Cancel All Our Vows (2 page)

Chapter One

The early afternoon edition of the Minidoka Herald had a red-bordered box on page one titled WHEW! It stated to the suffering citizenry that this Friday was the hottest June twenty-seventh on record. An exceptionally dry spring had shrunk the Glass River. It curved meagerly under the new Jefferson Boulevard bridge, under the old Town Street span, under the railroad bridge and, four miles south of the city, under futuristic concrete of the new Throughway bypass bridge. It was dwindled in its channel, and on the steep mud-cracked banks bottles glinted, half buried.

The city spread from the riverbanks up the slight slope of two hills, one on either side of the river. The city sizzled in the gentle valley. North of the city the hills steepened. South of the city they finally flattened into a plain. The paper said that the temperature at the airport, five miles to the south, was a hundred and three. The unofficial temperature in the city was a hundred and four, but it felt hotter. The hills seemed to constrict the heat, and prevent any vagrant breeze from reaching the city. With school out, both municipal swimming pools were jammed with children. Their elders—those not tied to a job—sought the air-conditioned theaters and bars.

All talk seemed to be about the weather. The sky was a white misty blaze. All asphalt streets extended into a wet shimmering mirage. The siren sounds of the ambulances were smothered by the humid blanket of heat as they took the heat prostration cases to Municipal Hospital, and to St. Joseph’s on the other side of the river.

At precisely twelve minutes of three the big air-conditioning plant which kept the office building of the Forman Furnace Corporation cool, burned out. For a time the low,
flat-roofed, modern building retained its electrical chill. Outside sprinklers turned slowly, keeping the surrounding landscaping green. By three o’clock, however, when the factory let out, the dainty blouses of the office girls had begun to stick to them.

Marcia Trevin, secretary to Mr. Fletcher Wyant, the treasurer of the Forman Furnace Corporation, sighed and patted her forehead with a damp Kleenex. The door to Mr. Wyant’s office was open. By leaning forward a bit she could look in and see him at his desk. He had taken his coat off and he was working in his shirt sleeves, making out one of his interminable comparative balance sheets, making those tiny and scrupulously neat figures which always seemed to Marcia so very strange when you thought of the bulk of the man who wrote them.

She watched him for a moment or two, watched the expressionless remoteness on his big, strong-featured face, the heavy wrist and hand moving the hard pencil. One lock of the hair, so rank and black that it always made her think of Indians and horses, had fallen across his forehead She would have given her soul for the courage to walk in and smooth it back in place. She was silently convulsed as she imagined the look of pure horror that would spread across the big face. Or maybe it wouldn’t be that way at all. Maybe he would …

She leaned back for a moment and indulged herself in a daydream of six years’ standing. He would take her hands and look right into her eyes with those funny pale grey eyes of his. He would say, “Marcia, my darling, forgive me for being so stupid. Forgive me for not seeing, until now, what has been right in front of my nose for six long years.” And then he would kiss her, of course. That was the way it always happened in the stories. I know I’m too heavy, but my ankles are good, and I know my eyes are pretty.

A drop of perspiration trickled down between her breasts and brought her out of her daydream. The top edge of her girdle was soaked. She was suddenly irritable. It was all right for him to sit in there and play around with the figures, figures that she would eventually have to type in quadruplicate and then cut stencils of. She got up with
determination, plucking her shirt away from herself, and walked into Mr. Wyant’s office. With each step her resolve grew more dim and indeterminate, and finally she stood looking across the desk at him, wondering how in the world she was going to state it.

Fletcher Wyant slowly became aware of someone standing silently on the other side of the desk. He finished his problem in simple subtraction and wrote the new figure on his work sheet before he glanced up.

Miss Trevin stood there, her wide face flushed, her pocked cheeks damp with perspiration. Poor gal. The heat was rough on her. And the flush meant she had something personal to communicate. Seeing the steamy condition of Miss Trevin made Fletcher Wyant conscious again of his own discomfort. He tossed the pencil on top of the half-finished work sheet, and leaned back, stretching, then pulled the shirt sleeves free where they had stuck to his arms.

“They going to get that thing fixed, Miss Trevin?”

