Dog Food and Diamonds
K. C. Scott
Smashwords Edition. Electronic edition published by Flying Raven Press, August 2010. Copyright © 2010 by K.C. Scott.
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction, in whole or in part in any form. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Find out more about Flying Raven Press titles at http://www.flyingravenpress.com.
Editor's Note: A pre-copyedited version of this manuscript was earlier made available by mistake; this version of the manuscript contains the author's final corrections. Thank you to our readers for bringing this to our attention and for your understanding.
Chapter 1
THE PILOT WAS SAYING she really didn't want to do this, that it was a bad idea, that a helicopter was too expensive a piece of machinery to go around acting all willy-nilly with it. She actually used those words. Willy-nilly. Jeff wondered if it was a Minnesota thing. Her voice crackled with static, and even with his headset on she was still hard to hear over the constant thrumming of the helicopter blades.
The cockpit was cold and cramped. Outside, the sky was a pristine blue, and the white landscape below seemed like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Puffs of smoke rose lazily from farmhouse chimneys. Leafless oaks and maples, clothed in icicles, glinted in the sunlight. For somebody else it might have been beautiful, but for Jeff it was simply a reminder of a childhood he wanted to forget.
He looked at the pilot—a thirtiesh woman with black hair tied in a pony tail, mirrored sunglasses hiding her eyes—and flashed her his best smile. Jeff had discovered early in life that if he smiled, and put on the charm, he could get just about anything. From friends, teachers, women. Especially women. "It'll be fine," he reassured her.
"Ya know, I'm really not s'pposed to land anywhere dat's not an approved landing site, sir," she said, her voice heavy with her Midwestern accent.
"Oh, what's the fun in that?"
"It could be my job, sir."
"I guarantee you that won't happen." And Jeff could. When you were about to take the reins of the world's number two retailer, you pretty much could guarantee anything. "Plus, I'll make sure you receive a nice tip."
She swallowed. "Company policy doesn't allow us to—"
"How does a thousand dollars sound?"
"—accept any . . didya say a thousand dollars?"
Twenty minutes later, the helicopter touched down on the snow-packed parking lot outside the main building. There were ten buildings in all, identical in appearance, sleek and austere, looking like fifties era schools with their small, evenly-spaced windows and cream-colored exterior. The whirring blades spread the inch of fresh snow over cars and trucks as far as a dozen rows away.
He opened the door and stepped outside, his leather shoes slipping a bit on the hard snow pack. The frigid wind, roaring in his ears, pushed down on him from above. Droves of employees had flooded outside the buildings. Most of them gaped at him as if he had just dropped down from the moon, but when he reached the doors, a couple of young guys in white dress shirts and subdued ties pushed through the crowd and took his baggage.
There were a few words of greeting, a lot of yahs and you betchas, a request by him for a cappuccino (which they didn't have, naturally), and then the young guys lead him through the lobby, past a maze of cubicles filled with the sound of people clicking on keyboards, down a long narrow hallway with threadbare blue carpet, up a short flight of stairs, past another maze of cubicles, and finally to another lobby. A elderly woman sat behind an only slightly less monstrous oak desk than the one out front. There were two opaque glass doors behind her.
"You have yourself an appointment, dear?" the woman asked, smiling up at him. With her gray hair and rosy cheeks, she looked like Betty Crocker. He had no idea what Betty Crocker looked like, but he imagined she had to look a lot like this woman. She also looked familiar, and he sensed it was more than the Betty Crocker-ness thing she had going for her.
"Dis is Mister Martin, yah," the young man said to her.
She laughed. "Oh, dontcha be acting all silly. Mister Martin's in his office."
"No," the young man said, "dis is Jeff Martin, Mister Martin's son."
"Mister Martin's son!" the woman exclaimed. Jeff realized now that if she wasn't completely batty, then she was at least most of the way there. "Little Jeffy? Oh, he's much too old to be little Jeffy."
Now it came back to Jeff. "Mrs. Cranberry?" he said.
She stopped laughing. Could it really be her? He remembered her being old the last time he had been there—what, fifteen years ago?—and she didn't look much older now. She slipped on the glasses hanging from her neck and squinted at him.
"So t'is you," she said, chuckling. "Couldn't pronounce Crazelbergin so you always called me Mrs. Cranberry. Oh, my, you've become a regular giant! How tall you now?"
"A hair over six feet two," Jeff said, leaning on the counter. He was genuinely glad to see her. She'd always been nice to him, making sure he had crayons and paper the few times he spent the day with Dad, back before he went off to boarding school and never looked back. "But you—you look lovelier than ever."
A pink flush spread across her cheeks and she patted at her bob of hair. "Such a flatterer. How old you, then? Eighteen? You graduate from high school, yah?"
"Try twenty-eight," he said. "Just finished graduate school, actually."
"Graduate school, too! You become a rocket scientist? You always said you were going to be a regular rocket scientist."
"Actually, I got an MBA."
"Oh. You mean you play basketball?"
He was trying to think of a way to describe an MBA when the door on the left opened and a man stepped outside. He was short and pudgy, dressed in a navy blue suit that may have once fit but now strained against his belly. His face was round, his features doughy; he was bald except for a few dozen glistening strands of gray and black hair combed straight forward, almost touching his thick dark eyebrows. He had the kind of feverish eyes you expected to find on mad scientists and drug addicts. There was a gold chain dangling from his pocket, and he pulled out a pocket watch and popped it open. He glanced at this for a few seconds before closing it and stepping forward. Jeff expected him to say I'm late, I'm late for a very important date...
"Good to meet you," the man said. When he spoke, he made eye contact only once, before his gaze flitted away, never resting on any one person or object for long. "You had a good trip, I take it? Yah? Good, good. I'm Horace Dugin. You want something to drink? Coffee? Agnes, can ya get him a cup of coffee?"
