Chapter 15 - Monday Payroll
The first Hollis payroll hit two weeks after reopening.
At 6:12 Friday morning, I was already awake.
Old habit.
I checked my phone.
Direct deposit.
Then immediately hated myself for checking.
Claire rolled over.
“What?”
“Payroll day.”
“For you?”
“For everybody.”
She opened one eye.
“You don't run payroll.”
“I know.”
“Then sleep.”
I couldn't.
At seven thirty, I reached the plant.
Kevin was already there.
He walked toward me with his phone.
My stomach tightened.
He held up the screen.
“Got paid.”
I exhaled.
He smiled.
“You look more relieved than I do.”
“Probably.”
Maria came through the doors.
“Mine too.”
Within twenty minutes, the shop sounded normal.
Machines.
Forklifts.
Arguments about coffee.
People complaining about overtime.
Hollis required approval before overtime.
I hated the new rule for three days.
Then understood why it existed.
No one got to schedule labor because optimism felt convincing.
Karen had asked me to attend a monthly cash review.
The first time, I nearly laughed.
“I’m operations.”
“Exactly.”
She made production, finance and sales sit in one room.
If we wanted extra Saturday shifts, someone showed where the money came from.
I discovered I disliked knowing.
I also discovered dislike was survivable.
Claire came by at lunch.
She had not worked at Carter.
Never wanted to.
During the collapse, she had become the person who noticed what everyone avoided.
Now she stood in the lobby looking at the new Hollis sign.
“Feels weird.”
“Yes.”
“Bad?”
“Yes.”
“Only bad?”
I thought.
“No.”
She nodded.
We walked outside.
The old sign outline remained visible beneath the new letters.
Dad had not come to see the plant.
Not yet.
He had asked twice.
Both times I said:
“Not this week.”
He had respected it.
That was new.
His legal situation remained unresolved.
The bank matter was under review.
Benefit-remittance issues were being handled through attorneys and regulators.
I stopped asking people to predict whether he would face charges.
No one honest could.
Rachel had taken a controller job at a nonprofit hospital group three months after Carter closed.
Not Hartwell.
She sent me one message before starting:
Apparently I like organizations where patient care is more important than somebody's last name.
I replied:
Low bar.
She sent a laughing emoji.
That was the extent of our relationship.
Mom and Dad were still married.
Some weeks she slept in their house.
Some weeks she stayed with my aunt.
They were not performing recovery for me.
I had finally stopped asking.
That afternoon, Dad called.
I stepped outside.
“Hey.”
“Busy?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
We stood in the awkward silence of a father and son who had once spoken five times a day.
Then he said:
“I drove past.”
I looked toward the road.
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“Why didn't you come in?”
“You said not this week.”
I swallowed.
“Right.”
He asked:
“Looks different?”
“Mostly the sign.”
“And?”
“Finance makes me attend cash meetings.”
Dad laughed once.
“Cruel.”
“Very.”
Then he became quiet.
“I found one of the old signs.”
“What?”
“The small metal Carter logo from the original warehouse.”
I remembered.
Blue enamel.
Granddad had hung it over the first shop door.
Dad continued:
“It was in my basement.”
I waited.
“I almost brought it over.”
My chest tightened.
“And?”
“I didn't.”
“Why?”
“You didn't ask.”
I looked at the new Hollis sign.
For forty years, my father had treated keeping Carter alive as proof that he was protecting everybody.
For most of my life, I had treated his certainty as a form of safety.
Neither of us had fully figured out who we were without it.
I said:
“Keep the sign.”
Dad was quiet.
“You sure?”
“No.”
He laughed softly.
“Good answer.”
We talked for another five minutes.
Not about lawyers.
Not about the bank.
He asked about Claire.
I asked whether Mom was home.
Then we hung up.
At five, I walked the shop before leaving.
One machine was still running.
Kevin was finishing a rush part.
I checked the schedule.
No unapproved overtime.
He saw me.
“Relax. Karen approved it.”
“I wasn't checking.”
“You were absolutely checking.”
I smiled.
Then I went back to my office.
Not Dad's old office.
Hollis had converted that room into a conference space.
Mine was smaller.
I liked it better than I expected.
On my desk sat a framed photo Claire had brought that morning.
Not of Carter.
Not of Dad.
Just Claire and me at a lake two summers earlier.
Behind it was Monday's staffing report.
Forty-six employees.
Paid.
Working.
No family name required.
I shut down my computer.
Outside, warm evening light hit the brick facade.
If you looked carefully, you could still see the outline where CARTER had been.
Maybe rain and sun would erase it eventually.
Maybe the darker brick would remain for years.
May you like
I hadn't decided whether I wanted it gone.
For now, I could walk past it without trying to put the letters back.
