“Probably better if I eat in town.”
“Whatever you want. But I’d like to know for sure.”
“I’ll eat in town then. I can get a bus to town, and then a taxi home later. You have any special plans?”
“This afternoon I have to help Midge at the booth at the hospital. Because of the other night, I think I better show up.”
He stopped the car and unconsciously turned toward her to kiss her, and caught himself in time, but not in time to keep her from seeing his slip.
“Well … I’ll see you then.”
“Thanks for the car.”
“Perfectly all right.”
After he had crossed the street he looked back and saw her just turning the corner. He went on into the office. Miss Trevin was in and gave him a quick glad smile. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re better, Mr. Wyant.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ve got that first report done. Shall I bring it in?”
“In a few minutes, please.”
He hung up his hat and sat down behind his desk and went to work on two morning’s mail. There was a new tastelessness about his work, but he forced himself to plough along, forced himself to keep going. He checked the report and initialed it for distribution. He dictated answers to some of his mail, told Miss Trevin how to answer the others. She could compose letters indistinguishable in style and phrasing from his. At ten thirty Stanley Forman’s secretary called to ask if Mr. Wyant could step up to Mr. Forman’s office at once.
It gave him a sudden, sagging feeling in the middle. Forman’s call was usually not so peremptory. Mr. Fedder was due for his appointment. He told Miss Trevin to ask Fedder to wait if he arrived before he was back.
Stanley Forman stood at the window, his back to the room. “Close the door and sit down, Fletch.”
Fletcher sat down wondering if it was a good sign to be called Fletch rather than Wyant.
“Didn’t haul you away from something?”
“Nothing important, Stanley.”
Forman let the silence grow and swell. He turned slowly from the window and walked over and sat behind his desk. He picked up a paperweight and shook it and set it down, and they both watched the swirling snow fall on the tiny figure of Santa.
“Self-torture to look at snow during weather like this, isn’t it?” Stanley asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“Fletch, I’m going to be frank.”
“I wish you would.”
“What is the greatest industrial shortage in America?”
Fletcher frowned at him. “I don’t know. A few of the rare metals …”
“Nuts. Rewrite the specs. Use substitutes. Redesign the product if you have to. Our critical shortage is in executive talent, Fletch. That’s why there are men in this country who, if they put themselves on the market, could demand and get up to a half million a year. And they aren’t young men, either. Organized labor is always bleating that no man is worth that much. If it costs that much to replace, the item is worth that much. The market price determines the value. Cut-rate executives mean poor management, dwindling profits, eventual bankruptcy.”
“I see what you mean, Stanley. But …”
“Why the shortage? Why aren’t there more men who can take hold? First, you have to have an unusual combination of talents. You have to have a man who never uses emotional reasoning, on himself, and yet can sway others with emotional reasoning to do something that he knows is coldly practical. He has to be big enough to delegate authority, and yet retain the responsibility. He has to be fast on detail work, and yet see the broad picture at all times. He needs creative imagination. And he has to drive himself endlessly, courting ulcers, heart failure and acute nervous exhaustion. Now, there are more men with these talents than there are men working at it. Know why?”
“I guess not.”
“Because society rewards our good tough able executive with a ninety-something per cent tax bracket. He’s a target for the half-baked witticisms of smart aleck columnists. And when government can’t think of what to do next, it sits on our man’s chest for a while. So our man decides the hell with it. So he buys an orange grove. Or a cattle ranch. And he runs it well, because he can’t run anything poorly, and he sleeps well nights and every time he thinks of the brethren still sweating it out he laughs himself crazy. The ones who stay in industry do so because they love it better than anything in the world. It’s meat and drink for them. A disease, maybe. I’ve got it. I could sell out and retire. And go crazy watching the mess somebody else would make of this place.”
“Why are you telling me all this, Stanley?”
