In the middle of a sentence, Eddie notices I'm looking at him funny.
"Something wrong?" asks Eddie.
When I get home, the house is dark except for one light. I try to keep it quiet as I come in. True to her word, Julie has left me some dinner in the microwave. As I open the door to see what delectable treat awaits me (it seems to be some variety of mystery meat) I hear a rustling behind me. I turn around, and there stands my little girl, Sharon, at the edge of the kitchen.
"Well! If it isn't Miz Muffet!" I exclaim. "How is the tuffet these days?"
She smiles. "Oh... not bad."
"How come you're up so late?" I ask.
She comes forward holding a manila envelope. I sit down at the kitchen table and put her on my knee. She hands the enve- lope to me to open.
"It's my report card," she says.
"No kidding?"
"You have to look at it," she tells me.
And I do.
"You got all A's!" I say.
I give her a squeeze and big kiss.
"That's terrific!" I tell her. "That's very good, Sharon. I'm really proud of you. And Til bet you were the only kid in your class to do this well."
She nods. Then she has to tell me everything. I let her go on, and half an hour later, she's barely able to keep her eyes open. I carry her up to her bed.
But tired as I am, I can't sleep. It's past midnight now. I sit in the kitchen, brooding and picking at dinner. My kid is getting A's in the second grade while Tin flunking out in business.
Maybe I should just give up, use what time I've got to try to land another job. According to what Selwin said, that's what ev- eryone at headquarters is doing. Why should I be different?
For a while, I try to convince myself that a call to a head- hunter is the smart thing to do. But, in the end, I can't. A job with another company would get Julie and me out of town, and maybe fortune would bring me an even better position than I've got now although I doubt it; my track record as a plant manager hasn't
59
exactly been stellar.) What turns me against the idea of looking for another job is I'd feel I were running away. And I just can't do that.
It's not that I feel I owe my life to the plant or the town or the company, but I do feel some responsibility. And aside from that, I've invested a big chunk of my life in UniCo. I want that investment to pay off. Three months is better than nothing for a last chance.
My decision is, I'm going to do everything I can for the three months.
But that decided, the big question arises: what the hell can I really do? I've already done the best I can with what I know. More of the same is not going to do any good.
Unfortunately, I don't have a year to go back to school and re-study a lot of theory. I don't even have the time to read the magazines, papers, and reports piling up in my office. I don't have the time or the budget to screw around with consultants, making studies and all that crap. And anyway, even if I did have the time and money, I'm not sure any of those would give me a much better insight than what I've got now.
I have the feeling there are some things I'm not taking into account. If I'm ever going to get us out of this hole, I can't take anything for granted; Tm going to have to watch closely and think carefully about what is basically going on... take it one step at a time.
I slowly realize that the only tools I have-limited as they may be-are my own eyes and ears, my own hands, my own voice, my own mind. That's about it. I am all I have. And the thought keeps coming to me: I don't know if that's enough.
When I finally crawl into bed, Julie is a lump under the sheets. She is exactly the way I left her twenty-one hours ago. She's sleeping. Lying beside her on the mattress, still unable to sleep, I stare at the dark ceiling.
That's when I decide to try to find Jonah again.
8
Two steps after rolling out of bed in the morning, I don't like moving at all. But in the midst of a morning shower, memory of my predicament returns. When you've only got three months to work with, you don't have much time to waste feeling tired. I rush past Julie-who doesn't have much to say to me-and the kids, who already seem to sense that something is wrong, and head for the plant.
The whole way there I'm thinking about how to get in touch with Jonah. That's the problem. Before I can ask for his help, I've got to find him.
The first thing I do when I get to the office is have Fran barricade the door against the hordes massing outside for frontal attack. Just as I reach my desk, Fran buzzes me; Bill Peach is on the line.
"Great," I mutter.
I pick up the phone.
"Yes, Bill."
"Don't you ever walk out of one of my meetings again," rum- bles Peach. "Do you understand me?"
"Yes, Bill."
"Now, because of your untimely absence yesterday, we've got some things to go over," he says.
A few minutes later, I've pulled Lou into the office to help me with the answers. Then Peach has dragged in Ethan Frost and we're having a four-way conversation.
And that's the last chance I have to think about Jonah for the rest of the day. After I'm done with Peach, half a dozen people come into my office for a meeting that has been postponed since last week.
The next thing I know, I look out the window and it's dark outside. The sun has set and I'm still in the middle of my sixth meeting of the day. After everyone has gone, I take care of some paperwork. It's past seven when I hop in the car to go home.
While waiting in traffic for a long light to turn green, I finally have the opportunity to remember how the day began. That's when I get back to thinking about Jonah. Two blocks later, I remember my old address book.
I pull over at a gas station and use the pay phone to call Julie.
"Hello," she answers.
"Hi, it's me," I say. "Listen, I've got to go over to my mother's for something. I'm not sure how long I'll be, so why don't you go ahead and eat without me."
"The next time you want dinner-"
"Look, don't give me any grief, Julie; this is important."
There is a second of silence before I hear the click.
It's always a little strange going back to the old neighbor- hood, because everywhere I look is some kind of memory waiting just out of sight in my mind's eye. I pass the corner where I had the fight with Bruno Krebsky. I drive down the street where we played ball summer after summer. I see the alley where I made out for the first time with Angelina. I go past the utility pole upon which I grazed the fender of my old man's Chevy (and subse- quently had to work two months in the store for free to pay for the repair). All that stuff. The closer I get to the house, the more memories come crowding in, and the more I get this feeling that's kind of warm and uncomfortably tense.
Julie hates to come here. When we first moved to town, we used to come down every Sunday to see my mother and Danny and his wife, Nicole. But there got to be too many fights about it, so we don't make the trip much anymore.
I park the Mazda by the curb in front of the steps to my mother's house. It's a narrow, brick row house, about the same as any other on the street. Down at the corner is my old man's store, the one my brother owns today. The lights are off down there; Danny closes at six. Getting out of my car, I feel conspicuous in my suit and tie.
My mother opens the door.
"Oh my god," she says. She clutches her hands over her heart. "Who's dead?"
"Nobody died, Mom," I say.
"It's Julie, isn't it," she says. "Did she leave you?"