Lovin' a Good Ol' Boy Page 5

  "It's two-thirty in the morning, and you have school tomorrow. Come in and go to bed."

  "I can't. I have to fix this thing."

  "Tom’ll do it for you tomorrow. Come in now."

  "No, Daddy. I don't want Tom to do it. I can do it myself. It's just that. . . well, it's confusing. I've taken this apart three times already," she said, holding up the filthy distributor to show him with a loud sniff. "When I put it back together, I'm either missing parts, or I have all sorts of nuts and screws left over—and it never works any better than before."

  Her father was frowning at her, as if he'd never seen her before. "Why is it so important to you to do this yourself, Anne. No one expects you to be able to do everything. Maybe you just weren't cut out to be a mechanic."

  "Tom, Charles, and Kevin fix their cars. I should be able to fix mine. You always said there wasn't anything I couldn't do if I set my mind to it. I've got my mind set on this, Daddy. I just can't do it," she said, hating that sinking, failing sensation in her chest.

  Her father's face, aged with wisdom, softened with love and understanding, was filled with regret. "Tom's flunking algebra. Chuck couldn't swim to save his own life, and Kevin's a lousy cook. But Tom's one hell of a basketball player. Chuck is the kindest, most compassionate kid I've ever met, and Kevin can remember damned near everything he's ever read. Everybody has a special talent, sweetheart, but nobody's perfect," he said, taking the distributor out of her blackened hands and tossing it haphazardly into the exposed engine. Then, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, he lead her out of the garage saying, "Remember that, Anne. Trying is what's important. Try everything. Do your best at it. Then, if it's something you're just not suited to, let it go."

  "They'll laugh at me."

  "Who will?"

  "The boys."

  "Let 'em. You did your best. That's all that counts."

  "What's special about me, Daddy?" she couldn't help asking as they walked along in silence.

  "I'd have to say it's your determination. You never learned how to walk. You started out running to keep up with your brothers, to be included as one of them. And for the most part, I'd have to say, too, I was right about one thing." She turned her face upward to look into his. "There hasn't been anything you haven't been able to do, once you set your mind to it. Except—" he kissed her temple slowly, "you ain't no mechanic, honey."

  The next day she'd called a mechanic. He had come to the house to fix her car, her first car, her pride and joy, while her brothers were still at school. When her brothers, all of whom knew of her aversion to failure, had expressed their amazement at her skills, and she was just about to confess the truth to them, her father had stepped in once more.

  "Seems to me that Anne set her mind on getting the damned thing fixed, and that's what she did."

  ~*~

  Anne had every intention of closing down the mill so fast, it would make Buck LaSalle's head spin. She'd show all the guys back in the office— Calvin Schwab and even Joel Harriman himself— that she could do anything she set her mind to. All the cards were stacked in her favor this time. She couldn't fail.

  The anger she felt was for Buck, not at Buck. She knew what an impossible task he was facing and what it would mean if he failed. She also knew how unqualified he was to undertake it and that he would, indeed, not succeed.

  When it occurred to her that she had just walked past the tailgate of Buck's truck, she purposely walked back to it. With the bottom of her rolled up fist she smacked it good. She didn't like being put in the middle of hopeless situations. She didn't like having such a clear view of Buck's perspective. She didn't like knowing what he was going through. She just wanted to do her job.

  "Don't take any crap off them, Anne," Calvin Schwab was telling her a short while later over the phone. She'd returned to her motel room because everything at the mill kept preying on her conscience, confusing her, and weakening her resolve. She'd taken a shower to help her relax, and then called the office in New York to check in and report on the progress she'd made. She didn't have much to tell. "You go to that meeting tonight. You state the facts, clear and simple. And then you give them the sixty days' notice and leave."

  "What? No discussion period afterward?" she asked, the sarcasm in her voice sounding sharp and biting even to her own ears.

  "If that's the way you want to play it, fine. Stay for cookies and coffee too, while you're at it, if that's what you want. Just get the job done."

  "I will, Calvin. Don't worry."

