The Lockwood Concern (6 page)

a street scene in a small Italian town. Over the murals was placed latticework of white wood, in the hope of suggesting the illusion that the street scenes were being observed from inside a garden. The painting was so bad that no illusion was created, but the colors were bright, the latticework was spotless, and the artistic failure mattered less than the joyful intent of the proprietor and the artist. The Chianti had a slight metallic taste, indicating that it had reposed in an iron vat before being decanted into the straw bound bottles; but the food was good and the service was kind. No one left before eleven o'clock, and only one young couple remained after twelve. Joe, the proprietor, stood behind the waiter whenever a dish was being served, supervising every last detail, then nodding and faintly smiling at the customers and leaving them to themselves. The clientele was largely middle-aged, built on the patronage of men who had so once known Joe as a waiter at the Club de Vingt. They were men who were not unaccustomed to wine at their meals in the days before the Eighteenth Amendment, and they were orderly and solvent. Joe's political connections were excellent, and no police officer below the rank of lieutenant was ever seen in the place. "George, the talk around town is that you're going to be asked to give a new dormitory," said Ned O'Byrne. "What?" "And call it Carlton-MacLeod," said O'Byrne. "Oh," said George Lockwood. "Or Carburetor Hall," said O'Byrne. "Why couldn't you have let a dear friend and classmate in on a thing like that?" "No friend or classmate in his right mind would have gone into it when Pen and I first heard of it," said George Lockwood. "You're all so busy buying and selling stocks that you never even see. Pen and I nursed that thing along, you know, and the lawyers' fees would have paid for - well, a few tennis courts." "Solid gold tennis courts, I heard," said O'Byme. "Well, the next time you have something like that, let a fellow know." "I wouldn't think of it, Ned. If it's going to be good, I want it all myself - with Pen, that is. And if it isn't any good, how could I ever face my dear old friends. What have you got for me?" "Well, just to create good will, in the hope of quid pro quo in the future, I have got something in the way of a tip. It closed today at 11 1/4, and I'm going to hold on to it till it reaches an even 40. That should be around the middle of January, just about time to pay the Christmas bills." "Is it on the big board?" "No it most certainly is not, and as a matter of fact there isn't enough of the stock to attract a big investor like you, but I hope to make a modest fifty grand and then run." "And then what will you do?" "Well, I'm a speculator. I make no bones about it. I'm letting one or two friends in on it, and I fully expect them to reciprocate when they get something. This is pretty small stuff for you, George." "Nothing in five figures is small, Ned. We've just finished building a house, and if I can get someone else to pay for it, I'll let them." "Well, you're welcome to come in." "No thanks, Ned. I might want to get out before you do, and if I started selling, you'd never forgive me." "Well, of course I wouldn't want you to sell it all at once. You could start something that would upset my plans, so I guess you'd better stay out. But just between us, and since you're not going in, I'll tell you what it is so that you can watch it for the next three months." "I'll keep my mouth shut," said George Lockwood. "It's called Magico." "Magic with an o on the end of it?" "Yes. It's a radio set. Eight tubes, and it was designed by a couple of young fellows in Chicago. They have some kind of a gadget that eliminates most of the static in the cities, where the steel in the buildings and the electric power for elevators and so forth - you know. If what they claim is true, 40 is a low price to sell at. But I'll be satisfied with 40." "Yes, and the question immediately arises, why haven't the Stromberg-Carlsons and the Atwater Kents perfected this thing? Why two young fellows in Chicago?" "George, I didn't go to M. I. T., remember? And I'm not in this forever. I only know what I've heard, and I'm going to make a little money while the rumors are going around. Then I'm going to quietly get out, and as silently steal away. It may be a frost, but I'll be in sunny climes, literally and figuratively speaking. I have a goal set for myself, and when I reach that, in five years, I'm going to buy the village where my grandfather was born, in Ireland, and king it there. Catch salmon and drink whiskey the rest of my life. I haven't really got the acquisitive instinct. I'm not quite a bum, but I'm far from being an Andrew Mellon." "I understand completely. I have no desire to live in Ireland. I'd be so outnumbered. But I'm doing what you're planning to do." Geraldine Lockwood and Kathleen O'Byrne