Point of No Return (53 page)

Outside the church, in the September sunlight, everyone spoke to everyone else agreeably.

“Well, John,” Mr. Blashfield said, just as though he had not passed the contribution box, “it's nice to see you in church.”

“I suppose I should go more often,” he heard his father answer. “I really suppose I should.”

“John,” he heard his mother say, “we'll have to be going now or dinner will be late.” She did not speak about the hundred-dollar bill until they were on Dock Street. “If you wanted to do that,” she said, “at least you might have put it in an envelope.”

“I know, Esther,” John Gray answered, “I know. It was vulgar ostentation. I apologize to everybody. I'm sorry.”

“You're not sorry,” she answered, “because it's why you came.”

“That's true,” John Gray said. “Of course, that's perfectly true. I've always wanted to do that, Esther, ever since I was a little boy. I know it's childish of me, but I don't suppose I am sorry.”

Everyone must have wanted to do that at some time. Charles could, of course, deplore many sides of his father, but usually his memories ended with a faint, reluctant admiration. His father had never tried too hard. He had never grown measured and tired by trying. He must have had a very good time in those months and this might have been worth the rest, and when the good time was over he paid for it in his own way. It was not a way that Charles could respect. It was all a gesture of supreme egotism, a futile, deplorable sort of selfishness, but vaguely Charles could understand it.

Most of Charles's life was dedicated to being as unlike his father as possible and yet he could not lose all sympathy because John Gray must have been a very sympathetic person. He had to be or no one would have tolerated him. Those dreams of his were like a boy's dreams. That desire of his for getting something for nothing and for beating what he called the system was shockingly immature, and yet immaturity lay often at the root of desire.

Whenever Charles heard the expression “wish fulfillment,” he always thought of that bill in the contribution box and also of the expression on his father's face after luncheon that Sunday. The doorbell rang before the dishes had been cleared away and he remembered his mother's dismayed look. It was early for Sunday callers and people very seldom dropped in in Clyde, but his father must have been expecting the interruption because he pushed back his chair at once.

“I'll go, Esther,” he said, and then they heard him calling. “Esther, Dorothea, Charley, will you come out here for a minute?”

There must have been a new note in his voice. At any rate, it was all like a dream, the Great American Dream. They were all gathered in the doorway staring out at Spruce Street and beyond the fence stood a long maroon phaeton shining in the sun and Mr. Robert Sweet, the Cadillac agent, was standing beside it.

“How about taking a ride this afternoon?” John Gray asked. “Robert will drive us, won't you, Robert?”

They must have all guessed before he told them that he had bought the car.

“Don't worry, Esther,” he said. “We really needed a car.”

Somehow it was inevitable, somehow the Great American Dream was not tawdry.

“Get in, Esther,” John Gray said, “and we'll all go for a ride. Take us along Johnson Street, Robert.”

“John,” his mother said, “it's too big. Why didn't you get a little one? You know what everyone will say.”

“Yes,” John Gray answered, “of course I know. That's exactly why I bought it, Esther. I don't want a little one. A heavy car holds the road. What's the matter, don't you like it, Charley?”

At the moment, the car fitted in with nothing. It was simply there, glittering and preposterous, at the curb in Spruce Street, like the bill in the contribution box.

“I don't know,” he said, and his father laughed, and Charles never forgot what his father said next.

“You'll learn to like it. You'll be surprised how fast you'll learn, and we'd better start in learning now.”

It was remarkable how quickly one could adapt oneself to change. It must have been that same evening that his father told him that he was almost two hundred and fifty thousand dollars ahead of the game. That was the way he put it, as they sat upstairs.

“There's no reason to tell the women yet, Charles,” he said. “It would only make them difficult and I'm not through just yet.”

The sum that his father had mentioned was as implausible as the Cadillac. It only had an academic meaning.

“Isn't that enough?” he asked.

