Benny: A Tale of a Christmas Toy (4 page)

"Ya know, I'm really not s'pposed to land
anywhere dat's not an approved landing site, sir," she said, her
voice heavy with her Midwestern accent.

"Oh, what's the fun in that?"

"It could be my job, sir."

"I guarantee you that won't happen." 
And Jeff could.  When you were about to take the reins of the
world's number two retailer, you pretty much could guarantee
anything.  "Plus, I'll make sure you receive a nice tip."

She swallowed.  "Company policy doesn't
allow us to—"

"How does a thousand dollars sound?"

"—accept any  . .  didya say
a
thousand dollars?"

Twenty minutes later the helicopter touched
down on the snow-packed parking lot outside the main building.
There were ten buildings in all, identical in appearance, sleek and
austere, looking like fifties era schools with their small,
evenly-spaced windows and cream-colored exterior.  The
whirring blades spread the inch of fresh snow over cars and trucks
as far as a dozen rows away. 

He opened the door and stepped outside, his
leather shoes slipping a bit on the hard snow pack. The frigid
wind, roaring in his ears, pushed down on him from above. Droves of
employees had flooded outside the buildings.  Most of them
gaped at him as if he had just dropped down from the moon, but when
he reached the doors, a couple of young guys in white dress shirts
and subdued ties pushed through the crowd and took his baggage.

There were a few words of greeting, lot of
yahs and you betchas, a request by him for a cappuccino (which they
didn't have, naturally), and then the young guys lead him through
the lobby, past a maze of cubicles filled with the sound of people
clicking on keyboards, down a long narrow hallway with threadbare
blue carpet, up a short flight of stairs, past another maze of
cubicles, and finally to another lobby. A elderly woman sat behind
an only slightly less monstrous oak desk than the one out
front.  There were two opaque glass doors behind her.

"You have yourself an appointment, dear?"
the woman asked, smiling up at him.  With her gray hair and
rosy cheeks, she looked like Betty Crocker.  He had no idea
what Betty Crocker looked like, but he imagined she had to look a
lot like this woman.  She also looked familiar, and he sensed
it was more than the Betty Crocker-ness thing she had going for
her.

"Dis is Mister Martin, yah," the young man
said to her.

She laughed.  "Oh, dontcha be acting
all silly.  Mister Martin's in his office."

"No," the young man said, "dis is
Jeff
Martin, Mister Martin's son."

"Mister Martin's son!" the woman
exclaimed.  Jeff realized now that if she wasn't completely
batty, then she was at least most of the way there.  "Little
Jeffy?  Oh, he's much too old to be little Jeffy."

Now it came back to Jeff.  "Mrs.
Cranberry?" he said.

She stopped laughing.  Could it really
be her?  He remembered her being old the last time he had been
there—what, fifteen years ago?—and she didn't look much older
now.  She slipped on the glasses hanging from her neck and
squinted at him.

"So t'is you," she said, chuckling. 
"Couldn't pronounce Crazelbergin so you always called me Mrs.
Cranberry.  Oh, my, you've become a regular giant!  How
tall you now?"

"A hair over six feet two," Jeff said,
leaning on the counter.  He was genuinely glad to see
her.  She'd always been nice to him, making sure he had
crayons and paper the few times he spent the day with Dad, back
before he went off to boarding school and never looked back. 
"But you—you look lovelier than ever."

A pink flush spread across her cheeks and
she patted at her bob of hair. "Such a flatterer.  How old
you, then?  Eighteen?  You graduate from high school,
yah?"

"Try twenty-eight," he said.  "Just
finished graduate school, actually."

"Graduate school, too!  You become a
rocket scientist?  You always said you were going to be a
regular rocket scientist."

"Actually, I got an MBA."

"Oh.  You mean you play
basketball?"

He was trying to think of a way to describe
an MBA when the door on the left opened and a man stepped
outside.  He was short and pudgy, dressed in a navy blue suit
that may have once fit but now strained against his belly. 
His face was round, his features doughy; he was bald except for a
few dozen glistening strands of gray and black hair combed straight
forward, almost touching his thick dark eyebrows.  He had the
kind of feverish eyes you expected to find on mad scientists and
drug addicts.   There was a gold chain dangling from his
pocket, and he pulled out a pocket watch and popped it open. 
He glanced at this for a few seconds before closing it and stepping
forward.  Jeff expected him to say
I'm late, I'm late for a
very important date . . .

