by Joan Bauer
“How much?” I asked, laughing.
“We’ve got them on special today. Two for a buck. And that’s a steal.” He put his leg up on the chair and threw out a killer smile.
“Sold,” I said. “I’ve got another job for you.”
I told him that Mrs. Gladstone wanted all the Rollings Walkers put aside in the back room. “We’re not going to be selling them right now.”
“How come?”
“There might be something wrong with them.”
“I know that.”
He wasn’t supposed to know that.
“What do you mean?”
He got a box of Rollings Walkers, opened it, lifted the shoes out. “Put your hand in there. Feel the label.”
I did.
“See how it feels kind of bumpy and some of the glue dried outside it? It’s like that on a lot of these new shipments of Rollings shoes, but not on the other ones.”
He showed me more Rollings in different sizes where the labels felt wrong.
“How long have you noticed this?”
“A couple weeks. Look here,” he said, “on these.” He showed me the older stock of oxfords that had smooth and proper labels.
We looked in boxes for an hour. “We’d better tell Mrs. Gladstone,” I said.
He pushed me forward. “You go first.”
Mrs. Gladstone gripped a Rollings Walker, put her other hand inside, and yanked the label off.
“These labels are not being sewn in at the factory. Somebody’s been slapping them on,” she said.
I didn’t get it. Why would somebody do that?
“Jenna, get me the monthly reports from the Bangor plant.”
Our biggest shoe factory was in Bangor, Maine.
Tanner said, “There’s a lot of bad stuff passed off in my neighborhood.”
Mrs. Gladstone looked up. “I’m sure there is. You’ve done good work, Tanner. What gave you the idea to check these labels?”
“I see patterns,” he said.
“What other patterns do you see?” I asked Tanner this as we were walking to lunch.
“I see them all over. I showed Webster the patterns in words and numbers.”
“Really?”
The light changed, we went across. Tanner stopped in the middle and froze.
“Come on,” I said.
He stood there. I grabbed his arm; we hurried to the curb.
“What’s that about?” I asked.
He waved it off.
“Tell me.”
Tanner’s voice got low. “In jail, outside in the yard, there was a yellow line, okay? We couldn’t cross. I did once.” He sighed. “Never again.”
“They really did it to you in there, didn’t they?”
He tensed. “They kept telling me, the judge said to teach you a lesson. They taught me all right—every time I turned around.”
“I’m glad you got out.”
“Getting out’s one thing.” He pointed to his head. “Getting it out of here’s another.”
I handed Tanner the crab shell on my office desk. I got it when Mom, Faith, and I went to Chesapeake Bay. It took me forever to find it on the beach, too, because I needed one that was intact. I imagined how the crab had crawled out as it outgrew its shell and then grew a larger one.
“That’s what I’ve done in my life. It helps me remember I’m in a much bigger and better place than I ever was before. If you want, Tanner, we can try to get something to help you remember you’re not in jail anymore.”
“I hear where you’re coming from,” he said.
The next day, a bone was on my desk. It still had a little meat around the edges.
Tanner peered around the corner. “It’s a pork chop bone. It’ll dry out.” He seemed excited about it.
My mind stretched to embrace the symbolism.
“I knew a guy, Lunar. He did a lot of time. He could sharpen a pork chop bone into a knife. For a long time I’d see a pork chop, I’d think of a weapon. Now I’m just going to think about dinner.” He picked up the bone and headed for the stairs.
I gulped. “Why was he called Lunar?”
“ ’Cause he only came out at night.”
I looked at the employee assessment sheet I had to fill out.
Does the employee show initiative? Is he or she able to follow new directions quickly?
I wrote, You have no idea.
On my desk: a pile of papers with a sticky note from Mrs. Gladstone.
Inconsistencies on June report from Bangor plant—call and find out ASAP.
ASAP meant as soon as possible, which is how we do everything around here.
There were two copies of the June report; both contained the same information, except for page four, which Mrs. Gladstone had marked. On the first report, the heading of page four was OVERFLOW. When a shoe factory has orders to make more shoes than it can handle, they pay another plant to make them—that’s overflow. But page four of the second report was different—that heading read PLANT 427. In the margin, Mrs. Gladstone had written:
I’ve never heard of Plant 427. Where is it?
I called the Bangor plant; a sweet secretary named Louise connected me to Norm Lewis, the plant manager.
“Mr. Lewis, I’m Jenna Boller, Mrs. Gladstone’s assistant. I’m trying to get some information about Plant 427.”
Silence.
“Mr. Lewis?”
“Uh . . . yes . . . ,” he said. “What were you asking?”
“About Plant 427, sir.”
He coughed.
“We have two reports here from June . . . one mentions overflow on page four and the other page four is titled Plant 427. I’m calling to get some information about that plant for—”
“There is . . . ah . . . no Plant 427.”
I looked at the paper in front of me. “But the report I have in front of me says—”
“Oh.” He laughed nervously. “That’s just a misprint. We have a new typist and she got the first-week jitters. You know how it is.”