“Now you let me do the worrying, Charley,” John Gray said. “The market will be going up after election, and I'll know when to stop”—but of course he did not know when to stop because wish-fulfillment people never did.

“Now,” John Gray went on, “just remember, any time you want some money, Charley. There are a lot of things I want to do, but just ask me any time.”

It was like the pony all over again. Of course, Charles should have asked him for a large sum but he never did. Instead he talked about a trust fund for his mother and Dorothea.

“We'll attend to that later,” John Gray said. “There are a lot of things we've got to do”—but of course he never did any of those things.

18

When I Was One-and-Twenty, I Heard a Wise Man Say

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A
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E
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HOUSMAN

Charles must have conceded, at least in a measure, that his father had some pretty good ideas, for even in Clyde they were beginning to buy common stocks that autumn. Mr. Thomas, everyone knew, had begun, in a cautious way, and the word came from Wright-Sherwin that Mr. Stanley was doing the same thing in a more dashing way; and if these men, who knew all about business, were doing it, it was all right for everyone else. His Uncle Gerald Marchby had bought some General Electric, with results which were growing happier all the time. Hugh Blashfield, they were saying, had bought some Electric Bond and Share for himself, and Mr. Sullivan had said that United Gas Improvement was a good thing, and Mr. Levine, everyone knew, had subscribed to a market service which sent him the name of its favorite stock every week by wire. Mr. Walters, at the drugstore, had bought just a little McKesson and Robbins, because he was in the drug business. If everyone else was doing it, it was silly to leave your savings in the bank and miss cashing in on an era of prosperity. Even Jackie Mason had bought some International Telephone and in three weeks had made a hundred and fifty dollars. Everyone knew, or thought he knew, how much everyone else was making, and of course the figures became exaggerated, as everything did in Clyde.

It seemed that John Gray must have had a hidden talent and that he had been waiting for just this time. He might not have done so well previously but he had obviously learned from old mistakes and now he owned a Cadillac and the Grays had joined the Shore Club and there weren't many people from Clyde in the Shore Club. Somehow, somewhere, Johnny Gray had developed a head for business and he was getting rich and even Mr. Thomas had asked him about the market when they had been waiting for the morning train. Johnny Gray was doing so well that he did not have to go into Boston every day. Everyone knew, because he said so himself, that he could often do as well by sitting at home and calling up his broker, and everyone knew that he had a telephone of his own upstairs in his study for just that purpose.

He knew so much about the market that he still had time to enjoy himself. He still played poker at the Pine Trees and he had bought the Pine Trees a new pool table and he had even had the building painted at his own expense. He still had time to find out when anyone was hard up or sick or needed a little financial help. It was too bad that other people weren't more like him. Though Johnny Gray was getting rich, he still was just the same and he would stop and give anyone a lift in his Cadillac car, just as though it were not a Cadillac. He did not have to squeeze nickels because he knew there were more where they came from. He wanted everyone to share that pleasure denied to most, of easy-come and easy-go, and you had to respect anyone like Johnny Gray. That was what they must have been saying in Clyde.

Charles, too, had bought his own small list of stocks with the money his aunt had left him but he never had his father's flair or his father's careless courage. He only possessed a good capacity for reasoning. He did not have the temperament and his conscience always hurt him because he was sure you could not get anything for nothing. Once or twice, he remembered, he asked his father for advice and it was good advice, too, for a time when the market was running wild.

“Don't be too anxious,” he remembered that his father told him. “Play it high, wide and handsome”; but he never had the temperament, and this may have been why he knew enough to stop in time. At least he was able to get out and stay out and he was never proud of any part of it and he never wanted to speak about it later.

Nevertheless, he must have learned a great deal. When Jessica and Mr. Lovell came back to Clyde in the middle of October and when Charles had bought Radio and Celanese on margin, he was not the same person he had been that spring. Jessica had called him after supper on the day they had arrived and had asked him to come over, and his father had suggested that he take the Cadillac for the evening, but his common sense had told him that it would need too much explanation if he were to drive up to the Lovells' in a Cadillac. He was wearing a new suit of herringbone worsted, a brownish-gray English cloth with a faint pinkish thread running through it, the sort of suit that looked very well at Rush & Company, and he was not a Clyde boy calling at Johnson Street.

