And then the door slammed and Rosanne was gone. Tears rolled down Mrs. Goldblum’s face and she did nothing to wipe them away.
Rosanne strode home to 94th Street, banged her way through the lobby and, when the elevator didn’t come, marched up the seven flights without pausing. She pushed open the door to their room and stood there in the doorway.
Frank was sitting at the table, exactly where she had left him, only now the side of his face was resting in the plate of spaghetti she had left him for lunch.
He was in the nod. The heroin nod.
Rosanne threw her bag to the floor and walked over to him. Yanking his head up out of the food by his hair, she said, «Where did you get the money for junk? Where?» She shook his head and his eyes parted slightly. «Answer me, god damn it, where did you get the money?” When he didn’t answer, she shoved him out of the chair. He fell to the floor and Rosanne kicked him. Instinctively he curled up to defend himself.
“I hate you! Do you hear me? I hate you!”
Interested neighbors stood by the door, watching. Frank started crawling toward them. Rosanne spotted Creature. “Get him out of here before I kill him! Get him out!” Creature handed his can of Old English to the woman standing next to him and came in. He touched at the red stains on Frank’s face, examined his fingers, smelled them, and then laughed.
Rosanne ran to the closet and started jamming clothes into a pillowcase. Creature got hold under Frank’s arms and pulled him up to his feet. “Take my son,” Rosanne was ranting, “take my money, take my job away from me —you’re nothing but a goddam junkie and I’ve had it with you.” With Frank’s head lolling on his shoulder, Creature managed to stumble him out the door.
Rosanne threw the pillowcase out into the hall. “You’re not going to wreck my life anymore, you hear me?” She ran back in and then back to the door. She pitched something wrapped in a red bandanna which Creature seemed to recognize, for he lunged to catch it.
“Take your goddam junk and your goddam junkie friends and never come back here—” Frank fell down again, his hands making a splat noise against the linoleum.
For an instant Rosanne’s anger wavered. But when Creature hauled him back up and Frank said, “Lez go-da Sissy’s,” Rosanne said, “If you ever come near me or Jason again, I swear to God I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you, do you hear me?”
And, with that, she cleared the neighbors with one long, unflinching glare.
11
THE DILEMMA OF
SAMUEL J. WYATT CONTINUES
Sam left his office and made the long walk to the other end of the floor where Walter Brennan made his executive outpost. When Brennan was made president of Electronika International six months before, he had moved everyone out of this end of the floor, ripped down the walls, and built two new huge connecting offices—one for himself and one for Chet Canley, the senior executive vice-president. The door to Brennan’s office was closed (as it always was) and Sam stood there, waiting for Brennan’s secretary to get off the phone.
“Hello, Mr. Wyatt. What can I do for you?”
“Walter is expecting me.”
The secretary’s eyes dropped to the phone pad in front of her. “He’s in conference with Mr. Canley.”
“Right,” Sam said, “he just called me.”
“Let me just check,” she said, standing up. She opened the door, stuck her head in, said something, and then waved Sam through.
Brennan and Canley were sitting on Brennan’s couch, crouching over dozens of papers strewn across the coffee table. No one would ever accuse either man of being handsome. Brennan was rotund and his face, which perhaps might have appeared jolly at one time, was now decidedly on the Happy Halloween side. Canley was very tall and angular; in fact, his physique was much like the long cigarette he was lighting at this moment.
“Wyatt,” Brennan said, glancing up from the papers in front of him.
Sam nodded.
Canley sat back against the couch, puffing his cigarette, watching Sam.
Sam just stood there, waiting for Brennan to look up again. Finally he did. He sighed, pulled off the Ben Franklin glasses he was wearing and tossed them on the table. “About the ZT 5000.”
Sam stuck his hands in his pockets. “Yes.”
“You are not to discuss the matter with anyone. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes,” Sam said, shifting his weight to one leg.