  "Anne?" he said, sounding as if he were reconsidering his earlier words.

  “Yes?"

  "Be careful. Don't push them too far. Be firm but gentle. Be diplomatic. Promise them anything within reason. Just don't let them blow this whole thing out of proportion. Know what I'm saying?"

  "Yes. I hear you," she said. Keep it quiet, she translated mentally.

  "Good girl. You'll do fine." The line went dead.

  Yes, she would, she decided firmly. How could she not?

  ~*~

  She put a lot of consideration into the proper attire for a Textile Workers of America union meeting. It was one of those things Emily Post simply forgot to mention in her book.

  Anne didn't want to appear too frilly, for fear the men would see her only as a woman and eat her alive. She didn't want to wear slacks, because they might think she was trying to imitate them —in which case they'd get angry and eat her alive. She settled on another skirt and jacket in navy blue and white, hoping that they'd see her only as the messenger and curb their desire to eat her alive.

  Her image in the mirror looked professional and reasonable, but there was no avoiding the fact that she was the person Harriman had sent to shut down the mill. Her sex and what she wore wasn't going to make a bit of difference. Those workers were going to have her for dinner, and she knew it.

  It was with this deep-seated conviction of impending disaster that Anne introduced herself to the local's president, a balding, overweight gentleman in his fifties by the name of Leroy Spencer.

  "Why in the world did Harriman send a woman?" he bellowed, more to himself than at Anne. She had arrived well in advance of the meeting to make his acquaintance and found him making coffee in a huge electric coffee maker.

  "Well," he said, turning to her with not unkind brown eyes. "I hope you're a lot tougher than you look, Anne Hunnicut. Folks are pretty riled up. They're gonna try to eat you alive."

  "That's pretty much how I had it figured too," she muttered fatalistically under her breath as she watched him walk off into another room.

  "Then again," he said, returning a few moments later with long tubes of Styrofoam cups in each hand, "Buck says you're not stupid, so maybe it'll turn out okay."

  "Buck LaSalle?"

  “The same. Says you're quick in the head and fair-minded. Said you'd know a good thing when you saw it—woman or not."

  Anne could hear her teeth grinding as she stood giving him what she felt certain must have been a very, stupid smile. She was at a complete loss for polite words. How dare that man, that insufferable, pigheaded man, Buck LaSalle, talk about her in public like that, she blustered indignantly in the darkening recesses of her mind.

  Although, she cautioned herself with a second thought, "quick in the head and fair minded" wasn't so bad, especially coming from someone who believed a woman had no mind at all, according to her sources of information.

  She took a seat at the small table in the front of the room, putting off her decision to be angry with Buck until later. The workers were beginning to arrive, and she needed to focus all her attention on them.

  She did, however, start looking for Buck a short time later, as the men and women streamed in steadily just before the meeting began. She wanted to see one familiar face in the crowd. The faces she saw were of strangers, angry, worried, and looking at her with great hostility. He wasn't there.

  Leroy Spencer called the meeting to order. He waved the reading of the minutes, skimmed
over the old business, and came directly to Anne.

  Where were earthquakes, tornadoes, and other acts of God when you needed them, Anne wondered as she stood and walked to the podium. She looked out over the crowd, her gaze coming to rest on Buck's face. When had he come in? And what a sight he was for sore eyes.

  Not that his countenance was of any comfort, mind you. His nod of recognition was reserved and noncommittal, an acknowledgment that they had met. That was all. But she took a certain amount of gratification in seeing him standing tall and strong in the back of the room and knowing deep in her heart that he wouldn't let the gathering crowd stone her to death.

  Beside him stood a younger man she instantly realized was Bryce, his brother. Not as tall, but built lean like Buck, he had the same color hair and light eyes. A quick glance between the brothers told her that Bryce didn't have Buck's quietly forceful personality, for lack of a better description. He looked much less imposing.

  She looked down at her hands to clear her mind of the LaSalles. She had a job to do.

  "Good evening," she started.