were carrying on a separate conversation, adventures in shopping the topic, and now Kathleen said: "George, I overheard the last part. What are you doing that Ned is planning to do? I'd like to know, because it would give me an inkling of Ned's plans." "Aren't you in on Ned's plans, either?" said Geraldine. "Either? You're always in on my plans, Geraldine," said George. "No. I get announcements, but I'm not in on the planning," said Geraldine. Later, in their room at the hotel, George Lockwood said: "That was a surprising remark you made, about not being in on my plans. Did you mean it, or was that just the Chianti? I think Joe fortifies his Chianti just a touch." "Oh, I might have made that remark without Chianti. Without a cup of tea. Why?" "Nothing. It was just one of those statements that women make in front of other people that they'd never make in private. When it's just the husband and wife alone, a statement like that would lead to an argument. In public, you try to avoid arguments. So, since you preferred to make it in public, you obviously wish to avoid an argument on the subject. Goodnight, Geraldine. I won't disturb you in the morning. I'm going downtown early and I'll be gone all day. I'll have my breakfast in the dining room." "Very well. Goodnight, George." Dinner at Wilma Lockwood's the next night was followed by auction bridge, so that the formality between George and Geraldine Lockwood, that had carried over from the previous night, was not noticeable to the host and hostess. Back in the hotel room again Geraldine said: "If there's anything wrong between those two, I didn't notice it. What they're thinking about us is another matter." "Quite. I'm going back to Swedish Haven tomorrow. Would you care to come with me?" "No thanks. If you'll send the car, I'll drive down on Saturday." "Saturday? Well, I suggest you have Andrew check and see what football games are being played Saturday. If there are games in Easton or Bethlehem, or Allentown, you'll run into traffic." "I don't care how long I take." "Very well." "Maybe you'll have thawed out by then. But of course I may be quite cold, after that long drive and all." "Both things are possible," he said. "If I don't see you in the morning, I'll see you Saturday. Goodnight." In the morning he left a note for her: G.- I shall send Andrew to New York today so that you can leave as early as you like tomorrow. Will tell DeBorio to reserve room for Andrew at Roosevelt Hotel. -G. L. George Lockwood obtained the keys for the Packard from the Reading stationmaster and was home in mid afternoon. "Wash the Packard, Andrew, and then I want you to drive to New York. There'll be a room for you at the Roosevelt Hotel, and when you get there, telephone Mrs. Lockwood. She's at the Carstairs, and she'll undoubtedly have a great many bundles to bring home. She'll let you know what time you'll be leaving tomorrow. Take the Pierce-Arrow. It has the most room." "Mrs. Lockwood don't like the Pierce for long drives. She complains it's drafty." "She'll need the Pierce-Arrow. If the weather's bad you can put up the side curtains, and take along enough robes." "I was just thinking, the Lincoln contains as much room, if there's nobody else sitting in the back." "Is that what you were thinking? You don't mind a little fresh air, do you, Andrew?" "No, not me. Mrs. Lockwood, though. She does." He smiled. "What's so amusing?" "Well, just between you and I, and she wouldn't like it if I repeated this. But it isn't only the draftiness in the Pierce. She complains it makes her look older, riding in the Pierce. And when you think of some of the old ladies in Gibbsville with their Pierces - that car's an awful gas eater, too, Mr. Lockwood." "Who's been talking to you, Andrew? The Cadillac salesman? Fliegler? If that's the case, give up, I'll never buy a Cadillac, so you and Luther Fliegler stop conspiring. Now will you give my car a wash, and then get started for New York?" "Nobody else will offer you seven hundred for the Pierce," said Andrew. "It isn't worth seven hundred, therefore the Cadillac is overpriced." "They only give Mrs. Hofman three hundred for her Pierce, the same year as ours. Old Mrs. Hofman." "And that's all it was worth, today. Give up, Andrew. You may get your two percent, but not on a Cadillac. I won't have one in my garage." "Well, if you say so, sir," said Andrew. "While all this talking's been going on there was something I wanted to ask you," said George Lockwood. He stood before Andrew, who was taking off his shoes and getting into his gumboots. "Oh, yes. Was there any more about the boy that was killed?" "They had the trial last night." "You mean the coroner's inquest." "Yes. In the paper this morning it just said accidental death. They had the funeral yesterday. I heard you paid for it." "Where did you hear that?" "In town." Well, as a matter of fact I did, but people don't have to know those things," said