“You’re right. We’ll have to be careful about that. I wouldn’t worry about it. If he learns too much and it looks like he’s going to make trouble and he’s not worth hanging onto, he can always have a convenient heart attack. He may have one anyway. It shouldn’t be a problem. None of his neighbors are what you’d call close friends. His only relatives live halfway across the country and there’s no indication that he has frequent contact with them. We should be able to do pretty much what we please with him.”
“I’ll do what I can to help, Benjy. You know that. I also want you to know that I don’t buy a word of what you’ve said.”
“Think what it could mean, though, if I’m right about Pickett. If his mind has been altered somehow and it’s connected to his living conditions, we might be able to replicate them in sufficient detail to reproduce the results. Not here, of course, but some of our South American facilities could handle the work. Sure, it’d be dangerous. We’d probably lose some Indian ‘volunteers.’ It’d be worth all the trouble and risk, though, if we could isolate a specific which could induce the same talent in others.”
“If Pickett possesses any such ability,” she reminded him skeptically.
“Sure, sure. It would take several generations to appear. I’d bet that the DNA of Pickett’s parents was affected first, and then the mutation intensified in Pickett and maybe his sister as well. Other factors intervened in the case of the sister. She was a dead end.”
“What good to us is a discovery that may take generations to confirm?”
“All we have to do is prove that Pickett has the ability. We’ll have anything we want while we work to confirm it. Our own division, maybe, autonomous within the corporate structure. All the money and freedom anyone could desire. Our own company. How’d you like living in South America?”
“I’m not sure. I hadn’t given it much thought lately.”
“Think about it. You could be a queen down there.”
“Royalty doesn’t appeal to me. And you’d better slow yourself down until we have some facts to show around. Nothing’s proven yet, remember?”
“So I admit to being enthusiastic. Can you blame me?” He put both hands on the desk. “I take full responsibility. But I need your help, sweetness. We can handle most of it on our own time anyway. The company doesn’t have to know a thing until we decide it’s time to tell them. In fact, it’s better the company doesn’t know. If this turns out to be as important as I think it will, we may want to shop it around.
‘That’s another reason why I want to use Foraker on surveillance. He’ll report directly and solely to you.” He came around the desk, put both hands on her shoulders and spoke with quiet intensity.
“This could do it for us, sweetness. Every dream we’ve ever had, every wish you’ve ever made, could all come true. It’s all tied up in some freak talent an old man has, and I don’t think he even knows he has it. Best of all, if I’m wrong, neither he nor the company is likely to hurt us.”
At the board meeting later that afternoon, Shapeleigh, the Senior Vice-President in charge of general operations, surprised Huddy and everyone else by making a brief but formal speech commending him for his work in the “Riverside matter.” It was one thing to receive commendation on your record, something else to have it spelled out in front of all your colleagues. Huddy enjoyed every word.
Apparently the county inspectors had been all over the dumpsite. They’d evidently expected to find a real sore spot. Instead they’d been forced to leave puzzled and frustrated, much to the delight of the properly outraged company representatives who’d accompanied them. All those reports of terrible smells issuing from the little valley had evidently been exaggerated or plain falsified by the largely immigrant population living nearby.
Oh, there’d been some evidence of soil contamination, but nothing serious. Nothing life-threatening. As for the presence in the area of chronically ill children and adults, well, there was no way to prove their diseases were the result of living next to the valley. Not without spending a lot of money, which Huddy and others within CCM had correctly surmised the county did not have.
There was one inspector who seemed inclined to pursue the matter further, but he was too busy planning his extensive South France vacation to quibble over such minor troubles. No point to beating a dead horse, especially on such slim evidence of wrongdoing.
As for questioning those people who lived near the site, the inspectors had departed in such a disgruntled mood that the company representative who’d accompanied them reported it as unlikely that any questioning would ever take place.
Yes, Huddy and Ruth Somerset were owed the thanks of Consolidated Chemical and Mining’s entire organization. Shapeleigh beamed paternally across the long table at Huddy while delivering this corporate benediction, and Huddy’s colleagues and competitors gnashed their teeth in private frustration. They’d missed this chance and Huddy hadn’t. It grieved them deeply.
Later, when the others had departed, Shapeleigh drew Huddy aside and offered his personal congratulations. There was talk of large amounts of money as well as hints of vacancies to be filled in the near future. Huddy listened politely, appreciatively, but only with half a mind.
The other half was intent on bottle caps and dirt and a certain old man….
Jake Pickett watched the water sink into the ground around the old rose bushes. Soon it would be time to cut them back for the winter. The old hose became a neatly coiled green snake beneath the water spigot. Pickett prided himself on the neatness of the little yard. It wasn’t much work, what with only the roses and irises needing attention. The big scrub oak that grew next to the brick pathway required only an occasional soaking.
He walked around the house to enjoy the sunset. Off to the west the sun was hunting for a resting place in the distant Pacific. Despite having spent his whole life in Southern California, he’d been to the beach only twice, both times as a child. He recalled liking the ocean; the play of the surf, the hot sand between his toes, the gulls crying raucously overhead as they swooped and dove for garbage; but not caring for the people who frequented the beach. It was too crowded for him.
