Sidetracked

by Lola Karns

  Chapter 3

  Monday morning brought James an anemic sunrise and the chance to clean out the marketing department clutter. One of the old men who held court at the corner table at The Diner met him at the second-floor elevator. Today he “dressed to impress” in a blue suit fashionable last decade and a wide tie that should never have been in style.

  “Walter McKenna, in case you forgot. That first week was a bit hectic.”

  James didn’t bother to introduce himself, but accepted the hand offered to him. The old man had a firm handshake that belied his wrinkled, frail look. Confident men were harder to fire, but this guy made a good candidate for early retirement.

  “We’re a bit of a maze. My office is in the back.” Walter led him through a large well-lit room filled with drafting tables, oversized computer screens and foul-smelling machinery. He pointed out staff members with names not worth remembering until he figured out who, if any, were worth keeping on payroll.

  “You have a lot of expensive equipment in here.”

  “We produce all our marketing in-house. We’ve won several national awards.” Walter gestured to a spot on the wall above a printer as large as a car. Four plaques graced the space, but between the high gloss of varnish and smallness of the awards, the dates were unreadable. They looked ancient anyway. Nobody did wooden plaques anymore.

  Upon entering Walter’s office, the massive amount of personal clutter set off warning bells inside James’s head. The other higher ups he’d met in this company shared Walter’s need to display artifacts from their life outside of the workplace. Even the supervisors kept photos and junk in the shared office off the hardhat area. In his mind, that was a strike against them, all of them. If they disliked being at work so much that they piled up stuff to pretend they were somewhere else, then perhaps they should be somewhere else. One of the secretaries cried while packing up her stuff, the one given early retirement. She should have been grateful to spend more time with the people and not photos.

  James shook his head. Adena seemed full of nostalgic employees, who displayed photos of kids, dogs, sloppy art, houses and tractors instead of work charts, calendars and contact lists. Walter’s obsession appeared to be trains.

  Each bookshelf held the expected out-of-date textbooks, technical manuals and reports in three-ring binders, but each also displayed a train engine, with or without accompanying cars. Some said Adena on the side, likely an overpriced premium from yesteryear. Most walls had windows overlooking his staff, but the solid wall was cluttered top to bottom with oversized various posters and photographs of toy trains, some stamped with the year and company name, like they’d been promotional. He recognized Walter with varying amounts of hair, standing beside a large model train display, sometimes giving a thumbs up, sometimes dressed like an engineer, but always with a goofy grin. Grow up.

  The blonde from the diner appeared in a couple. In one, she stood all the way to the right of a group of five old men. Unlike the men who looked at the camera, she seemed to have a secret smile for something off camera. In another, one of those where Walter had more hair, a younger, teenaged version of her scowled from the center of the pic. Her hair wasn’t always blue. He should ask about her, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out she was his employee’s daughter. That would be awkward when he fired the guy. Besides, that might get him talking about those stupid trains and he refused to be derailed into that conversation. He had too much to do. He needed to cut more payroll before his one-month check-in, and promotion was easy to outsource.

  Fifteen minutes into the butt-numbing conversation, James admitted to himself that some spot in Walter’s brain escaped choo-choo land and understood business.

  “I’ve been around long enough to have survived other lean times. I know what works and what doesn’t. I’ve reduced expenditures by twelve percent over the last two years.”

  “You certainly didn’t waste any of that savings on seating.” The chairs looked like something from a mod TV set, but the low back plastic was not comfortable.

  “Don’t complain about the chairs. Original Eames from the 1950s, according to my daughter-in-law who cares about such things. More to the point, they still work, so why spend money on replacements?”

  “So where did you make cuts?”

  “Paper quality. We moved away from high gloss and thick paper. We also stopped hiring prop planes for aerial photography and switched to drones. Even with the equipment expense and a full-timer who understands those things, we saved a bundle on airplane maintenance.”