"Good to meet you," the man said.  When
he spoke, he made eye contact only once, before his gaze flitted
away, never resting on any one person or object for long. 
"You had a good trip, I take it?  Yah?  Good, good. 
I'm Horace Dugin.  You want something to drink? 
Coffee?  Agnes, can ya get him a cup of coffee?"

"That's all right," Jeff said, "I don't like
regular coffee."

"Take cream, dear?" Mrs. Cranberry asked,
rising from her desk.

"He likes cappuccino," one of the young men
said. 

"Who?" Mrs. Cranberry said.  "You got a
girlfriend, Jeffy?"

"No, really," Jeff said, "I don't
drink—"

"No time for jokes," Horace said, looking at
his watch again.  "Your father wants to talk to you straight
away.  Bring da coffee in when you get it, Agnes."

"I don't drink coffee," Jeff said, but
Horace had already turned and headed toward the other
door. 

Horace tapped on the glass but didn't wait
for a reply before opening the door.  The first thing Jeff saw
in the spacious room was his father sitting behind a gray metal
desk with chrome edges, a huge scratched and dented behemoth that
looked like it had once made the finals of a crash derby with other
ugly desks.  Jeff remembered it.  It had been the first
thing Dad bought when he went into business, and it was a source of
pride for him that he had never sold it. 

His father's face was gaunt and pale, and
when he pursed his lips all the color went out of them.  His
white hair was shaved so close Jeff could see his scalp.  He
wore a gray flannel suit that went out of style somewhere in the
fifties, and Jeff was struck with how small and shriveled he looked
in the clothes, all the more so because he remembered, when he was
young, how imposing his father had seemed behind that desk. 
Still, he had that same fierce, commanding presence—sitting rigidly
upright, eyes blazing, jaw clenched.  He had reached the rank
of colonel before retiring from the Navy, and lots of people still
called him Colonel Marv.

"Son," he said. 

He had the kind of deep baritone that could
make little boys pee their pants.  Jeff felt the urge
himself.  Dear God, what was happening here?  He wasn't
six.  He was a grown man.  He would not ask to go to the
bathroom.  He would hold it.  Dad wasn't going to get the
best of him.

"Hi, Dad," he said, and it came out like the
squeak a panicked mouse would make.

So he wouldn't have to meet Dad's eyes, Jeff
looked around the room.  There were a couple of pictures of
dogs playing poker, a bookshelf with pictures of Dad with various
Presidents, and two simple wooden chairs in front of the
desk.  The window looked out into the parking lot, and Jeff
saw the circular spot in the snow where the helicopter had touched
down.  This should have made him happy, because he had been
hoping Dad would see the helicopter, but instead it made him
afraid. 

"Sit down," Dad said.

"I've been sitting for quite a while
already," Jeff said, but by the time he had finished the sentence
he was already sitting.  So was Horace.  It was that damn
voice.  The man could have done voiceovers for Charlton
Heston.  He was also one of the few people at the head office
didn't
have the Midwestern accent.  Jeff remembered him
claiming he had lost it while he was in the military.  And he
always said it with a bit of regret, which Jeff found funny,
because he had worked hard to eliminate his own accent as soon as
he went off to boarding school.

Dad drummed his fingers on his desk. 
"Well, you want to explain that little stunt out there?"

"Hmm?" Jeff said.  This was an old
game.  If his father asked him about something Jeff had done
that he perceived as wrong, Jeff's first response was to play
dumb.

"You know what I'm talking about."

"Oh," Jeff said.  The room was feeling
warmer.  Had somebody turned up the heat?  "Oh, well, I
just thought—"

"A lack of thinking is your problem," Dad
said.

"Right," Jeff said, nodding.

"I sent a car for you."

"Right."

"And you came in a helicopter."

"I did.  I mean, well, that's one way
of looking at it, I suppose."

"What other way is there of looking at
it?"

"What?  Oh.  Well.  I guess
there isn't."

"Why'd you do it?"

Jeff shrugged.  He crossed his
legs.  He really had to find a restroom now.