  "What the hell is so good about it?" someone in the crowd called out. Anne's heart sank. After only two words out of her mouth, they already were showing their fangs.

  Leroy Spencer was on his feet immediately. He came back to the podium and nudged Anne out of the way to get to the microphone.

  "Listen up," he ordered. "If you have somethin' to say, you wait your turn and wait for me to recognize ya. We're here to see if anythin' can be done to keep the mill open, not to badmouth this little girl."

  She gave Leroy a small appreciative smile—even though she hadn't cared much for the term "little girl"—and moved back to the podium.

  "You're right," she said, looking at the man who had spoken out of turn. "This realty isn't such a good evening. I know that all of you have come here tonight because you're concerned about your jobs and the futures of your families. I . . . am very well aware of what the mill means to the town of Webster. No one more than I regrets that it has to be closed." A disbelieving rumble broke out near the center of the hall.

  "Harriman Industries has done all it can to keep this mill open," she said, her voice calm but loud enough to be heard. "It just isn't feasible for us anymore. We've also tried to be as fair about this as possible. Those close to retirement will be compensated. And we've opened up as many other positions at our other factories and spinning mills as we could, to those willing to relocate. There's nothing more we can do "Sure there is. You just can't see it through all them dollar signs in your eyes," a large angry-looking man said as he stepped out into the aisle to be recognized. He hadn't been noted by Leroy, however, who stood to reprimand the disorderly gentleman. Anne waved him away. She had an answer for him.

  "All right. Look at it this way then," she started honestly and without resentment for the man's outburst and hostile demeanor. "Consider the facts. First, Webster is only one of four mills owned by Harriman Industries. Second, the textile industry in America has become increasingly precarious because it's cheaper to import. And lastly, from the company's financial standpoint, in order to keep three of the mills open to capacity, one has got to be closed down. Then it becomes simple to pick the oldest and the one most in need of repair, and sacrifice it for the good of the other three."

  "Well, it's sure as hell easy for you to talk about sacrifices and things being simple, now ain't it?" the man said, turning to gain support from his fellow workers who were agreeing.

  Anne watched as the bodies in the audience grew restless and turned away from her to focus their attention on the man standing in the aisle.

  "That's not what I meant. I was trying to explain it from the company's point of view." She had to shout to be heard, even with the microphone. "I—I was sent here to talk with you, so that perhaps we could come to some sort of understanding in this situation. The mill is closing. And Mr. Harriman and I would like it to be as painless as possible—for everyone involved."

  The man gave a short loud laugh but only half his attention seemed directed on the conversation. The rest he used on the crowd around him. "I bet you would," he shouted. "Then again, you ain't the ones losin' your jobs, now are ya?" "No," she said. "But we're not doing this to you and your friends personally. It wasn't an easy decision. If I could, I'd leave the mill open and give everyone a raise. But I can't. No one can. This wasn't an instant decision on Mr. Harriman's part either. He's seen it coming for years now. He put it off for as long as he could. He just can't put it off any longer."

  "Well, I hate to pop your bubble, honey, but it ain't goin' to happen," he said, taking several menacing steps closer to the podium. "Least ways, not if I can help it."

  Suddenly the crowd of concerned workers looked more like a lynch mob. They were yelling their approval and cheering the angry, spiteful man on in his defiance. He all but took a bow as he turned toward his supporters.

  Anne had taken just about all she could from him. She was prepared to give them their sixty days' notice and make a mad dash for the door when a loud, shrill whistle rose up and split the air in the back of the room. It could just as easily have been a blast from an UZI for the effect it had on the crowd.

  The room was silent almost immediately. People slowly returned to their chairs. Even the rabble-rouser stepped aside as Buck walked up to take his place in the center of the crowd.

  "Looks to me like we're a little off the track here," he said. "So far, the company's been pretty good about meetin' our requests. Attackin' the rep isn't goin' to get us anywhere. Let's just do what we planned to do and take it from there."

