The Goal: A Process of Ongoing Improvement (15 page)

Devil’s Gulch is lovely in the late afternoon sun. Down in what appears to be the gulch, the Rampage River goes creaming past boulders and outcroppings of rock. Golden rays of sunlight shift through the trees. Birds are tweeting. And off in the distance is the unmistakable melody of high-speed automobile traffic.

"Look!’’ shouts Andy as he stands atop the promontory, "There’s a shopping center out there!’’
"Does it have a Burger King?’’ asks Herbie.
Dave complains, "Hey, this isn’t The Wilderness.’’
"They just don’t make wildernesses the way they used to,’’ I tell him. "Look, we’ll have to settle for what we’ve got. Let’s make camp.’’
The time is now five o’clock. This means that after relieving Herbie of his pack, we covered about four miles in two hours. Herbie was the key to controlling the entire troop.
Tents are erected. A spaghetti dinner is prepared by Dave and Evan. Feeling somewhat guilty because I set up the rules that drove them into their servitude, I give them a hand with cleaning up afterwards.
Dave and I share the same tent that night. We’re lying inside it, both of us tired. Dave is quiet for a while. Then he speaks up.
He says, "You know, Dad, I was really proud of you today.’’
"You were? How come?’’
"The way you figured out what was going on and kept everyone together, and put Herbie in front—we’d probably have been on that trail forever if it hadn’t been for you,’’ he says. "None of the other guys’ parents took any responsibility for anything. But you did.’’
"Thanks,’’ I tell him. "Actually, I learned a lot of things today.’’
"You did?’’
"Yeah, stuff that I think is going to help me straighten out the plant,’’ I say.
"Really? Like what?’’
"Are you sure you want to hear about it?’’
"Sure I am,’’ he claims.
We’re awake for some time talking about everything. He hangs in there, even asks some questions. By the time we’re finished, all we can hear is some snoring from the other tents, a few crickets... and the squealing tires of some idiot turning donuts out there on the highway.

Davey and I get home around 4:30 on Sunday afternoon. Both of us are tired, but we’re feeling pretty good in spite of the miles. After I pull into the driveway, Dave hops out to open the garage door. I ease the
Mazda
in and go around to open the trunk so we can get our packs.

"I wonder where Mom went,’’ says Dave.
I look over and notice that her car is gone.
"She’s probably out shopping or something,’’ I tell Dave. Inside, Dave stows the camping gear while I go into the bedroom to change clothes. A hot shower is going to feel absolutely terrific. After I wash off the great outdoors, I’m thinking, maybe I’ll take everybody out to dinner, get us a good meal as kind of a celebration of the triumphant return of father and son.

A closet door is open in the bedroom. When I reach to shut it, I see that most of Julie’s clothes are gone. I stand there for a minute looking at the empty space. Dave comes up behind me.

"Dad?’’
I turn.
"This was on the kitchen table. I guess Mom left it.’’ He hands me a sealed envelope.
"Thanks Dave.’’
I wait until he’s gone to open it. Inside is just a short handwritten note. It says:
Al,

I can’t handle always being last in line for you. I need more of you and it’s clear now that you won’t change. I’m going away for a while. Need to think things over. Sorry to do this to you. I know you’re busy.
Yours truly, Julie