“No sir. I got through to Maintenance a little while ago. Everybody has been calling. They have to get a new part or something.”

He got up and went over to the window, opened it and stuck his hands out. “Now it’s about the same inside as out. Might as well leave it open. A breeze
might
come along.”

“Mr. Wyant, sir, I was wondering … I mean the heat being so brutal and all. And Miss Coward is letting the girls go from the stenographic pool … if …”

“You mean you want to go home? God, there’s no objection to that. I just didn’t think of it. And it must be hotter out in that little box of yours than it is in here, even. What’s lined up?”

She couldn’t help a sigh of relief. “Well, the only thing is that call you placed, about the tax refund case, and Mr. Corban dropped in while you were out and said he’d come back later.”

“Cancel that call, then. I want you taking notes when it does come in. Get Mr. Corban on the line for me, and then you can take off.”

“Thanks loads, Mr. Wyant. All I want to do is get home
and get these clothes off before I …” She flushed violently and fled, saying good night in a muted voice as she went through the door.

Fletcher grinned at the empty doorway. Marcia Trevin was good luck in the secretarial department. Quick and smart and loyal. And the greatest of these is loyal. She always let him know who had their knife out. Little spinster, built on the same general lines as a fireplug, and almost embarrassingly adoring. Due for another bump, if Personnel will stand still for it.

The communication box on his desk said, “Mr. Corban on the line, sir. Good night.”

“Thanks. Good night, Miss Trevin. Hello, Ellis?”

“Hi, Fletch. Dropped in about an hour ago but your girl said you were visiting.”

“Fighting, she meant. I was out in the shop. God, what a day!”

“A brute indeed. I suppose Laura called Jane to remind her, but I thought I’d remind you too. You are our guests at the club tonight.”

Fletcher winced, but his voice was affable. “I hadn’t forgotten, Ellis. It’s going to cost you, though. I’m going to drink rum Collins until they come out my ears.”

“Good deal. I’ve got the same general idea. Little anaesthetic against the heat. About six then. We could pick you up.”

“No. That’s too far out of your way, Ellis.”

“No trouble, really.”

“We’ll meet you out there, maybe a little after six.”

“Look for us on the terrace.”

When Fletcher hung up, he leaned back and frowned. Hell of a night to try to be festive in. And Ellis Corban would be a little wearing, even on a comfortable night. But that wasn’t the proper attitude toward a protégé. When the opening had come, in mid-April, Fletcher had brought up Ellis Corban’s name. Stanley Forman had preferred, as usual, that the slot be filled by promoting one of the men already working for Forman Furnace. So Fletcher had to prove that they didn’t have anyone available who could carry the load. He had met Ellis Corban at several meetings at the tax division at the state capitol. Over a couple
of drinks afterward, he had discovered that Ellis wasn’t happy with the firm he was working for. And he had learned, in the meetings, that Ellis Corban had one of the finest financial minds he had ever come across in a man of thirty. Stanley Forman had reluctantly permitted himself to be convinced, and during the month Corban had been with Forman Furnace he had already justified Fletcher’s evaluation of him. Stanley Forman was pleased.

But that doesn’t mean, Fletcher thought, that I have to like the guy personally. He’s got that damned pontifical way of speaking, and that jolly-boy approach. Some day when he gets his feet under him, the bastard may try to knife my job out from under me. But until he gets around to trying it, he’s taking a real load off my shoulders. He’s the type to try all the angles.

Jane had helped Laura Corban find a house to rent, and it was hard to find one the right size because of the two small Corbans. In addition to that Jane had taken a firm dislike to Laura Corban. He couldn’t understand that. The two or three times he had seen Laura Corban she had seemed nice enough. On the quiet side. Little anemic-looking, but certainly pretty, and knew how to dress and walk. Sort of a sly sense of humor, too. Crept up on you when you were least expecting it.

Jane had suggested they put the Corbans up for membership in the Randalora Club, and so Fletch had done it, and the membership committee had passed on it quickly. This was the traditional evening—the one where the Corbans entertained the Wyants at the Randalora Club for cocktails and dinner and the June dance, in return for the favor of having been put up for membership. It wasn’t the sort of thing you could duck out on. But he wished he could. He wanted to spend the twilight on his own terrace, clad in shorts, drinking beer, slapping mosquitoes, and watching the lights of the city below.