“Good,” Canley said, pounding the arm of the couch once with his fist. “Then no more phone calls to Trinity Electronics.” Sam swallowed. “On the assumption that you’re moving the assembly out of Pretoria, yes, you may assume that.”
Canley blew four smoke rings.
Brennan, after a moment, threw himself back against the couch and then rolled forward again so as to get a hold of his ankle and pull it up onto his knee. He drummed his fingers on his crossed leg, squinting at Sam. “Or what?” he finally said.
Sam hesitated. He almost said, Or I’ll knock your fat head in, but said instead, “Or I will be obligated to seek an immediate solution to the problem.”
Canley let out a blast of smoke. “And, in your eyes, the problem is... ?”
Sam rocked back on his heels slightly. He took his hand out of his pocket and started counting. “One, we’re breaking the boycott of South Africa. Two, when word gets out, you can safely assume that every major account will cancel its orders for the ZT 5000. Three, you can also safely assume that institutional investors will dump their stockholdings in Electronika. And four, you can try to go to sleep each night, knowing that you’re supporting a government that makes it illegal for three fourths of its citizens to vote.”
Silence.
“And if word does not get out?” Canley said. “And if moving assembly from the Pretoria plant means heavy financial losses?”
Sam rubbed his right temple. He opened his mouth to say something, stopped, and then did. “You moved the assembly to Pretoria, didn’t you?”
Canley’s and Brennan’s faces were inscrutable.
Sam closed his eyes, nodding slightly, thinking about the dirt-cheap facilities available that had been abandoned by other companies. With near slave labor, too, no doubt. He reopened his eyes.
Finally, slowly, Brennan took down his ankle (a two-handed effort) and leaned forward again over the coffee table. He glanced at Sam, put his glasses back on, and picked up a sheet of paper. He glanced at Sam again before scanning it. “After the first wave of assembly, the ZT will be moved to Kenya,” he said, dropping the paper.
“What constitutes a wave to you?” Brennan looked over his shoulder at Canley. “The first year,” Canley said, stamping out his cigarette in the ashtray. Sam took out his handkerchief, wiped his forehead, and stuck it back in his pocket. “That’s it then,” he said.
“That’s what?” Brennan asked, looking at him over the top of his glasses.
“My resignation.”
Silence.
Brennan shook his head. “Don’t be a fool, Wyatt.” He stood up. “You’ve got a job to do. To market the ZT 5000, the biggest damn thing to hit photocopying. This,” he said, gesturing to the papers on the table, “has nothing to do with you. It can’t be helped. It’s a bad situation, but we’ll fix it.”
Sam shook his head. “No,” he said quietly. “You could unfix it. Now. You could move assembly to Kenya now.”
Brennan walked around the coffee table and headed for the door. “I suggest you take time to think it through, Wyatt. He turned to face Sam. “You did, after all, inadvertently get us into this mess. And I won’t take kindly to you leaving us with it.”
Sam gave him a smile—of sorts. “This is, uh, a threat of some kind?”
“It is a word to a wise family man.” Pause. “The machines don’t come off the line for ten weeks,” he said, opening the door. “I strongly advise you to take that time to reconsider your position.” He gestured to the open doorway. “Have a good weekend.”
There had never been execu
tives like Brennan and Canley at Electronika International before. A year ago, when old Clyde Tyler announced his retirement—after thirty-one years as chairman and president—everyone had assumed that his son would take over. Clyde, Jr., had thought so too and was as surprised as everyone else when his ascendance was interrupted by the announcement that El-San Industries was making a takeover bid for Electronika. Electronika then took up the offer of ICL for a friendly stock swap to protect itself. ICL, as part of the deal, put three members on the Electronika board of directors and the next thing everyone knew, the board had elected to bring over Brennan from an ICL subsidiary, DarkStar Inc. Brennan, as president, brought Canley over with him from DarkStar and Clyde, Jr., lasted about a week before throwing in the towel.
