by Ann McMan
“I might sit and have a bite or two with you.” Grammy looked at the wall clock. “But it’s not really good to eat this late—it gives you bad dreams.”
“It’s barely seven o’clock,” I said. I didn’t tell her that my dreams were likely to be bad, whether I had them on a full stomach or not.
I dropped down onto a stool. Something caught my eye. Grammy had brought one of my project chairs into the kitchen. I pulled it over to where I sat.
“Were you going to work on this?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “I just wanted to check on your progress.”
“You mean lack of progress, don’t you?” I flicked at a stray piece of reed that projected from one of the holes. My untouched basket of caning supplies sat on a small table next to my stool. “I haven’t had much opportunity lately to work on these.”
“That’s because you spend too much time gallivanting around.”
I looked up at her. She was chopping carrots . . . probably for a salad.
“I don’t gallivant.” I understood what she meant, but I was pretty certain I hadn’t been doing much of it.
She tsked.
“I don’t,” I said again.
I kept fiddling with the reed. It really needed to be removed.
Grammy walked over and handed me a shallow bowl of water that contained several lengths of damp cane.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“I thought this would give you something to do while we waited for dinner to bake,” she explained. She resumed chopping vegetables.
I pulled one of the damp lengths of cane from the bowl. “I don’t think this is likely to relax me.”
“You never know until you try,” she said. “Wynona told me there were some big changes going on at the plant today.”
“Yeah, you might say that.” I fished my mallet and some wooden pegs out of the basket. “The Ogata transition team showed up yesterday. All the lines are shut down while they address all of the workplace safety concerns.”
“Wynona said the Krylons are gone.”
I nodded. “They are . . . and a lot of their senior management along with them.”
“How was it that you ended up working today when they shut everything else down?” Grammy asked.
I tapped wooden pegs into the holes around the opening of the chair seat to hold down the loose pieces of damp cane.
“Tam Shigeta, the man heading up the transition team, asked me if I’d like to work with them during this period while they’re changing things over.”
Grammy nodded. “That’s good. They should want your help with that.”
“I hope so.” I cut some lengths of cane and started weaving them together across the opening. “It’s kind of strange to see where this day ended up. This morning, I thought I might be quitting.”
Grammy paused mid-chop. “Well that wouldn’t have made any sense . . . why would you want to think about doing something like that?”
I shrugged. “It just seemed easier.”
“Easier than what?” she asked.
I knew that I should never have started down this road with her.
“Easier than staying on and dealing with another set of failures,” I muttered.
Grammy didn’t much care for that answer. She set her knife down and glared at me. I tried to concentrate on my weaving and pretend I didn’t notice.
“Jillian Fryman, do not even pretend that you didn’t just say that. I might be an old woman, but my hearing is just fine.”
“I know, Grammy.”
“I honestly do not know what’s gotten into you lately . . . you keep burnin’ your bridges before you even get to ’em.” She huffed. “What in the world has you running so scared?”
“I’m not running,” I protested.
“Well if this behavior of yours isn’t running, I don’t know what it is.”
“I’m trying to change that, Grammy. I took the job they offered me.”
“Well,” she picked up her knife, “I suppose that’s something.” She resumed chopping.
I was relieved that I seemed to have dodged the worst of that bullet.
For a minute or two, she chopped, and I wove in relative silence.
“What about Eleanor?” she asked.
I ran the end of one of the cane strands up under my fingernail.
“Damn it!”
So much for that bullet-dodging fantasy . . .
I sucked on the end of my finger and looked at her.
“Well?” she asked.
“Well, what?” I mumbled.
“Take your finger out of your mouth.”
I complied.
“Now,” Grammy continued. “What are you going to do to make sure that girl stays around?”
I was dumbfounded by her question. “Grammy . . . I can’t do anything to make her stay around.”
“Of course you can.”
“No, I can’t.” I fanned my sore finger. “She’s a labor organizer . . . she goes where her work takes her. She’d never want to settle down in a place like this.”
“Have you asked her that?”
“Of course not.”
“Why not?”
I was so frustrated I was practically sputtering at her. “Because she’d never do it.”
Grammy put her knife down again and faced me with her hands on her hips. “Is mind reading part of that fancy MBA program you’re always workin’ on? Cause if it isn’t, I don’t know how you can be so sure you know anything about what she’d say.”
“Grammy . . .”
“I think that girl is the best thing that’s ever happened to you, and I don’t understand why you won’t just admit it.”
“I do admit it.”
“Have you told her that?”
“Of course not.”
Grammy sighed. “Didn’t you just tell me that those new owners hired you to help straighten out the mess at that truck plant?”
I nodded.
“And how, exactly, do you all plan to do that?”
I sighed. “We’ll study all of the processes and procedures and fix or replace the ones that don’t work, or that compromise safety and productivity.”
“And I suppose you’ll do that by guess work?”
“Well . . . no . . .”
“You mean you won’t just assume you know what’s wrong or what’s likely to happen?”
I rolled my eyes. “No, Grammy.”