“Because I want you to tell me exactly what the hell is wrong with you. You were coming along. Learning, all the time, how to use more of your capacity. You’re young. I’ve been basing my planning on what you would be in a few years. This isn’t crap, Wyant. You’re fading like a bonus rookie and it disappoints the hell out of me and I want to know why.”
“I’ve had … a little personal trouble this past week.”
“Past week, hell. Since March is what I’m talking about. What is it? Wife trouble? Physical examination give you bad news?”
“I don’t know whether I can explain it or not, Stanley. I get these fits of … I suppose you could say despondency. A funny feeling. Like I was missing out on something, and I don’t even know what it is.”
Stanley looked at him with disgust. “For Christ’ sake, are you having a delayed adolescence or something? You want to write poetry in the moonlight?”
“I guess it does sound a little silly.”
“Silly is a fine word. And while you moon around, Fletch, you’re not giving the firm enough return on your salary dollar. That Corban punk you brought in here is fine for exactly what you intended for him. He’s an oily little bastard. At his operating peak he’s about forty per cent the executive you are—assuming you’re in form. But you’re operating at about twenty-five per cent of capacity, so right now he looks better to me than you do. My loyalty, Fletch, is to the outfit. I can’t afford deadwood. And don’t think I can’t chase your ass out the front door in about nine minutes flat.”
Fletcher felt the quick anger, and then he let it slowly fade away. If Forman wanted it that way, he could have it that way. He sat and did not answer.
“Okay, Fletch. Corban gets your job.”
Fletcher looked at his hand, closed it slowly into a fist. He thought of Ellis’ forced joviality, the cold shrewd small eyes. This time he let the anger come up and fill his throat and roar in his ears.
“All right, Mister Forman. See exactly what the hell that gets you. I can tell you what will happen. You’ll be too busy to keep a checkrein on him and keep his nose in his own business by force if necessary. So he’ll start reaching around with his boy scout knife. He’ll work on the rest of the outfit. You’ll have cliques and plots and so much dirty conniving that the unity—that team feeling that we’ve developed—will fall apart at the seams.” He stood up in his anger. “If you got the sense God gave little red ants you’ll put somebody else in my slot, and if they aren’t smart enough to handle Corban, you’ll boot Corban out along with me. I got him in here, and I can handle him, but you let him run loose and you might as well stick a time bomb under the office. He’d trap this firm into a million dollar loss if he thought he could get a bigger sign on his door. So don’t give me this big time executive crap and in the next breath tell me you can pull that kind of a boner. I got Corban in here so I could milk him, and keep my foot on the back of his neck. You can …”
He stopped suddenly, stared hard at Stanley. Stanley was leaning back in his chair, looking extremely pleased.
“Just what in the hell are you grinning at?”
“That’s the first sign of life I’ve seen in months, Fletch. You say you can keep him under control. Splendid! He gets your job then.”
“Make sense, for Christ’ sake!”
“And I’m creating a new title for you, Fletch. Exe
cutive vice-president. We’ve gotten along without one of those animals for quite a few years. It’s been cleared with the board, including a pay boost that ought to make you happy. Wipe the goofy look off your face and sit down. We’ve got provisional approval from the SEC for a new stock issue. It will be your baby to work out the details. We’re absorbing Correy Heater Corporation in Birmingham. They tried to move into air conditioning and flubbed out. You would have been working on this whole thing with me if you hadn’t been in a fog. I’m going to have to spend a lot of time down there. There’s an executive staff and about half of them are creeps I’ve got to weed out and replace. While I’m commuting, you’re it. This drifting and dreaming you’ve been doing can really hurt us now, if you keep it up. I’m gambling on shocking you the hell out of it. You’re going to find out that you’ll have to be a son of a bitch around here. The son of a bitch. Slack up on the reins and it’ll run away with you. And if it does, word will get around. And when I tie the can to you, you’ll have to go work for the government. Industry won’t hire you as a timekeeper.”
