Excerpt From Jo Grant Munro’s Journal
Thursday, August 1st, 1963.
I’m five months pregnant and feeling totally unprepared. I don’t have nieces and nephews because Tommy died before he could marry. And with Mom dead, and Spencer’s Mom too, I don’t have an older woman I can ask for advice.
I don’t say much to Alan about it, because he’s got enough to put up with. Carl’s tormenting Vincent now, having figured out where Bob got corroboration for Alan’s side of the story, and that makes it even harder for Alan to tolerate Carl.
I saw Spencer’s dad at church last week, and I wanted to talk to him about Equine, because Booker’s got years of experience with interoffice politics, first at John Deere and now in his own horse van business. It hasn’t been much more than a year, though, since he lost Alice, and you can see something’s missing. Booker’s quieter, and way too thin. And when he doesn’t know you’re watching, he settles into an internalized sort of stare that makes me wonder if there’s something someone ought to be doing to help him more than we are.
He’s still riding Buster, and I hope that helps him the way riding Sam helped me after Tommy was killed. Being on a horse with great gaits who’s the soul of equine comportment is the best way for me to loosen up my body and soften my view of the world. I’ve had to stop now, for obvious reasons, but brushing Sam, and talking to him, and watching him in the fields smooths away the interior wrinkles the world lays down every day.
And of course, horses being as delicate as they are despite their size, Sam developed a nasty abscess in his hoof a month ago, and he’s put up with daily soakings and packings and occasional cuttings with character and kindness and the common sense of a gentleman, and he’s made me evaluate my own reactions to the vicissitudes of life.
There’s some progress restoring White Hall, but making practical and artistic decisions with a committee of volunteers with no professional experience is enough to make me shoot somebody.
Toss is doing most of the work with the broodmares and babies, and with the part-time guy he’s hired, I don’t have to do much on the farm, so Emmy and I do everything together with her boxerish dewlaps flapping. She is so coordinated it’s amazing to watch her leap and jump and twist in midair.
I dreamt last night about England and Scotland. I still can’t believe we got there on our honeymoon. Seeing the landscape, and the cottages, not to mention the great houses and the castles, has influenced my work a lot.
Saturday, August 3rd, 1963
Art Lawrence moved the wooden chairs closer to his desk, then looked at his watch, and dropped into his swivel chair. He opened his center drawer, and the top right too, for at least the third time, then left them partially open. He laid a ballpoint pen on the legal pad he’d already set on his desk blotter, and adjusted his red plaid tie. He sipped his coffee and stared at the door, then consulted his watch again, and walked to the window that overlooked the drive.
When he saw a turquoise-and-white Chevy sedan with U.S. plates, he reached quickly into both drawers, then turned a switch on the gray metal Dictaphone that sat on top of his desk, and rushed out into the hall to open the front door.
He stood straight and still as he waited, shorter than average, and military looking, probably in his early fifties, his shoulders back, his reddish blond hair brushed till it gleamed, his shoes polished, his navy blazer, well cut and pressed. He opened the door for the two Americans and said, “Carl. Butch. Thank you for driving all this way.”
Carl Seeger smiled before he said, “Thanks for meeting us on a Saturday.”
Art asked how customs had been in Detroit, as he led them down the hall, and Carl answered while Butch looked uncomfortable and pulled at the sleeves of his sport coat as though he’d been imprisoned in it and wanted to rip it off.
“Would you like coffee, or tea?”
Carl and Butch both said coffee, and Art filled two mugs from the percolator in the corner of his office.
Carl and Art compared and contrasted the large animal vet markets in the U.S. and Canada, while Art brought out sugar and creamer—both of them deliberately talking around what had brought them together, controlling the pacing, sizing up the other, each planning their final approaches, depending on how the conversation developed.
Art, because he was a born salesman with a gift for getting to know people and steering conversations to the kind of connections that helped him close deals. Carl, because he’d learned as a kid, working as a soda jerk, that customers who feel admired leave the biggest tips.
Butch, who looked twenty years younger than the other two, licked his lips and sipped his coffee as though he were having second thoughts about sitting there at all.
“So, Carl.” Art took a sip of coffee and set his cup in its saucer. “Shall we discuss the subject you broached on the phone? I’m not saying I’m interested, but I am willing to listen.”