  They all seemed to be in general agreement, and when they grew quiet once again, Buck turned to Anne and said, "We've been talkin' about it. And we've decided to buy the mill from Harriman and become an employee-owned business." Anne felt as if she had just survived a blizzard to get hit and buried by an avalanche of snow.

  "You want to what?"

  "Buy the factory. We can get a small business loan from—"

  "No, no, no," she broke in, waving her hands. "Do you have any idea what's involved in becoming an employee-owned operation? You can't just walk blindly into something like this and think it's going to work out for the best. At the very most, you'll only be postponing the inevitable."

  "We don't see it that way," Buck said. "And we've been doin' our homework. We're not goin' into this half-cocked."

  Damn. Damn. And double damn, Anne mentally expostulated as she stared at Buck's determined expression, one she recognized all too easily. She saw the same resolve in the faces of his co-workers as she scanned the room. Then she thought of Joel Harriman and Calvin Schwab. She knew exactly what they'd say about this new development.

  "There's no way," she said, perhaps a little too pointedly. "This mill can't carry its own weight, and Harriman wants it shut down."

  "Then he should have sent a bigger man than you to do it," the large man jumped up once more to say. And again, even more swiftly this time, the crowd was behind him.

  "Don't underestimate me, Mr. . . . ?"

  "Shanks. Roy Shanks." He supplied his name proudly, boastfully, to show the gathering how fearless he was of the company's power over him. Since the mill was closing, he didn't have anything to lose by his act of bravado, but this obviously hadn't occurred to his cohorts. They cheered him on.

  "If you and the other workers refuse to cooperate, I'll get a court order to shut the mill down. and I’ll have it enforced by the National Guard, if that's what I have to do. Now, if there's some way we can all come to some amicable settlement, Mr. Harriman is more than willing to meet you halfway. But the mill will close down."

  Pandemonium broke loose in the hall. Everyone was talking and yelling at once. Leroy Spencer whacked the table several times with his mallet to regain order, but no one paid the slightest heed. Anne, answering a thin wiry woman who had a child by each hand and hatred in her eyes, was only partially aware that a few people were advancing toward the fr
ont of the room and that Buck had stopped them with his outstretched arms.

  "You can't close the mill," the woman yelled at her. "Don't we have any say? No rights? Where do you get off just marching in here and shuttin' down the mill?"

  "We are within our rights to close down this facility. Your union was notified. And your rights come in the form of sixty days' notice, as of Monday next," Anne said, shouting but trying not to sound cruel.

  The announcement of the sixty days' notice had a horrible effect on the crowd. Voices rose several octaves and decibels. Chairs scraped on the floor. The knot of people at the center of the room thinned out, broke off into groups, and moved along the outer edges toward her.

  Suddenly Anne was grabbed from behind. Strong hands clasped her shoulders and pulled her backward.

  "Let go of me," she said, gasping, frightened and outraged. She twisted her body around, wanting to identify her attacker. Staggering sideways and back toward the rear of the union building, they were in a short, isolated hallway before she could get a good look at the man's face. "You!" "Hush. Buck told me to get ya outta here, if anythin' like this was ta happen," Bryce LaSalle said in a quiet voice. "I didn't mean ta scare ya, but I was in a hurry. I didn't want to have to waste time on introductions and explanations."

  "You look a little like your brother," she said, breathless in her anxiety, indicating that this was introduction enough. Somehow she had transferred the trust she had in Buck to his brother, as she automatically followed Bryce out the rear exit saying, "But I'd still like an explanation."

  "Buck didn't want you hurt."

  That stopped her dead in her tracks. "That's ridiculous," she said, wondering what she was doing out in the middle of the gravel parking lot. If she were a man, would she be running away? "I can handle them. A few angry words and some accusations never hurt anyone. This is my job, and I’ll take care of it."

  She turned to go back into the union hall, but Bryce's grip on her arm impeded her progress.

  "It wasn't a shouting match he was worried about. Said ya could probably hold your own if that's all it was. But he said to get ya the hell outta there if things started gettin' ugly, and that's what I'm goin' ta do, even if I have to knock ya out to do it."