I.O.U Page 11

  Sam came on the line, sounding like a not-very-much younger version of his stuffy old dad. He said, “What have we done to offend you now, Jenny?”

  Oops, not a good start. Guess Sammy-boy was still mad about my objections to his precious obituary of my mother. Make nice, Jenny. “Nothing, Sam,” I purred, “in fact, I thought your editorial was especially well-thought-out this morning.” Of course, I hadn’t read it yet, a fact that became all too clear with his next comment.

  “Really? I wouldn’t have picked you as a fan of forcing welfare mothers to work part-time in the Head Start program.”

  “I didn’t say I agreed with you.” I tap-danced fast. “I only said it was well-thought-out. Uh, Sam, I’d like to see you. I’ve been reading through some old articles about my family’s bankruptcy, and I want to ask you about them. How about five-thirty, in your office?”

  “I’ll put you down,” he said, pompously. If I hadn’t known for a fact that Sam Hayes lacked a sense of humor, I would have suspected a little joke at my expense.

  I rolled the copies of the newspaper articles back into a sheaf and carried it with me into the dining room, where my purse—with its five letters—sat in the table beside the computer. Well? I’d given my letter time to simmer… had my enthusiasm for this idea of a leave of absence boiled away and evaporated?

  “Nope.”

  I grabbed my purse, stuck the articles under one arm, and left the house feeling lighter and more invigorated than I had since my mother died.

  Miss Grant wasn’t home, so I slipped her copy under the door of her apartment. I left copies for Jack Fenton, Roy Leland, and Edwin Ottilini with their secretaries. But when I dropped off a copy for my board president, Pete Falwell—at his office at Port Frederick Fisheries where he was chairman of the board—I asked for an appointment.

  His secretary, Paige Lorimer, checked her calendar. “Four-thirty?”

  She was another one of those “ladies of a certain age,” like Mrs. Kennedy and Marj Earnshaw, who was “married” to her boss’s job, having been Pete Falwell’s right-hand woman for at least forty years. “Fine,” I said. “I should be back from Boston by then.”

  She looked up, smiling. “Boston? Lucky you, and on such a pretty day. Business or pleasure?”

  “Neither, really.” I smiled back at her. She had a way of “nosing” without offending. “I’m going to meet a man,” I said, teasingly.

  “Lucky you, indeed!”

  “I don’t know about that. He used to be a vice president of Cain Clams…”

  We both suddenly discovered a reason to look away from each other. It was, all of a sudden, awkward and embarrassing to stand there in the heart of Port Frederick Fisheries, where Cain Clams used to be. And although Pd done this many times—visited Pete at his office—these awful moments came and went with some regularity. Usually, I tried not to look around me very much, or at least not to dwell morbidly on the fact that PFF was decorated like a virtual museum of maritime history, a lot of it Cain history.

  There were wharf barrels and lobster pots and, in some corners, picturesque humps of netting in bright colors—red, yellow, blue, and brown. There were walls hung with green nets with red bobbers, and there were paintings everywhere of schooners and clippers and sailing vessels of every description, and bronze statues of the “men who go down to the sea in ships.” A blue swordfish pointed the way to the men’s room and beautiful seashells were as plentiful as lint.

  A whole lot of that quaint decor had decorated my father’s administrative offices. I had loved it all; it had been one of the enticements of “going down to the plant to visit Daddy.” (Another had been the employee’s lunchroom, where the line workers tended to spoil the boss’s daughters with soft drinks and candy bars from the vending machines.) Pete had hauled it all on board when he cast his own corporate net and caught Cain Clams.

  Ms. Lorimer, bless her, was exquisitely sensitive to these moments when past and present intersected painfully. She said, quickly, to help me over the hump of my own lack of tact, “Cecil Greenstreet?”

  “You knew him, Ms. Lorimer?”

  “Oh, yes.” I wondered later if she would have spoken so freely if she hadn’t been rushing away from that other delicate subject. “He was in and out of here a lot in those… days.” Too late, she realized she’d wandered back to the bankruptcy. Again, she rushed where maybe she ought to have paused. “When Mr. Greenstreet first came to town, Mr. Falwell took him under his wing, they being in the same business and all. It was nice to see him again at your mother’s funeral, which was so beautiful, by the way.”

