Winds of Change

by Gilbert, Morris

  Bonar gave the young man a quizzical look. “You’re too young to be pessimistic and gloomy like that. You’re young and good-looking, maybe a movie star, and you got your life before you. Now get on with it!”

  Adam shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, Ned!” he said and grinned. “Thanks for the tour; I enjoyed it.”

  Adam left the set and moved outside to pick up his car from the studio parking lot. He began to think about Tamara. She was busy working on the completion of the picture. He was besotted by her in a way that he had never been by any of his other women friends. There was a raw sexuality in her that almost frightened him at times. He knew nothing in their relationship was permanent, and sooner or later it would be over. She’ll be with somebody else, he thought, and waited to feel jealous but, strangely enough, did not. “I must be pretty much of a dope,” he muttered.

  There was still some daylight left, so he went to the country club and played tennis until dusk with the pro, Byron Kimbal. Adam had never actually beaten him, but he played with a cold, furious fashion that won him many points. When the sets were over and the two men had stopped to wipe their faces and get a drink, Kimbal gave him a strange look. “You play tennis like it’s a war, Adam. It’s supposed to be fun!”

  “It’s only fun when you win, Byron!”

  “No, that’s wrong. Some of my best times have been when I lost.”

  “I don’t like to lose.”

  “Well, I guess none of us do, but that’s part of the way things are. It would be pretty boring winning all the time.” Byron was a smaller man than his companion. He was made of rawhide, with piano-wire muscles, and had the unbelievable, quick reactions of a fine tennis player. “I’d like to see you get more fun out of the game.”

  Adam grinned and took a swallow of ice water. “I had fun today. I beat you at least once. Wait until next time!”

  “Well, if you keep working on that serve, you’ll beat everybody,” Byron Kimbal said. “Tomorrow?”

  “Maybe, I’m not sure.”

  Adam left the club and drove to his parents’ home. He had promised his mother he’d be there for supper and would spend the evening with them. When he got home, he found neither of his parents had arrived yet, so he threw himself on the bed and picked up a novel that he had been reading. It was a religious novel called The Robe, written by Lloyd Douglas. Adam had found it on his bed without a note but knew that his mother had put it there. He was aware that the book had been on the best-seller list but had ignored it for some time. One evening when he could not sleep he had begun reading it and had discovered that it was a fine novel. Lying with his head propped up on a pillow, he followed the adventures of Marcellus Gallio, the hero of the novel, who had been ordered to crucify Jesus. The story gripped Adam, and he followed the breakdown of the young tribune after carrying out his orders.

  “That would be pretty rough, I guess,” Adam murmured aloud, “crucifying Jesus Christ. Of course, he didn’t know who he was at the time.” Then he read on and was rather shocked at his response to the book. His parents had taken him to church from the time he was a child. Both of them were outstanding Christians, but Adam had never responded as they would have liked. He found the personality of Christ interesting as he had read in the Bible when he was much younger. But as he grew older, he had turned away from such things, to the despair of both Lylah and Jesse.

  However, the book was interesting, and he lay reading until a knock came at his door. “Yes?” he called.

  The door opened, and his mother stood smiling at him. “We’re ready to eat. Are you hungry?”

  “Like a wolf!”

  The two went downstairs chatting and found Jesse already seated at the table. “Nothing to eat but food,” Jesse said, smiling at Adam. “Sit down and tell us what it feels like to be a big-time movie star.”

  Adam laughed and said, “I’ve told enough lies in one day!”

  “Acting isn’t lying!” Lylah said instantly, defending her profession.

  “Well, it better be, because I tried to kill a man today. If I wasn’t pretending, he’d be dead!”

  They sat down at the table, and Jesse interrupted the discussion on acting as a profession by asking the simple blessing, including special requests that God would guide Adam, which more or less embarrassed the young man. He was accustomed to it, however, and after the amen was said he began at once to speak about the possibility of a new film with a larger part. He was excited about it, and his eyes sparkled.