The realization of what was happening to him was like a small warm flame that started in his middle and spread out to the tips of his fingers. He felt nine feet tall, and perfectly capable of walking through brick walls. In his mind the entire new range of responsibilities was being sorted out, dropped into numbered slots. Production, Engineering, Design, Sales, Purchasing, Personnel, Accounting, Maintenance. Each function was tied to a man, and each man was well known to him, and he knew precisely how to get the ultimate effort from each man. He could work them as a unity, and apply all the combined and specialized skills of that functioning unit to the big problems as they appeared.
“How far can I go?” he asked.
“That’s the question I wanted to hear, Fletch. You know as well as I do what has to have Board approval. On anything under that top policy level, it is entirely up to you as to whether you make the decision or refer it to me.”
Fletcher nodded. “Good enough.”
Stanley stood up and stuck out his hand. “Congratulations, Fletch. And luck. You’ll need the luck.”
Fletcher started to walk out in a daze. There were a million new things to start thinking about. Stanley said, “Hey, don’t you want to know when the change is effective?”
Fletcher turned and stared at him. “Hell, I’ve already started.”
“Move yourself into that office right across the hall. I’ll leave you the pleasure of telling Corban. And I think that Evans might be a good man to move into Corban’s shoes. He seems to be …”
Fletcher grinned suddenly. “I’ll consider that a suggestion, Stanley.”
The news traveled fast through the office grapevine. They came into his office singly and in twos and threes to congratulate him. He was inwardly amused at the change in their attitude. Harry Bailey was the only one who seemed to have any resentment. They were all slightly more affable than usual, and a bit speculative, a bit uncertain. After they had all been in, he called Miss Trevin in and asked her to close the door.
“Marcia, I’m going to have to depend on you a great deal.”
“It’s so exciting, Mr. Wyant!”
“Mr. Corban will be moving in here. I’m going to have to depend on you to be his right arm, Marcia.”
She looked as though he had slapped her. “But I thought …”
“I know. And believe me, I’d like nothing better. We work well together. But you see, we can’t take both the key people out of this office. It would be poor planning.”
“But … maybe Mr. Corban would rather have somebody else.”
“Marcia, for more reasons than one, and I believe you know what I mean, I am not going to give Mr. Corban any choice. Please understand that I am not asking you to be … an informant. I don’t believe in that sort of thing. I merely think that your obvious loyalty to me will act as a deterrent should Mr. Corban wish to … extend himself.”
“I … guess I understand.”
“I’m going to have to have a secretary. I thought you might have a suggestion.”
She pursed her lips. “There’s one girl in the pool you might like. She’s green, but she’s very quick and smart. Miss Schmidt.”
“I’ll give her a try, then. You talk to her and … explain all my bad habits, and the way I like things done.”
“Yes, Mr. Wyant.”
“Thank you very much, Miss Trevin.”
She opened the door and started out and then turned back. “Sir, did you call Mrs. Wyant from some other office to tell her the news? I thought you might have forgotten in the excitement and all.”
He felt his new confidence slowly leaking away. “She’s not home right now,” he lied. “Besides, I think I’d rather tell her in person.”
Miss Trevin blushed. “I see. Of course, Mr. Wyant.”
He found he had no time, however, to think of Jane. The press of new work, new problems, pushed her far enough back in his mind so that she was just a small focal point of despair of which he was barely aware. He had a sandwich and milk shake at his desk for lunch. He spent most of the afternoon going over current planning with Stanley Forman, sorting and filing all manner of facts in his retentive mind. At seven o’clock he rode into town with Stanley and they had dinner at the Downtown Club and then went back to the plant to go over the stock issue and transfer plan in detail. Stanley was flying to Birmingham early in the morning. Fletcher had to be ready, in the morning, to take over the problems of the top management slot. On some points they argued with great heat. On most matters they were in agreement.
At last Stanley stood up, stretched, and began to roll down his shirt sleeves. “Lord! Quarter after ten. How did Jane react to the news, Fletch?”