George Lockwood. "It was a good thing to do, in my opinion," said Andrew. "There's no law compelling you to do it, but people felt better about it." "That isn't why I did it." "Oh, I know that well enough. But that's why it was a good thing to do." "Say it. What's on your mind?" Andrew stood up. "Well, nobody could say it was your fault. I don't mean to hint that it was. But one or two said the wall was high enough to keep people out. You didn't need the spikes." "I see. What else did they say?" "That was all." "I think there was more." "Well, there was more, but along the same lines. They said the spikes weren't necessary. They said that last spring, and since Tuesday they said it all over again. Here you been living all your life in a house with only a little iron fence - I'm telling you what I heard. Not my opinion. I All your life here, out in the open where people can see everything going on. Then all of a sudden you decide to build a house out in the Valley. You put up a high wall, and on top of the wall you put spikes. And to cap the climax, you knock all the houses down on Oscar Dietrich's old farm. One fellow said, what comes over a man that he wants all that secrecy?" Andrew paused. "You know, Mr. Lockwood, as man to man," he continued, "I work for you, and you always treated me decent, so I stick up for you. But this is a different matter." "Thank you for sticking up for me. What's the different matter?" "Well, it isn't you I have to stick up for." Andrew looked questioningly at George Lockwood, silently asking him to help him out with the next statement. "Well, who else, if not me?" "Your wife. Mrs. Lockwood. Some are blaming her. You lived in this house all your life, your parents lived here, and I understand your father was born here. Some are saying that the new house, and the wall, and the spikes on top, and ruining Oscar Dietrich's farm and all. That's only since you married again." "The whole thing was my idea." "Sure, but some you can't convince of that." "I haven't tried to convince anyone of anything." "I know. I'm just telling you what some people say. You never mixed much with the people in town, but they're used to you." "My first wife didn't mix with them either, if they expected the present Mrs. Lockwood to get chummy." "Yes, but with your first wife there was a reason. She was sickly, and they all knew it. The present Mrs. Lockwood is a strong, healthy lady. I'm just telling you what they say." "Andrew, you came here from New York. Small-town life is still new to you." "I like it, though." "Yes, but you didn't know, for instance, that when my mother married my father and came here to live, the women in the town thought she was a snob because she'd only speak English." "How do you mean, sir?" "My mother came from Richterville, only ten miles away, and she spoke Pennsylvania Dutch and English, but my father didn't speak much Pennsylvania Dutch, so my mother spoke only English. The people in the town didn't like that. They'd speak to her in Dutch, and she'd answer in English. The point is, they'd have found some reason to criticize her, whatever she did or didn't do. Do you know why?" "Well, I guess there could be a lot of reasons." "One. She was the wife of Abraham Lockwood. My father. And he'd gone ten miles away to choose his wife. History is only repeating itself. But I'm very glad you stick up for me, and I assume you do for Mrs. Lockwood as well." "That you can assume," said Andrew. "I had to hit one fellow a knock in the chin." "For what he said about Mrs. Lockwood?" "He took it back." "I'm all for chivalry, Andrew, but don't get hurt. Goodnight." "Goodnight, sir." Geraldine Lockwood returned to the red brick box the next afternoon. "Good, a fire," she said, on entering George Lockwood's study. "Is that all I get in the way of greeting?" "If you mean, am I going to kiss you? No. I'm catching a cold. I've been sneezing all the way from Easton. I could have revenge by passing the cold on to you, but I'm too nice for that. And besides - what right have you got to expect a kiss from me? You've been behaving like a bastard, George, and I don't like it at all." "I guess I do, sometimes." "Well, I don't like it. Really, I don't. I wish you'd at least say you're sorry." "Would that cure your cold?" "Don't try to blame my cold for the way I'm feeling. My cold has nothing to do with it. Although it has. Why didn't you send Andrew in the Lincoln?" "Because I thought you'd be more likely to catch cold in the Pierce-Arrow." "I wouldn't put it past you. I really wouldn't, the last two or three days. I'm going to have a bath and go to bed, and don't bother to come in to say goodnight." "All right, Geraldine. Whatever you say." "Where's my mail? Did any of my packages come?" "Ask May."