"That's all right," Jeff said, "I don't like regular coffee."
"Take cream, dear?" Mrs. Cranberry asked, rising from her desk.
"He likes cappuccino," one of the young men said.
"Who?" Mrs. Cranberry said. "You got a girlfriend, Jeffy?"
"No, really," Jeff said, "I don't drink—"
"No time for jokes," Horace said, looking at his watch again. "Your father wants to talk to you straight away. Bring da coffee in when you get it, Agnes."
"I don't drink coffee," Jeff said, but Horace had already turned and headed toward the other door.
Horace tapped on the glass but didn't wait for a reply before opening the door. The first thing Jeff saw in the spacious room was his father sitting behind a gray metal desk with chrome edges, a huge scratched and dented behemoth that looked like it had once made the finals of a crash derby with other ugly desks. Jeff remembered it. It had been the first thing Dad bought when he went into business, and it was a source of pride for him that he had never sold it.
His father's face was gaunt and pale, and when he pursed his lips all the color went out of them. His white hair was shaved so close Jeff could see his scalp. He wore a gray flannel suit that had gone out of style somewhere in the fifties, and Jeff was struck with how small and shriveled he looked in the clothes, all the more so because he remembered, when he was young, how imposing his father had seemed behind that desk. Still, he had that same fierce, commanding presence—sitting rigidly upright, eyes blazing, jaw clenched. He had reached the rank of colonel before retiring from the Navy, and lots of people still called him Colonel Marv.
"Son," he said.
He had the kind of deep baritone that could make little boys pee their pants. Jeff felt the urge himself. Dear god, what was happening here? He wasn't six. He was a grown man. He would not ask to go to the bathroom. He would hold it. Dad wasn't going to get the best of him.
"Hi, Dad," he said, and it came out like the squeak a panicked mouse would make.
So he wouldn't have to meet Dad's eyes, Jeff looked around the room. There were a couple of pictures of dogs playing poker, a bookshelf with pictures of Dad with various Presidents, and two simple wooden chairs in front of the desk. The window looked out into the parking lot, and Jeff saw the circular spot in the snow where the helicopter had touched down. This should have made him happy, because he had been hoping Dad would see the helicopter, but instead it made him afraid.
"Sit down," Dad said.
"I've been sitting for quite a while already," Jeff said, but by the time he had finished the sentence he was already sitting. So was Horace. It was that damn voice. The man could have done voiceovers for Charlton Heston. He was also one of the few people at the head office who didn't have the Midwestern accent. Jeff remembered him claiming he had lost it while he was in the military. And he always said it with a bit of regret, which Jeff found funny, because he had worked hard to eliminate his own accent as soon as he went off to boarding school.
Dad drummed his fingers on his desk. "Well, you want to explain that little stunt out there?"
"Hmm?" Jeff said. This was an old game. If his father asked him about something Jeff had done that he perceived as wrong, Jeff's first response was to play dumb.
"You know what I'm talking about."
"Oh," Jeff said. The room was feeling warmer. Had somebody turned up the heat? "Oh, well, I just thought—"
"A lack of thinking is your problem," Dad said.
"Right," Jeff said, nodding.
"I sent a car for you."
"Right."
"And you came in a helicopter."
"I did. I mean, well, that's one way of looking at it, I suppose."
"What other way is there of looking at it?"
"What? Oh. Well. I guess there isn't."
"Why'd you do it?"
Jeff shrugged. He crossed his legs. He really had to find a restroom now.
"Nobody was hurt," Horace piped in, and looked at his watch again. "I called down to da front desk myself."
Jeff tensed. It was one thing to be scolded by his father, and something else to be criticized by this mousy little guy. "I wouldn't have landed if there was a chance—"
"What's done is done," Dad said, waving his hand dismissively. "You can't take it back now. You have your trust fund and you can spend the money any damn way you please. Your mother wanted it that way and hell if I'm going to go against her wishes. What's done is done."
"What's done is done," Horace said, nodding.
The phone buzzed.
"Coffee time!" Mrs. Cranberry said over the intercom. "Should I bring it in?"
"Yes!" all three of them said at once.
They didn't speak as Mrs. Cranberry brought Jeff his coffee in a blue and white Martco mug. She didn't bring anything for the other two. When she'd left, Jeff took a big gulp, realizing too late that the coffee was scalding hot. His eyes filled up with tears.
"Nice coffee," he croaked.
"Never touch the stuff," Dad said.
"Me either," Horace said.
"Gives me gas," Dad said.
"Me too," Horace said. He looked at his watch.
Jeff nodded, lifted the mug to his mouth to take another drink, then thought better of it. He reached to put it on his father's desk, then thought better of this too, and just let it rest on his lap. His thin pants didn't provide much protection from the searing heat, but he had already committed himself so he just sat there and bore the pain. At least it gave him something else to think about other than his bladder.
"Let's get right to the point," Dad said. "You're here because we made an agreement. I told you that when you finished school, you could take over the company. Well, you've got your degree. I checked."
Jeff didn't like how that sounded—I checked—but he didn't say anything.
"And now you're here," Dad said.
"Yes, sir. Ready to go."
"I'm sure you are. But you see, before we can do that, before I can trust you with a company that grossed over a hundred and thirty billion dollars last year, I have to tell you—well...I have a few concerns."
"One hundred and thirty-nine billion," Horace said. "Our gross sales, that is. Not the number of concerns."
For the first time since Jeff could remember, Dad didn't sound all that sure about himself. Some of that military swagger was gone. He just sounded like an old man.
"Dad, if it's about the helicopter—"
"It's not just the helicopter," Dad said.
"He's got concerns," Horace said.
Jeff glared at him. "Do you mind? I'm trying to have a conversation with my father."
"Son," Dad said, and the sternness was back in his voice. "You really shouldn't talk to Horace that way. He's going to be your new boss."
