Coming of Age: Volume 1: Eternal Life

by Thomas T. Thomas

  “Of course,” Antigone went on, “she would expect to receive the basic severance package and a glowing reference from her immediate supervisor and his management team.”

  “She’ll certainly have my support in that,” Praxis said.

  The boys and Burke just looked sour.

  “You will also,” Antigone continued, “distribute her vested amounts in the company retirement plan—minus whatever unearned benefits your faulty software may have awarded her—into a tax-protected individual retirement account.”

  “We can do that,” Leonard said slowly.

  “Wait a minute!” Richard began.

  Antigone rolled right over him. “And, lastly, she will keep her privately held shares in Praxis Engineering and Construction as a family member in good standing.”

  Leonard looked around uncertainly. “Are we allowed to do that?”

  “No, we can’t,” Richard said. “It’s in the bylaws. Shares can only be held by active employees. There’s no provision for releasing them outside the company.”

  “Fine,” Antigone said. “Then we’ll take cash.”

  Richard paled. “But—but—that’s easily—” He looked at the ceiling while evidently doing sums in his head. “Twenty times the amount she stole.”

  “You mean,” Antigone said crisply, “the amount you and your computer misplaced.”

  Richard gaped at her, his mouth working like a salmon thrown up on the dock.

  “We realize,” Antigone went on, “that you can’t liquidate a tenth of the corporation’s asset value on short notice. So we’re prepared to give you—” She glanced at Callie. “—a month from date of separation?”

  “Three months would be fair,” his daughter said.

  “Three months then.”

  “No!” Richard said. “It would hollow out the company. It would break us.”

  “Those are our terms,” Antigone said with a shrug. “Otherwise, you can take us to court. Then we will bring in our expert witnesses to dismember your accounting software line by line. I believe you remember how thorough my witnesses can be? All sorts of little secrets might come out then.”

  Praxis studied Antigone, who sat utterly still, with not a tremor or a blink, a sphinx carved in stone, one eyebrow lifted and every strand of her glorious golden hair held in place with a wide tortoise-shell comb. Beside her, Callie was trembling but sitting stiffly erect. Both of them had their gazes fixed on Richard, who looked as if he’d been stabbed in the heart. What piece of the puzzle involving his daughter, Praxis wondered, was he missing? What did Antigone already know? What did she suspect?

  “All right,” Richard whispered. “We’ll get the money somehow.”

  “Excellent!” Antigone said, smiling now. She rose and lifted Callie out of her chair with the same hand clutching her arm. “Do let us know when we can come back and sign the paperwork.”

  At the door, which opened to her knock, she stepped aside for Callie to go through and said to Ivy in passing, “Don’t worry about us. We’ll find our own way out.”

  * * *

  When the Southwest flight carrying Major Ruysdael and his team out of Flagstaff had landed at LAX, Brandon Praxis expected to be demobilized and allowed to return to Stanford for final exams and graduation. Instead, two master sergeants were standing at the gate with a sheaf of envelopes they distributed to each member of the team by barking out their names, just like mail call. The others broke the seals and read their new orders on the spot, then took off in different directions. His own package included orders for him to report immediately to Fort Hunter Liggett, a couple of hundred miles up the coast, to begin again with a new battalion being formed under the 91st Training Division of the Army Reserve. Brandon was confused, because in Arizona the reservists and national guardsmen were the enemy, while here in California they were friendlies. He still didn’t understand the politics. The envelope also contained a one-way ticket on SkyWest Airlines to the Monterey Peninsula Airport, departing four hours from now, onward transportation to be arranged.

  Brandon had wrinkled his nose, but he knew better than to protest. He looked around for Major Ruysdael, who was holding his own orders and looking grim as usual.

  “Well, Major, sir,” Brandon said, saluting. “I guess it’s been … educational.”

  “Yee-ah.” He snapped off a return salute. “Keep your tail clean, Lieutenant.”

  In keeping with Army practice, Brandon had turned then and run off down the concourse toward the SkyWest terminal. But once he was out of sight, he paused to think. The first thing was to let his family know where he was, because Ruysdael had put them all on “radio silence”—by which he meant no personal cell phone calls—as soon as they spotted the unexpected helicopter traffic above Camp Navajo. Nothing in Brandon’s new orders said his destination or assignment was secret, although he sensed he wasn’t supposed to explain too much to civilians. His father would understand that. So he called Leonard Praxis at the company number and was passed through by his administrative assistant.

  “Oh, God, Bran! Are you all right? Was there trouble in Arizona?”

  “No, Dad. It seems it was all some kind of weird mix-up.”

  “The news makes it sound like we’re at war.”

  “No, the thing was almost … cordial.”

  “When are you coming home?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “What can you tell me?”

  “I’m assigned to an army base up near Monterey for training. I’ll try to get in touch with the university and see what they’re doing about my exams. I hope I can join you at the firm by the end of the summer session, maybe.”

  “As to that,” his father said, “well, you go ahead and fix up your degree. But, about your position with the company, I wouldn’t hurry too much.”

  “Did you say, ‘Don’t worry’?” Brandon was confused.

  “No, I mean, there’s no rush for you to join us.”