One of the passengers on the evening train from Philadelphia on a day in late February 1921 was Bing Lockwood, George Bingham Lockwood Junior. He was a tall slender young man of twenty-two, wearing a light brown hat, a long raccoon coat that hung unbuttoned and revealed a very light grey Norfolk suit, plain-toed black shoes with a black saddle over the instep. He descended from the Pullman at Swedish Haven and looked about him to right and left, raising himself on tiptoe to see above the crowd. He stood on the platform, a splendid English pigskin kitbag at one side, a no less splendid pigskin tennis bag at the other. His clothes and accouterments were high fashion among undergraduates, but his present manner was far from carefree. "Hello, Georgie. Home over Saturday?" The speaker was Ike Wehner, the baggage master. "Hello, Mr. Wehner. You didn't see our Henry, did you?" "No, I didn't. But I wasn't lookin' for him. I don't see your machine, neither. He may be along, you can't tell." Wehner moved on, and in a few minutes Bing Lockwood was alone on the platform. He waited five minutes, looked at his watch several times. "Guess you're going to have to stretch those long legs of yours, Georgie, unless you want me to phone the house," said Wehner. "I'll phone up if you want me to and you can keep watch out here." "No thanks, Mr. Wehner. I guess I'll walk." "Anything wrong, Georgie? At the house? Your mother - no worse, I hope." "No, nothing wrong, thanks. So long, Mr. Wehner." Bing Lockwood walked the two blocks east and three blocks South to the family home. He let himself in, left his luggage and coat and hat in the hall, and went back to his father's den. "Hello, Father," he said. George Lockwood put down the evening paper. "Hello, son." "Well, here I am" "Here you are, all right. Sit down. Don't stand there waiting for me to tell you what to do." The son took a chair and lit a cigarette. "When did you give up wearing garters? Is that the thing at Princeton now?" "Are you going to start by criticizing my clothes?" said Bing Lockwood. "Almost anywhere I'd start I could criticize, couldn't I?" "Yes, I guess so. But Jesus Christ. Garters." "All right. Forget the garters. We could start with your language. "Well, I apologize for that," said the son. George Lockwood got up and took a cigarette out of a silver box on his desk. He was about to light the cigarette when he hesitated, picked up the silver box and examined it. He then handed it to his son. "I was very pleased when you gave me this. But now I'm returning it to you." "Why? I won it, and you admired it, so I was glad to give it to you." "Yes, but how did you win it?" "Oh, for Christ's sake, Father. This was tennis." "You've been kicked out of college for cheating in exam For all I know, you cheat in everything." "It would be pretty God damn hard to win a tennis tournament on cheating alone. Did you ever notice those men on the big high chair? If you don't want the box, throw it in the wastebasket. I don't want it now, either." "Why did you come home, I wonder? You didn't have to. You have some money. It's bad enough to bring disgrace on the family without being arrogant into the bargain." "I see. You wouldn't let Henry meet me." "Henry is off today." "Then of course you wouldn't meet me yourself. In seven and a half years this was the first time I wasn't met by anybody." George Lockwood snorted. "I declare, I think you expected us to meet you with a brass band." "No such thing, and you know it, Father. I expect to be punished, and I hope I take it like a man. But picking on me for not wearing garters. And returning my cigarette box." The son's voice broke. "Honestly." "Good God, not tears. You're certainly running the gamut, from swearing like a trooper to now, blubbering like a girl. If you're going to bawl, go on up to your room." "I'm not going to bawl anymore. I'll tell you once again, what I told you over the phone, I'd give anything if I could do over again. I'd rather flunk out than cheat." "Or be caught cheating. I understand you got away with it once before." The son hesitated. "I got away with it twice before. But I wish I'd let nature take its course and I'd flunked out." "Yes, it would have been a lot easier to get you in someplace else if you'd only flunked out. You could even have got back into Princeton. As it is, you've been turned down by Penn State and Bucknell." "You mean you applied for State and Bucknell?" "I spoke to friends of mine. I can get you in Bucknell next year. Your mother has a cousin, a Baptist minister in Wilkes-Barre." "I don't want to go to Bucknell, or any place else." "Oh, you've made your own plans. What are they, may I ask?" "I'm going out to California and get a job." "In a bank, I suppose." "What are you trying to do? Kick me in the nuts? No, not in a bank. One of my roommates' father is more willing to give me a chance than my own father. I have a job on a ranch, and I'm leaving next week. I could leave tomorrow, as far as that goes." "Well, why don't you? I won't stop you." "You couldn't stop me. I hope I never see you