"Dad, if you think I can't..." Jeff trailed off, his mind trying to make sense of what he had just heard. "He's going to be my what?"
Chapter 2
THE NICE LADY in the paint-spotted blue overalls was informing Carol that Carol was going to be late. Not exactly in those words, of course. What she was actually saying was that Red Barn Daycare was closed for renovations, and for the last month this fact had been included in the newsletter, typed at the bottom of the invoices, and posted on the door. And, the nice lady insisted, pointing with a finger caked with white paint, the sign was still taped to the inside of the glass. Carol saw that the yellow butcher paper was faded and wrinkled from the sun, but the words written with a thick red marker were still unfortunately clear: PLEASE MAKE OTHER ARRANGEMENTS. WE WILL BE CLOSED THE FIRST WEEK OF FEBRUARY.
"But I didn't know," Carol pleaded.
The woman, a redhead so slender and perfect even in paint clothes that Carol was sure that she had never given birth, smiled sadly. "I'm sorry, dear. I wish I could help."
Rain tapped on the metal awning above them. If it was February in Delburg, Oregon, Carol knew you could almost always count on rain. She liked how it kept everything green, but she could have done without the oppressive dreariness. Especially when it was coupled with a cold, stiff wind, the case that particular Monday. The frigid air clamped down on her nylon-covered legs. She never wore nylons. She almost never wore a dress either. But this was for an interview. And she was going to be late. And she had worn nylons. She wanted to cry.
"What if I said please?"
"That would be nice. But I'd still say no."
"Pretty please?"
"No."
Sam tugged on the hem of Carol's dress. His blond hair nearly covered his eyes. In his faded denim jacket and pants, he looked like a young James Dean. His only negative was that he looked like Alex. Of course, she would never hold that against him.
Even though Alex was a prick, he had been a good looking prick, and he had passed those good looks on to Sam. If Carol ever saw her ex-husband again, she'd have to thank him for that. She doubted she would see him again, though. The last she'd heard, Alex was smoking pot on a reservation in Nevada with a Navaho girl whose named rhymed with ho. Spring Row? Water Flow? She could never remember exactly, but it had definitely rhymed with ho.
"I don't mind paint smell, Mrs. Jorgan," Sam said. "It kinda smells nice. And I can help. I like painting. I pro'ly have my own paint brush in my bag. I have lots of stuff in my bag."
He slipped off his blue backpack, which looked about to burst, and set it on the concrete stoop. Carol had been trying to get Sam to thin out the contents of his bag for months, with no luck. He insisted he wanted everything with him in case they had to move again, which was one of those things she wished she'd never heard him say because she stayed up nights thinking about it.
"That's all right," Mrs. Jorgan said.
"But he doesn't mind the smell of paint," Carol said. She realized this made her sound insane, but she was desperate. She had to make that interview. Sam's future college education depended on it. "Pleeeeease, Mrs. Jorgan?"
And now she sounded like a five-year old. How low would she go? Grovel, Carol, grovel.
"No."
"Pretty, pretty, pretty, please?"
"I'm sorry."
"I'll pay double."
Mrs. Jorgan laughed. By the glint in her eyes, Carol could see that she was amused. "It really doesn't matter. There's no place for him."
"Wash your car?"
Mrs. Jorgan shook her head.
"Clean your toilets?"
"Goodbye, Carol. See you next time, Sam."
"Bye, Mrs. Jorgan," Sam said. "I like paint."
"Massage your feet?" Carol said.
The door closed. Carol wondered if there was something else she could come up with that would sway Mrs. Jorgan, but she couldn't think of anything. She could offer to pay something insane like a thousand dollars, but then, if she had a thousand dollars, she wouldn't be working at Martco as a Customer Service Supervisor. She would have been at home with Sam. That's what she did when Alex was still a gainfully employed college professor at Willamette State College, before he decided to stick his totem pole in Dances with Hos and find out what all the fuss was about peyote and peace pipes.
She took Sam's hand. "Come on. We'll think of something."
She popped open her umbrella and led him back to her white Tercel. Getting into the car, she caught her leg on a tear in the vinyl seat and heard her nylon rip. "Figures," she said.
"Do I get to come to work with you today, Mommy?"
"No, Mommy has an important interview. We'll figure out something."
The inside of her car still smelled like the Chinese takeout from the previous night. As they headed home, she racked her brain for a solution, but nothing came to her. Her driver side windshield wiper barely worked, leaving the glass on her side blurry. Through the gaps in the pines off to her right, she saw the Willamette river surging high and gray on the muddy banks. When she first moved, she thought Sam might go swimming there, but after she found out how dirty it was—it only escaped being labeled a Superfund site by a technicality—she would never let him.
It made her sad, thinking about this, and she felt like crying again. What was it with her today? Her period was weeks away. The interview. She was getting all worked up about a damn Martco interview. She had a degree in Psychology and she was getting worked up about this. She would not cry. She would not.
"Are you crying, Mommy?" Sam asked.
"No," Carol said, sniffling.
"Don't be sad. I love you, Mommy."
"Oh, I love you, too, sweetie. We just need to find somebody to watch you."
"Um...I could watch myself."
That got her to laugh. "I don't think you're quite old enough for that yet."
"But I'd be good! I'd—I'd just stay inside and play with my Gameboy and read books and maybe do some drawing. I...I wouldn't even have any ice cream or cookies!"
"I know you wouldn't, honey. It's just that if Mommy left you alone, and other people found out about it, some nice people would come and take you away from me."
"Oh," he said, and fell silent.
A few blocks later, she reached her apartment complex, a drab two-story building the color of lima beans. It sat up on a little bluff, sheltered from the wind by dense arborvitae and towering pines. Driving up the steep road, her tires squealing on wet asphalt, she realized she hadn't tried Dora. Dora, sweet old Dora with the trembling hands, who wasn't working today. After she parked, she pulled out her cell phone and dialed Dora's number.