He was just turning back to the report when Stanley Forman came and leaned against the doorframe and said, “Such devotion to duty, my friend.”

Stanley was thirty-seven, only a year older than Fletcher, but Fletcher thought, and Jane agreed with him, that Stanley looked at least fifty. He had come into the
company very young and five years later, when his father died, Stanley had been made president. He seemed almost to have forced his appearance to correspond with his responsibilities. He was prematurely bald, tall, heavy, slightly florid. He had a lazy casual manner, but his mind was quick and shrewd. By taking gambles both in design and in the functioning parts of the Forman Furnaces, and in insisting on an aggressive sales and promotion approach, he had moved Forman up from a negligible factor in the industry to a husky and respected competitor.

Though his manner was uniformly casual, Stanley Forman managed always, in some subtle way, to continually underline the employer-employee relationship when dealing with his executives. Fletcher was conscious of this attitude, and frequently resented it, but there didn’t seem to be anything which could be done about it. The attitude itself was fallacious. In forty-nine when the income tax burden on executive salaries had become excessive, all major executives of the company had been put on a stock deal, whereby they were permitted to buy Forman stock at less than market.

Fletcher had accumulated a good holding, and he knew that Stanley Forman, except for the difference in size of the holdings, was no more owner of the company than he was. But Stanley seemed to fancy himself as the wise and tolerant commander of troops—one who wanted to get along with the boys, but could break anybody any time he wished, right from the executive officer on down.

Most of all Fletcher despised his own response to this attitude of Stanley’s. It seemed to make him overly affable. Like a damn Airedale. Never could seem to treat the man in a normal way.

“Devotion, Stanley? I’m about to take off and get a beer.”

Stanley looked at his gold pocket watch. “If you don’t manage it in about five minutes, you’ll be the only one left in the place. I’m going around shooing everybody out.”

Fletcher stood up and stretched, scratched his ribs. In front of Stanley even the stretch seemed forced. “In that case, I’m off.”

“Don’t try to play golf. You’ll drop dead out there.”

“I’m just a little foolish, Stanley. Not completely crazy.”

Stanley plodded heavily off toward the next office down the corridor. Fletcher slid the work sheets into his top drawer, closed the window, hung his coat over his shoulder, perched his hat on the back of his head, and went down the corridor toward the entrance, shutting his office door behind him. Stanley was in with Hatton, the sales manager, and Hatton, in his raspy voice, was telling one of his brutally bawdy stories. Of all the executives, Hatton seemed to be the only one completely unaware of Stanley’s air of austerity and command.

He heard Hatton say, “So this girl, she looks at the guy again, and she says, ‘Look, I don’t mind you bringing along your Canasta deck, but when I …’ ”

The words were lost as he walked out of earshot, but just as he was walking by the reception desk he heard Hatton’s hard burst of laughter which followed the punch line.

The sun leaned hard on the back of his neck as he crossed to the parking lot. The maroon Pontiac sedan was like a furnace. He rolled down the windows and opened both doors and stood outside the car for a few minutes in hopes it would cool off a bit. The car was pretty dusty. He decided he’d wash it tomorrow if it turned out a little cooler. The car would be two years old in October. Only thirty-one thousand miles on it. Wouldn’t be that much if he and Jane hadn’t decided, last summer, that the kids ought to see Yellowstone. Trade it again this fall, he thought, if I can get a good deal. If not, it will go through the winter all right. Replace these bald-headed tires, have new shocks put in, and a complete motor job. New battery too, maybe. Might be simpler just to get a new one. The damn house ate money though.

He got in. It hadn’t cooled off much. He started out as quickly as he could, turning the window flaps inward so that the heated air blew hard against his face. One thing about leaving early. Traffic wouldn’t be as wicked. Minidoka was going to have to do something about the damn traffic. Do it soon.

He drove down to Town Street, turned left and crossed the bridge, hitting the light side on the far side of the bridge. On the other shore of the Glass River he turned
north on Dillon Drive. The wide drive climbed steadily toward the newest residential area on the north of the city, high on the hills overlooking the city.