15

A buzzer sounded through the factory every working day at five o’clock. It was a bronze bray that cut through the rumble and hiss of equipment. There was a mix of people in the factory, men and women, people from faraway countries working alongside people who had lived in East Oakland all their lives. The closing buzzer changed the feeling in the air, and most sections of the factory fell silent, making the voices speaking Spanish and Cantonese suddenly sound loud.

The doors to the outside were wooden sections that slid sideways on rollers. I slipped out the shipping room door and ran along the outside of the factory as a shortcut. I was heading against the flow of workers at the front entrance. Most of them must have heard about my sister. The cries of “How’s it going, Cray” and “Take care, Cray” sounded quieter than usual, concerned.

I knew that my father would be there in the office, ordering paint or shop gloves, or meeting with the fire inspector. Dad would be there, and everything would be all right.

Jesse was there in Dad’s place, his arms folded, nodding in agreement with a man in a dark zipper jacket and a clipboard.

“This is Cray Buchanan,” said Jesse. He said Cray with special emphasis, giving the message that I was the owner’s son without coming out and saying it. I caught the glint of a badge on the front of the zipper jacket, FIRE MARSHAL. I was suddenly tense. I had expected an ordinary inspector, someone with a list to check off. This man had the look of someone who could arrest us if he didn’t like our answers.

I shook the marshal’s hand, and I could sense his hesitation, wondering how seriously to talk to someone my age. “I’ll report to my dad,” I said. “Anything you have to say.” But I didn’t sound like a kid needing his father’s backup. I sounded like someone who could think for himself, someone this man could talk to.

“I cleaned out all the ducts,” said Jesse. “I had a crew on the roof all day, clearing all the sawdust. And fixing the hole the fire department chopped into the hopper.” Jesse smiled. “So everything’s okay.”

Jesse was doing just a little bit of a selling job. Everything was okay, probably, but it was important that the inspector think so, too. The marshal had a mustache with a few glints of gray, and narrow eyes. The eyes took in Jesse and switched over to me. It was impossible to tell what the man was thinking. He had one of those perfect faces for making people nervous—lean, showing little emotion.

“Let’s go up on the roof,” I suggested.

I was surprised when the fire marshal said simply, “I believe you.” He patted his clipboard against his pant leg. “You don’t want this place to burn down any more than I do.”

“But you ought to go up and make sure,” I protested. “Some of those sawdust fires start up again.”

The fire marshal smiled a small, tough smile, one wrinkle in his cheek. He shook his head. “I’ll schedule another inspection in about three, four months.” We were due to have our fire extinguishers inspected then anyway, so he was basically telling us that nothing special was going to happen. It was like passing a test too easily. I wanted to argue with him, but I felt Jesse’s big hand on my arm.

“Drop by any time you want,” I said, sounding just as fake and easygoing as any grown man talking to an official who could shut down the factory and put it out of business. I had heard Dad sounding like this, as though his favorite moments were when the fire department came by to make sure the Dumpsters were emptied once a week.

“You employ how many people here—one hundred and ten, one hundred and twenty,” said the marshal. He wasn’t asking as much as thinking out loud.

“A little more,” said Jesse.

“So if this place shuts down, it takes a big bite out of the economy,” said the marshal.

I did something else I had seen experienced men do, and I felt completely phony doing it. I pointed my finger at him, with my thumb up, a silent way of saying “You’re right.”

The truth is that these little phony gestures and phrases work. You say them and people respond. The marshal gave me his card, the second card I had taken that day.

When the marshal was gone, I walked with Jesse out into the cabinet room. The place was silent, just one worker pushing a broom around, making a small pile of bent staples. The staples made a faint, tinkling noise along the concrete floor.

I had heard about factory owners paying bribes. Dad wouldn’t do it, and Jesse wouldn’t—at least, as far as I knew. But I suddenly wasn’t so sure.

“I think he must have heard about your sister,” said Jesse. “Decided to take it easy.”

“He still should have gone up the ladder and made sure everything was safe,” I said.

“He was giving us a break,” said Jesse.

“What kind of a world is this?” I asked, too loudly. “People just go through the motions.”

“You want me to run up the street and grab him?” said Jesse. “Tell him to come on back, we want to take him up on the roof whether he wants to take a look or not? I bet the two of us could drag him up there without much trouble.” He was joking, but there was an edge to his voice.

The shipping room was the only department working overtime. The sound of a truck reached us, backing up to the shipping room door. Another shipment of nightstands would be in Southern California by midnight.

“I just think everyone needs to be more careful,” I said. “Everyone has to do their job exactly right.” My voice had taken on a thick, heavy sound, the way it does when I am saying one thing and meaning something else.

I could have called home from the office, sitting at my dad’s desk. I thought about it, looking down at the clutter of business cards and memos all over my dad’s work space. My dad had a collection of paperweights, rocks Anita had found on the beach. He needed them. His desk top was like his life, dozens of things to get done. One of the rocks had a barnacle on it, a chalk-white miniature volcano.

I actually had my hand on the telephone but I couldn’t bring myself to use it.

“You be careful now,” said Barbara as I left the office. She was one of those people who like to add an extra word or two to what they say, not “Good night,” but “Good night now.”

I turned to give her a wave, and the look she gave me made me stop. I pushed my way back through the swinging half-door at the counter. I could not keep myself from thinking: She knows something.

She knows something, and she doesn’t want to tell me.

“No, hon, I haven’t heard anything,” she said, reading the question in my eyes.

She didn’t seem to have a life outside the billing department. A row of framed pictures was on display on her desk, and I realized I had never really paid much attention to them. Children, I guessed. The two elderly people must be her parents. She got to work before anyone in the morning and worked long after the rest of us had gone, recording payments, billing furniture stores, sitting there gazing at numbers on the computer screen, pushing the delete button.

“Did Jesse really have a crew on the roof today?” I asked. I was stalling. I didn’t want to go home. I knew what was happening, and as long as I stayed away I could pretend I wasn’t a part of it.

Sometimes I walk down a street and I am surprised how easy it is to make a telephone call. Telephones are everywhere. The phone companies must think we can’t go three minutes without talking to someone. You can carry a phone in your pocket just in case you need to hear a voice. There was a pay phone by the bus stop, a large metal frame shaped like a telephone receiver. But I didn’t use it. The longer I went without knowing, the more time there would be for something to happen.

I didn’t even let myself think her name. I didn’t even let myself picture her face clearly in my mind, I thought of it with deliberate vagueness—by the time I get home, there will be good news.