He had no idea how many at this party had been favored with one of Barbara Ulrich’s notes. He had seen at least four recipients: Adams, Durocher, Fradet, and Whitston. The president and his three executive vice presidents.
Somehow, Father Tully had a sneaking feeling that he would not be receiving one of Barbara Ulrich’s missives. Nor would he even learn what they contained.
The lights dimmed, then brightened.
Dinner was served.
Seven
Guided by the place cards, Father Tully found himself between Barbara Ulrich and Joel Groggins, the only guest the priest had not yet met.
Each guest, upon finding his or her place, remained standing. They knew that Adams dinners always opened with a prayer.
It was expected that Father Tully would lead them. After Adams issued the invitation, the priest complied with the traditional, “Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ, Our Lord.”
And everyone-at least so it seemed-responded with a hearty “Amen.” There were no atheists at an Adams banquet.
After seating himself, Father Tully turned to Mrs. Ulrich. But she had already turned away to launch into conversation with Patricia Durocher. That conversation was aided and abetted by Lou Durocher, seated across from Mrs. Ulrich.
Evidently, the priest had been weighed and found wanting as far as Barbara Ulrich’s interests were concerned. So, with little regret, Tully turned to his left, where sat a smiling Joel Groggins.
Groggins was African-American-though not nearly as light-skinned as the priest. He was a six-footer, and hefty; his clothes could have been a size larger. “Just in case no one’s said it,” Groggins said, “welcome to Detroit.”
“In point of fact,” the priest responded, “no one has. At least a couple of people have made me feel welcome, but no one has said it in so many words. Thanks.”
A trolley stopped behind them, offering still more hors d’oeuvres, including something the waiter identified as fresh Petrossian Ossetra Malossol caviar.
“Do you happen to know,” the priest asked Groggins, “how much that caviar costs?”
“Forty dollars for a thirty-gram serving.”
The priest passed on the caviar, selected a sampling of several other offerings, and the waiter moved on.
“I should mention;’ Groggins said, “that the price I quoted you was a bit high. I quoted you the price fixed at the Lark, one of our very best dining spots. We’ll be going right down a Lark menu, unless I’m very mistaken. Tom Adams could do far, far worse than copy a Lark meal.”
“I was talking to your wife earlier. She said you were in construction?”
“That’s right. Mostly in Detroit. It’s really sad, the kind of image this city’s got. It went down on a roller coaster for about thirty years under the previous two or three mayors. But Aker, the present guy, is inspirational. He’s got things moving. Of course, we’ve still got a long way to go. But I’m doin’ okay. And lovin’ it.” His laugh was full-bodied.
“Congratulations. But that brings up the question that’s been nagging at me after speaking with your wife, Mr. Groggins-”
“Joe.”
“Okay. Joe. Why is she fighting for this position? She is, after all, a bank manager. She didn’t mention her salary ….”
“Forty-five thousand in round figures.”
“And she did say you were pulling down about what the bank’s executive vice presidents were making. So why should she compete for the new job and all its headaches?”
Groggins found Father Tully’s naivete surprising in this day and age. “A generation or so ago-and practically forever before that-it would have been cause for scandal. Women were homemakers. Women-and I know that you know this was the measure of their success, Father-anyway, women stayed home, nurtured their husbands and their kids, went to church and church meetings. Husbands did important work and brought home the paycheck.
“But that’s history. Women still enter the workforce with a strike or two against them. But they definitely compete.
“And that’s what Nancy’s doing: She’s competing-in this case, against Al Ulrich. It doesn’t make any difference how much I’m making; she has to score on her own.
“I’m sure you know there’s a side issue here, Father. Whoever gets the new job will be Tom Adams’s fair-haired child. I mean, Nancy and Al are already favored employees of Adams Bank. But whoever is chosen here will … have a chance to go on to greater things.”
The seemingly never stationary waiters bestowed pasta as the next course.
“So,” Tully said, “there’s a lot hinging on Tom Adams’s choice.”
Groggins nodded enthusiastically. “I’ll say! You’re about the only one at this entire party who will be unaffected by that choice.”
Father Tully thought for a moment. “Me? Myself, alone? What about you? You don’t seem to have much riding on this event. How would your lifestyle be involved?”
Groggins shrugged. “If Nancy isn’t the choice, we’re going to have some instant replays, a lot of recrimination, and not a small amount of resentment and even anger.”
“And if she wins this appointment?”
“There’ll be some arguments about our enhanced capability. Should we wait for what seems certain to be an executive vice presidency? Should we be upwardly mobile right away? Should we move up even after the appointment? Things like that.
“But let me tell you, Reverend, whatever Nancy and I go through one way or another will be nothing-nothing-compared with what the other folks will have to manage.”
“All of them?”
Groggins spread his large hands on the table and nodded gravely.
The pasta was followed by a scoop of Italian ices as a palate cleanser. Then came the salad.
Groggins leaned toward the priest confidingly. “Romaine with cashews and hearts of palm and mustard vinaigrette. And, Reverend, it might be a good idea for you to forget how much all this costs. Otherwise you might be sorely tempted to turn down everything like you did the caviar.”
Father Tully forked through the salad. It was delicious, as had been everything so far.
As they ate, both the priest and Groggins briefly studied the other diners. There might have been five or six separate conversations going on. No one was paying any attention to the Tully-Groggins tete-a-tete.
Apparently, they were free to talk of anything or anyone they pleased with no repercussion from the other diners, who seemed to have forgotten them.
“God forgive me,” the priest said, “but I find this captivating. I mean, I don’t have any stake in any of this. I’ll probably never see any of you again. So why am I so interested in what’s going on?”
Groggins grinned. “Ever watch a soap opera, Reverend?”
“Can’t say that I have.” A smile spread slowly across the priest’s face. “A living, breathing soap opera, is it? Well, God help me, I’m hooked. I never thought such a thing could be. But I am.”
The piece de resistance arrived.
“Steak!” Tully exclaimed.
Groggins was amused. “Black Angus sirloin strip with onions and pinot noir sauce,” he clarified. “And vegetable garnish.” Noting the priest’s somewhat quizzical expression, Groggins grinned again. “Nancy was in on the planning. She told me-in great detail-what we’d be eating tonight.”
As they fell to, the priest and Groggins again studied the other diners, who, unimpeded by the food, continued their separate conversations, still uninterested in the only two who were least affected by the intra-company dynamics.
“For one who is only marginally involved in these office politics,” Father Tully said, “you seem pretty knowledgeable.”
“Nancy and I talk … or, rather, Nancy talks. I listen.”
“All I know at this point in the soap is that, apparently, either Nancy or Al Ulrich will be the new manager. No chance of. a dark horse coming out of nowhere?”
“None that anybody can imagine. If there were any doubt, this party with this cast of characters would not be taking place.”