"Hello?" Dora answered. Her voice was hoarse. Not a good sign.
"Hi, it's Carol."
"Oh, Carol dear, how are you?" Under the best of circumstances, Dora was hard to hear, but now Carol really had to strain to understand her.
"How am I? How are you? You sound terrible."
She coughed. "Oh, just a little flu. Nothing to worry about."
Carol's heart sank. "I'm sorry to bother you."
"Oh, don't be. I'd invite you over for tea and biscuits, but I certainly don't want you to get what I have."
"Well, I was just calling to say hello. Get better soon, okay?"
"Of course, dearie. I have to work tomorrow."
"Don't worry about that. I'll schedule you for extra hours if you need to make up for it. Just take care of yourself."
"Yes, dearie. Of course."
Carol knew that despite how badly Dora felt, and no matter how often Carol would tell her to stay home, Dora would still be there tomorrow. When you were living off your dead husband's measly pension and a couple hundred dollars from Social Security, you didn't have a lot of choice. Feeling even more miserable, Carol clicked off the phone and watched rain dribbling down her front window.
"Am I gonna go to the nice old lady who smells like candy, Mommy?" Sam asked.
"No, dear."
"Then where?"
"I'm not sure."
"Are we going to stay in the car?"
"No, dear." But she actually considered it. They could just sit there until the interview was long gone, until the next day came and she had to start her shift, until she was fired, until her rent was due and she was eventually kicked out of the apartment, and then they'd be living out of the car. So they wouldn't have far to go. "I just need to think, dear."
"Okay," Sam said. He was silent a moment. "Um...can I go inside and watch cartoons? You can stay here."
She sighed. They got out of the car and headed up the stone steps. She didn't even bother opening the umbrella. What was the point? The alcove at the top had two doors, and hers was on the left. The green and yellow cardboard "Home Sweetss Home" sign, a Sam Kinnington original, was tacked to the door. Putting the key in her lock, she tried to think of somebody she could trust. Nancy was sure to be working at the hospital. David would be awkward. If she hadn't slept with him, maybe she could do it, but ever since that stupid night their friendship had gone all weird. She knew she was playing with fire, not having better backup daycare.
The other apartment door swung open, making her jump.
"Heya Carol!"
She turned, putting on a fake smile. Her young muscle-head neighbor, Tony, had a black plastic trash bag slung over his shoulder. Tony spent his free time in two ways: lifting weights in his apartment, and getting in as many free sessions as he could at the tanning salon where he worked. When he first moved in late last year, Tony was tan but a normal tan, as if he had just gotten back from a two-week trip to the Bahamas. Now his skin was the color of caramel.
Lately he had bulked up even more than when she first met him, and he had also taken to wearing T-shirts and stretch pants way too tight. His muscles stretched against his thin white T-shirt, a shirt inscribed with the slogan "Lift or Die." The worst part were his black nylon stretch pants. She could practically make out every bump and wrinkle in his package. Every time she saw him in those, she had to stifle the urge to say, "So, hang to the left, huh?"
She also had her suspicions that his increased obsession with tanning and muscles was a direct result of her calling a quick end to their dating. It had lasted a grand total of one night. In a moment of weakness, she had agreed to go to dinner with him. She had known he was too young, but she hadn't known by how much. She had hoped he was a baby-faced twenty-five, but no, he was a baby-faced nineteen, and that was too damn young when Carol was closing in on thirty. Thank god she hadn't slept with him.
"Going out?" he said.
"No, Tony, coming in. That's why our clothes are wet."
"Oh, right. Well, I'm just taking out the trash." He closed the door but didn't go anywhere. "Doing a little lifting today."
"Yeah, I can tell." Now why did she say that? She didn't need to encourage him.
He perked up. "Really? Well, I've been working on my gluts. What do you think?" He turned around and showed her his backside, flexing the muscles there. It was a nice ass, Carol had to admit—nice in a circus, freak show sort of way. "Twenty minutes a day for three months and you can have an ass just like this, Carol."
"Really? Wow, that's something. I have to go."
"Wait, before you do..."
Here it comes, Carol thought.
"I was thinking," he said, shifting the trash to the other shoulder. The distinct smell of garlic was coming from the bag, and there was another smell in the air, too. Suntan lotion. She had to keep looking at his eyes so he wouldn't think she was looking at his package. "I mean, if you don't have any plans, I make a mean lasagna. I think you remember. I'd be happy to show you how to do those glut exercises. We could make it a date. Say this Friday?"
Carol smiled. Now the hard part. "I'm afraid I have other plans."
"Oh really? With who?"
"Well, not that it's really your business, but with David." Behind her back, she crossed her fingers. It was a silly thing to do, but you just couldn't get ten years of Catholic school out of your system very easily.
"I thought you guys broke up."
"We got back together."
"Mommy told David that they can't be friends and sleeping partners," Sam said.
Carol laughed and glanced down, realized she was looking in the direction of Tony's package, then looked up again. "Kids," she said, shrugging. "Breakups, makeups, it all sounds the same."
"Okay," Tony said, his enthusiasm only slightly dimmed. "Well, if your plans change..."
"Sure," Carol said.
He started down the stairs. She turned to the lock and was hit with a wave of despair. Now she had to go inside and call her boss. Then another idea came to her. She was crazy to even think it, but she was out of options. And Tony really was a nice guy. Weird, but nice.
"Oh, Tony," she called after him.
He had been walking awfully slowly, his butt muscles flexing just a bit too much. He turned, triceps flexing, face expectant. "Yes?"
"Are you doing anything right now?" After the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to kick herself.
He swallowed. "Well, no..."
"Because I desperately need to make an interview that's supposed to happen in about ten minutes—"
"An interview? Really? For what?"