Carl lit a Lucky with a dented Zippo, and reached for the ashtray on Art’s desk. “Yeah, sure, as I said then, the new equine fungicidal shampoos and ointments Equine Pharmaceuticals has brought out this year are selling like hotcakes.”
“I know they’ve sold tremendously well here. Canadian winters are so cold our horses’ coats grow in terribly long and thick, and fungal-type skin infections can be extremely severe. Your products are the only ones that help control the problem.”
“Nothing else on the market can touch Equine’s line, and I did the formulations.”
“I thought Alan introduced the active ingredient when he came to Equine, and did the development as well.”
“He brought the active ingredient. He had a relationship with the manufacturer already, and he made an exclusive equine market agreement with them for Equine in the U.S. But I did the formulating.”
Butch looked at Carl as though that had come as a surprise, but he wasn’t going to disagree in public.
“I will say the anti-fungal products have made handling the Equine line even more attractive. I represent Pfizer too, of course, when they don’t compete with Bob. His vaccine and antibiotic offering is narrower than theirs.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it is.”
“So …”
“So what we’re proposing, Art—Butch and me—is that we take advantage of the opportunity we see to use the formulas I’ve developed, and the production methods Butch has perfected, and set up our own business here in Toronto. I know your brother has a blending operation, and we’re proposing to pass on seventy percent of the gross sales here in Canada to you and your brother if you manufacture and sell in Canada. Butch would set up the manufacturing and packaging methods and provide ongoing technical support. I’d provide the formulas and application support, after I work out an exclusive with the fungicide manufacturer for the Canadian equine market. I’d try to get an exclusive for the equine industry in Europe too, because manufacturing here and shipping out the St. Lawrence Seaway offers another substantial market with no one in competition with anything like the performance we can provide.”
“So this would include the formulas for the fungal preventative shampoo, the fungal treatment shampoo, and the topical ointments and powders that Equine Pharmaceuticals makes now?”
“Exactly.” Carl stubbed his Lucky out in the metal ashtray and finished the last of his coffee, then blotted his mustache with a paper napkin, and watched Art with a satisfied smile on his soft pale face.
Art didn’t say anything for a minute. He watched Carl watch him while he played with his ballpoint pen. “I take it you don’t see any legal difficulties? I wouldn’t want to open myself up to any sort of litigation.”
“No, the attorney I’ve consulted sees no problem whatever. Both of our noncompete agreements with Bob Harrison apply exclusively to the United States. I developed those products, and I have a legitimate right to profit from my own work over and above the paycheck I get for directing the lab. Butch here, he figures out how to get these products made, and he ought to benefit too.” Carl lit another Lucky and shrugged at his own common sense, his cool hazel eyes, under graying sandy hair, watching Art with a look that seemed to say, I understand you. You’re a man like me. The two of us can do business.
“And you came to me as the logical person to partner with you in Canada?”
“You’re a very successful independent veterinary supply and pharmaceutical distributor. You know the market extremely well. You represent large prestigious suppliers, and you and I have known each other since I joined Equine Pharmaceuticals. Your brother has a chemical blending business, and you’re a sharp guy. I thought you’d be interested.”
“I’ll have to think about it. I’ve known Bob Harrison a long time, and he’s always treated me well.”
“He treats himself even better, trust me.”
Art asked, “What about you, Butch? You haven’t said anything.”
Butch set his mug on Art’s desk and slid a finger inside his shirt collar, before he looked at Art. “Well, I reckon we’ve got a right to benefit from the work we’ve done. I’ve always liked Bob, but things are different now. Alan Munro, he’s changin’ everything. The fun’s goin’ out of it, and I don’t know how long I can hang on.”
“So this would give you an income if you chose to leave?”
“That’s the way I see it.” Butch looked down at Art’s desk with his hands set solidly on his knees.
“Well, you’ve given me a lot to think about. Percentages would have to be reconsidered, based on setup and production cost estimates. I’ll have to discuss it with my brother, of course. Then I’ll call you, Carl, at your home number.”
Carl said, “Good. I look forward to us doing business together.”
After Art had walked them to Carl’s car, he sprinted back to his office and pushed a switch on his Dictaphone, then pulled out two small six-by-eight battery operated reel-to-reel tape recorders from the open drawers in his desk. He pushed the off buttons, inserted the power cords, plugged them into a wall outlet, rewound both, and listened for several seconds. Then he shut them off and placed a person-to-person call to Bob Harrison in Kentucky.