  “Thank you.” I was so distracted that I didn’t even respond courteously to the implication that she must have attended the funeral, too. Another one of the invisible women, like Mrs. Kennedy. Out of the context of their offices and the men they served, they were sometimes damned hard to recognize. “Well, I’ve got to run if I’m going to make it to Boston on time. See you at four-thirty, Ms. Lorimer.”

  Walking back to my car in the PFF parking lot, I was thinking furiously: “Those days?” Which days? The ones before, during, or after our bankruptcy? The days before, during, or after Port Frederick Fisheries bought out Cain Clams? Why was our vice president hanging out with the president of the competition, the eventual owners, in fact? I wanted to assume that Greenstreet had only helped to facilitate the transfer of assets and the assumption of liabilities or that his friendship with Pete Falwell had been purely social—a golf or tennis or Rotary Club friendship, maybe. But as I slid behind my wheel, the inevitable questions nagged me: What if “those days” were before the bankruptcy? What was the vice president of Cain Clams doing at the office of the president of PFF?

  I recalled Geof’s advice: Calm down, don’t jump to conclusions.

  And Marsha’s advice: Find out.

  “I am calm,” I said, as I turned toward downtown Port Frederick in order to catch the expressway into Boston. “I am not going to jump to any conclusions. But I am going to find out whatever there is to find out.”

  My route took me past the New East Gallery where the controversial exhibit was showing. The gallery, which was on a quiet side street, was open only after 2 P.M. on weekdays, so I was surprised to see several women gathered on the sidewalk in front of it at this hour. I slowed down, and then I saw the reason for the commotion: Somebody had affixed cardboard placards all over the plate glass windows in the front of the store and over the glass in the front door, completely blocking the view that anyone standing outside the gallery might have of the interior.

  “Damn,” I thought, “we needed that guard yesterday!”

  No, wait, that wasn’t fair to Faye. She’d acted quicker than I would have; it wasn’t her fault if the security company couldn’t provide a guard until today.

  I didn’t have to crane or squint to read the grafitti, which was bright red and more simple and straightforward than any I had ever seen before. “MOAC,” the signs said in big, neat, block letters that looked as if they had been carefully outlined, using stencils, and then filled in with red markers. That was all, no obscenities, no vulgarities; this was an extraordinarily tasteful and conservative sort of protest. But effective, nonetheless, at least until the artists took down the signs, which they were starting to do.

  Even with the signs down, the protestors had made their point—and they’d probably win points for being relatively respectful of private property, for showing restraint by not going to unpleasant extremes about it. That would make them look good, in many people’s eyes, compared to those “wild-eyed radical” artists.

  Damn, I thought again. Better find a place to park.

  No, wait.

  You’re on leave, remember? I reminded myself. Faye’s in charge, and you said yourself in your letter that she could handle it. If you step in now, you’ll undermine her authority and your own recommendation. This is not your job today. It’s hers. So shut up, go away, and let her do it.

  Well, shoot, and it
looked so interesting, too.

  Nevertheless, I pressed on the accelerator and drove on toward Boston.

  10

  MY STATE, MASSACHUSETTS, LOOKS TINY ON A MAP, BUT IT TAKES a long time to get from here to there because of our traffic and our twisty roads. Any way you go, Boston is not just a pleasant little day trip from Poor Fred. There’s no direct train, so it’s usually a nervetearing odyssey by car, whether through stalled traffic in backwater towns (like ours!) or bumper-to-bumper on the highways. (There’s a reason, you see, why Americans in states west of the Charles River rarely ever see Massachusetts license plates: Our traffic is so bad we can’t get out of here.) So, our major city seems a lot farther away than it really is, a distance I tend to measure in culture as well as in miles.