  “It’s a good start.” James drummed his fingers on the leather portfolio on his lap and tried to find something to focus on that wasn’t overgrown nose-hair or a tiny train. Walter had to be close to retirement age. He might be a good candidate for a buy-out, even if he had some know-how.

  “How large is your staff?”

  “I have thirteen full-timers, one part-timer, and currently one intern getting college credit.”

  “Do you pay the intern?”

  Walter nodded, the jowls under his neck squishing like an accordion. Way too much fat existed in this department. If Walter retired, he could downgrade V.P of Marketing to Director of Marketing and promote someone from within that might manage a small in-house staff of two or three and hire outsiders when necessary. Whoever bought Adena out could sort through those long-term details. Marketing was marketing, no matter the business, only the end product differed. Although did consumers really have much of a choice when it came to picking a utility company?

  “Who are your competitors?” The room seemed to be growing warmer, or maybe the lack of windows was getting to him. James rubbed the bridge of his nose. The tension headache threatened what should be his moment of triumph.

  “Solar, now that the price of panels has dropped. Some of our farther flung customers are adding them and dropping off the grid.”

  “Hmmm.” The incomplete answer was telling. Solar generation and buy back could be a way to stabilize business and reduce staff at the main site. He’d file the idea away for later. “Marketing has a huge budget relatively speaking, to have just one point of competition.” The crinkles around Walter’s eyes froze as he nodded. The guy was like a bobble head souvenir. “You know what troubles me about that, Walter?”

  “No, Ja— “

  James’ arched eyebrow stopped Walter in his tracks. The hours spent perfecting that look were worth it. His dad had taught him that one had to earn the right to use a first name. Names personalized business too much, leveled the playing field. The man across the desk seemed to shrink down small enough to ride one of those dumb trains.

  “N-no, Mr. Fordham.” Good. Walter finally retrieved the proper answer.

  “See, Walter, when I signed my rental home agreement, I had a choice of internet and TV providers, but I wasn’t offered a choice of electric companies. So why does Adena spend so much money on marketing? Unless a customer goes off the grid with solar, Adena’s customer base is fixed. As near as I can tell, the only way Adena gets new customers is by adding new homes in new neighborhoods and new businesses, and last I looked, which was on my drive in today, Belkin had more businesses that were boarded up and not using electricity and more buildings available for lease than new construction.”

  “We cover more territory than Belkin, there are other communi”—

  “Are they growing?”

  Walter looked at the floor. James could have told him the answer was no. The folder in front of him contained this information.

  “So, Walter, what is the target ROI of Adena’s marketing?”

  “R. O. I?”

  “Return on investment. It’s pretty standard to have a goal, say earning a dollar and six cents for every dollar spent. What is your departmental goal?”

  “Well, most of our budget is directed toward community investment.”

  “Explain.” James fought the urge to shift in the chair. He didn’t want to look weak in front of this guy, but the longer this
conversation went on, the more he regretted not holding it in his office with the comfortable chair and drawer full of Tums. He should not be the one squirming during this conversation.

  “Well, Mr. Fordham, you’ve glanced at that wall over there numerous times.”

  “There is much to see.” He hadn’t found the intriguing diner woman in any more pictures. She hadn’t worn a ring, so chances of her being Walter’s chair-obsessed daughter-in-law seemed small, especially since he’d spotted what appeared to be another family photo with Walter and a baby in engineer hats.

  “That’s a sample of what we do. Adena sponsors local youth athletics, the Fourth of July parade, and the Christmas—I mean Holiday—I’m still not used to that P.C. crap—train display. It’s a huge deal in these parts. People come from miles away to see the trains.”

  “Riiiiight. You know what I don’t see? Photos of anyone working.”

  “We are.” Walter’s voice was a low growl. “The train—” He gestured toward the wall.

  James made a show of opening the binder in front of him and flipped to the budget.