"For a job. At Martco."
"But you already work at Martco."
"A different job. A better job. Look, I really have to go. Could you do me a favor? Just hang around until I get back. It shouldn't be more than an hour."
He thought about it for about two seconds before replying with, "I'll do it if you agree to go on a date with me on Friday."
"Tony..."
"Okay, okay, a guy has to try. An hour, huh? Will I need to change any diapers?"
"Diapers!" Sam cried indignantly, crossing his arms and glaring at them with a huffy expression. "I don't wear diapers!"
"No," Carol said, "you won't have to change any diapers. You just have to hang out in our apartment. I'll leave my cell number if you have any problems."
"Well," Tony said, "I was in the middle of a workout, but I guess I could come over for a while." He grinned at Sam. "We could do some push-ups together, buddy."
"Really?" Sam said.
"Oh, that's all right," Carol said quickly. "Maybe you guys could just watch some cartoons."
Three minutes later she was on her way down the steps, back into the gray, rainy weather. She had exactly seven minutes to get to the store. She was going to be late, no doubt it. But not that late. Almost on time really. And when your life was as crazy as hers, almost on time was pretty much the same thing as exactly.
Chapter 3
JEFF HADN'T DONE DRUGS in quite a while, but there was a time when he had done plenty. Marijuana. Ecstasy. He'd even tried a little cocaine. Unlike some of his Yale fraternity brothers, he'd never gotten hooked on any of the stuff, not even alcohol. He had merely wanted to experiment to see what all the fuss was about, especially because Dad had warned him repeatedly to stay away from drugs and booze. But he still vividly remembered how the drugs affected his mind, changing and warping reality so everything seemed a bit off kilter. Sitting there in Dad's cavernous office, his mind reeling from what his father had just said, that's exactly how he felt. He wondered if Mrs. Cranberry had laced his coffee with something.
"You're joking," Jeff said.
"I'm afraid not, Jeff."
And when Dad used his first name, instead of calling him son, Jeff knew it wasn't a joke. He looked at the puffy man next to him, who was slumped in his chair and fiddling with his pocket watch. This guy? He couldn't believe it. He refused to believe it.
"Why?"
"Well," Dad said, "I'm not sure you're ready."
"I'm ready. I'm definitely ready. I was second in my class at Yale, Dad. I'm more ready than anyone." The stretch limo. The private jet. The skyscraper he was going to build in Chicago to house the new headquarters. Gone. All of it.
"I have no doubt you've got book smarts, son," Dad said. "Like your mother that way, bless her soul. But you've got to have more than book smarts to run Martco. The company wasn't built on book smarts. It was built on hard work and common sense."
"I've got common sense," Jeff protested. "I was in the boy scouts." One summer. And he dropped out before he even got his first badge. But he didn't say that.
"A lot of it's my fault," Dad father went on. "I realize this now. I've no one to blame but myself, and I take responsibility. That's what a man does, right Horace? Take responsibility for his actions?"
"You betcha," Horace said. "Take responsibility for his actions."
"Damn straight," Dad said. "Son, when your mother died, I didn't handle it well. I can see that now. I buried myself in my work, didn't see you had the proper upbringing so you'd be ready for this day. I regret that. I really do."
Jeff stewed silently. How could he not be ready? Yes, he didn't always take things seriously. Yes, he had spent most of his free time partying, but he knew that was just part of being young. He may not have gotten along well with Dad after Mom died, but he had been only eight. What could Dad expect? It wasn't like he had burned down the house. Well, except for the dining room, but it was really Dad's fault for leaving the matchbox out in the open like that.
"Dad," Jeff said, " I know I haven't always...you know, been the model son. I know that. But we both had a rough time after Mom died."
"It's not that," Dad said. "It's just, when you run a company like Martco, you can't always be thinking fun. A lot of people depend on you to see to the bottom line. I was hoping maybe you'd changed...maybe..." He shook his head. "Then you showed up in that helicopter."
"Dad, that was nothing. It was just a way to get from one point to another."
"Everything in life is just a way to get from one point to another, Jeff. It's the how that matters. So here's what I'm going to do. If you want a job with Martco, I welcome it. I'll make you Vice President of Special Marketing Projects. You'll report directly to Horace, who's going to be the new CEO. He's got twenty years of seasoning with the company and he has my trust. He doesn't have a college degree, but neither do I, and he knows retail like the back of his hand."
Jeff shook his head. Vice President of Special Marketing Projects? That sounded like a made-up position with no real power. The coffee that had burned the roof of his mouth was now burning a hole in his stomach. "Dad, please—"
"My mind's made up, son. We'll have Agnes draw up a memo this afternoon to let the rest of the company know. These things have a way of leaking out if you don't do it right away."
Horace used his shirt sleeve to clean the face of his watch. "You betcha. They always leak out if you don't do it right away."
Feeling desperate, Jeff decided to try a new tactic. "Okay, okay...let's say I take this position. If I do a good job, can we revisit this? Maybe you can put me in charge then."
Dad sighed. "I don't think so."
"But Dad..."
"Jeff, don't...You'll still have your trust fund. My stake will go into a trust fund, and you'll be paid out of that too when I'm gone. You just won't control it." He pressed a button on his phone. "Agnes, could you come in here please."
There was a pause. "In where?"
"My office, dear."
"Oh! Right!"
Jeff knew he should have been happy with Dad's offer. He would have all the money he could possibly need—heck, he almost did now—without a scrap of responsibility. But he wasn't. He didn't want to be known as just the son of the great Marv Martin, founder of Martco. He wanted to be known as the son who took Martco to an all new level. Leave his own mark. That sort of thing.
Then, as Mrs. Cranberry entered the room, he realized he had to do something now to change his Dad's mind or it would probably never happen. He sensed there was still a possibility, even if only a slim one, that he could bring Dad around. But he had to show him how much he needed one more chance. He spent several seconds agonizing. It would be so easy just to spend the rest of his life drinking cappuccinos and hitting on the secretaries...