“But, Mr. Lewis, there are two entirely different page fours from the same report. One shows all the shipping and manufacturing costs from Plant 427 and the other just mentions overflow.”
“And what did I just tell you?”
I had to be careful here to not sound mad even though this guy was treating me like I had major brain dysfunction. “Mr. Lewis, I need to know about the two million dollars billed on page four of your report.”
“Yep, I got it right here. That goes to overflow. You have that page?”
“Yes, sir. But I’ve got the other page that says there were five separate deliveries to you from Plant 4—”
“I told you that’s a typo. This is as easy as life gets. Don’t make it tough, now.” He sniffed. “You just shred that 427 thing. Better yet, send it back to me. Our new girl needs to see the confusion she’s caused by not paying attention. Do we understand each other?”
Not really.
I went into Mrs. Gladstone’s office and told her what happened. “Call him back and tell him I want to know where the overflow is being manufactured if there is no Plant 427.”
“What if he won’t tell me?”
“Overflow has to come from somewhere. Ask him where.”
I wrote down what she said. I’d much rather have an official adult make this call. “Mrs. Gladstone, I don’t understand enough about these reports. I’m not sure I’m helping.”
“This is a good way to learn, Jenna.”
But there are some things you just don’t feel like learning. I placed my philodendron plant next to the phone—a plant that could grow in insufficient light, a plant that could handle angst and abuse and keep growing. This plant and I had a lot in common.
“Deal with the stress,” I said to the plant. “I know you can do it.” I dialed the number.
“Lewis.”
I tried to sound twenty-five instead of sixteen. “Hi, Mr. Lewis. Jenna Boller calling again.”
Air sucked in
on the other end. You’d like me if you knew me, Norm, I swear.
“Mrs. Gladstone wanted me to ask you where that overflow is being manufactured.”
Hostile silence.
“Mr. Lewis?”
He cleared his throat. “Ah, yes, well . . . let me see now. It’s in . . . uh . . .” He sniffed. “We’ve changed things around. I’ll have to put you on hold.”
I waited.
Three minutes. Five.
Seven minutes had passed; I was still on hold.
Louise, the secretary, came on the line sounding like a computerized voice. “I’m afraid Mr. Lewis had to leave unexpectedly. He’ll try to call you back this week . . .”
What was going on? “Maybe you could help me, Louise. I’m trying to—”
“Mr. Lewis will have to help you. I’m sorry.” She hung up.
I felt like I was driving into a storm of inconsistencies with the top down.
The official word came down from Dallas on Rollings Walkers with a personal note from Elden:
THE FINE SHOES THAT BUILT MY PARENTS’ COMPANY HAVE BEEN SLIGHTLY ALTERED FOR COST, NOT QUALITY.
ROLLINGS WALKERS WILL BE EXCLUSIVELY DISCOUNTED FROM NOW UNTIL THE END OF THE YEAR AND SOLD AT TWENTY PERCENT OFF.
The official word in Chicago came down from Mrs. Gladstone. Murray, Tanner, and I sat in her office and heard it loud and clear.
“We won’t sell them. I am making that recommendation to every Gladstone’s store. Whether they take that advice is up to them, but we will here. Advertising will be running to promote this sale and our customers will be disappointed that we cannot accommodate them. That will make things difficult on the sales floor.”
Murray and I looked at each other.
“What they’re doing,” Mrs. Gladstone explained, “is called harvesting the brand. They’re betting that people will continue to buy this brand based on its good reputation. They’re lowering the quality, lowering the price, but still making a nice profit. Sooner or later the word will get out and no one will want the shoes. I can’t be part of that. I apologize in advance if this makes your jobs more difficult.”
Chapter 18
War is hell.
I was on the sales floor telling customers that right now we don’t have Rollings Walkers.
Are they on back order?
Not exactly.
But you still sell them, right?
Not in this store. Not until things change.
Change hit everywhere.
The closed-circuit TV arrived. It took two technicians to put it up.
Murray couldn’t look at it; he said it hurt his eyes.
I looked at it, trying to stare it down. Mrs. Gladstone gazed up at it like David standing tough against Goliath.
There was no ON/OFF button.
“When’s that thing going on?” Tanner asked.
Mrs. Gladstone walked away. “When it suits their purpose, I imagine.”
Understanding denial has given me a real leg up in the business world.
I faced my phone. Norm Lewis could run, but he couldn’t hide. No excuses this time, Norm, or it won’t be pretty. You’re dealing with an Al-Anon participant highly trained in lie detection and all forms of deceit. I dialed his number again and again until he picked up.
“Hi, it’s Jenna Boller calling. Sorry we’ve had such trouble reaching each other,” I said.
He sputtered and coughed and ahemmed and said, well, yes, the outsource people are somewhere in West Virginia. He’d have to get back to me on the rest.
I don’t think I’m going to wait for that.
Someone in this company had to have this information.
Think, Boller.
Edna Moran in accounting; she was a good friend of Mrs. Gladstone’s. The accounting department in a company keeps all money records. Everything purchased or spent by any department in the company is in their files. Edna Moran knew all.