“She was pleased,” he lied.
Stanley gave him a keen look. “You’re going to be knocking yourself out regularly, Fletch. A woman like Jane can make the difference between keeping your head above water, or being sunk without a trace.”
“I know.”
“One of the reasons I picked you is because you’ve got yourself a good girl. She knows the score. A lot of men never get around the course in par on account of the nagging, tormenting bitch they’ve got at home.”
“Let’s drop it, shall we?”
“Sore point, eh?”
“Listen. My sore point. My home life. My wife. Aside and apart from the Forman Furnace Corporation.”
“Nuts! You don’t compartment your life, Fletch. You don’t work in an emotional vacuum. Each part is equal to the whole. Whatever it is, straighten it out.”
“Can’t we drop this?”
“Straighten it out, believe me, or this job will sink you. I’ll give you a lift home. Nightcap on the way?”
“Good suggestion.”
At eleven o’clock Stanley dropped him off in front of the house, refused to come in for another nightcap. He watched the tail lights of the big grey Cadillac go back down Coffeepot Road. There was a light on in the big living room. There was an almost continual glow of heat lightning in the east. The door was unlocked and Jane was on the couch asleep, the lamp shining in her eyes, a book on the floor beside the couch. Her head was tilted awkwardly to one side, and she breathed through her open mouth. She was dressed in grey corduroy shorts and a matching halter, and her hair was tied with a piece of blue yarn.
Fletcher walked quietly over to her and stood looking down at her, with that feeling of guilt that comes from studying the face of anyone asleep. In her relaxation he could see that the past week had left its marks. Dark hollows under her eyes, and a deepening of the brackets around her mouth. He looked at the long lovely brown legs, at the slow rise and fall of the flat, tanned diaphragm as she breathed in her sleep, at the warm breasts pouching the grey corduroy of the halter. In the bright lamplight he could see the white hairs that were usually invisible in her blonde thatch. There was a faint dew of perspiration on her upper lip and on her temple.
He wanted to kneel beside the co
uch and take her in his arms. And, without willing it, he looked at her body again and began to picture how it must have been with her and the tough-muscled kid. It was torment to think of it. He wanted a knife with which he could cut the imaginings out of his mind the way you cut a rotten spot from an apple. The evil images writhed in his mind, twisting and turning into grotesque depravities of which he knew she was incapable, and yet he could not halt them. It was a sickness in him, and it blinded him.
Slowly he became aware of a change in her breathing. She looked up at him. “Hello. Is it late?” Her voice was rusty with sleep. She looked at her watch. “Little after eleven. I must have slept almost two hours.” She sat up and yawned and scrubbed her head vigorously with her knuckles. “Just had a crazy dream. I was running and running to catch one of those old-fashioned open streetcars. I’ve never even seen one in the flesh. I was running right down the tracks. And they were all pointing at me from the streetcar and yelling and I didn’t know why. And then I looked down at myself and I had black gloves that came all the way up to my shoulders and black stockings that came halfway up my thighs and I didn’t have another stitch on. I stopped running and I had my big red purse and I knew I had a bed sheet in it. God knows why. I took the bed sheet out and it was all embroidered with great big staring eyes, but I was going to put it on anyway. But I didn’t have time because the streetcar was coming back with all the people on it. I couldn’t get off the track because there were walls. So I was running again, and it was coming fast behind me. And I woke up. Sounds Freudian as anything, doesn’t it?”
“Sounds weird enough.”
“Funny in a dream you can be so terrified of being naked. Say, your eyes look terribly tired.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezed his eyes shut. “It was a bear of a day. I left the office about quarter after ten tonight.”
“Isn’t that awfully late?”
He looked at her, at her slightly puzzled frown, and wished there was some way he could keep from telling her, some way that she would never have to know. “Stanley made some changes. We’re taking over a new plant. I’m going to be in charge of the Minidoka Plant. Ellis takes my job. I’m executive vice-president.”
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