by Sally Wright
They talked about all kinds of things the way they always did—her work as an architect helping to restore White Hall, the mansion that a hundred years before had belonged to Cassius Clay, the street-fighting abolitionist who’d been Lincoln’s ambassador to Russia.
Jo talked about being pregnant for the first time too, and how four months felt different than it had before, and how she was trying to figure out what she should stop doing now with the horses they boarded on the farm.
But when Jo asked Alan how work was going, he clammed up without warning.
“What about the antifungal shampoo you formulated? How’s that selling?”
“Better than we expected. The fungicidal ointments too. The exclusive contract with Bayer for the fungicide has given us a real advantage.”
“How’s the de-wormer going?”
“More or less the way I was afraid it would.”
Jo leaned back in her chair, her straight black eyebrows pulled close together over dark blue purposeful eyes that were fixed right on Alan’s.
She sat and watched him look away, the scar along the left side of his jaw white against the five o’clock shadow that had already taken control. Then she set her elbows on the table and wove her fingers together. “What?”
“What d’ya mean, what?”
“What’s going on, Alan?” She watched him silently, seeing more than he wanted her to, her eyebrows arched analytically.
He told her then, for almost half an hour—about Carl and Butch, and that during the last week, Bob Harrison was either irritated with him, or avoiding him altogether. Bob normally went out of this way to consult Alan, and seemed to enjoy discussing the vaccines he was working on, but he’d been keeping to himself, and hardly looking at Alan when Alan went to talk to him, and the chill rolling off him was getting hard to ignore.
“I don’t want to worry you, with you being pregnant, but if there’s a lack of trust, or some opposition from Bob, it doesn’t bode well for my stay at Equine. I can put up with resistance from the rest, but I can’t stay if Bob joins the others.”
“Somebody’s been gossiping behind your back. You know what I mean. Telling him something about you that’s got him questioning what you’re doing, and maybe what kind of person you are.”
“That’s nothing but speculation.”
“Yeah, but I bet I’m right. Carl wouldn’t hesitate, that’s for sure. And yet why would Bob believe him? He oughtta know you better than that.”
“Bob’s very good with people in certain ways. He can talk about the principles that are important to him, and the medicine he’s excited about, and where he sees the company going, and when he’s done everybody who’s heard him would crawl across cut glass for him.
“But there’s something naïve about him too, and I’ve seen him get fooled. He’s so straightforward himself he expects everybody else to be. So he doesn’t catch the two faced, or the manipulative, and he can’t see the boot kissing that goes on with some of the people there. ’Member how Spencer’s mom helped Spencer’s dad with all of that? That’s what Bob needs. But his wife knows nothing about the business. All she seems to think about is getting their son promoted.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It’s definitely not a help.”
“So how does Bob react when he sees somebody’s dishonest, or trying to take advantage of him?”
“I think he tends to overreact. He’s so surprised and appalled he can’t see it as an everyday facet of human nature and try to be dispassionate.”
“So if he thinks you’ve been undermining him, he won’t respond well. Right? So what’re you going to do?”
“You know how friendly he’s been? How he’s supported me, even when Brad’s acted threatened by me?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, yesterday, when I asked to talk to him about the Sigma blade options we need to research, he wouldn’t even look in my direction.”
“You’re going to have to do something. You can’t just let it go on.”
They walked out into a blue-black night sprinkled with crystal stars, and stood by the curb in front of the steakhouse and looked up and smiled.
A man’s voice said, “Hey,” off on their left, and they turned and saw Butch Morgan and his wife walking toward them from a barbecue place that was one of Lexington’s favorites.
Alan said, “Hi, Butch. Hey, Frannie. How are your girls doing?”
“Enjoying their summer vacation.” She answered before Butch, adjusting the belt of her dress, her heart-shaped sun-burned face looking slightly ill at ease.
Jo asked if she was still working at the insurance company, as she slipped her hand in Alan’s.
“The branch in Louisville most days. I moved up there this winter. Daddy comes in and helps three days a week here, but it’s primarily up to me now. At the Louisville branch, and in Lexington.”
Butch looked irritated before she’d finished, but then he slipped his arm around Frannie’s waist, and looked directly at Alan. “Her dad’s not much older than Bob Harrison, but he’s real close to retired.”
Alan said, “I can’t imagine Bob retiring. He’s only in his fifties, and work’s the center of his life.”
Butch was watching Alan now with a kind of wavering intent as though he might’ve had too much to drink. “You ever seen Bob lose his temper?”
“No. Not what I’d call losing it. Why?”
“I reckon he didn’t like being told he’s too old to do good work.”
“Who told him that?”
“Carl told him what you said. ’Member? In the hall the other day? Manufacturing’s changing so fast, you don’t want him to help with scale-up. Like maybe his methods are outta date.” Butch was smiling, rocking on the balls of his feet, taking in the shock on Alan’s face.
“I didn’t say that! Nothing even close to that.”
“That’s what we thought you said. But you know how it is,” he was trying to take one of Frannie’s hands in his, but she stepped farther away. “If ten folks see a bank holdup, you’ll get ten versions of what happened. See ya Monday, Alan.”