"Didya want something, Mister Martin?" Mrs. Cranberry said. She had a yellow legal pad in hand.
"Yes, Agnes," Dad said, "I'd like you to take this down. We're going to—"
"I won't take the job, Dad," Jeff said, standing. "I won't do it. I'll walk right out of here and go make my own way, if I have to. Maybe that's how I can prove myself to you—prove that I can run Martco. Because I want to run Martco, Dad. I think I can, and I'll even sign over the trust fund, if that's what you want. I can prove it to you. You just need to give me a chance."
Dad studied him. Horace, who had removed his watch, dropped it on the carpet. Mrs. Cranberry, her eyes as vacant as empty soup bowls, smiled at him. Outside, it began to snow. Jeff hoped it was a sign.
"Should dat go in the memo?" Mrs. Cranberry asked.
"Agnes," Dad said slowly, "let's wait on the memo. We need to talk a bit more."
Still smiling, Mrs. Cranberry left them alone. None of them spoke for a while, but Jeff could see that Horace definitely wanted to say something. His face looked like a ripe tomato, all red and bloated. Jeff couldn't help but take a little pleasure in it. Not so fun when your dream is slipping away from you, is it buddy?
When Dad finally spoke, there was a certain happy lilt in his voice. "Well, there might be a way you can prove yourself..."
Chapter 4
WHEN SHE STARTED AT MARTCO, Carol remembered an old timer telling her the day would come when she actually liked coming into the store. This person—she didn't know him long, he died of a heart attack in the men's room shortly after she got there—said the smells, sights, and sounds of the place would make her feel right. Put her back in balance. It wouldn't take long. A couple of years, maybe. It didn't happen much to the part-timers, he said, the college kids and the seniors, but it happened to almost all the full-timers.
The lifers, he called them.
That's when she decided there was no way in hell she would ever like coming into Martco. The tall ceiling, the bright fluorescent lighting, the bland recycled air, the mind-numbing instrumental music, the cattle lines to the cash registers—it was all bad. You could tolerate just about anything when you had a child to feed, but she would never like it. But that Monday in February, as she hurried through the automatic doors, past the green plastic shopping carts, and over the gray mats and onto the white tile floor, there was a moment when she doubted her long held conviction. If she didn't like this place, then why on Earth was she still here? She could get a job somewhere else.
Couldn't she?
She closed her umbrella and shook off the water. The cold air followed her inside, snaking around her legs. She so seldom wore skirts that for a moment she was struck with the fear that she was wearing nothing below. She glanced down and was relieved to see that the blue skirt and black nylons were fully intact. She smiled at Janis, one of her regular greeters, but Janis gazed at her vacantly. Some of the old ones, if you took off your green apron, they really didn't recognize you.
Her heels clicked on the tiled floor. She passed through the clothing section, waving to some of the other employees. When she reached the swinging green doors that led to the stock rooms and beyond that, the offices, she paused. Her heart was pounding. This was silly. Get a grip. It was just Martco. She lifted her hand to push through, but then the door swung forward and hit her hand. She heard a muffled "ow" on the other side. She recognized that ow. Sort of high and nasally, as if the person had gauze up his nose.
"Derry?" she said, pushing the door open slightly.
He was bent over, holding his nose. He was short, stout, and mostly bald, what was left of his hair forming a thin black triangle on top of his head. He looked like he was scrunching his head onto his shoulders in an attempt to hide his neck, but the truth was that he really had no neck. Not much of one, anyway, and what little neck he had blended with his chin, because he didn't have one of those either. What he did have was a pair of glasses so thick he wore a black band to keep them on his head, giving them the appearance of goggles.
"Hurts," he said.
"god, I'm sorry," she said.
Finally, he straightened, letting out a little moan. He leaned in closer, squinting. It had taken a few weeks for her to get used to how close he had to stand to see anything, and how little personal space you were left with when he did. His horrid breath made it worse. Like rotten eggs, sour milk, and coffee all rolled into one.
"You look nice," he said.
"Thanks. I'm kind of in a hurry."
"Oh. That's right, you're applying for Assistant Manager!"
"Yes."
"Well...that's neat," Nobody Carol knew used words like "neat" as a compliment except Derry. He lifted his hand, making the Vulcan V sign. "Good luck."
She smiled. "I thought Vulcans said live long and prosper."
"They do," Derry said. "But they don't believe in luck, so I was improvising."
"I see."
"Technically, they really do believe in luck, they just don't believe in good or bad luck. Those are human qualifications. If you want—"
"Derry..."
"Right, of course. I need to get back to Electronics."
She headed for the back of the store room, a place poorly lit and packed high with metal shelving filled with crates and cardboard boxes. Off to the left, stockers were unloading a truck, the huge door open to the weather. The A.M. office was right next to the Store Manager's office, and Bill sat there eating a donut. He flashed her a thumbs up. It would have been a nice gesture except the thumbs up sign was the official company slogan, something the actor-employees did in the commercials ad nauseam, and people like Bill were from the old school where the thumbs up was pretty much a requirement for management. You wanted to wish somebody good luck, you gave them a thumbs up. You wanted to say it was okay to go to the bathroom, you gave them a thumbs up.
Still, he was a nice guy, so she gave him a thumbs up.
She tapped on the manager's door. There were no windows. The heavy gray metal door and concrete walls gave the room the feel of a third world torture chamber. The door opened, and there was Rick Olsen, the store manager. Short and small-boned like a professional jockey, he wore soles with thick heels that made him nearly the same height as her. He had Alfred E. Neuman ears, and his buzz cut was as black and shiny as shoe polish. With good reason: She had caught him actually putting shoe polish in his hair when she walked into his office once.
