by John Saul
“Are you telling me that’s what’s happened?” Frank asked. “Is that what the big meeting this morning was about?”
Kruger shrugged. “Someone wants to do a leveraged buyout, the way I heard it.”
“But Max won’t do that,” Frank protested. “Everybody knows if he sells out, he’ll offer the company to the employees first.”
Kruger chuckled hollowly. “If you’ve got that in writing, I’d suggest you call a lawyer pretty damned quick. Because if you don’t have it in writing, I think it’s a pretty sure thing that by next month you and I will be working for someone else. Which,” he added, finally allowing himself a genuine smile, “is just fine by me. How’s it suit you?”
Every fiber in Frank wanted to strike out at Kruger, wanted to punch that smile right down the son of a bitch’s throat. But that, he knew, was probably just what Kruger was hoping for. There weren’t many things Kruger could use as grounds to fire him, but physical violence was certainly one of them. So Frank restrained himself, shoving his hands deep in his pockets, as if it was the only way to hold them in check. But when he spoke, he made no attempt to conceal his rage. “It doesn’t suit me at all,” he replied. “And there are a few things I can do about it.” His mind was already working. He’d have to organize a union meeting and put a proposal to buy the company before the membership. That meant weeks of spending practically every waking hour when he wasn’t at work dealing with the lawyer and accountant from Santa Fe.
But there had to be a way to counter any offer Max Moreland might already have on his desk.
He turned away from Kruger, jerking the door to the superintendent’s office open with so much force it almost came off its hinges. Bobbie Packard, startled by his sudden presence, looked up at him. “What is it?” she asked.
Frank’s eyes glared malevolently. “You mean he didn’t tell you? Someone’s trying to buy Max out. And you can bet they’re not going to be interested in the refinery—without a lot of improvements, it won’t even break even. And the new takeover people aren’t interested in investment—they’re interested in fast bucks, which means they’ll keep the wells and close down the plant. Pretty neat, huh?” He jerked his head toward Kruger’s office. “And I’ll bet that son of a bitch has already cut himself a deal to keep an eye on the wells while the rest of us go looking for work that doesn’t happen to exist around here.”
Bobbie shook her head dazedly. “Mr. Moreland said—”
Frank leaned down so he could look into the secretary’s eyes. “Don’t you get it, Bobbie?” he asked. “Max is at the end of his rope. He’s sunk every nickel he has into this place, but it’s not enough. It’s old and obsolete, and you can bet no outsider is planning to spend a lot of money out here. All they’ll want is the wells.”
Without waiting for her to reply, he pushed his way out of the office and crossed back into the plant.
From his office window Otto Kruger watched Frank Arnold disappear into the refinery, and knew exactly what he was up to. He sat quietly for a while, savoring the anger he’d seen in Frank Arnold, enjoying the rage he’d induced in the man. It wasn’t often that he got the best of Frank Arnold, and whenever he did, it gave him an intense pleasure.
He’d hated Frank for years, and knew exactly why: Frank knew the refinery better than he did, and had the trust of the men.
Even Max Moreland had more respect for Frank than he had for him, Kruger thought. A year ago, when he’d demanded to know why, if Frank Arnold was so smart, he hadn’t been promoted past shift supervisor, Kruger remembered Max smiling at him almost pityingly.
“I need him where he is, Otto,” he’d explained. “You can’t run an oil refinery without a man like Frank Arnold. Oh, you do fine, overseeing the whole operation. But without Frank in the plant, there wouldn’t be any operation for you to oversee.”
He, of course, had said nothing in response, but ever since that day he’d hated Frank.
Hated him almost as much as he hated Max Moreland himself.
Finally he turned back to his desk and picked up the phone. He dialed a number quickly, then spoke as soon as the phone was answered at the other end, not waiting for a greeting.
“I just talked to Arnold,” he said. “I told him just enough to gauge his reaction, and it’s just like I told you. He’s going to make trouble.”