  “Is there a problem? Now I am worried.”

  “No, just some business wrinkles to iron out.”

  “Can you at least tell me what’s going—?”

  “Son, I have to take the other line.”

  And the call had ended abruptly.

  So Brandon Praxis flew up to Fort Hunter Liggett, nestled into the Santa Lucia Mountains. For the next month he led a platoon of forty-five infantrymen, fresh out of basic, on field exercises through the chaparral. His team was broken into three rifle squads and a weapons squad, each led by newly promoted sergeants and corporals, whom Brandon was required to train, inspire, and evaluate. They navigated by map and compass, by the stars, and by dead reckoning when the fog rolled over the mountains from the coast. They set ambushes against other platoons and learned to avoid ambushes in return. They ate Meals Ready to Eat, griped about them at first, and soon wolfed them down. They fired their weapons on the range—Brandon’s first practice with an M4 carbine since his initial year of ROTC, and his first ever experience with his officer’s M9 Beretta service pistol—and earned their marksmanship ratings, or not.

  He was learning to be a soldier himself, and not merely an onlooker. He was learning to lead men and earn their respect, and that would be a useful skill to have in whatever career finally claimed him.

  * * *

  The separation papers came in the mail two days after the negotiation. Callista Praxis received them at the house in Sea Cliff, where she was staying with her father, as she usually did during her brief visits to San Francisco. She took the documents downtown to the offices of Bryant Bridger & Wells and reviewed them page by page with Antigone.

  “It all seems to be in order,” the attorney said when they finished. “This gives you everything we asked for.”

  “Except the apology,” Callie said—not that she much cared.

  “Funny how they’d rather shed ten percent of the firm than admit an error.”

  “Men! More ego than brains sometimes.”

  “No, seriously,” Anti
gone said. “It makes you wonder.”

  “Do you think they’re going to find a way to wiggle out of this?”

  “No, the terms are ironclad. If your brothers balk, we’ll eat them alive in court. I’m just curious what else is going on that we don’t understand yet.” The woman stared at the documents with pursed lips. “Whatever it is, you’re free and clear, with a tidy fortune to boot.”

  “I’d rather have my old job back,” Callie said.

  Antigone shrugged. “Go buy yourself a company.”

  “It still wouldn’t have the Praxis name on it.”

  “Then start your own,” Antigone said.

  The attorney called in her administrative assistant, Madeline, who was also a notary public. She witnessed Callie’s signature in five different places, affixed her seal, and handed the papers back.

  “Do you want us to mail those for you?” Antigone asked.

  “No, I want to throw them in Leonard’s face myself.”

  “Do you think that’s wise?”

  “Of course not.”

  But she went down to Steuart Street anyway, because she still had to return her electronic building card and the keys to the trailer in Denver and to her company car, a leased vehicle she’d left at the airport. When she arrived at PE&C headquarters, neither of her brothers was available, but the security staff in the lobby directed her to the Legal Department on the thirty-fifth floor.

  Winston Burke met her at the elevator, escorted her into his office, and received the documents. He inspected her signatures and the notary’s seal, countersigned in the appropriate places, and didn’t offer to have it witnessed or notarized. He handed Callie her copies in exchange for her pass and keys. Then nodded curtly.

  “This releases my shares,” she said. “What happens to them while I’m waiting for the money?”

  “They’ll go into escrow,” Burke said. “And when you sign for the receipt, they’ll either be redistributed to eligible members or sold to new board candidates.”

  “Who decides that?” she wondered.

  “The Board of Directors.” He shrugged.

  She remembered that Burke was the company secretary. He served the board but was not a shareholder himself.

  “Then I will expect your check,” she said and turned to leave.

  “Um, let me call security to escort you to the lobby.”

  “But I’m not going down to the lobby.”

  “I’m afraid you must, Ms. Praxis,” he said.

  “Then they can escort me to my father’s office.

  * * *

  John Praxis had made no arrangements with Callie that morning, but since it was her last day he expected she would come up to say a formal good-bye. It was odd, however, when the female Myrmidon from the front desk escorted his daughter, practically holding her by the elbow, through the door of the chairman’s office. He rose from his desk, came around it, and gave Callie a hug.

  “You can go now, Pamela,” he said. “She’s not going to steal the furniture.”

  The severe young woman nodded curtly and withdrew.

  “You know she’s going to wait outside and take me to the elevator,” Callie said.

  “Not my orders.”

  “Burke’s, I think.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “Him I can understand,” she said. “But what happened to Leonard and Richard? What did I ever do to them?”

  “It’s a mystery to me, too.”

  “At least this nightmare is finally over.”

  “You’re well out of it. Free to do what you want.”

  “I want to complete the Mile High project.”

  “You’ll find other work, of course.”

  “In Europe, maybe. Or China. The situation in this country is too unsettled right now. Nobody’s starting anything bigger than a freeway interchange.”

  “At this point,” he said slowly, “you may survive Praxis Engineering.”

  “Seriously, Dad? I know it was a blow, taking out my shares. But you’ve got some reserves, don’t you?”

