Who’s to Blame?
Who’s to Blame?
The air in the conference room is thick. No one says anything at first as they all process the news. Ruth is gripping her coffee mug as if with an aim to shatter it. Elliot sits, his face grimacing. Rosenberg’s pallor has gone ashen. This is all a result of Patsy presenting them with Mattel’s quarterly financial statement from their accounting firm, Arthur Andersen.
Rosenberg’s the one who prepared the statement, which the outside auditors reviewed prior to making huge adjustments. So, long before this meeting, he knew what was coming. He knew that statement would show a loss of $30 million after taxes.
“Well, this is unfortunate,” says Ethan Clark, their new head of investor relations. He looks again at the statement.
Ruth is sick inside. She’s been expecting a loss, but nothing even close to this. Since going public, she and Elliot have taken modest salaries, knowing that the bulk of their wealth is in the value of their stock. But a massive loss like this changes everything. They own a chunk of that $30 million hit, and in an ironic twist, Jack is now making more money than they are because his earnings are based on revenues rather than profits.
“We’ll blame it on the dockworkers’ strike,” says Rosenberg, his hands thrown to his sides, as if that clears them of any responsibility.
“If you don’t mind,” says Ethan, gently rebuffing Rosenberg, “I’m less interested in looking for someone to blame than I am in finding ways to reassure our investors.” Ethan Clark is an eloquent man, thoughtful and fair. “With no resolution on the horizon with the strike, we need to brace ourselves for another disappointing Christmas season.” This is the cherry on a melted sundae.
When the meeting adjourns, Ruth is drained and feeling that this nightmare is partly her fault. The warehouse fire, the dockworkers’ strike—those are all circumstances beyond her control, and intellectually she knows this, but she still feels responsible. If she hadn’t gotten cancer, she would have been more on top of things. She wouldn’t have relegated her workload to Rosenberg. Not that it would have necessarily changed the outcome.
She’s trying to reconcile all this as she steps out of the conference room and immediately senses that something’s off. It takes a moment before she realizes what it is. It’s quiet. There’s no marching music. Someone must have turned it off. Ruth looks down the hallway. People are huddled in clusters, murmuring; some are crying. Could this possibly be about our financial loss? How would they even know about it?
Her secretary rushes over to her. Her eyes are red. She’s been crying, too.
“What’s going on?” Ruth asks. “Is everything okay?”
“It’s Ginger,” her secretary says. “She didn’t come into work today. And she didn’t call in sick. We tried calling her all morning but she wasn’t answering her phone. Finally, Jack went to check on her and”—a ripple of tears slides down her face—“he found her. In her bed. They said it was a heart attack. My God, she was only thirty-six years old and she had a heart attack. She’s gone. Ginger’s dead.”
—
The funeral is a horrible and haunting scene. It’s an appropriately overcast day, bearing the threat of a downpour at any moment. A minor crowd has amassed at Ginger’s gravesite. Her family is clustered together, the mother barely able to stand without the help of her sons on either side of her. The father, whom Ginger was sure never really loved her, can’t see his daughter’s casket through the blur of his tears.
Ruth and Elliot are there, along with all of Mattel. They have closed the office for the day. It’s the first time in ages that everyone has put aside their differences. Ruth and Jack even embrace, both sobbing into each other’s shoulders. Ginger has been with them for sixteen years, since 1955, when Jack started. There is a shared but fleeting thought that Ginger’s passing will be the bridge that connects everyone back together. But after the service, everyone goes their own way and old grievances resurface.
“Jack killed that poor girl,” says Ruth when she and Elliot are in his Rolls-Royce, heading back to Mattel. Despite closing the office, the two of them can’t afford to take the day off, not with everything else that’s going on.
“That’s not fair, Ruthie. You can’t blame Jack.”
“Oh, no? Who gave her those diet pills? He saw how thin she was getting. Did he do anything to stop her? To help her?” She’s spouting off about this but all the while she’s wondering if she’s also to blame—even if just a little—for creating Barbie in the first place. What if there are others out there like Ginger, starving themselves to death, measuring themselves against a plastic figurine?
In another car, heading toward the Bel Air Castle, Stevie is driving Jack’s Mercedes, listening to him complain about Ruth and Rosenberg. Jack’s too upset to drive, and frankly, he’s taken too many Valiums.
It was Simon who told her to drive him home, saying, “He needs you now. Go take care of him.” Simon understands her relationship with Jack as best he can. He knows there’s nothing to be jealous of; the guy’s a mess. But Stevie’s loyal to Jack, and sometimes Simon worries that she thinks she can change him, protect him, save him from himself.
“I bet Ruth’s calculating how much it’s going to cost her to shut down the office today,” says Jack. “All she cares about is money. She’s a greedy bitch.”
“And you’re a greedy bastard.”
“Mattel’s taken all my money.”
“You’re still plenty rich,” Stevie says.
“My lawyer thinks I should sue them.”
“Oh God, Jack, don’t start with that again.”
He half laughs, half cries. “I’ll open my own damn company. I can engineer circles around Barcus…”
She’s heard this all before. She can’t listen anymore and snaps on the radio.
“And,” he says, turning it off, “did you see the way Rosenberg was trying to comfort all the girls, trying to cop free feels…” Jack starts to sob all over again. “Poor Ginger. I told her to lay off those pills. I told her she was getting too thin. Didn’t I? Didn’t I tell her all that?”
When they get back to the Castle, Jack pours himself a drink, which is about the last thing he needs. He’s been drinking for days on end, trying to drown his pain, but it’s not working. He’s crying again and wants her to hold him, which she does. And what begins as her trying to soothe him turns into something else altogether. He kisses her, first on the neck and then the lips.
“Jack, no.” She pulls back.
“Yes.” He leans in to kiss her again. He wants to feel something other than pain. He wants to lose himself in her body.
“No. I mean it. Stop it,” she says, pushing him away and standing up.
He breaks down into convulsive sobs, mumbling something she can’t decipher.
She looks at him, at his tearstained eyes pleading, and a horrible feeling overcomes her. She’s scared. Not for herself, but for him. He’s rocking back and forth, tugging on his hair; a thread of spittle is gathering in the corner of his mouth. She hardly recognizes him. This is more than just the booze and the pills. There’s something else seriously wrong with him. That’s when she calls for the UCLA boys.
It takes them nearly an hour to calm him down—or, more accurately, for him to wear himself out—so they can get him into bed. More than anything, Stevie wants to run. She wants to unsee the whole thing, but she can’t turn away. And so she stays with her friend until he finally, thankfully, falls asleep.