Then, knowing he’d said enough, and knowing there would be no reply, he hung up, his face wearing a satisfied smile.
Soon, very soon, Frank Arnold would be out of his hair.
It was a thought that gave him a great deal of pleasure.
Chapter 8
Frank Arnold glanced up from his newspaper as his son came into the kitchen, dressed—as usual—in a manner carefully calculated to tell the world he didn’t give a damn what it thought. Frank bit back the words of criticism that immediately came to his lips. During the last two weeks, while it seemed he’d spent every waking moment with the lawyers and accountants, the situation with Jed had only worsened. Indeed, over the Labor Day weekend that had just ended, the two of them had barely spoken, except for Friday night, when Judith Sheffield had come for dinner.
That night there had been no question of who would do the cooking. When Frank had come home from work, the house was already redolent with the aroma of a roast in the oven. That night, as on the other nights Judith had spent the evening with them in the little house on Sixth East, Jed had seemed perfectly happy, as though his resentments had magically vanished. But the next morning, with Judith gone, he had retreated again behind his sullen mask, and they had barely spoken over breakfast. Maybe if Judith had spent the night …
He quickly abandoned the thought, although there were several nights during the last few weeks when he’d been almost certain she would have stayed if he’d asked her. Every time, he’d lost his nerve, terrified of looking like a fool for even thinking she might find him as attractive as he found her. Yet had Judith only been here this morning, he was absolutely sure things would be better between him and Jed. Everything seemed to be better when Judith was around. She seemed to understand his moods, even to understand the importance of what he was trying to do.
But then, despite the holiday weekend, Frank had had to leave for Santa Fe, for yet another series of meetings which would culminate tonight at the union lodge, when he would finally present to the employees a plan for them to buy the company.
Assuming, of course, that by tonight the company had not yet been sold to UniChem.
And if his plan succeeded, would Jed finally forgive all the time he had spent? Frank wondered. Would pride in his father’s accomplishment bridge the chasm between them? Leaning back, Frank folded his arms across his chest, and his eyes settled again on Jed’s selfconsciously “cool” clothes. Idly, he wondered if Jed was aware that his scrupulous attention to his dress only gave the lie to the message he was trying to project: if he truly didn’t care how he looked, why were his jeans always so meticulously torn, why was his black leather jacket inspected for missing studs every day, and why was Jed’s hair always greased into total submission to the whim of the moment? Why, if his son truly didn’t care what anyone thought, did he constantly do his best to look like a thug and hide the quickness of his mind?
Frank knew the answer, or at least most of it. But aside from the loss of his mother, Jed had weathered more than his fair share of fights over the years—practically all of them having to do with his Kokatí heritage—and had finally built a shell around himself that told people not to mess with him, that warned them he would strike back if pushed too far. Frank supposed the shell Jed had built served a purpose, protecting the boy from things he didn’t want to deal with. But now he was almost grown, and in danger of wrecking his life. Frank had seen too many kids like Jed—bright but angry—just give up and drift into a job on the oil field or at the refinery, spending their evenings drinking too much in the bar at the café. And that wasn’t what he wanted for Jed. Jed was going to go to college, and get out o
f Borrego, and do more with his life than he had done with his own. Unless Jed gave in to his image, and decided going to school was no longer cool.
“Hope they’re not planning to take the class pictures today,” Frank said mildly, pushing the newspaper aside.
Instantly, Jed’s eyes began to smolder, as he understood what his father was really saying. “You don’t like the way I look?” he demanded.
“I didn’t say that,” Frank countered. “It’s just that on the first day of school—”
Jed cut him off. “What’s the big deal about the first day of school?” he pressed. “It’s just another day of sitting around listening to a bunch of dull teachers say dull things—”
“That’s enough!” The sharpness in Frank’s voice made Jed fall silent, and the boy slouched low in his chair. “I know what you think about school, and I’m tired of hearing it.”
“I do okay,” Jed muttered. “And I don’t notice how not finishing school hurt you.”
