Also in August - while Brett DeLosanto was in California - the Detroit assembly plant, where Matt Zaleski was assistant plant manager, was in a state of chaos.
Two weeks earlier, production of cars had ceased. Specialist contractors had promptly moved in, their assignment to dismantle the old assembly line and create a new one on which the Orion would be built.
Four weeks had been allotted for the task. At the end of it, the first production Orion - job One - would roll off the line, then, in the three or four weeks following, a backlog of cars would be created, ready to meet expected demands after official Orion introduction day in September.
After that, if sales prognostications held, the tempo would increase, with Orions flowing from the plant in tens of thousands.
Of the time allowed for plant conversion, two weeks remained and, as always at model changeover time, Matt Zaleski wondered if he would survive them.
Most of the assembly plant's normal labor force was either laid off or enjoying paid vacations, so that only a skeleton staff of hourly paid employees reported in each day. But far from the shutdown making the life of Matt Zaleski and others of the plant management group easier, work loads increased, anxieties multiplied, until an ordinary production day seemed, by comparison, an unruffled sea.
The contractor's staff, like an occupying army, was demanding. So were company headquarters engineers who were advising, assisting, and sometimes hindering the contractors.
The plant manager, Val Reiskind, and Matt were caught in a crossfire of requests for information, hurried conferences, and orders, the latter usually requiring instant execution. Matt handled most matters which involved practical running of the plant, Reiskind being young and new.
He had replaced the previous plant manager, McKernon, only a few months earlier and while the new man's engineering and business diplomas were impressive, he lacked Matt's seasoned know-how acquired during twenty years on the job. Despite Matt's disappointment at failing to get McKernon's job, and having a younger man brought in over him, he liked Reiskind who was smart enough to be aware of his own deficiency and treated Matt decently.
Most headaches centered around new, sophisticated machine tools for assembly, which in theory worked well, but in practice often didn't.
Technically, it was the contractor who was responsible for making the whole system function, but Matt Zaleski knew that when contractor's men were gone, he would inherit any inadequate situation they might leave.
Therefore he stayed close to the action now.
The greatest enemy of all was time. There was never enough to make a changeover work so smoothly that by preassigned completion date it could be said: "All systems go!" It was like building a house which was never ready on the day set for moving in, except that a house move could be postponed, whereas a car or truck production schedule seldom was.
An unexpected development also added to Matt's burdens. An inventory audit, before production of the previous year's models ceased, had revealed stock shortages so huge as to touch off a major investigation.
Losses from theft at any auto plant were always heavy. With thousands of workers changing shifts at the same time, it was a simple matter for thieves - either employees or walk-in intruders - to carry stolen items out.
But this time a major theft ring was obviously at work. Among items missing were more than three hundred four-speed transmissions, hundreds of tires, as well as substantial quantities of radios, tape players, air conditioners, and other components.
As an aftermath, the plant swarmed with security staff and outside detectives. Matt, though not remotely implicated, had been obliged to spend hours answering detectives' questions about plant procedure. So far there appeared to be no break in the case, though the Chief of Security told Matt, "We have some ideas, and there are a few of your line workers we want to interrogate when they come back." Meanwhile the detectives remained underfoot, their presence one more irritant at an arduous time.
Despite everything, Matt had come through so far, except for a small incident concerning himself which fortunately went unnoticed by anyone important at the plant.
He had been in his office the previous Saturday afternoon, seven-day work weeks being normal during model changeover, and one of the older secretaries, Iris Einfeld, who was also working, had brought him coffee.
Matt began drinking it gratefully. Suddenly, for no reason he could determine, he was unable to control the cup and it fell from his hand, the coffee spilling over his clothing and the floor.
Angry at himself for what he thought of as carelessness, Matt got up - then fell full length, heavily. Afterward, when he thought about it, it seemed as if his left leg failed him and he remembered, too, he had been holding the coffee in his left hand.
Mrs. Einfeld, who was still in Matt's office, had helped him back into his chair, then wanted to summon aid, but he dissuaded her. Instead, Matt sat for a while, and felt some of the feeling come back into his left leg and hand, though he knew he would not be able to drive home.
Eventually, with some help from Iris Einfeld, he left the office by a back stairway and she drove him home in her car. On the way he persuaded her to keep quiet about the whole thing, being afraid that if word got around he would be treated as an invalid, the last thing he wanted.