P.S. —I left Sharon with your mother. When I’m able to move, I put the note in my pocket and go find Davey. I tell him I have to go across town to pick up Sharon, and that he’s to stay here. If his mother calls, he’s to ask her where she’s calling from and get a number where I can call her back. He wants to know if something is wrong. I tell him not to worry and promise to explain when I get back.
I go rocketing to my mother’s house. When she opens the door, she starts talking about Julie before I can even say hello.
"Alex, do you know your wife did the strangest thing,’’ she says. "I was making lunch yesterday when the doorbell rang, and when I opened the door Sharon was standing here on the step with her little suitcase. And your wife was in the car at the curb there, but she wouldn’t get out and when I went down to talk to her, she drove away.’’
By now I’m in the door. Sharon runs to greet me from the living room where she is watching television. I pick her up and she gives me a long hug. My mother is still talking.
"What on earth could be wrong with her?’’ my mother asks me.
"We’ll talk about it later,’’ I tell her.
"I just don’t understand what—’’
"Later,
okay?’’
Then I look at Sharon. Her face is rigid. Her eyes are frozen big. She’s terrified.
"So... did you have a nice visit with Grandma?’’ I ask her.
She nods but doesn’t say anything.
"What do you say we go home now?’’
She looks down at the floor.
"Don’t you want to go home?’’ I ask.
She shrugs her shoulders.
"Do you like it here with Grandma?’’ my smiling mother asks her.
Sharon starts to cry.
I get Sharon and her suitcase into the car. We start home. After I’ve driven a couple of blocks, I look over at her. She’s like a little statue sitting there staring straight ahead with her red eyes focused on the top of the dashboard. At the next stoplight, I reach over for her and pull her next to me.
She’s very quiet for a while, but then she finally looks up at me and whispers, "Is Mommy still mad at me?’’
"Mad at you? She isn’t mad at you,’’ I tell her. "Yes she is. She wouldn’t talk to me.’’
"No, no, no, Sharon,’’ I say. "Your mother isn’t upset with you. You didn’t do anything wrong.’’
"Then why?’’ she asks.
I say, "Why don’t we wait until we get home. I’ll explain it to both you and your brother then.’’
I think that explaining the situation to both of the kids at the same time turns out to be easier on me than on them. I’ve always been reasonably adept at maintaining the outward illusion of control in the midst of chaos. I tell them Julie has simply gone away for a little while, maybe only a day or so. She’ll be back. She just has to get over a few things that are upsetting and confusing her. I give them all the standard reassurances: your mom still loves you; I still love you; there was nothing that either of you could have done; everything will work out for the best. For the most part, both of them sit there like little rocks. Maybe they’re reflecting back what I’m giving them.

We go out and get a pizza for dinner. That normally would be kind of a fun thing. Tonight, it’s very quiet. Nobody has anything to say. We mechanically chew and then leave.

When we get back, I make both of the kids do homework for school. I don’t know if they do it or not. I go to the phone, and after a long debate with myself, I try to make a couple of calls.

Julie doesn’t have any friends in Bearington. None that I know of. So it would be useless to try to call the neighbors. They wouldn’t know anything, and the story about us having problems would spread instantly.

Instead, I try calling Jane, the friend from the last place we lived, the one whom Julie claimed to have spent the night with last Thursday. There is no answer at Jane’s.

So then I try Julie’s parents. I get her father on the phone. After some small talk about the weather and the kids, it’s clear he isn’t going to make any declarations. I conclude that her parents don’t know what’s going on. But before I can think of a casual way to end the call and avoid the explanations, her old man asks me, "So is Julie going to talk to us?’’

"Ah, well, that’s actually why I was calling,’’ I say. "Oh? Nothing is wrong I hope,’’ he says.
"I’m afraid there is,’’ I say. "She left yesterday while I was on a camping trip with Dave. I was wondering if you had heard from her.’’

Immediately he’s spreading the alarm to Julie’s mother. She gets on the phone.
"Why did she leave?’’ she asks.
"I don’t know.’’
"Well, I know the daughter we raised, and she wouldn’t just leave without a very good reason,’’ says Julie’s mother.
"She just left me a note saying she had to get away for awhile.’’
"What did you do to her?’’
yells her mother.
"Nothing!’’ I plead, feeling like a liar in the onslaught.
Then her father gets back on the phone and asks if I’ve talked to the police. He suggests that maybe she was kidnapped. I tell him that’s highly unlikely, because my mother saw her drive away and nobody had a gun to her head.
Finally I say, "If you hear from her, would you please have her give me a call? I’m very worried about her.’’
An hour later, I do call the police. But, as I expected, they won’t help unless I have some evidence that something criminal has taken place. I go and put the kids to bed.

Sometime after midnight, I’m staring at the dark bedroom ceiling and I hear a car turning into the driveway. I leap out of bed and run to the window. By the time I get there, the headlights are arcing back toward the street. It’s just a stranger turning around. The car drives away.