Frank’s eyes fixed on Jed. “You think being a shift foreman at the refinery is a big deal? If I’d paid attention when I was your age, I could be managing the whole thing.”
“Sure,” Jed shot back, his voice dark. “And Mr. Moreland would still own the whole thing. Come on, Dad! I don’t care if you’d gotten every goddamn degree they can give you—you’d still be working for Max Moreland. Nothing ever changes—if you don’t start out rich, you don’t get rich. So why the hell should I keep going to school? What’s the big deal if I graduate or not? I’m going to wind up working in the refinery, just like you! In fact,” he added, shoving his chair back and standing up, “maybe I’ll do it today. Maybe instead of going to school, I’ll go down to the company office and get a job!”
So that’s what it’s all about, Frank thought. That’s what he hasn’t been talking about. He looked at Jed and knew the boy was waiting for him to explode, waiting for him to start yelling. Controlling himself, he leaned back and shrugged. “Well, if that’s what you want to do, there isn’t much I can do to stop you. You’re sixteen—there’s no law that says you have to go to school.” Jed’s eyes flickered with uncertainty. “I can save you a little time, though—there aren’t any jobs at the company. The only reason I’m still working is seniority. So you’d better start checking with some of the stores—maybe they can use some help.” He glanced up at the calendar on the wall. “Let’s see … I guess I can give you a week or ten days, so what do you say we start the rent on the fifteenth? That should give you time to find a job.”
Jed blinked. “Rent?” he asked, his voice suddenly hollow. “What are you talking about?”
Frank shrugged again, his arms spreading in a helpless gesture. “What do you expect? If you’re going to school, I pay the bills. If you’re not, you pay your share.” He watched Jed carefully and could almost see the thoughts going through his son’s mind, see him calculating how much money he might earn bagging groceries at the market or clerking in the lumberyard. At last Jed finished his coffee, then stood up, his face a mask of belligerence.
“Maybe I’ll do it,” he said. “Maybe I’ll start looking around, and see what kind of job I can find.”
Frank nodded affably. “Sounds good to me.” He picked up the paper again and pretended to read, but he kept one eye on Jed, not missing the fact that when Jed went out the back door a few minutes later, he was carrying his book bag.
Stuart Beckwith, the high school principal, smiled thinly as Judith Sheffield came into his office. He remembered her well—the blond, blue-eyed girl who always sat in the front row of his social studies class and asked too many questions. And now here she was, back in Borrego, once more looking at him with those bright blue eyes, obviously just as inquisitive as ever. He pushed a stack of folders across the desk, then nervously ran his right hand over his nearly bald pate as if pushing back a lock of hair that had long since disappeared. “So,” he said as she took the chair opposite him and began quickly thumbing through the folders, “how does it feel to be back home?”
Judith shrugged, the nervousness she had been feeling earlier that morning dissolving. Ten years ago, when she’d been a teenager, she’d always thought of Beckwith as mean, but now she could see that what had once seemed like petty spitefulness was actually nothing more than weakness. She knew the type perfectly from Los Angeles—the sort of administrator whose prime rule was “don’t rock the boat.”
She, of course, had always been a boat-rocker, and had no intention of changing. Still, she didn’t want to alienate Beckwith on her very first day on the job. “It’s interesting,” she said carefully. “Actually, the town hasn’t changed much. In fact,” she added without thinking, “it doesn’t even look like it’s been painted since I left.” She immediately regretted her words, as a defensive tightening pinched Beckwith’s sallow face. “I didn’t mean—” she began apologetically, but to her surprise, he cut her off.
“Of course you meant it,” he said. Judith felt herself reddening slightly, and an uncomfortable silence filled the room until, as if he’d come to a decision, Beckwith leaned forward and rested his forearms on the top of the desk. “I’m afraid I seem to be getting off on the wrong foot, don’t I? But I have to confess that I’m still at a bit of a loss. Losing Reba Tucker was very upsetting, and …” He paused then, his lips pursing into what struck Judith as a phony smile. “And I have to confess,” he went on, “that having one of my own students return as one of my teachers is making me feel just a little old.”