Although Sam disliked and distrusted both Brennan and Canley at their first meeting (“What are they like?” Harriet had asked him. “Let’s just say that after we shook hands I checked to see if my ring was still there”), it appeared that Sam would do well under them. Brennan, until a month ago, was forever stopping into Sam’s office to talk “policy, spirit and progress,” and often talked about the ZT 5000 as Sam’s ticket to corporate glory.
But this, what had transpired with this assembly business, made no sense at all. Oh, yes, Sam did not doubt that Canley had moved the assembly to Pretoria to save money—with U.S. companies moving out left and right, there were plants to be had for peanuts—but it was such a stupid, arrogant, immoral move...
Did they really think they would get away with it?
Well, they could. If Canley could set up the assembly plant in the first place, no doubt he could also falsify the assembly notice on the manufacturing plate as well.
“Your wife called,” Mabel said as he walked back into his office. “She says it’s very important. But it’s good news,” she added.
“Hi, honey,” Harriet said, taking his call. “Wait—hold on a minute.” Sam heard her say to someone there, “Tell ‘Good Morning America’ they can have the First Lady if they take Lilah Tuttle too.” Pause. “And try and see if you can tag on poor old Mr. Bindley into the deal.” Louder, “And if they won’t go for it, let me talk to them.” Back on the phone, “Sorry, honey.”
“Hi,” Sam said.
“Sam, guess what? One of our authors, Belinda Sayer, wants to profile us for Essence. Our marriage, Sam,” she said, laughing. “Black professional couples. And she says if we give a good interview she’ll try to get us the cover.”
Sam brought his hand up to his forehead. “I—”
“She wants to do the interview next week—wait, hold on, honey.” To someone else, “I don’t care what Layton says—no press release with a naked woman on it is leaving this building. It is not a Sperry book, it’s from G & G. Tell him—no, never mind. I’ll talk to him myself.” Back on the phone, “Sorry, honey.” (Conversations with Harriet at the office were always like this.)
“Harriet, I don’t want to do it.”
Silence.
“I’m sorry, it’s just not a good idea right now.”
She was surprised and hurt. He could hear it in her voice. “Why is it not a good idea?”
Sam sighed, falling back into his chair. “I just don’t feel comfortable doing it.” A bright idea. “What if she asks about the early years? How are we going to do an interview and pretend we weren’t separated?”
“That’s why she wants us most of all. She knows nothing about your you know—but she wants us to talk about the pressures of a two-career marriage. How we’ve made it work the last eleven years.”
Sam shook his head. “No, I’m sorry, Harriet. Not right now.”
Silence.
“What is it with you, Sam?”
“I just don’t feel comfortable doing it right now.”
A heavy sigh. “What should I tell her, that you’re having an affair?”
“Not funny, Harriet.”
“You bet’s it not,” she said. She sighed again. “Look, I’ll tell her we’re going to pass. And I apologize for what I said. It’s just that I thought you’d be pleased.” To someone else, “He is? Right now?” To Sam, “I’ve got to go. Sperry’s on his way down to see me.” Pause. “Are you still going to get the stuff together for the booth?”
“I’m leaving in a few minutes.”
“Okay. Well, I’ll see you at home. And don’t let Samantha watch TV, all right?”
“Right,” Sam said, hanging up the phone.
When Sam got home he changed and went to work in the basement. The China Break. The Wyatts’ annual block party booth that year after year was a raging success. He and Harriet had devised it on the theory that all New Yorkers yearned to destroy something to vent their anger—in a socially acceptable way, of course.
Sam broke a plate against the wall in honor of Brennan and Canley.
What the hell was he going to do?
Resign, and Brennan would do a number on him. He had promised as much. Good, bad or indifferent, Brennan was still the president of Electronika International, and a word from him would see that Sam was unemployed for a long, long time. In his field, maybe forever.
Go ahead with the marketing plans on the ZT? That’s why they had told him, wasn’t it? To develop a plan of action in case word somehow leaked out?
He could look for an immediate solution. But without any of his contacts at Trinity, how could he get the information he needed?