“I got it, Bob. Two tape recorders and a Dictaphone! I’ll make copies this afternoon and drive down with them tomorrow. … You don’t need to thank me. What you did for me when I was starting up makes this an absolute pleasure. Those two deserve to be throttled! … “I agree, yes, Carl’s the motivating force. Butch looks profoundly uneasy, but he’s still willing to go along with something he knows is wrong. … Yes, indeed. Tomorrow, late afternoon. … Thank you. I will spend the night, if you’re sure I won’t be imposing on Rachel.”
Tuesday, August 6th, 1963
Booker Franklin had left his office at Blue Grass Horse Vans just before six, and ridden his horse, Buster, at his son Spencer’s farm. He’d hosed Buster off, and put grain in his feed bucket, then turned him out in that paddock, and started home with a very hard knot lodged deep in his chest.
As he drove the winding, hazy, soft green hills, past farm after farm of grazing horses, past corn and tobacco and beef cattle too, on his way north from south of Versailles toward his house up in Midway, he thought back to a night when he was young, to the night of an Iowa blizzard, when his daughter Martha had been born.
She’d been so cute. So quick and determined and clever. And she’d been very good, right from the start, at batting her eyelashes and smiling at her daddy till he’d wanted to hug her and give in, even when he’d known better and forced himself to resist.
He hadn’t loved her any more than the boys, but he’d tended by nature to be harder on them to help them grow up to be men. He’d found himself wanting to protect Martha from every ill in the outside world, when Alice, her mother, had known better, and had told him what he’d needed to hear when he’d needed to hear it.
Now he found himself in an unlooked for situation, in conflict with Martha that should’ve been avoided, and the time had come to take a stand before the rift got harder to repair.
He’d been very willing for Martha and her son and daughter to move in with him after her divorce from Hal, when they’d cut her job at the Gibbes Museum in Charleston. The cost of living in Lexington was much less, and moving back made economic sense.
He’d understood that the move home was temporary, but Martha had made no attempt to find a house, and she and the kids had been with him six weeks, and the turmoil was wearing him down. He was accustomed to living alone. Now. Since Alice had been killed. And he needed peace and quiet.
He had to have time to concentrate on what he was trying to accomplish at work, and how to do it without Alice. He still wasn’t used to living without her, and it eased the loss and the sense of displacement when he could think about their years together quietly on his own. How they’d courted. And raised the children in Iowa. And what it’d been like to risk everything they’d hoped to have to move back to Lexington and start Blue Grass Horse Vans together.
He had to make plans for the future too, now, with what he was facing, without the quarreling and interruptions from a nine year old and a seven year old, and all their comings and goings. He felt like a squatter in his own home. And he didn’t have the energy to live like that much longer.
He’d taken his boots off on the back porch, and washed his hands in the kitchen sink, and he was walking barefoot across the heart pine floor when he heard Martha call him from the dining room next door.
Booker stood in the kitchen doorway and watched her measuring and making notes, as she talked about converting the dining room to a playroom when she rearranged the downstairs.
Booker made himself wait before he spoke in a carefully quiet voice. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, honey. And there’re a couple of other matters too I reckon we need to discuss.”
“What?” She was making a note on a notepad, bending over Alice’s grandmother’s long walnut table, and she didn’t stop as she spoke.
“I was wonderin’ if you’ve given any thought to getting a job at the art museum at the University of Kentucky. Being a curator’s what you love, though the art department would suit you too, if you—”
“No, I can’t say I have.”
“I’ve also been meaning to tell you I’ve got a very good friend in real estate here, and he and I can help you look for a house to rent. There’re lots of places in town, and out—in Lexington, or here in Woodford, County—that might suit you real well.”
Martha looked surprised, and maybe half-amused, when she glanced at him over her shoulder as she said she thought she’d live with him, and was thinking of working at Blue Grass Horse Vans, once she and the kids got settled. “My furniture’s coming next week, and I’ll have to find a place to put it into storage temporarily, till I have a chance to rethink the house. After that I’ll be ready to start. Maybe I could store it at Blue Grass, somewhere back in the plant?”
That was not what Booker had expected to hear, and he paused a second and swallowed. “You don’t have any business experience. You don’t. Not one minute anywhere. You have no interest in horses whatsoever. Why would you want to work for a horse van and trailer manufacturer?”