"Carol," he said, running a hand down his tie.
The tie was blue with red and white stripes. He wore a white shirt and black slacks, the same he wore every day. What changed were the ties. Some days they were white with blue and red strips. Other days they were red with blue and white stripes. She had wondered more than once if he wore red, white, and blue underwear. Not seriously wondered, though. That would have implied she wanted to see him without his pants, and she could think of nothing worse. It was merely idle curiosity. Like wondering if Jerry Falwell masturbated. That kind of thing.
"Hello, Mister Olsen," she said, trying to sound as meek as possible. "I'm sorry I'm late. My daycare was closed today and I had to find other arrangements."
She hated starting off an interview by making an excuse, but she felt it was necessary. Even if she wanted to lie, which she had only done a few times in her life, she would fail miserably. People told her that instead of a poker face she had a pumpkin face, because her face got all puffy and orange when she lied.
She expected him to admonish her, that would be normal for him, but instead he smiled and motioned to the metal folding chair across from his desk. "Quite all right, Carol," he said. "That sort of thing happens. You look very nice today, by the way."
"Thank you, sir."
"How's little Sam?"
"Very good, sir."
"What's he, eight, nine now?"
"Five, sir."
"Right, five."
Her nylons did little to protect her from the ice cold metal, and she would have yelped if she wasn't in an interview. Instead she maintained eye contact and tried to look as comfortable as possible.
There were a number of filing cabinets and bookshelves, a few fake plants, and on the far wall, a glass case that contained a bunch of metals and ribbons from his Marine days. His cologne smelled like gasoline. Everybody at the store had chipped in and bought him a new cologne for Christmas, but as far she knew he had never worn it.
He turned to his computer, his wooden swivel chair squeaking, and glanced at the spreadsheet program currently running. It was the same spreadsheet he always had running, with lots of tiny numbers and rows highlighted in different colors, very complex and hard to read, and it never seemed to change except for the colors. After nodding thoughtfully a few times, he turned back to her, smiled, then opened one of his drawers and pulled out a manila folder. He placed it on the desk, opened it carefully, licked his thumb, and spent several seconds flipping through the papers.
"Well, now," he said. "You've been with the company for three years and nine months, it would seem."
"Yes, sir."
"And for the last fourteen months, you've been a Customer Service Supervisor."
"That's right."
"And a damn good one, I might add."
"Thank you, sir." A compliment was a good sign.
"You handle difficult customers well. Your cashiers are well trained. You almost never come up short, and when you do, you get to the bottom of the problem real quick."
"I do my best."
"Oh, you certainly do. In fact, I'd say you're one of the best Customer Service Supervisors we've ever had. And I've been here twelve years, and I've seen more than a few."
"Thank you." She felt herself actually blushing. This was going better than she hoped.
"And here you are, applying for Assistant Manager."
"That's right."
He glanced at her paperwork. "Well, here's the deal, Carol. Nobody can really know if you're ready or not. Personally, I think you're pretty close, but I have some doubts."
Carol made sure her smile didn't leave her face, even though she felt herself deflating like a balloon. "Doubts, sir?"
"Nothing major," he said. "You're doing a great job, you really are. But you must know that being an Assistant Manager is a big step up from being a Customer Service Supervisor. It's not in the cards for every Team Member at Martco. Even capable ones. It's a lot of responsibility. My assistant managers are my right hand men. Or women." He chuckled. "The point is, I count on them. You've got to be willing to do what it takes to ensure the store's success."
"I'm willing to do whatever it takes, sir," she said. She knew there was tension in her voice, but she couldn't help it.
"Of course, of course, and I think you're almost there. Almost. This close." He held his fingers an inch apart. "But even though it's not much, it's a lot. I put my ass on the line—excuse my language—every time I hire an Assistant Manager. They do poorly, the store does poorly, and my DM doesn't like it. He won't take it out on the AMs, he'll take it out on me."
Carol felt the job slipping away from her. This wasn't the way it was supposed to go. There were supposed to be questions, what-ifs, role-plays. She wasn't even getting a chance to make her case. "Sir, if you could just give me a chance, I'm sure I'll prove myself worthy of your trust."
He nodded. "Well, I can't quite take that chance, Carol. Not quite yet. But I have an idea...A proposal...Something I think can help you get there." He was stumbling over his words, and she saw a bead of sweat on his forehead.
"I'll do what I have to do," she said. "Take a class. Read some books. Talk to the DM. You name it."
"Oh, that's not necessary...Um, what I'm suggesting is that I...I personally coach you. I've got a lot of experience in retail, Carol. And beyond retail too. I know how to lead. I can teach you how to lead, too. Together we can get you to the next level, so you're ready to take on the...the additional responsibility of being an Assistant Manager."
All at once she understood exactly what he was getting it, but she didn't want to believe it. "Oh, you mean meet once a week or something in your office, sir? Talk about issues."
"Not my office," he said quickly. "I mean, my door is always open to you, you know that, always open. But this kind of...mentoring, that's the right word, I think...shouldn't be done on company time. If you want the job, it's up to you to put in the extra effort. On your own time. But I'm willing to put in my own time, too. We could meet for coffee. Talk about the challenges of becoming an Assistant Manager at Martco. That sort of thing."
Now she knew what he was after and she felt her stomach churning. It didn't surprise her—she had gotten hints from him before, a few winks and compliments—but somehow she didn't think he would stoop this low. He was a married man. He had something like fifteen kids. She could never remember how many, because all of their names ended in y: Jimmy, Jenny, Corey, Billy, Penny, Ricky Jr....She wondered what his wife would think about this.
"Well," she said, choosing her words carefully, "I appreciate the offer. I do. But with my son, it's just too hard to meet outside of work." What she really wanted to do was spit in his face, but it was the thought of Sam that kept her from doing so.
He looked wounded. "Ah," he said.