  “That’s listed as Holiday?” The department’s second largest item—no largest, ahead of payroll.

  Bobble-head Walter was at it again. So was his gut. He shouldn’t have drunk the fifth cup of coffee on the way in.

  “I see that generates zero income. You don’t charge admission?”

  “Yes, and no. There’s a suggested donation of $5.00 but the money collected all goes to charity. For the last several years, we’ve partnered with Children’s Hospital. It’s a tax write-off, I guess. Accounting does all that. We just make the posters.”

  “And play with the trains.”

  Walter blushed and shrugged.

  “Is this Children’s Hospital an Adena customer?”

  “Nope. They’re up in Columbus.”

  “Interesting. You give the money to another utility company rather than offset the expenses generated.” James stood. His stomach felt better all stretched out rather than being in that chair. “Why don’t you introduce me to your staff. I can afford a few more minutes.”

  By Friday noon, he’d eliminate some projects, heads would roll, and his numbers would look better. Marketing departments always worked better as a lean mean machine. “You never did explain to me Walter, how the train display expands the customer base. Think you can answer that by the time I’ve finished meeting your staff?”

  When Walter ignored his question and introduced him to the closest employee, some of the stiffness in James’ spine melted away, but his stomach still rumbled a plea for Mylanta. He could get through this. All he had to do was make the cuts, get out of town, become partner, and focus on what was real in this world.

  THE HOUSE SHE’D GROWN up in wasn’t home. It was too empty. The daybed in the converted detached garage-turned-studio suited her better. Need pushed Claire Evans’s feet across the flat stone path. Her ankle wobbled. She lurched toward the grass. “Stupid blue stone.”

  That wasn’t right. She stared at the offending rock, flecks of Prussian blue, midnight and cerulean rested in the slate. “Sorry.” She crouched and ran her fingers across the layered surface. “You’ve always been my favorite. I’ll add you to the repair list.”

  With skill that came from years of practice, she did the push, turn, jiggle maneuver to unlock the back door. New locks were also on the list.

  “Anyone home?” Her words bounced back as a faint echo disrupting the silence. The lack of reply was a relief and sorrow. She hadn’t ventured past the kitchen even after getting back from Chicago and then Dayton. Her carriage house turned studio apartment mini fridge was out of room. And her hot-plate went on the fritz yesterday. If she wanted to eat, she had to make the forty-foot trek.

  Until the end of the year, this would be her kitchen and expanded closet, but she didn’t have to live in this cavernous space, At least not until winter set in and her workshop got too cold for sleeping. She could put the house up for rent or sale, but she needed this kitchen for a few more months at least. Besides, she hadn’t been brave enough to sort through the family possession yet.

  She opened the closet and pulled out a mop and broom. “I have the money. I should hire someone to clean for me.” She swore she heard Grandma’s scoff. Even though she knew the noise couldn’t have come from anything other than her shoe, she answered anyway. “I know. I won’t. Not for everything at least.”

  The house oozed memories both fond and sorrowful. Everything she touched reminded her of her grandparents. She couldn’t even bring herself to throw away the little chipped glass Clem had used for his daily prune juice. How could she ever hope to go through the massive amounts of tools, wires, and various bric-a-brack he collected through the years?

  The time, distance and distraction of her last contract job helped, but coming home again, Clem’s absence hit her like a ton of bricks. People died all the time and life went on, but when her grandfather died, he left her alone in this world but burdened with memory and stuff.

  When he was still alive, they sometimes talked about her future. He left her the house, his shop, everything, as expected. But he told her to sell it all and to settle down in one of the cities she always traveled to for work, to meet someone special, have some children, and to make sure her life was full of love because that was the only thing that one needed to survive. That and a good hobby.

