose. So say yes and start to cheer up.”

Craig cheered up immediately. “Where do we start?” He liked Bill Chernek. Bill was about four years younger than Craig. He was the purchasing agent for Quality Metals, buying all those items not centrally purchased out of New York. He was a big, cheery, blond man, rapidly taking on too much weight. He had been a college football player, a Marine, and later a salesman. He liked to explain how he’d had so many purchasing agents say no that he thought the only defense was to get on the other side of the desk. He was bright and shrewd and likable.

“I want to clean up first,” Bill said. “I like to drink clean. Tell you what, you go home and leave your car and take a cab down to Nick’s Bar on Mallory. I’ll do the same. Then we don’t have to sweat out anybody’s driving. After a little of Nick’s liquid inspiration, we’ll cook up something.”

Part of the enthusiasm faded while Craig was on his way home, bucking the heavy traffic on the bridge. Bill
had a reputation for getting thoroughly loaded and becoming a problem. But it was certainly better than an evening alone, no matter what happened.

There was a letter from Maura. He threw it on the bed. When he was ready for his shower, he opened it.

Craig, dearest,

It is one of the loveliest days, so clear and bright. It is like a day sent back out of my childhood. Yesterday was almost as good. We made a picnic and I took the girls in the Hillman to Lowestoft, to the beach there. We walked on the rocky beach. The sea was running very heavy. Puss just sat and stared at it, while Penny became quite a mad thing, running, waving her arms, and shouting at it.

I must tell you that I have been dealt with firmly by the girls. They consent to return to their normal identities when we come back, but while here they will be Priscilla and Penelope from now on. It seems to them more suitable. Long Melford is positively acrawl with children, and a great many of them seem to be children of my childhood friends. Penelope and Priscilla are quickly taking on protective coloration, dressing as the other children do and aping their speech. They indulge in long intricate games in the back garden, and become very sticky indeed if tea should be late. Poor dears, they seem to be caught between two worlds.

And now I must tell you about myself. I was half afraid to come back here. I had the idea I might slip back into this world I came from so completely that suddenly all the years with you would take on the quality of a dream. But I cannot get back into this world. I am a visiting American. I hardly know or remember the child who grew up here. I have talked endlessly with old friends, and they seem to recall perfectly so many things I had quite forgotten. They tell me of horrid things that have happened to people I cannot remember. It seems as though I am
impersonating Maura Thatcher and I have not been properly briefed.

I made another poor estimate of the situation. I had imagined they would all be avid to hear about how we live. But they do not wish to hear about the States. They make me feel a liar when I say anything which goes contrary to what they have learned from the flicks. They live behind what I shall call the tea curtain, and do not care to have anyone attempt to dislodge their odd notions about the States.

Yesterday, darling, I met a man from my past. I believe I must have been all of twelve years old when I had a crush on him. He was very important then, because he had the only motorbike in the village, and it was a gaudy red. I had but to come upon him unexpectedly, and my knees would go all cottony, and the world would swim, and I would bumble about on the verge of a swoon.

He is a greengrocer now, and he must weigh close to twenty stone, a great gross man with an incredible number of chins, smelling of suet and spices. His wife is wispy and defeated. I knew her as a rather mild girl, some years younger than myself. After his wife went to the back of the shop, Harry seemed to think it required of him to puncuate our conversation with little pats and nudges. Believe me, it was a very short talk we had.

My mother, of course, is anxious to know all the details of how we live. But she has gone quite deaf and refuses to admit it. She nods and smiles and then says things that show clearly she hasn’t heard me. In some curious fashion her deafness does not keep her from hearing my father’s voice. She is somehow adjusted to it. They both quite obviously adore the girls. Tomorrow Elizabeth arrives from London with her two little boys. How we shall all fit in this house, I cannot say. It seems much smaller than it did before. Penny and Puss are all electric about meeting their cousins, and ask odd questions.