"And I appreciate you trying to...mentor me. I do. And I hope we can do some of that here at work." When she said the words, she felt herself shudder. She knew some of that would mean something entirely different to him. "Mentoring, that is," she added quickly. "Talking about what I can do to get better. That sort of thing."
He nodded. "Of course, of course. I'm very busy here, but we'll do what we can. I won't be—I won't be able to give you the same kind of attention and effort I could give you outside of work, of course."
She had a hard time meeting his eyes, so she looked at his tie, which in turn made her think about his underwear. She shuddered again. "Oh, I understand, sir," she said. She knew he was bound to notice all this shuddering eventually. "Boy, it is a bit cold in here, isn't it?"
He said nothing for a while, then closed her file. She wondered how long it would be before she would be sitting here again with her file open on his desk. Glass ceiling, her ass. It was made of steel.
"Well," he said, putting her file back in his drawer. "I guess that's all for now. Thanks for coming in. I appreciate it. And if you should ever change your mind about that private mentoring..."
"Oh, you'd be the first to know," she said, thinking to herself, not a million years, asshole.
She rose, wanting to get in her car as quickly as possible so she could start screaming and cursing, and maintained her composure as she walked to the door. All this effort for nothing.
"Oh, one last thing," he said.
She had her hand on the doorknob, and she turned, smiling faintly, her defenses raised. He rolled his chair around the desk, and for a moment, she actually thought he was going to try to grab her. She wondered if anybody outside this windowless little cave would hear her scream. Her hand started to turn the doorknob.
"Yes?" she said.
"I need you to come in early next Monday."
She was still thinking this had something to do with sex. "Oh?"
"Yes, I'll need to talk to you about a few things."
"About what, sir?"
"About the new Assistant Manager. He'll be starting that day, and I'd like you to give him a tour of the place. My other assistants will all be busy, and nobody knows the store better than you, Carol. Besides, he'll be your boss."
Carol stood there, dumbfounded. Olsen was being awfully confident that they would find somebody, hire them, and have them start all by next week. It would take longer than that just to get their paperwork processed by headquarters. Then she realized the truth. "You're already hired somebody, didn't you?" she said.
There must have been something in her voice that made him realize he had made a mistake, because he spoke quickly. "Oh, well, yes, I got an email from the DM last night. He's hired somebody himself." He shrugged and put up his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "I think it's my store, but he tells me to hire somebody and I've got to do it."
Carol wished she could melt Olsen with her eyes. She could make it into a little joke for Sam. What's red, white, blue, and black all over? A puddle of Olsen, that's what. "I'm a little confused, sir. I thought...I thought I was interviewing..."
"Oh, you were! You were interviewing for Assistant Manager. Just not this position. As I said, I didn't think you were ready yet anyway. I figured, by the time you were ready, there would be something else...another position would open up. It happens all the time, you know. All the time."
Carol was shaking. Yes, after a couple of years of hot sex in skanky hotel rooms, who knew what Olsen would do? Maybe he would promote her to A.M. And then what? Would she be expected to give him blow jobs in his office? She couldn't believe she even thought she had a chance at the job. What had she been thinking? And she was wearing nylons. Nylons, damn it!
"I see you're a little upset," Olsen said.
Upset, Carol wanted to say. I'm not upset. I'm fucking pissed beyond belief. I'm going to complain to the District Manager that you've used your position to try to get me to have sex with you. I'm going to file a sexual harassment complaint with Headquarters. I'm going to get a lawyer and sue Martco for every penny they got, and I'm not going to be satisfied until you're out on your street, and you're so poor you can't even afford shoe polish for your hair. Your wife will find out what you did, and I'll tell her if she divorces you that I'll give her a big chunk of my settlement money so that she'll always have enough to take care of Ricky, Dicky and Hicky. How's that for upset?
"Oh, I'm fine," she said. "Just...a little disappointed, that's all."
"Sure," he said. "I understand. That's normal. You wanted to be Assistant Manager very much. It was your dream."
Somehow that was the worst insult, to imply that becoming Assistant Manager at Martco was her dream. The word dream was far too lofty. It had been a goal, that's all. A stepping stone. A way of getting herself somewhere else, get a little more money, allow her to finish her degree and hopefully in a hurry. Dream? She didn't even know if she had a dream. Ever since Alex left her and Sam, she had been too busy worrying about surviving.
She opened the door, stepped outside, and started to close it behind her. "What's his name?" she asked wearily, without turning.
"Hmm?" Olsen said.
"The new guy. The Assistant Manager. What's his name?" Carol wanted to know what it was so she could start hating him right away. If she couldn't visualize his face, she could at least see his name.
She heard Olsen open his drawer, pull out a folder. "His name...his first name is Jeff, I remember that. Yes, I've got it right here...Jeff..."
Chapter 5
". . .GARBY," OLSEN SAID. "Am I saying that correctly, Jeff? It is pronounced that way, right?"
For a moment, Jeff had no idea what the man was talking about. The employees, huddled at the front of the store like some sort of intramural football team, stared at him. They were all so different, men, women, old, young, yet somehow the green aprons made them the same, morphing them into giant green blob. The aisles behind the employees were empty of people, the store not yet open. Some Celine Dion tune, the vocals stripped, played quietly from the ceiling. Standing close to the sliding doors, as he was, he felt a draft of cool morning air. Too damn early. Usually he was never out of bed until noon. If not for the cup of cappuccino warming his hand, he never would have been able to survive.
Finally he remembered that Garby was his new last name. How could he forget? He had been rehearsing for weeks. Jeff Garby, a new graduate of Yale, originally from Wisconsin, worked briefly for Target, pleased to meet you. He was fibbing a little, of course, but not so much there wasn't a grain of truth in there. He had shopped at Target once. That was close to working there. And most people, including himself, thought there was little difference between Minnesota and Wisconsin.