  Lylah was thinking, He looks so much like Manfred! Surely he’s seen a picture of him. I wonder if he ever thinks of such things? She never knew how to approach the matter of her affair with Manfred von Richthofen when speaking to her son. One part of her told her that it was a shameful incident, and in truth it was the great tragedy of her life. On the other hand, when she looked at this fine young specimen of manhood sitting across the table from her, she could not be sorry. Despite the wrong she had done, somehow good had come of it—and she knew that God would take that which was not right and produce a fine young man.

  The meal was pleasant, and afterward they spent some time in the game room playing pool. Jesse was an expert. “I used to be a hustler before I went straight,” he admitted. It was obvious he enjoyed the game very much. After a while, Lylah threw up her hands and said, “I’ll leave this to you two. It’s too difficult for me!”

  The two men laughed and continued to play. It was pleasant under the soft lights, with the green table marked by the rolling balls, with the click as they struck one another, and with the soft remarks and exclamations of dismay that go with such things.

  The game was interrupted once when Adam missed a difficult shot that would have won the game for him. Without thinking, he picked up the ball and slammed it against the wall. It hit the paneling with a sharp crack and then fell to the floor, rolling along the carpet.

  Instantly Adam’s face flushed. “Sorry, Dad, I didn’t mean to do that!”

  “I know how you feel. I wanted to do it quite a few times myself,” Jesse said easily. As a matter of fact, this disturbed him more than he would allow to show on his calm face. He had seen this latent fury in Adam for years. Usually it lay concealed under the smooth exterior of a pleasant, handsome face—but from time to time when something went wrong, even when he was a child, Adam would suddenly explode, striking out at whatever was near. Carefully Jesse said, “Sometimes it’s hard to remember that it’s only a game.”

  Adam glanced up quickly. From Jesse, this was the equivalent of a sermon, for throughout Adam’s life the older man had been very gentle and easy with his advice. Adam had learned to read his stepfather, however, and bit his lower lip. “I’ve got too much temper. I wish I were more like you.”

  “I think God made you like you.” Jesse smiled. “If everybody were like me, it would be a mighty dull world.”

  It was a novel idea to Adam. He picked up his cue, stroked the smooth, polished wood gently as he considered it. “That’s something to think about,” he said finally, “if everybody were just like me.” He grinned suddenly, which made him look much younger, almost like a teenager. “If everybody were just like me, that wouldn’t be so hot. All of us would be wanting to win, and only one can.”

  “You’ve always had a strong instinct to win at games and anything else. That’s not all bad,” Jesse remarked. He moved over, placed the cue in position, and with a smooth, easy stroke made his shot. Moving over for the next one, he said, “I think that desire to excel is in you for a good reason. I don’t know what it is yet, but all you need to do is control it. Lots of fellows don’t have it, and they give up when the going gets tough. But you never do. You remember that fight you had with Charlie Denston? He was beating you half to death, but you never quit.”

  Adam winced at the thought of the fight. The other boy had been almost a third again as large as he was, and it had been a brutal loss. “I wanted to kill Charlie. I got over it, of course!” he said quickly. “It seems like it com
es and goes.”

  “You’re doing well, Adam. I’m proud of you.”

  “Not too well.” Adam watched as Jesse ran another shot, then said, “All I managed to do is get kicked out of school and do a little acting.”

  Jesse did not argue but began talking about the new part in the new movie. The two men got along well. Finally when they said good night, Jesse went to his study, and Adam went back to his room and read more of The Robe.

  He was almost ready to go to bed when his mother knocked, and at his word she entered.

  Adam looked up with a smile, but at the look on his mother’s face, came off the bed. “What’s wrong?” he said.

  Lylah had a piece of paper in her hand. “This just came. Mary didn’t know it was for you, so she opened it and gave it to me.”

  “What is it?” Adam was aware that his mother’s large eyes were affixed on him and that there was a sadness in them he could not explain. “What is it, Mom?”