"Nobody was hurt," Horace piped in, and
looked at his watch again.  "I called down to da front desk
myself." 

Jeff tensed.  It was one thing to be
scolded by his father, and something else to be criticized by this
mousy little guy.  "I wouldn't have landed if there was a
chance—"

"What's done is done," Dad said, waving his
hand dismissively.  "You can't take it back now.  You
have your trust fund and you can spend the money any damn way you
please.  Your mother wanted it that way and hell if I'm going
to go against her wishes.  What's done is done."

"What's done is done," Horace said,
nodding.

The phone buzzed. 

"Coffee time!" Mrs. Cranberry said over the
intercom.  "Should I bring it in?"

"Yes!" all three of them said at once.

They didn't speak as Mrs. Cranberry brought
Jeff his coffee in a blue and white Martco mug.  She didn't
bring anything for the other two.  When she'd left, Jeff took
a big gulp, realizing too late that the coffee was scalding
hot.  His eyes filled up with tears.

"Nice coffee," he croaked.

"Never touch the stuff," Dad said.

"Me either," Horace said.

"Gives me gas," Dad said.

"Me too," Horace said.  He looked at
his watch.

Jeff nodded, lifted the mug to his mouth to
take another drink, then thought better of it.  He reached to
put it on his father's desk, then thought better of this too, and
just let it rest on his lap.  His thin pants didn't provide
much protection from the searing heat, but he had already committed
himself so he just sat there and bore the pain.  At least it
gave him something else to think about other than his bladder.

"Let's get right to the point," Dad
said.  "You're here because we made an agreement.  I told
you that when you finished school, you could take over the
company.  Well, you've got your degree.  I checked."

Jeff didn't like how that sounded—
I
checked
—but he didn't say anything.

"And now you're here," Dad said.

"Yes, sir.  Ready to go."

"I'm sure you are.  But you see, before
we can do that, before I can trust you with a company that grossed
over a hundred and thirty billion dollars last year, I have to tell
you—well . . . I have a few concerns." 

"One hundred and thirty-nine billion,"
Horace said.  "Our gross sales, that is.  Not the number
of concerns."

For the first time since Jeff could
remember, Dad didn't sound all that sure about himself.  Some
of that military swagger was gone.  He just sounded like an
old man.

"Dad, if it's about the helicopter—"

"It's not just the helicopter," Dad
said.

"He's got concerns," Horace said.

Jeff glared at him.  "Do you
mind
?  I'm trying to have a conversation with my
father."

"Son," Dad said, and the sternness was back
in his voice.  "You really shouldn't talk to Horace that
way.  He's going to be your new boss."

"Dad, if you think I can't . . . " 
Jeff trailed off, his mind trying to make sense of what he had just
heard.  "He's going to be my
what?"

Chapter 2

THE NICE LADY in the paint-spotted blue
overalls was informing Carol that Carol was going to be late. 
Not exactly in those words, of course.  What she was actually
saying was that Red Barn Daycare was closed for renovations, and
for the last month this fact had been included in the newsletter,
typed at the bottom of the invoices, and posted on the door. 
And, the nice lady insisted, pointing with a finger caked with
white paint, the sign was still taped to the inside of the
glass.  Carol looked and saw that the yellow butcher paper was
faded and wrinkled from the sun, but the words written with a thick
red marker were still unfortunately clear:  PLEASE MAKE OTHER
ARRANGEMENTS.  WE WILL BE CLOSED THE FIRST WEEK OF
FEBRUARY. 

"But I didn't know," Carol pleaded.

The woman, a redhead so slender and perfect
even in paint clothes that Carol was sure that she had never given
birth, smiled sadly.  "I'm sorry, dear.  I wish I could
help."

Rain tapped on the metal awning above
them.  If it was February in Delburg, Oregon, Carol knew you
could almost always count on rain.  She liked how it kept
everything green, but she could have done without the oppressive
dreariness.  Especially when it was coupled with a cold, stiff
wind, the case that particular Monday.  The frigid air clamped
down on her nylon-covered legs.  She never wore nylons. 
She almost never wore a dress either.  But this was for an
interview.  And she was going to be late.  And she had
worn nylons.  She wanted to cry.