  “A lot of projects got cancelled when the dollar went south. And our prospects overseas are hardly better. You may end up the heiress of this family. You can retire to the Riviera and buy yourself a pretty husband.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I’d still rather have a job.”

  “I’ll see you tonight? We’ll go out to celebrate.”

  “Sure, the first day of the rest of my forever.”

  6. The End of an Era

  “The Coup”—as John Praxis would later describe it—came at the third item on the agenda of the monthly Board of Directors meeting. Herb Longacre, the executive vice president for international marketing, introduced a measure requiring mandatory retirement at age sixty-five for all employees—not exempting senior executives, as in the current rules.

  Praxis looked at his two sons, sitting on either side of the table next to him. Both had their heads down, studying the papers in front of them, while Longacre detailed his reasons for the measure, which had something to do with accelerated shedding of aging staff. Leonard’s own eyes shifted sideways and upward, to catch Praxis looking at him. Then Leonard lifted his head fractionally and glanced across at Richard.

  Ah so, Jessica! Praxis thought, as the Japanese would say. Longacre was a longtime friend and ally of Leonard’s. And this move was directed upward, at Praxis himself, as the “aging staff” in question. Well, he still had the votes to counter the measure. With his own thirty-five percent of shares, plus Callie’s ten percent held until her payout, and the ten percent held by other board members who were loyal to him, the motion was doomed.

  When it came time to vote, however, the ayes and nays went as he expected—with both of his sons and their allies voting in favor—until the very end, when the issue of Callie’s shares arose.

  “According to the corporation’s bylaws,” Richard said, “shares held in escrow are voted at the discretion of the chief financial officer.”

  “Is that a fact?” Praxis asked.

  “I didn’t know that,” Leonard said in mild wonder.

  “Article One, Section Seven, Subsection Three,” said Burke as secretary.

  “And I am voting those ten percent of shares in favor,” Richard concluded.

  “The vote is fifty-five percent to forty-five,” Burke said. “The motion passes.”

  The rest of the meeting proceeded, as far as Praxis was concerned, in a haze of meaningless activity. When it was over and everyone was standing, he gathered his sons by eye and said, “Would you gentlemen please come to my office?” If indeed it was still his office.

  As soon as the doors were closed, he turned to his eldest son. “What did you two just do in there?”

  Leonard was aghast. “Us? Do? Nothing! It was Herb’s motion, to handle some personnel problems he’s having in the international division.”

  Praxis did not miss the fact that, of all the business transacted that afternoon, Leonard knew exactly which piece of it his father meant.

  “But it never occurred to you that I’m now over sixty-five?” Praxis said. “This forces me out of the company. The two of you have been asking me to step down since the heart attack.”

  “Only for your own good, Dad.” Richard said.

  “It’s the direction you’ve been taking for a long time,” Leonard said.

  “Well … hell!” Praxis said. “Things are different now. I’m better since the heart attack. My weight’s way down. My stamina’s up. I’m stronger than before. I run foot races for ten and fifteen miles at a time. And now the company’s in a rocky place. It needs me.”

  “We can handle the company,” said Leonard. “Just like you taught us.”

  “And, besides,” said Richard, “you’ll want to stay on in a non-voting role as ‘chairman emeritus,’ just like Grandfather Sebastian did.”

  Praxis stared at him. That would keep his shares in the company, too. But because his employment status would officially beco
me “inactive,” the shares would be held in trust—“in escrow,” in fact—which would give Richard a forty-five percent vote between his own and his father’s shares. Actually, fifty-five percent until Callie’s payout was finalized. That was too much control. On the other hand, if Praxis opted to leave and cash out his shares immediately—forcing the liquidation of more than a third of the company’s assets—that would spell the end of Praxis Engineering & Construction.

  But wasn’t the company headed down that road anyway? With the falloff in contracts, the shrinkage of federal and state budgets, and looming economic uncertainties for a country that was cut in half by economics and politics and on the brink of war—what were the company’s prospects? Whatever was to come for the nation, the bloodier it was, the greater would be the need to rebuild one day. And that was some kind of future, if a distant one, for PE&C. But in the meantime the country had to negotiate the passage of a great, gray unknown, a nexus where all plans and expectations broke down. And the company would also have to pass through a fiscal sinkhole, wide as a lake, deep as the ocean, with bankruptcy lurking at the bottom.

  For the past year Praxis had felt like the pilot of an airplane running out of gas and losing altitude. He had tried, or proposed for his sons to try, everything he could think of to keep the business going: new ways of financing projects, new customers and industries in more prosperous sectors, new work methods and practices. But since Leonard and Richard had taken control after his Thunderbolt, everything they touched had turned to ice cream. True, the troubles were not always of their own making. But they seemed blind to the tasks at hand. They lacked the capacity to adapt and learn.

  And now the question came down to his own immediate course of action. On which side of the equation governing the future was he going to stand? Stay and take the emeritus position in order to preserve the family business and its slender, doubt-filled future? Or leave to preserve as much of his own fortune and financial future as possible? Take the money, and devil take the rest? Wasn’t it a French king who said, “Après moi, le déluge”? Ah, but was that a cry of selfishness, or despair?

  “I think not,” he quietly told his youngest son.