  Without a word, Lylah handed Adam a telegram. He opened it and looked at it for a moment. The words seemed to jump off the paper at him:

  This morning Jake was reported killed in action. I knew you’d want to know. He treasured your friendship greatly, Adam. I know you will grieve with us.

  It was signed Marian Greenberg.

  Shock ran along Adam’s nerves, and his hand trembled.

  “It can’t be,” he whispered. “Not Jake!”

  Lylah moved forward and put her arms around Adam. She saw that the letter had torn into him as few things had. He had a stoical way of hiding his emotions, but now the raw pain that suddenly leaped into his eyes was impossible to miss. His lips twisted, and he blinked furiously, trying to hide the tears that came there.

  “I’m so sorry, Adam! He was such a fine young man and such a good friend to you.” Lylah hoped that Adam would allow his grief to show—that he would weep—but she saw instead that his lips grew into a white line. He dashed the back of his hand across his eyes and grunted, “I’ve got to get out!”

  “Adam!” Lylah called after him. She moved toward the door, but he went down the stairs two at a time. By the time she was halfway down, she heard the front door slam.

  Jesse came out of his study saying, “What’s wrong, Lylah?”

  “Bad news. Jake Greenberg’s been killed in action.”

  Jesse stared at her, then shook his head. “What a shame! Adam didn’t take it well.”

  “I think Jake was the best friend he ever had—maybe the only real friend. He never did get close to many people, but he loved Jake.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “I don’t know. He can’t handle it. I hope he doesn’t—” She broke off, and looked at him knowing that he had read her thoughts. Finally she said aloud, “I hope he doesn’t do something foolish.”

  Jesse came over and put his arm around her. He said nothing for a while. They had reached that stage, so rarely attained in a marriage, where each knew what the other was thinking. And even more than that, each knew what the other was feeling. Jesse knew the grief that lay in Lylah’s heart for this son of hers, for he shared it. Adam was like his own son after all these years, and the two stood mutely sharing the pain that rose within each of them.

  Lylah heard the door close and moved out of the study. She was wearing a light robe over her gown, and she glanced at the clock, noting that it was after three. He’ll hate it that I’ve stayed up and waited for him, she thought. But I’ve got to talk to him. Moving into the hallway, she saw Adam, and he turned instantly and faced her. “You shouldn’t have stayed up!” he grunted.

  “I wanted to talk to you.” She saw, at once, that he had been drinking but gave a prayer of thanks that he had not wrecked the car and hurt himself. “Please, Adam, don’t run away from me!”

  “There’s no point talking about it; he’s dead!” The words were short and bitter, and Adam stood with his shoulders hunched together, his fists clenched.

  “Just for a while, come into the study.”

  “All right, but it won’t do any good.”

  Adam followed his mother inside. She pulled him down to the overstuffed sofa, and when she began to talk, he stared down at the floor. He did not really hear what she said, because his mind was numbed by the liquor that he had drunk and even more by the pain that he knew would not go away, even after the alcohol had lost its power. As she talked on, he thought about the good times he had had with Jake Greenberg. They had been different in many ways, but somehow the chemistry had been right. Now, all he could think of was Jake’s bloody body lying somewhere in the jungles of the Solomon Islands. He could not bear to think of it and started to rise, then a thought came to him: He turned to his mother, and a strange expression crossed his face. “I don’t know how to handle this, Mom,” he said finally. “I never had anything like it.”

  “None of us knows how to handle it. We just have to endure, but God will help us through it.”

  “I don’t know God—you know that!”

  “But he knows you!”

  Adam thought about this, then leaned back. His head swam when he put it back on the couch, and he felt nauseated from having drunk so much. He was conscious of his mother holding his hand, saying nothing, and for a long time, it seemed, he lay unable to move or speak.

  Lylah kept her eyes fixed on his profile, thinking as she always did, how much he looked like his father. She said nothing, but she held his hand, which was strong and thick with muscle. Finally he lifted his head and straightened up. She was shocked when he said, “Mom, tell me about my father.”