Once home, Matt managed to get to bed and stayed there until late Sunday when he felt much better, only occasionally being aware of a slight fluttering sensation in his chest. On Monday morning he was tired, but otherwise normal, and went to work.
The weekend, though, had been lonely. His daughter, Barbara, was away somewhere and Matt Zaleski had had to fend for himself. In the old days, when his wife was alive, she had always helped him over humps like model changeover time with understanding, extra affection, and meals which - no matter how long she waited for him to come home - she prepared with special care. But it seemed so long since he had known any of those things that it was hard to remember Freda had been dead less than two years. Matt realized, sadly, that when she was alive he had not appreciated her half as much as he did now.
He found himself, too, resenting Barbara's preoccupation with her own life and work. Matt would have liked nothing more than to have Barbara remain at home, available whenever he came there, and thus filling - at least in part - her mother's role. For a while after Freda's death Barbara had seemed to do that. She prepared their meal each evening, which she and Matt ate together, but gradually Barbara's outside interests revived, her work at the advertising agency increased, and nowadays they were rarely in the Royal Oak house together except to sleep, and occasionally for a hurried weekday breakfast. Months ago Barbara had urged that they seek a housekeeper, which they could well afford, but Matt resisted the idea. Now, with so much to do for himself, on top of pressures at the plant, he wished he had agreed.
He had already told Barbara, early in August, that he had changed his mind and she could go ahead and hire a housekeeper after all, to which Barbara replied that she would do so when she could, but at the moment was too busy at the agency to take time out to advertise, interview, and get a housekeeper installed. Matt had bristled at that, believing it to be a woman's business - even a daughter's - to run a home, and that a man should not have to become involved, particularly when he was under stress, as Matt was now. Barbara made it clear, however, that she regarded her own work as equally important with her father's, an attitude he could neither accept nor understand.
There was a great deal else, nowadays, that Matt Zaleski failed to understand. He had only to open a newspaper to become alternately angry and bewildered at news of traditional standards set aside, old moralities discarded, established order undermined. No one, it seemed, respected anything any more - including constituted authority, the courts, law, parents, college presidents, the military, the free enterprise system, or the American flag, under which Matt and others of his generation fought and died in World War II.
As Matt Zaleski saw it, it was the young who caused the trouble, and increasingly he hated most of them: those with long hair you couldn't tell from girls (Matt still had a crew cut and wore it like a badge); student know-it-alls, choked up with book learning, spouting McLuhan, Marx, or Che Guevara; militant blacks, demanding the millennium on the spot and not content to progress slowly; and all other protestors, rioters, contemptuous of everything in sight and beating up those who dared to disagree. The whole bunch of them, in Matt's view, were callow, immature, knowing nothing of real life, contributing nothing . . . When he thought of the young his bile and blood pressure rose together.
And Barbara, while certainly no rebellious student or protestor, sympathized openly with most of what went on, which was almost as bad. For this, Matt blamed the people his daughter associated with, including Brett DeLosanto whom he continued to dislike.
In reality, Matt Zaleski - like many in his age group - was the prisoner of his long-held views. In conversations which sometimes became heated arguments, Barbara had tried to persuade him to her own conviction: that a new breadth of outlook had developed, that beliefs and ideas once held immutable had been examined and found false; that what younger people despised was not the morality of their parents' generation, but a facade of morality with duplicity behind; not old standards in themselves, but hypocrisy and self-deception which, all too often, the so-called standards shielded. In fact, it was a time of question, of exciting intellectual experiment from which mankind could only gain.
Barbara had failed in her attempts. Matt Zaleski, lacking insight, saw the changes around him merely as negative and destroying.
In such a mood, as well as being tired and having a nagging stomachache, Matt came home late to find Barbara and a guest already in the house. The guest was Rollie Knight.
Earlier that evening, through arrangements made for her by Leonard Wingate, Barbara had met Rollie downtown. Her purpose was to acquire more knowledge about the life and experiences of black people - Rollie in particular - both in the inner city and with the hard core hiring program. A spoken commentary to accompany the documentary film Auto City, now approaching its final edited form, would be based, in part, on what she learned.
To begin, she had taken Rollie to the Press Club, but the club had been unusually crowded and noisy; also, Rollie had not seemed at ease. So, on impulse, Barbara suggested driving to her home. They did.