“Really? Even though that method seems to work just fine in the rest of your life?”
“Okay, Judge Judy . . . I get it. You’ve made your point.”
“Are you sure about that? I’d hate for you to have to assume you know what I’m thinking.”
I opened my mouth to say something else, but thought better of it. I’d already given her way too much raw material for one night.
Something else occurred to me. I grasped at it as a way to get her off this topic and get myself off the ropes in the process.
“There is one thing about your thinking I’d like to ask you about,” I said.
She looked suspicious. “What’s that?”
“Oh . . . let’s see . . . it might involve two mongrel puppies?”
Her face softened. “Oh . . . those sweet babies. Don’t you dare say anything mean about them.”
Sweet babies?
“Grammy . . . what on earth possessed you to adopt two of the ug—” she glared at me, and I searched for another word, “oddest puppies in the world?”
“I had my reasons,” she explained. “Besides . . . Fritz just loves them. They ran and played together all day today. When I left to come over here, little Jimmie and Eddie were curled up in a ball, sleeping on your grandpa’s chair.”
“Jimmie and Eddie?” I was pretty sure that T-Bomb said the puppies Grammy adopted were females.
Grammy nodded. “At first, I thought it was strange to give girl dogs boy names, but Aunt Jackie explained that it made sense, since Lucille was their daddy.”
I didn’t even bother to comment.
The oven timer dinged.
“Dinner’s ready.” Grammy walked my way. “How much progress did you make?”
I set the chair down and pushed it toward her.
Grammy took her time, checking it out from top to bottom. Then she straightened up and looked me square in the eye.
“How bad is it?” I asked.
I was prepared for her to let me down gently. Maybe pat me on the hand before showing me all the places where I needed to go back and rework my weaving. It was clear that I was just never going to get the hang of this.
Grammy continued to stand there for a few moments without speaking. Then she smiled.
“Jill, this is perfect.”
I was shocked. I hadn’t even really been paying attention to what I was doing.
“It is?” I looked down at it like I was seeing it for the first time. In fact, it did look pretty tidy.
“See what happens when you don’t think things to death?”
I shook my head in amazement. Maybe she was right about some other things, too?
But not about those puppies . . .
Chapter 13
The rest of the week was a blur. I pretty much rolled out of bed at sunrise and dropped back to the mattress at sunset like a falling rock. Working with Tam’s transition team was exhausting but exhilarating all at the same time. By the end of the third day, we were able to fire up the production lines and return all of Ogata’s 4,485 workers to their jobs in a safer—and cooler—environment. Our FTE numbers had decreased slightly due to the early departure of many of the Krylon loyalists and hangers on. Some of them left by escort, others by attrition, and a few more at their own behest.
Two notables among the volunteers who vacated were Pauline Grubb and Misty Ann Marks. No one made much of a fuss about Misty Ann’s departure, but Pauline’s seemed to do more to lighten and improve the mood of employees than the unexpected boon of getting thirty minutes during their shifts to have time to eat a prepared meal. Steve Haley was able to engage an independent contractor to manage the cafeteria, but all of its employees continued to work for Ogata. Creamed corn was slated to become nothing but an unhappy memory.
I expected an immediate surge in the colon health of southern Indiana.
Other improvements were longer reaching in their effects, and would take more time to implement. But the early release of information about Ogata benefit plans, profit-sharing programs, and retirement options made for lively discussion around the vending machines, and around butt buckets in the designated outdoor smoking areas.
Even with the bevy of sweeping improvements taking shape, the mood among the rank and file remained somewhat somber. Many people continued to be more motivated by suspicion than elation. Tam even quipped that this transition was about as easy as trying to turn an ocean liner around in a swimming pool. I promised myself that I’d never mention that concept to Doc and Ermaline. At this point, an ocean liner was about the only motorized piece of equipment they were missing at their compound. And with the addition of the Esther Williams “natatorium” over there (Doc rigged an awning for their new pool from a couple of cast-off tents from Colvin’s funeral home), anything was possible.
I didn’t see El again after our encounter at Hoosier Daddy on Monday night. I figured that she and Tony were as busy busting their humps as we were. It was strange to think that we were both working around the clock on opposing sides, aiming for the same set of outcomes— with one important difference. And sometimes, I thought even that difference was so slight it was barely perceptible.
I wasn’t exactly feeling more optimistic about our relationship odds, but I was beginning to think that maybe Grammy was right, and I should take a chance and tell El how I was feeling. I just hoped I’d get the opportunity.
On Monday night, after Grammy left, I sat for a while and stared at the chair seat I’d finally gotten right. It was incredible. When I relaxed and forgot about making mistakes, the strands of cane passed through their tiny holes in exactly the right ways . . . just like Grammy said they would. I realized that maybe I did tend to overthink things. So I decided to give in to an impulse and send El a text message. It was simple and direct. I hoped she’d understand it in the way I meant it.
I can wait.
As much as I hoped I’d hear back from her, I didn’t really expect a reply. So I was stunned when, a minute later, my cell phone beeped.