  I always find it downright startling to go from a small, quiet city like Poor Fred to noisy, colorful, chaotic Boston. It really is a great place to visit—trust me—but I really wouldn’t want to live there, no offense. When I drive into the city, as I did that day at about a half hour past noon, I tend to think of it as Jenny Goes to the Big City. And when I get home again, I always add with a sigh of relief: And Returns Alive to Tell the Tale.

  Funny, I don’t feel that way about Manhattan.

  It must be because I don’t drive there; that’s the difference, and they don’t have cobblestone streets that make me fear for my tires, my alignment, and my U-frame.

  Downeast Marine, Inc. was headquartered in a renovated red brick warehouse at the edge of the harbor. The pretty, young receptionist in the lobby of the canning company didn’t even have to check a list when I gave her my name, but smiled brightly and said, “Good afternoon, Ms. Cain. Mr. Greenstreet is expecting you. I’ll ring his assistant to come down for you.”

  Soon, brass elevator doors opened to emit another young woman, who introduced herself only as Mr. Greenstreet’s assistant. She led me smilingly up ten floors to the executive dining room. When the doors opened again, she stepped back to let me through. I found myself walking directly into the dining room. It was empty except for the two of us and a mammoth round table, surely big enough for an entire board of directors to dine with plenty of elbow room. Floor to ceiling windows lined the water side of the room, affording a spectacular view of the harbor. A plush, forest green carpet covered the floor like moss. The enormous table was covered in lime green linen, and set with china, crystal, and silver, for two.

  “Mr. Greenstreet will be right here,” the nameless young woman assured me. “As busy as he is, he always tries to be prompt. Such a considerate man. I know he is especially looking forward to talking to you. He has told me so many fine things about your father, who must be a wonderful man. Would you like something to drink, a glass of wine or a cup of coffee?”

  I searched her face for signs that she was putting me on about Dad.

  “White wine would be nice,” I said.

  And why not? I thought. After all, I’m on leave!

  She walked to a door discreetly set into wood paneling, and opened it to reveal a beautifully stocked liquor cabinet with several shelves of crystal ware. I watched her select the wine, open it and pour me a glassful. She was wearing a black suit, black pumps, a white blouse, and a red string tie, and she appeared, with her neat brown hairdo and her quiet makeup and brown glasses, to be another Ms. Lorimer in the making. Add thirty years and a pension plan, and she could pass. She depressed me. The servile receptionist downstairs depressed me. I thought of Mrs. Kennedy at the rectory, and of Marjorie Earnshaw at the doctor’s office, and of Paige Lorimer at Port Frederick Fisheries, and now this young woman. I wanted to shout at all of them until the dirt flew from their dustpans and the papers rattled in their typewriters: for God’s sake, stop borrowing his life, and get one of your own!

  Morosely, I was lifting the wine to my lips when an awful thought came into my head: And aren’t you a fine one to talk, Jenny Cain, you with four old men on your board to cater to and cajole and manipulate into doing it your way? And how often do you get to do that? And haven’t you spent most of the last decade doing exactly what they asked you to do?

  I emptied half of the glass before I realized I had drunk it.

  Not anymore, I won’t

  I realized I was full of conviction and wine, and either one can make you dizzy. I stepped away from the young woman in order to gaze out of the wall-length windows at the harbor. Boston’s a funny-looking town in a way, I always think, an uneasy mix of the past and the future. There are the lovely, old, red brick buildings with pretty white trim— like the old and the new Statehouses and the townhouses on Beacon Hill; and right beside them you’ll find the stark metal and glass of modern buildings, like the Prudential and the John Hancock. Every city has those contrasts, I suppose, but they seem more dramatic in Boston, because there’s so much more of the past left standing than there is in most other American cities. From atop Downeast Marine, I could see the frigate Constitution, “Old Ironsides,” moored dockside. I watched a tug maneuver a barge into the harbor. You’re the tug, Jenny. Your board is the barge. And you’re tired of pushing them along in the right directions.

  “Jenny!” I turned to see that the assistant had vanished and that a tall man was approaching me with outstretched hand and a hearty smile on his face. He was in his mid-fifties, and a sartorial vision in wool, cotton, and silk, and Italian shoes. “Welcome!”