Monday morning is a disaster.
It starts with Davey trying to make breakfast for himself and Sharon and me. Which is a nice, responsible thing to do, but he totally screws it up. While I’m in the shower, he attempts pancakes. I’m midway through shaving when I hear the fight from the kitchen. I rush down to find Dave and Sharon pushing each other. There is a skillet on the floor with lumps of batter, black on one side and raw on the other, splattered.
"Hey! What’s going on?’’ I shout.
"It’s all her fault!’’ yells Dave pointing at his sister.
"You were burning them!’’ Sharon says.
"I was not!’’
Smoke is fuming off the stove where something spilled. I step over to shut it off.
Sharon appeals to me. "I was just trying to help. But he wouldn’t let me.’’ Then she turns to Dave. "Even
I
know how to make pancakes.’’
"Okay, because both of you want to help, you can help clean up,’’ I say.
When everything is back in some semblance of order, I feed them cold cereal. We eat another meal in silence.
With all the disruption and delay. Sharon misses her school bus. I get Davey out the door, and go looking for her so I can drive her to school. She’s lying down on her bed.
"Ready, whenever you are, Miz Rogo.’’
"I can’t go to school,’’ she says.
"Why not?’’
"I’m sick.’’
"Sharon, you have to go to school,’’ I say.
"But I’m sick!’’ she says.
I go sit down on the edge of the bed.
"I know you’re upset. I am too,’’ I tell her. "But these are facts: I have to go to work. I can’t stay home with you, and I won’t leave you here by yourself. You can go to your grandmother’s house for the day. Or you can go to school.’’
She sits up. I put my arm around her.
After a minute, she says, "I guess I’ll go to school.’’
I give her a squeeze and say, "Atta way, kid. I knew you’d do the right thing.’’

By the time I get both kids to school and myself to work, it’s past nine o’clock. As I walk in, Fran waves a message slip at me. I grab it and read it. It’s from Hilton Smyth, marked "urgent’’ and double underlined.
I call him.

"Well, it’s about time,’’ says Hilton. "I tried to reach you an hour ago.’’
I roll my eyes. "What’s the problem, Hilton?’’
"Your people are sitting on a hundred sub-assemblies I need,’’ says Smyth.
"Hilton, we’re not sitting on anything,’’ I say.
He raises his voice. "Then why aren’t they here? I’ve got a customer order we can’t ship because your people dropped the ball!’’
"Just give me the particulars, and I’ll have somebody look into it,’’ I tell him.
He gives some reference numbers and I write them down.
"Okay, I’ll have somebody get back to you.’’
"You’d better do more than that, pal,’’ says Hilton. "You’d better make sure we get those sub-assemblies by the end of the day—and I mean all 100 pieces, not 87, not 99, but
all
of them. Because I’m not going to have my people do two setups for final assembly on account of your lateness.’’
"Look, we’ll do our best,’’ I tell him, "but I’m not going to make promises.’’
"Oh? Well, let’s just put it this way,’’ he says. "If we don’t get 100 sub-assemblies from you today, I’m talking to Peach. And from what I hear you’re in enough trouble with him already.’’
"Listen,
pal,
my status with Bill Peach is none of your damn business,’’ I tell him. "What makes you think you can threaten me?’’
The pause is so long I think he’s going to hang up on me.
Then he says, "Maybe you ought to read your mail.’’
"What do you mean by that?’’
I can hear him smiling.
"Just get me the sub-assemblies by the end of the day,’’ he says sweetly. "Bye-bye.’’
I hang up.
"Weird,’’ I mumble.
I talk to Fran. She calls Bob Donovan for me and then notifies the staff that there will be a meeting at ten o’clock. Donovan comes in and I ask him to have an expeditor see what’s holding up the job for Smyth’s plant. Almost gritting my teeth as I say it, I tell him to make sure the sub-assemblies go out today. After he’s gone, I try to forget about the call, but I can’t. Finally, I go ask Fran if anything has come in recently that mentions Hilton Smyth. She thinks for a minute, then reaches for a folder.
"This memo just came in on Friday,’’ she says. "It looks like Mr. Smyth got a promotion.’’
I take the memo she hands me. It’s from Bill Peach. It’s an announcement that he’s named Smyth to the newly-created position of division productivity manager. The appointment is effective at the end of this week. The job description says that all plant managers will now report on a dotted line to Smyth, who will "give special attention to manufacturing-productivity improvement with emphasis on cost reduction.’’
And I start to sing, "Oh, what a beautiful morning. . . !’’

Whatever enthusiasm I expected from the staff with regard to my education over the weekend... well, I don’t get it. Maybe I thought all I had to do was walk in and open my mouth to reveal my discoveries, and they’d all be instantly converted by the obvious rightness. But it doesn’t work that way. We—Lou, Bob, Stacey, and Ralph Nakamura, who runs data processing for the plant—are in the conference room. I’m standing in front next to an easel which holds a big pad of paper, sheet after sheet of which is covered with little diagrams I’ve drawn during my explanations. I’ve invested a couple of hours in making those explanations. But now it’s almost time for lunch, and they’re all just sitting there unimpressed.