again as long as I live. Good-bye, Father." "Just a minute, before you make your dramatic exit. Your mother is waiting to see you. What are you going to tell her?" "I'll tell her that I have a job in California, and that I have to leave tomorrow." "Just so we get our stories straight, that's all I care about. Bear in mind when you go upstairs that this may be the last time you ever see her again. That is, if you plan to stay in California any length of time." "How long?" "If you stay a year. And if you do anything to excite her now, you may have to postpone your trip a few days. So don't be dramatic with her." "Why couldn't it be the other way?" "God damn you! Don't expect me to forget that." "I won't," said Bing Lockwood. His mother took off her boudoir cap as he entered her room. She was sitting in a high-backed chair, in nightgown and negligee, her satin-slippered feet on a carpeted circular footrest. She quickly ran her fingers through her hair and held out her hands. "Georgie, I'm going to turn you over my knee, that's all there is to it. Give me a kiss." He kissed her, and sat in a matching high-backed chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. "Smoke. Go ahead. And give me a puff," she said. "When did you start smoking?" "When did I start smoking? Exactly thirty years ago. Cubebs, when I was fourteen." "Did they have cubebs then?" "Oh, I don't know. I was only joking. I never have smoked, but I know you used to smoke cubebs. When you were fourteen, and even younger." "Did you know it then?" "How could I help knowing? You could smell them a mile away. Have you had your supper?" "No." "You must be hungry." "Not very. I had an oyster stew in the Reading Terminal." "You've been talking with your father, I know. I could hear your voices, but I couldn't make out what you were saying. He's very upset, of course. But he'll come around. Do you remember Cousin Charley Larribee? I don't know whether you'd remember him or not. He was my second cousin, and he came here one time to preach at the Baptist church. He spent the night with us, but you couldn't have been more than three or four. Well, he's done very well in the ministry, the Baptist ministry, and I happened to remember reading somewhere that he was a trustee at Bucknell. So I suggested to your father that we might write and tell Cousin Charley all the circumstances. Not holding back anything, but putting it to him as a Christian minister-" "I know, Mother. Father told me." "He did? Well, I knew he was going to. And you've been accepted for next year. At least, you will be. They'll take you. And you'll have a degree. It's only for a year, dear." "A degree doesn't mean that much to me," said the son. "I'm through with college." "I was afraid you'd say that. But you mustn't make up your mind now. I know what you're thinking. That they're showing favoritism in taking you at Bucknell. But wherever you go, it's going to be much more difficult for you than for anyone else in the school. They'll watch you like a hawk, and at the first sign-well, you know. But for that reason you ought to go. That's the best possible way to make up for what happened at Princeton. Erase the bad mark on your record. Bucknell is willing to give you that chance, and I hope you'll go there and get your degree and show them at Princeton that you profited by your mistakes." "Well, I'm going to, Mother. But not by going to Bucknell. I'm sure they're very decent to give me the chance, but I'm fed up with college. Look at my marks all the way through. Barely passing, and I cheated last year too. I never should have gone in the first place. It was a waste of time and money. Maybe it's a good thing I got caught, although a hell of a thing to happen when I was almost through. Four more months," "Then maybe it is a good thing. If you'd got through by cheating, I wonder how that would affect the rest of your life. Well, what are your plans?" "Steve King, my roommate's father says he has a job for me." "In California? All the way out there? It takes a week by train, dear." "Well, I thought of going to China, and I don't know how long it takes to get there." "What would you do in California?" "Work on Mr. King's ranch." "A cowboy?" "No, it isn't a cattle ranch. He raises fruit. Oranges and things like that." "Would you like that?" "I won't know till I try it." "What would you do? Pick oranges?" "I guess I will at first. He says I'll start at the bottom. Manual labor. Hard work. But if I want to make something of myself, he says this is my chance." "You've talked to Mr. King, the father?" "I had a letter from him. He doesn't say much about the kind of work I'd do, other than to say it'd be hard work, and I know from Steve that when he says hard work he means it. Rowing is nothing for Steve after a summer on the ranch." The mother's hand hung limply over the arm of the chair. "When do you leave?" "Tomorrow." "Yes, I knew it. I knew it. I