And then there was the immediate, immediate solution. He could leak the information himself. Call the Times and point them in the right direction. “Electronika is secretly planning to operate an assembly plant in Pretoria...” They’d move assembly then, he knew—as fast as lightning.
Hmmm.
If he was found out, he would never work again. That part was easy to imagine. No one would touch him—no matter how right he was—if he turned in his own corporation.
And then there was the story itself. If it was leaked—by Sam or anyone else—it would have to point out that Electronika’s involvement with Trinity Electronics and the ZT 5000 had been the brainstorm of Samuel J. Wyatt. And Sam was quite sure that Brennan and Canley would make it appear that Sam himself had...
Sam went back up to the apartment. He still had time to catch Mabel before she left the office.
“Daddy!” Samantha squealed as he came in the door.
“Hi,” he said, scooping her up in his arms and giving her a big hug.
Samantha screamed and laughed until Sam put her down. “Got a 95 in math, wanna see?” she asked, tearing out of the room.
Sam went over to the phone and punched in his office number. While listening to it ring and ring and ring, Althea came sauntering through the living room. “Hi,” he said.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Thanks for picking up Samantha at school.”
“It’s okay.”
“Where the heck’s Mabel?” Sam asked aloud. He hung up and redialed.
“While the cat’s away...” Althea began, drifting to the kitchen.
Samantha came shooting back in, thrusting her math paper under her father’s face. “Seeeeeee?”
“Hey,” Sam smiled, “Samantha, this is great.” He rubbed the top of her head. “How’d cha get so smart? The only things I thought were in there were giggles.”
She let some of the giggles out.
He hung up and redialed the number for the switchboard. “We’re all set for the China Break tomorrow.”
“Goodeeeeeeeeee!”
“Samantha,” Althea called from the kitchen, “come get your pear.”
“Hi,” Sam said into the phone, “give me Mary Connell’s office, please.”
Pause. “Hi, Cindy? It’s Sam Wyatt. Listen, I’ve been trying my office and no one’s answering—”
“Mabel’s there, Mr. Wyatt,” Cindy said, “she hasn’t left or anything. They’re just working on your phones. The call-forward was supposed to redirect them to the receptionist, but I guess that’s why they’re fixing them.”
Samantha came back and turned on the television. “Julia’s on, Daddy.”
Sam hung up the phone and wandered over to stand behind Samantha. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, eating her pear. Reruns. Julia. Diahann Carroll. (The walls of Samantha’s room were adorned with photographs of her from Dynasty.) Okay. Samantha could get away with this while Harriet was not home—Diahann Carroll was always okay in Sam’s book. “Don’t tell your mother I let you watch,” he said.
“Noooooo,” Samantha said, eyes wide in the delight of secrecy. (“No child of mine is going to grow up a couch potato,” Harriet would say. “One hour of TV after dinner and that’s it.” An odd philosophy, Sam had always thought, for a woman who had the TV and radio on all hours of the day and night to hear Gardiner & Grayson authors hawking their books.)
Sam went into the kitchen to make himself a cup of Sanka. Althea was sitting at the table, leafing through Cosmopolitan. She looked up briefly. “Dad,” she said, considering an ad.
“Hmmm?”
“What would you say if I changed my major to premed?”
Sam put the kettle down and turned around. “Premed?”
“Uh-huh.” Bite into a pear of her own.
“I thought your major was going to be history.”
“It was.”
“What brought this on?”
Munch, munch, munch. “Dr. Rosenberg wondered if I’d consider it.”
“Who is Dr. Rosenberg?”
“My anatomy professor.”
“You’re taking anatomy?”
Althea let the magazine fall. “Dad.”
“Sorry. I seem to have forgotten that.”
“Well, you raised such a stink about my modern dance class... “
“It was not your dance class,” Sam said, turning the burner on. “As you’ll recall, you were planning on taking your first semester—what was it? Modern dance, painting, introduction to sex and how to make a dress?”
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