Judith didn’t know whether she was expected to laugh, but decided not to. “I was very sorry to hear about Mrs. Tucker,” she said, choosing to ignore Beckwith’s feeble joke. “She always seemed so—well, strong, I guess.”
Beckwith’s head bobbed and his expression took on a too mournful cast. “We all thought she was,” he said. “And it seemed to come on her quite suddenly. She was teaching summer school, and everything seemed to be fine at first. And then she began to have strange moods, and finally, well …” His voice trailed off and he made a helpless gesture, as if there were really nothing else to say.
Judith tensed. Rita Moreland had distinctly said that Mrs. Tucker had suffered a stroke, and Greg, Reba’s doctor, had concurred. But Beckwith’s implication was something else entirely. “You mean she had some sort of breakdown?”
Beckwith hesitated, then sighed. “I suppose that’s what one would have to call it, yes,” he said. “Of course, young Greg Moreland says it was a stroke, but it seems to me it was a lot more than that. In the weeks before the … episode, she seemed to get listless.” He clucked almost like a ruffled hen. “Not like Reba. Not like herself at all.” Pointedly, he glanced at his watch, then pushed another folder toward Judith. “At any rate, these are her lesson plans. She used the same ones every year, and I’m sure she’d have no problem with your using them too.”
Judith made no move to pick up the folder. “That’s very kind of you,” she said, “but as it happens, I’ve got my own lesson plans. As I’m sure you know, I’ve been teaching in L.A. for the last couple of years, and I think it might be easier for me to do what I know haw to do than try to turn myself into Mrs. Tucker.”
Beckwith leaned back, his hands folded over his stomach. His lips tightened in a show of disapproval that made Judith suddenly feel as if she had been undergoing some kind of oral exam she’d just flunked. Gathering the folders that contained the records of her homeroom students into a neat stack, she stood up. “If I’m going to go through these before classes begin, I’d better be going,” she said.
Beckwith seemed about to let her go without comment, but as if changing his mind, he stood as she turned toward the door and smiled at her, then came around his desk to shake her hand. “Let me welcome you back to Borrego,” he said. “I have to confess, I had terrible misgivings about your coming here. I was afraid you might want to come in and start changing everything, modernizing everything, that sort of thing. But we don’t have the money to do much, and you know we’re j
ust a little backwater high school in the middle of nowhere. If you can deal with that, then I’m sure we’ll get along just fine.”
Judith hesitated only a moment before taking Beckwith’s extended hand. Yet as she left his office she wondered if she had, after all, made the right decision in returning to Borrego and taking this job. The interview had been odd, and Beckwith, once her least favorite teacher, had not become any more appealing now that he was principal of Borrego High. But what troubled her most, what would not leave her mind as she hurried through the building to find her classroom, was his strange description of what had happened to Reba Tucker.
What had he meant? Had what happened to Mrs. Tucker been something other than a stroke?
* * *
The house sat at the top of a small rise on the floor of Mordida Canyon, nestled almost invisibly into a grove of cottonwoods. Even during the hottest part of the day, it was always cool here, and as the woman emerged from the building, she felt a slight chill. The sun had moved far enough across the sky so that even without the trees, the house would still be lying in shadows, and it occurred to her—not for the first time—that it was an odd place for a rehabilitation center. How was anyone supposed to get well when they never got any sunlight? Still, the spot was beautiful, and the pay was good, and God knew, the work was simple enough.
She balanced the tray on one raised knee and quickly pushed the door to the little cabin open. There were no lights on, and she groped for the switch, wondering, not for the first time, how people could stand to sit all day in the dark.
Not that this newest patient could do much about it, she reminded herself.
The lights came on, and the woman looked over at the bed.
There she was, sitting by the window, staring out at the canyon just as Reba Tucker had been doing an hour ago, the last time she’d looked in on her.