  I took the soft, fleshy hand, and shook it.

  “Cecil. Thank you!”

  I tried to return his smile, but it wasn’t easy. His own smile ended at his big white teeth, never making it as far as his eyes, which were the greenish brown of pond scum.

  Algae, I chided myself, algae.

  I had rarely taken such an immediate and violent dislike to anybody as I did to Cecil Greenstreet, former vice president of Cain Clams.

  Our lunch, too, was heavily into watery greens. Watercress salad. Red snapper with a pesto sauce and spinach pasta. Lime sherbet with chocolate mint cookies. All served on that green linen tablecloth with those matching napkins. Could it possibly have been coincidence? I wondered. Or was this man Greenstreet on some kind of bright green ego trip? But he wasn’t wearing anything green. So maybe it was his staff, currying favor. Or having a risky joke at the boss’s expense? Or maybe it was only an unconscious pun on everybody’s part.

  I’d never know, but I couldn’t wait to tell Geof.

  The food was great. Green, but great.

  “Where will you take your doctorate, Jenny?”

  I smiled, and pointed to my face, thus indicating that I couldn’t talk with my mouth full. It was a ruse, intended to give me time to think. When I couldn’t stall any longer, when that snapper was chewed to the consistency of mousse, I swallowed and said, “Harvard.” What the hell, if you have to lie, lie big.

  “My MBA is from Harvard Business, Jenny. If you need an alum reference, let me know.”

  There was a not-so-hidden invitation there, a clarion come-on. Call me. I’ll squeeze out some of my influence for you. And then we’ll see what you will do for me. Like many people in positions of power, Greenstreet appeared to me to have an overabundance of libido that couldn’t be channeled only into sex or only into power, but spilled over into everything he said, every movement he made, from the constant directness of his gaze and the half-smile on his face to the nearly lascivious manner in which he enjoyed his wine and his meal. He’d been flirting with me, the ex-boss’s daughter, all through lunch.

  I thanked him for his offer, and then quickly changed the subject. “Cecil, did you come into Cain Clams as a VP?”

  “Yes, I did, Jenny.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t recall how long you were there.”

  “No reason you should. Two years was all.”

  “Until it folded.”

  “Unfortunately. Yes.”

  “What went wrong?”

  He sighed, and pushed himself away from the table. “Do you smoke?”

  “No.”

 
“More coffee, a little more wine?”

  “Nothing, thanks.”

  “You’re like your father,” he said, an unlikely statement that managed to alarm me considerably. “You only take what you need. You aren’t greedy.”

  I though that was a remarkable extrapolation from one little refusal of something to drink. And were we talking about the same father I knew? The Jimmy Cain I knew took all of life’s luxuries he could get his hands on, and then usually complained they weren’t enough. Not enough money. Not enough women. Not enough Hermes stores in cities around the world. Not enough sunny days to play golf. It was my experience that there wasn’t enough of anything, anywhere, to satisfy him. I thought about telling Greenstreet that it wasn’t true, what he was saying about me, and that I wanted many things I didn’t really need, but I was afraid that he would read a sexual message into that, so I shut up and let him canonize me. Maybe he’d cool down a bit if he thought he was dealing with St. Jenny, daughter of St. James.

  “People blamed Jim for wanting that new addition to the plant,” Cecil continued. “But he only wanted what he needed. Granted, I argued against it, but in hindsight, I can see that he was right.”

  “If he was right, how come it threw us into bankruptcy?”

  “I know that is the popular view of what happened, but that does not take into account the fact that there was, coincidentally, a pollution scare on the Chesapeake Bay that devastated the shellfish market the previous year. As a result, the EPA demanded stringent new regulations, really outrageously expensive pollution control devices and procedures, that we would have had to implement in our existing operations as well as in the new addition. On top of all of that, there was also a civil war in South America that disrupted tin production and transportation and consequently sent the price of cans through the roof. Your father had no way of predicting or controlling any of those factors. It was bad luck, plain and simple.”

  Straight from the pages of The Port Frederick Times.

  He sounded as if he were still the loyal spokesman for Cain Clams.