“I thought I could just work part-time, and set my own schedule around the children’s school. You know I can’t afford a nanny the way I could in Charleston before the divorce.” Martha didn’t look at Booker while she talked. She measured the outside wall in the dining room, then made a note on her scratchpad. She set one hand on a broad hip, her back turned to Booker, and considered the archway into the living room as though she didn’t approve.
Booker said, “That’s not the way it works, honey. The family has to set the example. We have to work harder than anyone else, and be the most professional. You don’t have any kind of background or experience, and it would not be viewed well by the people who’ve been there a long time and are really dedicated and good at what they do.”
Martha turned around and looked at Booker for the first time, her blue eyes steely, her pointed chin set. “Mom didn’t have any experience either, and she became the personnel director and did all the public relations.”
“She started the business with me. She didn’t do the engineering, and the trailer and van design I did, like Spencer does with me now, but she was the only other employee when we started out. She did all the accounting and the orders. She learned every bit of it from the ground up, just the way I had to. We worked with every lawyer and accountant together. We negotiated with the banks together. She developed and administered the office procedures much better than I do. And it’s way bigger than that now, and much more complicated. When we had enough employees that there was such a thing as personnel, she took courses, and read a great deal, and worked with experts in the field to develop the way she needed to.”
“I thought you’d want me in the company, taking Mom’s place!”
“I’m sorry, Martha, but it’s not a good idea.” Booker’s arms were crossed across what there was of his stomach as he leaned against the kitchen doorway, and smiled a sad gentle looking smile while he said what she didn’t want to hear.
“What you mean is it’s just because I’m a woman! You’ve got Richard and Spencer there, and—”
“That’s not it at all. And having them both in the business has not been without considerable conflict and difficulties, and I don’t intend to make it worse. It’s not because you’re a woman. No. It’s what I’ve already said. Your talents are in museum work. You could teach about being a curator as well as doing it, and that’s what you love. There’s the library at Keeneland Racecourse too, and their archives are exceptional, with paintings and drawings as well as the documents, and they’re talking about building a new facility that will—”
“The UK museum is very small, and it wouldn’t pay much even if they hired me, and at Keeneland—”
“You get dividends on the stock we’ve given you. I know they’re not large, but it’s something, and Hal’s paying reasonable support. It’s a lot cheaper to rent a house here than it would be in Charleston.”
“I thought I could come home and get—”
“Taken care of? A place to live for free, and a job because you’re my daughter, that you wouldn’t have to work at very hard? I’m sorry to be so blunt, Martha, but that’s not fair. I need to be alone here too. Mom and I raised three children. I don’t have the energy to do it again, not when you’re healthy and can care for them on your own. I love Jenny and Matt, but I have to have time alone. I’m still missin’ your Mama, and I need to think and plan in quiet. I’ve also been having some trouble myself, though I haven’t—”
“I never thought I’d be rejected by Hal and you too!” Martha burst into tears and ran out of the room, her thick curly bourbon-colored hair swinging around her shoulders the way it had when she was twelve, passing her son and daughter who’d come in quietly from the back hall in time to hear her yell.
Wednesday, August 7th, 1963
It was almost seven the following night when Booker came through the kitchen door saying, “Martha? Where are you, honey?” without getting an answer.
He threw his keys on the long maple table that’d come from his daddy’s farm, and found two notes addressed to him waiting on the end near the sink.
Mary Treeter’s note said she’d cleaned the upstairs and done the ironing and left him tuna-fish salad and green beans with bacon in covered dishes in the ice box, and that some fella named Ridgeway Peters wanted Booker to call him at home as soon as he got in.
The other note was from Martha. “I’ve taken your grandchildren out to dinner so we don’t intrude on your solitude.”
Booker sighed, and walked down the hall that was open on the left the whole length of the gallery, then turned right into the front hall and stepped into Alice’s office. It was his now, but largely unchanged. And he sank down into Alice’s black leather swivel chair and phoned the lawyer they’d both trusted enough to put on their board of directors.
Booker heard what he’d hoped to hear—the new will and supplemental document were ready to sign, and Ridge would bring them to Booker first thing in the morning before they both went to work.
Booker thanked him, and listened to Ridgeway talk about the summer sales at Keeneland, and the two year old he’d bought. Then he hung up, and showered, and dished up his dinner from the fridge.