Frannie and Alan and Jo said goodnight, as Butch and Frannie walked past.
After they’d turned the corner, Jo said, “Well, now we know why Bob’s irritated with you.”
“Yeah, we certainly do. Crap.”
“Did Butch and Frannie get divorced?”
“He hasn’t said anything at work, but if she’s moved, it—”
“She wasn’t wearing a ring.”
“How do women notice things like that?”
“Why do men not?”
They both smiled, and started toward their car, staring up at the stars again—before they started worrying about what Carl had told Bob.
Monday, July 15th, 1963
“I appreciate you meeting with me.” Alan Munro set a glass of iced tea on the driftwood table under the old farmhouse’s back arbor, between his chair and Bob Harrison’s. “If the bugs get bad we can move inside.”
“I was raised on a dairy farm. I worked as a large animal vet for eight years. I can put up with bugs. Jo here?” Bob’s salt-and-pepper hair, with gray patches at the temples, ruffled in a gust of wind from the left end of the arbor.
“She’s working on the restoration of a house south of Lexington.”
A painful silence settled between them, while Bob Harrison, who looked like a coiled spring, tapped a finger on the arm of his chair as though that was all that was keeping him from leaping up in the air. “Look, I left work that I need to do, and I don’t mean to be rude, but I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me why you asked me to meet you away from the office. I assume it’s concerned with the business.”
“It is. I’m trying to decide where to start.” Alan Munro took a sip of iced tea before he turned toward Bob. “I know Carl Seeger told you that I told him and Butch Morgan something that more or less means I think you’re old and behind the times. That you can’t help with the scal
e-up of new products, but that’s not at all what—”
“How do you know that’s what Carl said?” Harrison’s eyes were gray and deep set behind black-framed glasses, and he stared hard at Alan, then looked away again fast.
“Butch. Jo and I ran into him and his wife outside a restaurant in Lexington Friday night. He might’ve had a bit too much to drink, and he looked like he was gloating when he said it. I’ve also noticed there’s a distance now in the way you communicate with me.”
Bob Harrison looked sideways at Alan for less than a second, then picked up his glass of tea.
Alan slid his director’s chair counterclockwise till he faced Bob straight on, his green eyes determined, the small muscles under his cheekbones clenched as tight as his jaw. “What I said to Carl and Butch was ‘Bob shouldn’t be bothered with scale-up. That’s our job. He has other things to do that only he can, like the antibiotic formulating and fermenting.’ I said we need to master it ourselves. I’ve told them till I’m blue in the face that it’s a good opportunity for us to learn, and work together as a team. Vincent Eriksen was in the hall when we were talking and he can corroborate what was said.”
“Can he?” Bob was studying Alan now, his eyes cool and considering, his firm mouth skeptical. Then Bob looked away again, out across the lawn at the willow back by the pond, as he locked his hands behind his neck. “What’s the root of the conflict?”
“I’m the VP of Science and Technology. I’m a chemical engineer trying hard to improve things, and they don’t like my input impacting the way they’ve always worked.”
“That’s not unexpected. I would’ve thought you would’ve anticipated that reaction and gone out of your way to avoid it.”
“I did, and I have gone out of my way. You brought me in to evaluate Equine Pharmaceuticals’ existing product line, and help you determine what needs to be developed. To help the lab design reliable test methods too, for products and raw materials, and improve the way you test new products in the field. You’ve also wanted me to help your lab and production people take what’s formulated in the lab and scale it up from a beaker-sized batch to full commercial volume.”
“Correct.” Bob said it as though Alan were stating the obvious and wasting valuable time.
“I don’t know the veterinary science that enables you to develop vaccines and antibiotics and cutting-edge equine drugs. I can formulate other treatments, and help refine the health care formulas to optimize ingredients and improve production techniques. But I never could’ve started the business, or come up with the drugs you have.”
“I do grasp the distinctions, Alan.”
“Then why would I be stupid enough to minimize your contributions and imply that you’re behind the times?”
Bob didn’t say anything till he’d finished the last of his tea. “How would you evaluate Carl’s and Butch’s performance?”
“Carl has a degree in chemistry, and he’s able to perform lab-tech-type bench work under your and my direction, but he doesn’t have the curiosity or the experience to do the more sophisticated thinking and development that I think a lab director should. It may be attitude, rather than aptitude, I can’t say. I do know he’s very determined not to get his hands dirty by helping with any of the scale-up work, and he resents my presence here, and the relationship you and I have had, because of our shared perspectives.”
“And Butch?”
“He doesn’t have the education and the training to be effective at the scale-up work, or develop new manufacturing techniques. I think he questions his own competence, and I think Carl has influenced him to be more negative and resistant to change than he might’ve otherwise been. He’s capable of making the antibacterial shampoos and ointments, and the new fungicidal treatments, as well as the other equine health care products in the line, once we’ve developed the processes for him.
“But the new de-wormer paste, that’s a whole new process, and I think it’s got him panicked. But instead of being cooperative, and willing to say, ‘I don’t know how to do this, help me and let’s work together,’ he’s fighting whatever is new and unknown and doing you a disservice.”
