Point of No Return (63 page)

It had been hard to talk because the top was down and Willie Stevens began to drive over fifty once they were out of the traffic. John Gray had always loved fast driving and it had seemed as if they were hurtling through space. It was easier to tell Nancy than he thought it would be. She knew all about the Grays and she had formed her own opinion of Clyde, although she had never seen it. Besides she knew all about places like Rush & Company. She felt exactly as he did about board rooms and she shared his own ideas about getting on in the polite free-for-all of downtown offices.

“Pull up your socks and forget it,” Nancy said. “You couldn't have done a single thing about it. It had to happen and you know it.”

She sometimes told him to pull up his socks when she argued with him and it was partly affectionate and partly malicious. She was usually so austere and correctly cynical that it was always as surprising as though Psyche in the White Rock advertisements had said “Damn.”

“It might have made some impression if I'd got mad at him,” he told her, “but it was hard to get mad at him. He could always rise above everything.”

“It wouldn't have made any difference,” Nancy said. “You couldn't have done anything, not with all your piety and all your wit. Those boys are all just the same.”

“You didn't know Father,” Charles told her. “He had a lot of charm and he could shed things, consequences and everything.”

“I wish you'd listen to me,” Nancy said. “I didn't know him, but they're all alike. They have a congenital and insidious charm. They have to, to get away with what they do, and they don't want to be reformed. I know, because I tried to reform one once. You couldn't have done anything about it.”

“When did you try to reform one?” Charles asked.

“When I was younger,” Nancy said, “before you came along. Didn't I ever tell you?”

Actually she had said the same thing about John Gray that Moulton Rush had said that September afternoon.

After John Gray left, Mr. Rush went over the typed pages very carefully. He disliked market letters and he did not want anything from Rush & Company to sound like one and neither did he want to hedge behind provisos. He wanted a letter that said something and then stopped, but when they were finished Mr. Rush asked Charles to wait a minute.

“It's none of my business,” Mr. Rush said, “but I'm worried about your father.” The springs of Mr. Rush's swivel chair creaked. “He's intelligent, but I can't do anything with him. They're all alike, you see, the whole lot of them.” He nodded toward the open door. “There are five or six of them in the board room now. They're all alike.”

The Cadillac was parked in Post Office Square in a space where there was supposed to be no parking, because his father had learned that the traffic officer on duty there was interested in common stocks.

“Thank you, Tom,” his father said to the policeman, “and don't forget what I told you. This is my son Charles.”

“Pleased to meet you,” the policeman said. “Just leave the Caddy here any time, Mr. Gray.”

“Tom is very reasonable,” his father said as they drove off, “but I wish he wouldn't call it a Caddy.”

He leaned back on the red leather cushions and half closed his eyes. He had perfect confidence in Willie Stevens's driving and looked with relaxed trust at Willie's clean-shaven neck. Willie was wearing his best clothes but he refused to wear any sort of uniform and John Gray had sympathized with him. It was hard talking with the top down but also it was difficult for Willie to hear much of their conversation. His father had enjoyed his talk with Moulton Rush. He had always liked Moulton. He had a very human streak considering his type.

“He's a Puritan,” John Gray said, “and I have more catholic tastes, but then I'm glad I'm not a Catholic.”

“You're not really anything, are you?” Charles said.

“I have religious prejudices,” John Gray said, “and I read a chapter from the Bible nearly every night.”

“But you only read it for the English,” Charles said.

“Charley”—his father pulled his hat down hard, because it was windy with the top down—“why do you imply that I'm a pagan?”

“I don't know what you are,” Charles said. “You're too complicated, Father.”

“I know. I have a lot of ideas, too many ideas.” John Gray took his cigar case from his pocket and put it back again. It was too windy to smoke in the rear seat of the Cadillac.

They had reached the open road and Willie Stevens was driving faster. They did not speak for a while and his father closed his eyes.

“Father,” Charles said, “haven't you done enough about beating the system?”

“Now, Charley.” John Gray looked hurt. “Let's not spoil this drive.”

“All right,” Charles said, “but what about that trust fund?”

“I'll attend to it next week,” his father said. “Now drop it. I really don't know why I like you, Charley.”

Charles did not drop it although he had to speak so loudly in the car that his voice became hoarse and dry. What was the earthly use in taking any risks, he was asking, when his father had everything, enough, too much of everything? The market was shaky. Anyone could see there would be a break. It was egotism, it was childish, it made no sense. If he had set up that trust fund and then he wanted to be a fool, he could go ahead and lose the rest of it. Charles said all that was on his mind for once. It was utterly selfish, he was saying. His father might for once grasp the idea that everyone was involved. It was not as though he had earned the money to start with. He was losing his head because of a streak of luck. He had said himself he was not sleeping well. What was the use in going on with it if he did not need any more? There would be only one end to it.

His father folded his hands when Charles had finished and was silent for almost a minute before he answered.

“You've always said all that, without saying it, Charley,” he said. “This must be unpleasant for you. I'm very sorry, but we can't help how we're made, can we? I suppose I'd better tell you the truth. I like what I'm doing, and what under the sun would I do if I stopped?”

Then his whole face brightened. It was what Charles had said to Nancy later. His father could always shed things.

“You're quite right about the trust fund, too, Charley. I'll attend to it right away. You remember that ten thousand dollars of your mother's and that five of Dorothea's? Well, they wanted me to do a little something with it. I thought perhaps I'd better not tell you, but I've done something, quite a lot, and it really is time I saw about that trust fund.”

He undoubtedly was planning to attend to it. The papers were even drawn, as Charles found later, for a fund of a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The papers were all there upstairs in his room, but his father had never signed them. It was one of those details to be taken up when he had the time.