He preferred his house and his little hillside. For company he had the attendance of the laughing, brown-skinned children. Their parents were nice to him, and if he felt like any real change of pace he could always drive down to the city park or up to Arrowhead. For Jake Pickett familiarity bred content. No one bothered him.
, Entering the kitchen through the back door he checked the small pot of pork and beans simmering on the stove. After stirring briefly with a wooden spoon to keep them from sticking he tried a sample. Done, he thought, and hot. A wife probably would have improved his diet, but somehow he’d never felt the need for permanent companionship. Just a crusty, dull old bachelor, that’s me, he thought, undismayed by the image.
He poured the beans out of the pot into a large dish, using the spoon to scrape the last of them and making sure he didn’t miss any pieces of pork. He twisted a couple of hunks of bread from the big round loaf on the counter, put the sealed bag back in the refrigerator, and headed for the living room.
The pork and beans went down well with the evening news. Both were basics of Pickett’s lifestyle. Sometimes it bothered him that he didn’t understand a lot of what the honey-voiced correspondents said on the evening news. It wasn’t that they used such big words. They didn’t. It was just that some of the subjects they discussed were completely alien to him. He regretted not having progressed past high school.
Circumstances, life, had interfered and made any higher education impossible. He’d always had to work to bring in money, especially after mom and pop had died so young. Things had gotten a little easier after Catherine had moved off to Texas. He’d always managed to make enough to support himself. With social security he was actually better off than he’d ever been. It made him feel good, confident. Of course, it helped that he’d never had much and therefore never expected much. He didn’t feel particularly deprived.
The pork and beans went down warmly. As usual, they were much more nourishing than the news. He rose and re-entered the kitchen. Carefully he washed out the dish and put it in the yellow rack to dry, then returned to the television.
Outside, the sun had finally set. It was cooling off daily. Soon it would be winter and the rains would come; short, vicious downpours that were typical of Southern California. The ridge on which his house was built had more rock in it than most hillsides. Mudslides would occur elsewhere and he would read about them and cluck his tongue. People in this part of the country would build in the damndest places. It always amused him.
He enjoyed the rain, although for the last few years the cool weather had begun to affect him at the joints, as if his heart trouble wasn’t cross enough to bear. Better count your blessings, you greedy old man, he admonished himself. You might be living in South Dakota instead of Southern California. Hell, you don’t know what cold is.
He watched the bubbles fill the screen and listened to the music. Lawrence Welk was pleasantly familiar. After Welk it was time for sitcoms. Those he didn’t much care for. It seemed like he’d outgrown the crude gags that were in vogue these days.
The documentary that followed on PBS was nice. All about the South Pacific. The TV was as close to Fiji as he’d ever get, not only because of his lack of money but because of his heart condition. Still, he enjoyed the vicarious traveling. It was the best thing about television.
The late news then, largely a reprise of what he’d already seen earlier. He watched it for the weather update. As he rose to turn the set off, he wondered if perhaps he should take some of his small savings and invest in a color console to replace the black and white. They were so damned expensive, though, and the images wouldn’t come in any sharper or the words any clearer. Still, it was a thought he’d toyed with for months. Shows like the one on the South Pacific always gave the idea new impetus. He’d think about it some more, he decided.
He was half undressed when he walked into the bedroom. There was no television in there. Televisions belonged in dens and living rooms. He’d decided that when the new invention had first come onto the market.
There was a portable radio on the end table next to the bed, however. It was battered but serviceable. He flipped it on. It was preset at the local all-news channel. Despite the depressing nature of the majority of the news, Jake found it relaxing. As to many poor people, the day’s litany of disasters and crises was more reassuring than debilitating to Jake, because it reminded him of how much better off he was than much of the rest of the world.
The anchorman/DJ currently working had a particularly pleasant voice. They both have something to offer, he thought. Television and radio. On the radio they didn’t worry about making stupid jokes to each other or about how they looked. You could be a journalist instead of a movie star. The forced camaraderie, the bad ad libs (happy news, the stations called it) had nearly turned him off television news completely. For a while he’d taken to watching it without the sound.
The electric blanket had been on for several hours and the bed was nice and warm as Jake slipped beneath the covers. He got cold easier than he used to. That was a sign of aging, the doctor had told him, Funny, but he didn’t feel like he was getting old. He didn’t feel a day over fifty. Except for his heart, of course.
He didn’t have to look to make sure the little bottle of nitroglycerine tablets was where it belonged, on the end table next to the lamp. The bottle and the tiny yellow pills it held had been part of his life for twenty years. He could find it quite easily without the lamp’s aid.
A glance at the clock showed him that it was nearly ten. Midnight in Texas, he mused. He leaned back against the two pillows and closed his eyes. The moon cast faint illumination through the thin curtains. Jake didn’t try to fall asleep. It was Thursday night. He always got a call from Amanda Rae on Thursday night. Their conversations were always the highlight of his day.