  Lylah had not expected this. It had been difficult enough to tell Adam the truth about his biological father. After she told him, he had never asked questions, which had surprised her. For years she had expected him to want to know more about how he had come to be conceived, but he had never asked. Now, however, the tragedy had stirred something deep within him, and questions were beginning to rise to the surface.

  “Why do you want to know, Son?”

  “A man ought to know about his father.”

  Lylah made a quick decision. She could put him off, but there was something demanding in his eyes, and there was a vulnerability in his lips and in his entire expression that told her she must not.

  “I was visiting in Germany just before the war,” she said slowly, “and I met your father through a friend of the von Richthofen family. . . .”

  Adam sat listening as his mother spoke softly, pausing from time to time. He did not miss a syllable as she related how she had met the young German aristocrat and had no idea that they would ever fall in love. Then she related that, somehow, despite everything to the contrary, she had begun to love the young flier, and he had loved her. He listened as she spoke almost desperately of how she had fought against the attraction, then finally she said with tears in her eyes, “There’s no excuse for what we did. It was very wrong. I’ve asked God to forgive me for it, and he has.” The tears ran down her cheeks, and she suddenly wiped them away and said in a strange voice, “But I have you, Adam, and I’m grateful to God for that. I’m sorry that your life has been so complicated by something that you had no part in, but I want to tell you about your father. He was a fine man.”

  “He was a German fighting against Americans.”

  The bleakness of Adam’s tone shocked Lylah. “Yes,” she said, startled, and not quite certain of herself. “I knew that too, but love sometimes overrides nationalities and even wars. Can you forgive me and him?”

  “I’ve thought about it for years. Jesse’s been such a good father; that’s taken the strain off of it, but now things are different.”

  “How are things different?”

  “This war.” Adam’s voice was somewhat thick from the effect of the alcohol, but she saw that he was deeply moved and had trouble saying what he was feeling. “Hitler has brought it all back again, and now they’ve killed Jake, the Germans have!”

  “He was killed in the Pacific.”

  �
�Doesn’t matter; Hitler started it all. If it hadn’t been for him, the Japs would never have attacked Pearl Harbor.” The words were bitter, clipped short, and carved almost in stone. There was a coldness, indeed, in Adam’s eyes now. Sorrow and grief were solidifying within him, and when he thought of his friend it was almost instantly turned to the enemy.

  “I don’t want you filled with hate, Adam.”

  “How can I help it; they killed Jake, didn’t they? Do you expect me to love them for it?”

  Lylah knew this was no time for a sermon. She sat for a long time beside Adam and saw how futile it was. She had never seen this hardness in him before, and she knew as she sat looking into the cold blue eyes of her son that the death of Jake Greenberg had triggered something in him that had been long dormant.

  Adam got up quickly and said, “Good night, Mother.”

  “What are you going to do, Adam?”

  “I don’t know.” He turned and left and went to his room. He saw The Robe lying on the bed and picked it up at once. He thought about what he had read—how the tribune had learned to forgive the enemies of Christ and to forgive himself. He stared at it for a moment, then finally said bitterly, “That’s in a book—things don’t happen that way in life!” He flung the book aside and threw himself on the bed, burying his face in the pillow.

  A DECISION FOR ADAM STUART

  For the sixth time, Carol read Clint’s letter, savoring every word of it. She was sitting under the apple tree in the backyard where she had been peeling potatoes to boil for supper but had pulled the worn sheet of paper out of her apron pocket. Overhead the blossoms of the apple tree were white and fragile and beautiful, but she had no eyes for them. A bluebird flew across the yard making a brilliant dot of color against the green grass. It reached the birdhouse of cedar that Clint had made and disappeared inside. A faint cheeping sound emerged from the birdhouse, but Carol did not hear any of it. She was reading the words that she almost had memorized, but it gave her hope to go over them again.