The lights from Johnson Street shone dimly on the façade of the Lovell house and the railing of its widow's walk and its cupola possessed an airy, half-substantial quality, but it seemed to Charles that the house exhibited a pompous, fussy quality which he had never observed before. It was old and brittle and supported by a charitable sort of pretense, and to appreciate it fully you had to accept certain manners and traditions which no longer possessed validity. When he met Jessica in the front hall she did not look the way he thought she would though he was not sure how he had expected her to look. He was not exactly disappointed, but it seemed to him that her tweed skirt, her low-heeled shoes and her light brown camel's-hair sweater were too much like the country. She had not acquired as much veneer by taking that trip abroad as he had by staying at home.

“Why, Charley,” she said, and they stood for a second or two looking at each other uncertainly. He had an unexpected feeling of constraint until he took her hand and then when she grasped his hand very tightly the constraint was gone and everything was just as it had been.

“I was so frightened,” she said later, when they had a chance to talk. “I was afraid you didn't love me any more.”

There had been an instant, just before he touched her hand, when everything must have been ready to fall one way or the other, a moment of concealment, a queer blind pause when everything was in balance. If Mr. Lovell had been there in the hall with her, denying them those few moments together, it might have been worth his while to have taken her abroad, but now it might have been better for Mr. Lovell if Jessica had stayed in Clyde.

He knew that Mr. Lovell and Miss Georgianna were waiting for them. Although he did not hear a sound, he was sure that they were in the wallpaper room listening.

“I loved your letters,” Jessica said softly.

“I loved yours,” he answered.

“Well,” she said, “come on. Father's dying to see you,” and the corners of her eyes wrinkled as she smiled.

Miss Georgianna looked nervous as she sat in a corner of the sofa. Mr. Lovell stood by the fireplace and their glances met before either of them spoke. Then he looked hastily at Jessica.

“Good evening, Charles,” Miss Georgianna said. “I've just been telling them how thoughtful you've been, coming so often to call while I was here alone.”

“Hello, Charles,” Mr. Lovell said. “You look as though the summer had done you good.”

“Well,” Charles answered, “it's been quite a summer.”

“I was sorry to hear of your aunt's death. I hope your father got my letter. He didn't answer it.”

“He spoke of getting it,” Charles said. “I didn't know he hadn't answered it. My father's been pretty busy, with one thing and another.”

“There's no reason why he should have written and perhaps his letter never caught up with us. I think we gave Brown, Shipley too many forwarding addresses. It's better to let all letters stay at 123 Pall Mall, London. It's a perfect address, isn't it? 123 Pall Mall, London.”

“Yes, sir,” Charles said. “It's easy to remember. I suppose Brown, Shipley must have thought of that.”

“I don't believe they ever did,” Jessica said. “It was probably ordained.”

Mr. Lovell turned his back to the fire and clasped his hands behind him.

“It's good to be home again,” he said. “One of the beauties of going away is getting back, the feeling that everything's been waiting. Sit down for a minute or two, Charles. What's the news? I don't suppose there's any chance of our friend Al Smith's winning the election?”

“The betting's against him,” Charles said.

“I imagined so.” Mr. Lovell smiled. “And the market's still going up, isn't it? I'll have to go into Boston tomorrow and see if my list of things is up to date.”

He was the one who had changed, not Mr. Lovell. He knew that Mr. Lovell disapproved of him but he was no longer disturbed by his disapproval. He could see that Mr. Lovell was typical of certain customers of E. P. Rush. Banks, lawyers and trustees were especially made for people like Mr. Lovell, and Charles's attitude was already what it would always be toward Mr. Lovell's type, courteous and watchful but devoid of real respect.