The day when the market first broke in October must have started for everyone the way it did for Charles, as a part of the ordinary routine of living. He remembered reading later, in a brochure published by a banking house: “In years to come the 1929 crash will doubtless be remembered merely as a summer thundershower.” When this was written prosperity was still just around the corner and happy days like those old happy ones would be here again if you were not a bear on the United States. When the storm did break, in a cloudless sky, work went on that first day without much interruption in conservative offices like Rush & Company. It was only when the drop went on the next day and the next and when the tickers lagged further and further behind the trading that Charles began to observe that all the faces in the office were stamped with an expression that began to erase individuality.

Jessica had come to Boston on the morning of the break and they were to have had lunch together but he had called her up at her aunt's house to say that, although it had nothing to do with his own department, he felt he had better stay at the office on general principles. Yet at home for the first day or so he could not notice any change and there seemed to be no more connection between home and E. P. Rush & Company than there ever had been. Back in Clyde he could forget the crowd around the board and those sickly individual attempts at indifference and composure.

That first evening before supper, his father said it would be nice if Axel were to mix some Martini cocktails because it had been quite a day in Boston and Dorothea and Elbridge were coming to dinner. Elbridge had something particular to tell them and he hoped that Elbridge had not been monkeying with the market. It was impossible to read anything on his father's face but as soon as they had a moment alone together Charles asked him if everything was all right, and his father looked very cheerful.

“I wish you wouldn't try to look like a doctor,” he said, “and I wish you wouldn't think of me as a widow or an orphan. Hasn't everybody been expecting this? Of course I'm all right.”

He was like all the rest of them. They were already beginning to say that they had seen it coming, but Charles felt deeply relieved. His father drank two Martinis, which was unusual for him, but he did not speak again about the market. Instead they talked about the announcement of the engagement in November and who would be coming to the tea. Miss Lovell had called that morning to go over plans for the tea.

When Dorothea and Elbridge arrived, John Gray was describing the next paper he was going to write for the Confessional Club. It would be about the South Sea Bubble, starting with Charles Lamb, and he was going to put it in one-syllable words so that it would not be over the heads of his audience.

“And, Elbridge,” he said, “please don't ask me what the South Sea Bubble was, because it's nearly time for supper.”

“Elbridge doesn't care anything about a bubble,” Dorothea said. “He wants to tell you our news.”

Elbridge fidgeted in his chair and asked for another cocktail.

“I don't know how you'll take it,” he began, “but Dorothea thinks we ought to do it.”

He liked Clyde, Elbridge said. He had always thought he was going to stay on in Clyde in Wright-Sherwin.

“But Charley knows how things are there,” he said. “You get in a rut at Wright-Sherwin.” Maybe he had been getting into a rut. Maybe he was more ambitious now that he was a married man. You had to think about the future. Perhaps they might have children.

“Oh, Dorothea,” Esther Gray said, “I really think you might have told me.”

“Axel,” John Gray called. “I think we might have some more cocktails, Axel. Well, well. This is quite a day.”

“Mother,” Dorothea said, “I wish you wouldn't jump at things. Elbridge only said that we might have children.”

Confidentially, Elbridge said, he had received an offer, quite a big offer, from a concern in Kansas City to be the head of their research department. It did not mean that he did not like Clyde.

“Well,” John Gray said, “I'm sorry we can't start knitting garments, but maybe you're right, Elbridge. I never got very far here myself.”

They discussed Elbridge and Dorothea and Kansas City all through supper and just before they left the table John Gray said that he had always wanted to go down the Mississippi—ever since he had read Huckleberry Finn. There was that musical play
Show Boat
. He wished that showboats were still running. There was no reason at all why they should not all charter a yacht next summer and go down the Mississippi. When Charles left to call on Jessica, his father was still talking about the Mississippi.

No one at the Lovell's discussed the break in the market for a moment. If the engagement was to be announced in November, Mr. Lovell could not put off certain mechanics and formalities. As long as they were going through with it, and it seemed as though they must, it was a time for everyone to stand together. Jessica would have to have a new photograph taken. Also, an announcement must appear in the Saturday edition of the Boston Evening Transcript, and Mr. Lovell had been engaged all day in preparing it.

“Mr. Laurence Lovell,” the announcement began, “of Clyde, Massachusetts, announces the engagement of his daughter Jessica to Mr. Charles Gray, also of Clyde, Massachusetts.” Mr. Lovell's face had a set, determined expression as he read on and he sighed resignedly when he finished.

“I wish I could think of more to say about you, Charles,” he said, “but I did mention your grandfather and I did say that you come of an old Clyde family. And now, Jessie, I hope you and Charles will go over this carefully. I've given my day to it. At least you can give half an hour.”

The next afternoon Charles left Rush & Company for an hour to go with Jessica to look at engagement rings and whenever he saw a diamond in a platinum setting from then on he thought of the faces and the tickers. You could no longer tell what you might get for a common stock when you sold it. Quotations had no meaning because the ticker was so far behind. Yet there was not a flurry at home that evening. His father's one interest seemed to be Jessica's engagement ring. Charles did not want too large a stone, but John Gray wanted it large enough. All through supper he discussed the theory of diamond cutting, and after supper he suggested that they all read aloud. He was reading from The Three Musketeers about the Duke of Buckingham and Richelieu when Charles left to call on Jessica.

The third day was terrible but it was reassuring that his father had not bothered to go to town. He said there was no use going until things cleared up, and of course he was quite right. He did not want to answer any questions, he said. He would be glad to go over details with Charles when everything was brushed up and in order again. Short covering would cause an automatic rise—no matter what happened later. He was more interested in his new velvet smoking jacket of a deep Burgundy color which had come by mail that morning than in the news, and he wore his jacket to supper.