She had mixed a whisky and water for each of them, then whipped up a simple meal of eggs and bacon which she served on trays in the living room; after that, with Rollie increasingly relaxed and helpful, they talked.
Later, Barbara brought the whisky bottle in and poured them each a second drink. Outside, the dusk - climaxing a clear, benevolent day - had turned to dark.
Rollie looked around him at the comfortable, tastefully furnished, though unpretentious room. He asked, "How far we here from Blaine and 12th?"
About eight miles, she told him.
He shook his head and grinned. "Eight hundred, more like."
Blaine and 12th was where Rollie lived, and where film scenes had been shot the night Brett DeLosanto and Leonard Wingate watched.
Barbara had scribbled Rollie's thought in a few key words, thinking it might work well as an opening line, when her father walked in.
Matt Zaleski froze.
He looked incredulously at Barbara and Rollie Knight, seated on the same settee, drinks in their hands, a whisky bottle on the floor between them, the discarded dinner trays nearby. In her surprise, Barbara had let the pad on which she had been writing slip from her hand and out of sight.
Rollie Knight and Matt Zaleski, though never having spoken together at the assembly plant, recognized each other instantly. Matt's eyes went, unbelievingly, from Rollie's face to Barbara's. Rollie grinned and downed his drink, making a show of self-assurance, then seemed uncertain. His tongue moistened his lips.
"Hi, Dad!" Barbara said. "This is"
Matt's voice cut across her words. Glaring at Rollie, he demanded, "What the hell are you doing in my house, sitting there . . . ?"
Of necessity, through years of managing an auto plant in which a major segment of the work force was black, Matt Zaleski had acquired a patina of racial tolerance. But it was never more than a patina. Beneath the surface he still shared the views of his Polish parents and their Wyandotte neighbors who regarded any Negro as inferior. Now, seeing his own daughter entertaining a black man in Matt's own home, an unreasoning rage possessed him, to which tension and tiredness were an added spur.
He spoke and acted without thought of consequences.
"Dad," Barbara said sharply, "this is my friend, Mr. Knight. I invited him, and don't . . ."
"Shut up!" Matt shouted as he swung toward his daughter. "I'll deal with you later."
The color drained from Barbara's face. "What do you mean - you'll deal with me?"
Matt ignored her. His eyes still boring into Rollie Knight, he pointed to the kitchen door through which he had just come in. "Out!"
"Dad, don't you dare!"
Barbara was on her feet, moving swiftly toward her father. When she was within reach he slapped her hard across the face.
It was as if they were acting out a classic tragedy, and now it was Barbara who was unbelieving. She thought: This cannot be happening. The blow had stung and she guessed there were weal marks on her cheek, though that part was unimportant. What mattered was of the mind. It was as if a rock had been rolled aside, the rock a century of human progression and understanding, only to reveal a festering rottenness beneath - the unreason, hatred, bigotry living in Matt Zaleski's mind. And Barbara, because she was her father's daughter, at this moment shared his guilt.
Outside, a car stopped.
Rollie, as well, was standing. An instant earlier his confidence had deserted him because he was on unfamiliar ground. Now, as it came back, he told Matt, "Piss on you, honky!"
Matt's voice trembled. "I said get out. Now go!"
Barbara closed her eyes. Piss on you, honky! Well, why not? Wasn't that how life went, returning hate for hate?
For the second time within a few minutes the house side door opened. Brett DeLosanto came in, announcing cheerfully, "Couldn't make anybody hear."
He beamed at Barbara and Matt, then observed Rollie Knight. "Hi, Rollie!
Nice surprise to see you. How's the world, good friend?"
At Brett's easy greeting to the young black man, a flicker of doubt crossed Matt Zaleski's face.
"Piss on you too," Rollie said to Brett. He glanced contemptuously at Barbara. And left.
Brett asked the other two, "Now what in hell was that about?"
He had driven directly across town from Metropolitan Airport when his flight from California landed less than an hour ago. Brett had wanted to see Barbara, to tell her of his personal decision and plans he had begun formulating during the journey home. His spirits had been high and were the reason for his breezy entry. Now, he realized, something serious was wrong.
Barbara shook her head, unable to speak because of tears she was choking back. Brett moved across the room. Putting his arms around her, he urged gently, "Whatever it is, let go, relax! We can talk about it later."