He ate it on the terrace in back, outside the gallery where Alice had painted her landscapes the three or four weeks she took each year away from her everyday work. He looked at the boxwoods they’d planted together the year they’d moved in. And he watched the birds swirling around him, on the feeders, sometimes, that he kept out year round, and in and out of the redbud trees too, that he and Alice had loved, and the woods beyond that screened his view, that belonged to the farm behind him.
He hadn’t eaten much, but he still felt full and uncomfortable. And he told himself it was time to tell Spencer what he knew he was facing. He’d talked to him about the will at least, and he thought that had gone fairly well. He’d said he truly believed he loved all of them equally, and he wanted them all to benefit identically. But his main obligation, in terms of the business, was to make sure his responsibilities to everyone who worked there were lived up to as best he could.
He’d told Spencer that he knew Richard and Martha would be irritated with Spencer for what he’d done himself. But if anyone could make them see the wisdom of the decisions he’d made, it would be Spencer. And at least Spencer’d be able to do what was best for everyone who worked for Blue Grass Horse Vans as time went on.
He’d seen that Spencer had felt uncomfortable, not wanting to talk about planning for Booker’s death, though all he’d said was he knew it was something Booker had to prepare for, but that he had years left, that his whole family lived to see ninety.
A hummingbird settled on the sugar-water feeder five feet away, and Booker held his breath and watched the light flash on the green-and-turquoise feathers on a bird smaller than his thumb. Even so, he didn’t watch as intently as usual. His mind was on his family and truths he couldn’t change.
He told himself he shouldn’t be surprised. It’s one of the mysteries of life, the way genes come out so differently. The shape of the head skippin’ a generation. Or the arches in someone’s feet goin’ to one, but not another. Or seeing things the same way someone else does, so you can talk to your uncle, but not to your own daddy. Or to one of your kids, and nobody else, not in the whole family.
Maybe if I get up and walk for awhile, I’ll start to feel some better.
Booker stepped out his front door, heading straight east down his long drive toward Midway’s main street. It was cooler after the shower that had come before he ate, and the lawn and the oaks lining the driveway, and the hydrangea bushes with their huge dark leaves tucked in the shade of the oak trees, looked less dusty and greener now than when he’d driven in.
He waved to old Miss Anna Eldrige, tending her azaleas across the street in her tiny front garden, and he told himself to sit on her porch and chat on his way home. He hadn’t talked to Miss Anna since Martha’d moved in, and it was time he made the effort. There weren’t too many left who knew her, and most of those couldn’t get out on their own anymore, and had to wait for someone from church to drive them over for a visit.
Booker turned left toward the center of town, walking under the old trees on the west side of Main. They made him feel sheltered and calmer, though he couldn’t have said why. Maybe the laciness, and the filtered evening light that dappled the cracked old stones in the sidewalk, and the soft green in the yards. It reminded him of walks with his grandmother, and with Alice too, through Midway, out past the horse farms on the south side, talking about their day at work, and how their horses were doing, and who was going to water the garden when they got home.
He was thinking he’d get him a pack of spearmint gum down in the center of town, as he walked past the Midway College president’s house, all white-washed brick and pristine gardens as neat and tidy as Robert from the college had kept them for forty years.
Booker stayed on the west side of the next block too, and then crossed over to the east, where he stopped and stared in the window of Lehman’s Antiques at an oval mahogany dining room table he knew nothing whatever about, except that it was a work of art that few could’ve made in his day.
He was feeling worse rather than better, even though he’d walked slowly and the evening had sunk into shade. Perspiration was running down his chest now, and nausea was sweeping through him. His left arm too had begun to ache, even before he reached inside the breast pocket of his shirt, and pulled out the small cardboard box that held his nitroglycerin. He’d taken two out, and was trying to get them under his tongue when a pain in his chest like a vise around his ribs knocked his knees out from under him, and threw him down onto the stone step in front of Lehman’s door.
Mertie Mae Trasker was on the west side of Main, just across from Booker Franklin, coming up the hill from the railroad tracks, walking her collie after dinner, and she hollered out to poor Mr. Booker and hurried across the street.
He was dead when she got there, when she knelt down beside him. That’s what she figured, but she chaffed his wrists anyway, repeating his name the whole time. The old tan-and-white collie was sniffing Booker’s shoes when Mertie Mae tugged hard on her leash, and started trotting east toward home to call the county sheriff.