Bob Harrison loosened his dark blue tie, before he glanced at Alan. “I’ve seen evidence of that myself, but I’d like to be able to salvage him, and Carl as well. Carl especially. He’s was the first person I hired in the lab.”
“Then that must make it hard.”
“I did everything myself when I started the business. The microbiology, working with Elvis Doll at UK’s Vet School. The fermenting and the formulating, along with the manufacturing. I washed the floors and took out the garbage and did the packaging. When you’re first starting up, you don’t have the luxury of scouring the country for someone with the best degrees and the deepest experience, you hire the person you can afford and hope to be able to develop them. That’s how I hired Carl, and I don’t want to have to let him go.”
“I’m not suggesting you let either of them go. But I would like you to look at the memos in this file. Annette did the day-by-day transcribing. You can corroborate their authenticity with her.” He pulled a manila folder from the briefcase he’d set on the arbor’s brick floor and handed it to Bob Harrison.
Bob read it, while Alan drank tea and patted Emmy, the boxer-and-something-else, who’d been lying by his chair since he’d first sat down.
“Your position’s documented, I can see that. Carl’s resisted too many reasonable requests, and seems to be more interested in standing on his own dignity than putting the health of the company first. Butch too. Though, as you suggest, his insecurities may play a larger part.”
“I have tried to be collegial. I’ve invited them to dinner, separately and together, and tried to talk in encouraging terms, without being critical. I’ve described how chemistry and production methods are beginning to develop more rapidly, and how we could learn so much, and contribute so much, if we could work together. But it hasn’t seemed to help.”
“I see that in the lab and production reports.”
“But I think there’s more too. They both really respect you, and they feel as though I’ve come between you and them. That you and I work together more closely now, and some inside position they once had has been unfairly ripped away. I also have to be honest and say that Carl’s attitude is such that I have real doubts that he can be turned around.”
“It’s an unfortunate situation.”
“It is.”
“I would like to speak with Vincent. It’s not that I don’t trust you—”
“I understand. And I’ve asked him if he’d be willing for us to stop by this afternoon. If that’s something you have time to do.”
“It’ll be difficult for him. With his background.” Bob was looking out toward the pond, shielding his eyes with one hand. “Look at the great blue heron.”
He’d landed for a second, but then gathered himself and flown off again as Alan turned to look. “I don’t know anything about Vincent, except that it’s hard for him to talk to people, and he still uses a list to clean the offices every night, even though he’s cleaned the building for years.”
Bob Harrison smiled as he reached for the sport coat he’d hung on the back of his chair. “The fall before Pearl Harbor was bombed, Vincent was finishing his doctorate dissertation in mathematics at Harvard when a paper by a physicist at Oxford was published that anticipated his work. Vincent couldn’t come up with a new dissertation topic, and he left Harvard on his own volition and came home to live with his parents, whom I’ve known for years.
“He tried to enlist, but his eyesight disqualified him. He took a job as a mail carrier for a while, but the personal contact with that many people was very difficult for him. In ’55, when I was able to hire a person to clean the offices and the lab, I decided to try Vincent. It’s suited him very well. He comes to work as everyone else is leaving and works till midnight, or so, then studies mathematics and astrophysics on his own during the day.”
�
�I had no idea.”
“Few people do. He finds it impossible to discuss.”
Vincent Eriksen was waiting for them on the front porch of the small clapboard house he shared with his widowed sister. It was over ninety and humid, but he was sitting in an old rattan chair dressed in khaki work pants with a long-sleeved tan shirt buttoned at the collar and the cuffs.
He stood up as soon as he saw Bob’s car draw up, very tall and slightly stooped, and so thin his black leather belt sat on a ridge of sharp edged bone. His eyes were anxious behind his horn-rims, even more than usual, pale blue and partly hidden under worried eyebrows.
Bob and Alan both said hello as they came up the walk, and Vincent nodded and motioned them toward the two rattan chairs perpendicular to his on the right end of the porch.
They tried small talk for a minute or two, but then Bob asked Vincent if he knew why they were there.
Vincent had been staring at the painted gray floor, rubbing his hands on his knees. “I do.”
“So …”
“You want to know about the conversation I heard in the hall by the lab.”
“Yes.”
“The power failed on July 3rd at 3:52 p.m. The incinerator had been acting up, and I was worried that I was running late, and had consulted my watch a moment before.” His voice trailed away as he stared at the street, his hands gripping his knees.
Bob had taken off his glasses and was rubbing the red places where they sat on his nose, when he said, “I know this isn’t easy.”
“I don’t care to be a bearer of tales.”
“Is that what you’re going to do? Tell us a tale?”
“No. No. I detest disputes. I told Mr. Munro.”
“But?”
“I agreed to speak, and I will.” Vincent crossed one leg over the other and tucked his hands underneath his arms, hugging his ribs without saying anything for what seemed like more than a minute.
Bob said, “Take your time, Vincent. There’s no rush. We don’t want this to be stressful.”
“I know you don’t … I know, I …” He stared at the peeling floor, holding his breath, rocking forward and back, without seeming to notice.