The Spiked Heel

“Griff! Now you put—”

“I want to hold you.”

She smiled contentedly. “All right. The hell with your hand. Oh, Griff, I didn’t mean that! I meant—”

“I know what you meant.”

He kissed her again, a long, tender kiss.

“Griff, are you worried about your job?”

“A little.”

“Will it mean much to you, if you’re fired?”

“I like the job, Marge. It’s part of me.”

“I know.”

“You’re a part of me, too. You’ve already become a part of me. I can sit here and talk to you about the job, and I feel as if somebody else in the world cares, do you know? As if I’m not alone any more. It’s a good feeling, Marge.”

“Oh, why did we waste so much time, why, why?”

“Things have to grow, Marge. It’s better this way. Now I’ve got you, and…”

“And I’ve got you, and just let anyone—” She sat up abruptly. She pursed her lips together. “What’s between you and Cara?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

“You have green eyes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course. They’re the greenest green I’ve ever—”

“About Cara, I mean.”

“Nothing.”

“Did you ever take her out?”

“Once.”

“And you never asked me! I could hate you, Griff, only I love you so much.”

“We’ve got a lot of time, Marge,” he said softly.

“I know. I feel secure, Griff. I feel so safe in your arms.”

“You’re nice to hold.”

“I love you,” she said. She pecked his cheek. “I love you.” She pecked the tip of his nose. “I love you.”

“You know,” he said, “your message is beginning to reach me.”

She burst out laughing, and then she hugged herself to him, smiling happily, holding him very close and thinking, “I love you, I love you,” but not saying it again, saying it only in her heart, saying it only where it really counted.

12

Titanic is for the workers, McQuade had said (hastily adding, Ah, but only if the workers are for Titanic). And to add conviction to his statement, to show that Titanic meant what it said, he had promised the workers a raise, and he had promised them there would be no further firings in the factory.

He had given them the raise, and the workers were delighted with it. But there were still people who cocked an anxious ear toward the foreman’s cage whenever the telephone rang, people who were certain more heads would roll, people who were just waiting for Titanic to back down on its word.

McQuade undoubtedly knew of these people. He also knew that Raymond Griffin was not a mere file clerk whose disappearance would go unnoticed. The factory knew Raymond Griffin and, worse, the factory liked him. If Raymond Griffin were fired, the factory would damn well learn about it, and what would happen was anyone’s guess. And despite anything McQuade had said about moving the plant to Georgia or closing it down completely, there was a goodly chunk of cold cash invested in Julien Kahn, Inc., and — as John Grant had so ably pointed out — nobody, not even Titanic, buys factories to close them down. The Kahn factory was a closed shop and whereas Griff, as a part of Management, was not a union member, McQuade had heard of protest strikes, and the firing of Griffin might very well provoke something of that sort, especially after Titanic’s promises. Titanic was for the workers, but only if the workers were for Titanic, and McQuade — no matter how you sliced it — worked for Titanic. A protest strike would not look very good down South. A protest strike might, in fact, look pretty damn crumby. But there still remained this rusty, protesting cog named Raymond Griffin in an otherwise well-oiled machine.

McQuade was a good mechanic, and a handy man with an oil can.

Griff, absorbed in the hundreds of orders that began pouring in after Guild Week, absorbed in watching Marge and toasting his heart at the newly found fire of their love, was totally unaware of the commotion that might ensue if he were abruptly fired. He fully expected to be fired on Monday morning. When he was not, he was surprised. He was not surprised to find that McQuade had moved his desk down the hall to Manelli’s office.

Tuesday passed, and then Wednesday, and then Thursday, and Griff’s surprise gave way to a sort of puzzled mystification. Was it possible that McQuade would not wield the ax? Through force of habit, he automatically told himself that maybe McQuade wasn’t such a bad guy after all, maybe he’d figured him all wrong, maybe—

He called an abrupt halt to that line of reasoning. McQuade was a bastard, and more so because he automatically engendered this sympathetic doubt, even when you knew he was a bastard.

On Friday, April 23, Manelli called Griff and asked him to come down to the office a moment, would he? Griff replaced the phone on its cradle and then walked over to Marge.

“Manelli,” he said.

“Did he say anything?”

“Only that he wants to see me.”

A troubled look crossed Marge’s face. She chased the look and tried a weak smile. “Maybe it’s a bonus.”