I dialed her number.
“Hi, it’s Jenna from Mrs. Gladstone’s office. Mrs. Gladstone was wondering if you could help us contact the outsource people in West Virginia . . .”
“You mean the West Virginia Shoe Manufacturing Company?”
“That’s the one.” I wrote West Va Shoe Mfg Co on my pad—underlined it twice.
“Can you hold, Jenna?”
Being on hold was part of my job.
She was back. “They’re a new outsource company for us. All I’ve got is their phone number—I don’t know why we don’t have an address. It’s 800-555-0033.”
I wrote that down. “Thank you, Ms. Moran.”
I called the number.
Two rings, then: “Thank you for calling the West Virginia Shoe Manufacturing Company. To send a fax, wait for the tone.” Beep . . .
I dialed it again and got the same message.
I faced my computer and silently thanked Mrs. Kletchner, the school media specialist, who had vowed to teach my class how to conduct a proper search on the computer even if it killed her, which it almost did. I typed in West Virginia Shoe Manufacturing Company. Pressed ENTER. In a moment, the words:
Search found 0 listings for West Virginia Shoe Manufacturing Company. Please refine your search.
I typed in West Virginia Shoe Manufacturing Company, West Virginia.
Search found 0 listings for West Virginia Shoe Manufacturing Company, West Virginia. Please refine your search.
I checked the Yellow Pages on-line; found nothing.
This didn’t make sense.
I stood at the business desk of the Chicago Public Library and said to the librarian, “Is there any way that I can check on a company and find out what they do and what their address is?” She smiled. Librarians understand about power—they know how to find anything. I gave her the name of the West Virginia Shoe Manufacturing Company and the 800 number.
She started typing; her eyes watched the computer screen. “How big is the company? Do you know?”
“I don’t.”
“If they’re doing business, we’ll have it here.” She checked, typed. “Nothing there . . . let me see if they have a business license . . . you’re sure this is the right company name?”
“Positive.”
She studied her screen. “According to every database that lists companies doing business in America, West Virginia Shoe Manufacturing doesn’t exist.”
How could that be?
She checked the reverse phone directory. “Okay, we’ve got something, but they’ve got a different name.” The printer whirred out the information.
TRADE WINDS INTERNATIONAL
PO Box 33299
Grand Cayman
Cayman Islands
“But this isn’t even in West Virginia.”
“No,” she said quietly. “It’s not.”
I knew the Cayman Islands were in the West Indies, not West Virginia. She was typing again, clicking her mouse. “They’ve got a website.”
She wrote down the web address and handed it to me.
When the going gets tough, the tough get a librarian.
Palm trees blowing in the breeze against a blue sky. The words Trade Winds International. One of those websites that tells you absolutely nothing. What could this place have to do with West Virginia Shoe Company?
A few years ago at my school, some kids in the computer lab broke into the school’s database and inserted the name of a fictional student, Milo Bentchik. They gave him an address, a social security number, a phone number, and a straight A average. He was active in clubs and sports. They were hoping to put him up for class president, or at the very least valedictorian, but they were found out and did penance for the rest of the year in detention.
It’s amazing how you can make something fake seem real.
I called Edna Moran in accounting, who knew nothing about Trade Winds or Plant 427. She said with the merger this summer, the accounting records were being combined with the Shoe Warehouse and right now it was hard to find anything. But being the most helpful w
oman in America, she faxed me billing and purchasing records for West Virginia Shoe—two years’ worth.
My eyes crossed as I looked at dozens of numbers and categories—leather, glue, rubber, cork, cardboard boxes, tissue paper, thread. West Virginia Shoe had ordered a lot of material over the last two years. The last order they placed was just last week.
That’s pretty unusual, I’d say, for a company that doesn’t exist.
Chapter 19
Saturday. High noon. The closed-circuit TV finally came alive.
Hard-driving music played. Images flashed across the screen of shoes and feet. Elden’s face broke out before us, bigger than life.
Murray gasped like people do in horror movies when the serial killer shows up.
“Welcome,” Elden said, “to the new Gladstone’s!”
Customers stopped what they were doing to watch.
“Have we got surprises for you!” Elden exclaimed like a game-show host. “Daily specials, hourly sales.” Elden kept talking about the shoes on special and how they were made with quality. He mentioned the Rollings Walkers discounted everywhere. “The shoes that built my parents’ shoe company,” he said proudly.
I tried to tune it out. Elden insisted the great tradition of Gladstone’s hadn’t been changed, just updated.
I couldn’t listen anymore; I went upstairs.
Mrs. Gladstone had left another sticky note on my chair.
Call these suppliers and ask if they ship their orders to West Virginia Shoe.
There was a list of companies that we did business with. It’s amazing all the products you need to make a pair of shoes.
I called AAA Rubber Company, U.S. Thread, Buttons Unlimited, Zack’s Zipper Company. Not one of them had heard of West Virginia Shoe or Plant 427. They all shipped their material to our plant in Bangor.