knew you were coming to say goodbye. Stand up, Georgie. Let me look at you. Turn around. Oh, my dear. My dear!" She put out her arms and he knelt to come within her embrace. "Don't cry, Mother. It isn't as far as China." "Yes it is. For me it is. But at least it isn't a war. Four years ago I'd have been terrified for you. But this isn't a war. This is a wonderful new start for you. You think of it that way, don't you?" "Yes." "Maybe you'll meet a nice girl out there." "Well, that's a long way off, Mother." "No. You're older than you think. You had a good time, you had a lot of fun, with your tennis and your friends. But I think that's over for you." "I do, too." "Sit down now, and I'll tell you something about your father. I know you know about me. You treat me as though I were fragile, and that's how I know. Your father has told you, hasn't he? Oh, that's not fair. Let me say it. My heart is bad. I may never go downstairs again. But you can't stay here waiting for me to have a final attack. I may go on for years this way. Now, about your father." "Are you going to tell me that he's not my father?" She laughed. "Oh, he's your father, there isn't the slightest doubt about that. But think how times are changing when you can ask me such a question. If your Uncle Pen had ever asked your grandmother a question like that!" "Times haven't changed. You and I have." "Well, maybe. I guess there are things like that in Shakespeare. Anyway, to understand your father, Georgie, I must tell you something about him. It's nothing terrible, or scandalous, it's just something in his character. He thinks too much." "He thinks too much?" "Yes. You're more like me. I've noticed that since you were a little boy. But your father is all wrapped up in himself, always thinking, thinking, thinking. Never does anything without thinking about it. And gets more pleasure out of planning a thing than doing it. By the time he's ready to do a thing, he's lost interest in it. He'll even make a study of a thing, big or little. Notice him ordering a meal in a restaurant. He takes hours to order, but he doesn't seem to enjoy eating. Ordering a new suit. He'll have six fittings, and then the suit will hang in his closet for months before he wears it." "I know." "This is something that perhaps you know and perhaps you don't. But you're going out in the great wide world now, so I'll tell you. It isn't terrible, or it isn't scandalous. But your father hasn't always been faithful to me." "You mean he's had affairs with other women?" "Yes. Not many, but more than one. But they don't last. The pursuit, the planning - he'll spend a year on that part of it. But then he loses interest." "What kind of women?" "Different kinds. I haven't always known them, or who they are, but I can tell." "And you never let on?" "The first one, yes. That was someone I knew. A friend. I thought my life was over, everything ended, especially because I was having Ernestine at the time." "What a terrible thing to do to you." She shook her head. "No. Not really, not when he explained it to me." "How could he explain a thing like that?" "Well, he did, and after he did I realized that I'd married a man with so little feeling that it didn't much matter." "I'll say." "It didn't matter, because - well, there were certain things you didn't discuss. A man and woman could be married for years and years, and have children, but never discuss that side of their marriage. We didn't, your father and I, until he had an affair with another woman. Then we did. He admitted the affair, and he explained it in a way that showed me how little feeling he had. I guess by feeling I mean love. Yes. You see, his explanation was that a man had to have relations with a woman, once he'd started. And he picked someone in our own circle of friends because she'd have as much to lose as he if she made a fuss." "Did he always have his affairs in your circle of friends?" She smiled. "Oh, no. There weren't that many unfaithful wives." "So he had some other explanation for the others?" She shook her head. "No. I never asked him for one. He was so cold-blooded about the first one that I realized that he was telling the truth. The truth about himself, more than he realized. More than he realizes to this day. It was just as though he'd told me he had some sickness. I, for instance, have a bad heart." "And he has no heart at all." "In that sense, no, he hasn't. But I want you to understand that in other ways he's been a good husband. I wouldn't change places with any woman I know. He's been generous, considerate, gentle, and not only since I had my heart attack. Always. And I know what the other women have to find out for themselves - that he's never loved anybody, because he can't. When they find that out it must make them unhappy. I'm sure it must. But I found it out ever so many years ago." "But Mother, what's the purpose in telling me?" "I have a purpose. it isn't