  “Enough moping.” She pulled a lasagna from the freezer and moved it to the fridge to thaw. She’d kept the power on all these months so the frozen casseroles probably wouldn’t kill her, not unless she grabbed one made by Jennifer Grant in one of her kale loving trendy diet modes. After she power-cleaned the shop today, she’d need a good meal. The house wasn’t going anywhere, but she needed to get going before she broke her promise to the grumpy-old-engineer club to get the shop up and running. If she wasn’t ready for them, they might cut off her supply of cake or worse, set her up with various grandsons. “Not going to happen.”

  She left the house, locking the door, but taking the broom and mop with her. She draped them across the little red wagon Grandma and Grandpa gave her for her first birthday. Not that she remembered the party or the presents. But the wagon was always there, as reliable in function as her fingers and toes.

  THE SUN WARMED A CLOUDLESS blue sky, making it an acceptable companion for the half a mile to the shop. The kids were back in school, but as she approached the corner, it seemed that during her hours of freedom Poppy Grant had covered every inch of sidewalk in chalk.

  “Claire? Is that you?” The tired voice came from the Grant’s porch. In the long morning shadows, Claire spied a figure on the swing.

  “Jennifer. How are you? How is the baby? You did have a baby, right?”

  “Taking his morning nap. And so is the dog. I thought I’d sneak out to the porch for a quiet cup of tea.”

  “How old is he? Two months?”

  “Six. You’ve been gone a while.”

  Longer than usual. She shrugged. “True. My tires are going to mess up Poppy’s artwork. Tell her I’m sorry.”

  “Will do, but don’t feel bad. She’s hoping for rain. She wants a fresh canvas.” Jennifer mimed air quotes around the last words, and they brought warmth to Claire’s artistic soul.

  “I have a Chicago Art Institute coloring book for her. I’ll bring it down over the weekend.”

  “How thoughtful. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. You know we miss you. Oh. I hear the baby.”

  A wail drifted to the sidewalk. “Bye, Jennifer.”

  Claire walked forward dragging her feet in places on purpose. She blurred a hopscotch board and turned a rainbow into an oddly shaped creature as she rounded the corner.

  Not much had changed since last autumn, the last time she regularly walked Belkin’s streets. A few blocks of concrete had loosened, their gravel catching on the wheels, but fortunately, no new buckles formed in her absence. A few summer blooms desperately clung to fadi
ng spikes of green. With the kids spending their days inside the school, the day was so peaceful, soft motors from nearby farm equipment drifted in, providing a bassline punctuated by the occasional bird chirp. The street sign marking the intersection of Hill and Trumbull still leaned to one side, and the fire hydrant needed a fresh coat of paint.

  “Same old Belkin.” The trees were taller, and the grass heights were in a constant state of flux depending on who mowed and who hadn’t, but everything else remained the same, except...

  What’s this? A garbage can sat by the curb in front of the old Russell place. No one had lived there for a couple of years. Mrs. Russell wouldn’t let her out-of-town children sell it while she was alive and in the nursing home. After she died a year ago September, the house sat on the market in anticipation of a full price offer that would never come.

  She glanced around looking for other changes. Did it sell? Who moved in? Her mind raced, but that was gossip she’d missed. The house didn’t look different, except for the brightness of the front porch. She could ask Old Miss Jones across the street. Nothing slipped past her and not in a good way. She was a prime example of what happened to a person who lacked a good hobby and took up being a nosy neighbor instead. A conversation with her might last two hours during the day, but in the evening, Claire could beg off with a need to sleep. If she went too early in the day, she’d get a lecture. Once Claire had a name, she would warn whoever it was not to put out their garbage can until the night before pick up, no matter how full it was or how badly it stunk, because Miss Jones would call the police to complain about the civic violation. Funny how small towns worked.

  Before reaching Main Street, she turned down the narrow one-way alley that led to the back door of all the store fronts. The wagon navigated the minefield of potholes better than a car or delivery truck could. Ahead, a familiar red SUV sat at a cockamamie angle with one rear tire partially swallowed. The multi-colored door of number thirty-six swung open.