You couldn’t have said this at a better time.
That was it. I didn’t write back, and neither did she. Now, most of a week had passed, and I still had no idea where we were.
But I knew where I was right now—at least with regard to the pile of reports I had to plow through before the stand-up team meeting we had every morning at seven o’clock.
At least I was lucky enough not to be assigned to the OSHA unit. For the last few days, I’d been looking at processes and workflow in the paint and plastics area, and my personal learning curve was pretty steep. Janice Baker was bringing me along, and she’d told me on more than one occasion that I had a real aptitude for the work.
I wanted to believe her. It was incredible how much more personally gratifying it was to be able to use some of the skill sets I’d worked so hard to acquire. This was a perk from the buyout that I never thought I’d have. I hoped that my fellow toilers would realize some of the same benefits, but only time would tell where that was concerned. It was clear that union fervor was still riding high in the aftermath of Ruthie’s death, and many people plainly believed that the UAW was going to be their new path to salvation.
The pop-up meeting reminder dinged on my laptop. I had fifteen minutes until I needed to head for Tam’s office—just enough time to grab another cup of coffee in the cafeteria. One of the best things about the new food service was the better coffee. They now carried Darrin’s, a local micro-roaster up in Zionsville. It was wonderful, and one of the things I looked forward to every morning. To be honest, getting coffee in the cafeteria also gave me a chance to connect with my friends, who all would be heading in to begin their shifts.
I left the front offices and made my way toward the cafeteria. Luanne was heading in the same direction. I hurried to catch up with her.
“Hey there, stranger.” I touched her on the back of the arm.
She jumped about two feet into the air, which, for Luanne, was a miracle of physics.
“Lord, God!” she cried out. “You scared the bejesus out of me.”
“Sorry,” I apologized. “Are you getting coffee?”
“Hell, no. I can’t drink that stuff they serve in here now . . . it tastes like tar.”
I didn’t bother to disagree with her. Anyone who thought the sun rose and set in a pitcher of Old Style probably did have different standards about what passed for acceptable in a breakfast drink.
“How’re things going?”
“Well, I can’t say it’s not a relief to have things get back to normal— even though them three days off was a nice bonus.”
I nodded. We walked into the cafeteria together. It was buzzing with activity. People were loading up on caffeine and pastries before starting their shifts. Luanne ambled over to a kiosk and snagged a bear claw off a tray. I filled my travel mug with Indy Brew Espresso and joined her near the checkout line.
I thought Luanne was looking at me strangely, and I wondered what was on her mind.
“Did I spill something on my shirt?” I asked.
“No. I just thought you seemed pretty upbeat, considering the news.”
“What news?” I was confused. Did something else happen in the plant that we hadn’t heard about yet?
“About them agitators,” she said.
We reached the register. Luanne started to fish in her front pocket for money, but I stopped her and handed the cashier a five.
“My treat,” I said. “What about the agitators?”
She gave me a worried look. “They’re gone. Pulled up
stakes and left town.”
I felt the floor beneath my feet give way. I swayed, and Luanne grabbed hold of my arm. She hauled me over to a table.
“You need to sit down,” she demanded. “I shouldn’t have just told you like that.”
I still wasn’t quite hearing her. Gone? El and Tony were gone? Just like that . . . and without saying goodbye?
How had I not heard about this?
I looked at her. “When did they leave?”
She shrugged. “Yesterday or maybe the day before? I’m not sure. Aunt Jackie told me last night.”
“That’s not possible.” I sank down onto a chair. It shouldn’t have been possible. “What about the vote?” I was grasping at straws. Surely the UAW wouldn’t abandon its crusade just like that—without preamble or warning?
“Well, that’s just it,” Luanne explained. “They got enough names on them authorization cards to make the vote happen, so their work here was finished.”
I was shocked. “They got to thirty percent?”
She nodded. “Maybe even more.”
My heart was hammering. I set my cup down on the small table so I wouldn’t drop it.
“You want to eat a bit of this?” Luanne shoved her pastry toward me.” You’re lookin’ a bit peaked.”
“Oh, god, no.” Her chocolate-covered confection was the last thing I needed. My head was swimming and my stomach was about to follow suit.
So the vote was going to happen. I wondered vaguely if Tam already knew?
But why did El and Tony leave? Somebody had to run things during their campaign phase.
“I don’t get it.” I looked at Luanne through a haze of hurt and confusion. “Who’s going to run things for the UAW until the vote happens?”
“Honey, I don’t know nothin’ about how them agitators work,” she said. “That Italian feller told Aunt Jackie that the Detroit folks would likely send down a different team to handle the run up to the election.”
“Where did they go?”
“Who?”
“Tony and El.”
“Lord if I know. I think maybe some place in Texas?” She sighed and shook her head. “Aunt Jackie said they had another hot prospect down there . . . some Mazda plant or somethin’? Hell . . . anything in Texas is gonna be hot this time of year. I suppose it’s another one of these transplant operations.”