Matt said uncertainly, "Look, maybe I was . . ."
Barbara's voice overrode him. "I don't want to hear."
She had control of herself, and eased away from Brett who volunteered,
"If this is a family mishmash, and you'd prefer me to leave . . ."
"I want you here," Barbara said. "And when you go, I'm leaving with you." She stopped, then regarding him directly, "You've asked me twice, Brett, to come and live with you. If you still want me to, I will."
He answered fervently, "You know I do."
Matt Zaleski had dropped into a chair. His head came up. "Live!"
"That's right," Barbara affirmed icily. "We won't be married; neither of us wants to be. We'll merely share the same apartment, the same bed . . ."
"No!" Matt roared. "By God, no!"
She warned, "Just try to stop me!"
They faced each other briefly, then her father dropped his eyes and put his head in his hands. His shoulders shook.
"I'll pack a few things for tonight," Barbara told Brett, "then come back for the rest tomorrow."
"Listen" - Brett's eyes were on the dejected figure in the chair - I wanted us to get together. You know it. But does it have to be this way?"
She answered crisply, "When you know what happened, you'll understand.
So take me or leave me - now, the way I am. If you don't, I'll go to a hotel."
He flashed a quick smile. "I'll take you."
Barbara went upstairs.
When the two men were alone, Brett said uncomfortably, "Mr. Z., whatever it was went wrong, I'm sorry."
There was no answer, and he went outside to wait for Barbara in his car.
For almost half an hour Brett and Barbara cruised the streets nearby, searching for Rollie Knight. In the first few minutes after putting her suitcase in the car and driving away, Barbara explained what had occurred before Brett's arrival. As she talked, his face went grim.
After a while he said, "Poor little bastard! No wonder he took off at me too."
"And me."
"I guess he figures we're all alike inside. Why wouldn't he?"
They drove down another empty street, then, near the end of it, their headlights picked up a shadowy figure, walking. It turned out to be a neighbor of the Zaleskis, going home.
"Rollie's gone." Brett glanced across the front seat of the car inquiringly. "We know where he lives."
Both knew the reason behind Brett's hesitation. It could be dangerous in downtown Detroit at night. Armed holdups and assaults were commonplace.
She shook her head. "We can't do anything more tonight. Let's go home."
"First things first." He pulled to the curb and they kissed.
"Home for you," Brett said carefully, "is a new address - Country Club Manor, West Maple at Telegraph."
Despite their shared depression from tonight's events, he had an excited, breathless feeling as he swung the car northwest.
Much later, lying beside each other in the darkened bedroom of Brett's apartment, Barbara said softly, "Are your eyes open?"
"Yes." A few minutes previously Brett had rolled over onto his back.
Now, hands behind his head, he was regarding the dimness of the ceiling.
"What were you thinking?"
"About something clumsy I once said to you. Do you remember?"
"Yes, I remember."
It had been the night Barbara had prepared dinner here and Brett had brought Leonard Wingate home - the first meeting for the three of them.
Afterward, Brett tried to persuade Barbara to stay the night with him, and when she wouldn't, had declared, "You're twenty-nine; you can't possibly be a virgin, so what's our hangup?"
"You didn't say anything when I said that," Brett pointed out, "but you were, weren't you?"
He heard her gentle, rippling laughter. "If anyone's in a position to know . . ."
"Okay, okay." She sensed him smiling, then he turned sideways so that their faces were together once again. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Oh, I don't know. It isn't the sort of thing you talk about. Anyway, was it important, really?"
"It's important to me."
There was a silence, then Barbara said, "If you must know, it was important to me, too. You see, I always wanted the first time to be with someone I truly loved." She reached out, her fingers moving lightly down his face. "In the end, it was."
Brett's arms went around her, once more their bodies pressed together as he whispered, "I love you, too."
He had an awareness of savoring one of life's rare and precious moments.
He had still not told Barbara of his own decision, made in Los Angeles, or spoken of his future plans. Brett knew that if he did, they would talk until morning, and talk was not what he wanted most tonight.
Then urgent desire, reciprocated, wiped out all other thoughts.
Afterward, again lying quietly, contentedly, beside each other, Barbara said, "If you like, I'll tell you something."
"Go ahead."
She sighed. "If I'd known it was as wonderful as this, I wouldn't have waited so long."