by Edwin West
Uncle James, looking wrathful and dangerous, sat to the right of the door, hands clenching the chair arms as though he would leap up from the chair at any second. He glowered at Paul, then turned to Mr. McDougall. “My nephew and niece,” he introduced them surlily. “Paul and Angela Dane.”
“How are you, children?” said Mr. McDougall jovially, getting to his feet. “Angela, how are you? And Paul?” He stuck a meaty hand out for Paul to shake, and after a moment’s hesitation Paul took it. The hand was hot and moist and flabby. Paul let it go after the briefest of handshakes.
“Sit down, children,” said Mr. McDougall, still jovial, pointing at the remaining two chairs. He waited until they were seated before he sat down again behind his desk. Leaning forward to put his elbows on the desk, his folded hands beneath his chin, he said, “Now, I guess we have a little problem of ownership here. It doesn’t sound to me like anything serious, like anything anybody’s going to have to go to court about. It seems to me that since you’re related we should be able to work out a fair and equitable solution right here in this office, this afternoon. Without losing time or patience, we should be able to solve this problem and still remain friends. Do you see what I mean?”
Paul saw only one thing. That he didn’t like or trust this Jake McDougall. And he wanted to make that clear from the outset.
Therefore, he said, “How are you making your money out of this, Mr. McDougall? Who’s paying your fee? I’m not.”
Mr. McDougall looked surprised and, for just a second, not so jovial. Then he laughed and said, “Why, your Uncle James is paying me. Of course, you don’t have to pay any money. Your Uncle James is taking care of that, and we’re all squared away.”
“Then you’re his lawyer,” Paul pointed out. “Maybe we ought to wait until I get a lawyer of my own.”
“Now just a minute,” snapped Uncle James before Mr. McDougall could say anything. “I didn’t call you here so you could insult your elders--”
“I didn’t come here,” Paul interrupted him, “to have my elders swindle me out of my house, either.”
“Your house!”
“Now, now,” said Mr. McDougall soothingly. “Let’s not start calling one another names. Paul, if you want a lawyer you can certainly get one, though there isn’t really any need for it. All we want here today is a friendly little discussion among relatives to get the facts into the open and see where we stand.” He smiled disarmingly at Paul and spread his hands. “That’s all is to it.”
“All right,” said Paul. “You want facts, I’ll give you facts.” He got to his feet and dropped the Manila envelope onto the lawyer’s desk. “The deed for the house is in there,” he said. “And a lot of other stuff, all of it proving my father owned that house. And I’m his heir.”
“Now just a minute--” started Uncle James, but McDougall interrupted him, saying, “Wait a second, Jimmy. Let me take a look at these documents for a minute.”
They all waited, Paul and Uncle James ostentatiously looking away from one another the whole time. Finally, McDougall was finished. “All right. Fine. Now, Jimmy, what was it you had?”
“Proof that I paid for that house,” Uncle James said. “Proof that I put up every penny of it.” He lifted a brief case onto his lap and delved into it, taking out papers and explaining in a rapid-fire voice what they were. “Canceled checks,” he said, “made out to the contractor who built the house, signed by me. They add up to the full cost of the house. A letter my brother wrote me while he was on vacation, when the house was being built, thanking me for putting up the money. A signed receipt from the architect, and canceled checks proving I paid the architect.”
The lawyer looked at all these documents as well, then glanced at Paul. “Care to look these over, Paul?”
Paul shook his head. “I don’t have to. I have the deed.”
“It looks pretty much as though your uncle paid for the house, do you know that?”
“I couldn’t care less.”
“But you aren’t going to contest that. You do admit that he paid for the house?”
Paul shrugged. “It looks that way. But it was a personal loan between him and my father. Now my father’s dead and the debt is canceled.”
“But the point I’m trying to make,” said McDougall, “is that your uncle is the one who put up the money to build that house. Now, leaving law out of it for just one second--and I’ll get back to that, I promise you--and reverting to purely moral considerations, who do you think has more right to the house, the man who paid for its construction or a boy who didn’t put up a cent for it?”
“It’s my house,” said Paul stubbornly.
“From the moral point of view?” the lawyer insisted.
“From any point of view,” said Paul defiantly.
“You aren’t going to get anywhere with him by preaching fair play,” said Uncle James angrily. “He’s a sullen young brat and that’s all there is to it.”
“Now please, Jimmy,” said the lawyer soothingly. “We’re not going to get anywhere if you keep getting mad all the time. You’re going to get Paul mad and I wouldn’t blame him for it. Now, if you don’t have anything constructive to say, Jimmy, just don’t say anything. Please. Just leave the whole thing to me.”
Uncle James subsided, glowering.
McDougall smiled reassuringly at Paul again. “Now I wonder, Paul,” he said, “whether you’ve considered the question in its entirety. For instance, do you know approximately how much it will cost you a year to maintain that house? For necessary painting and repairs, replacement of furnishings, gas, electricity, heat and water, plus property taxes, plus a few other pluses? Now, you’re a young man, Paul--”
“I’m twenty-one,” Paul said. He was sick of being treated like a thirteen-year-old child.
McDougall nodded. “As I say--a young man. Are you sure you want to take on the burden of a house of that size at your age? Now, there’s only yourself and your sister, and that’s an awful lot of house for two people.”
“I think that’s our business,” Paul told him.
“Here’s the thing, Paul,” said McDougall. “I know the magistrates in town, and I think I can tell you now what their decision would be if this little problem were to go to court. On the one hand, they would consider your claims as the heir. On the other hand, they would consider your uncle’s claims, as the man who bought and paid for the house. When you come right down to it, those two claims pretty well cancel one another out. So there are other factors that have to be taken into consideration. You and your uncle will have to be considered as individuals, as potential property owners. You are young, unemployed, with no experience as a home owner. Your uncle is a reputable and well-known local businessman. Do you see what I’m driving at, Paul?”
“I see, all right,” Paul told him. “You mean my uncle is buddy-buddy with some local judge, and he can get the judge to take my house away from me and give it to him.”
McDougall looked shocked and hurt. “I’m not saying that at all, my boy,” he said. “And you won’t want to make that kind of statement in front of a magistrate or you’ll be cited. I’m simply saying that your claims and your uncle’s claims cancel one another out. That leaves only the fact that your uncle is a reputable businessman and you are a young boy. Quite frankly, I would guess that a magistrate would give the house to your uncle, but would acknowledge your claim by requiring your uncle to make a cash settlement with you for, say, half the assessed value of the house.”
“I don’t have to give anybody a penny for that house!” shouted Uncle James. “It’s mine as it stands!”
“I think you will, Jimmy,” McDougall told him gently, “if the magistrate says so.”
Paul got to his feet. “If that’s the offer you brought me here for,” he said, “the answer is no. I don’t want any money at all. All I want is my house. And I’m going to keep it.”
“I assure you, Paul,” said McDougall, “the magistrate--”
“You j
ust take it before a magistrate,” Paul told him angrily, “and see what he says.” He gathered up his documents from the lawyer’s desk and held up the deed. “You’re a lawyer,” he said. “You ought to know what this is. And just what the hell kind of claim has my uncle got against this?”
Without waiting for an answer, he turned to Angie who had sat silent and white-faced throughout the interview and said, “Come on, Angie, let’s go home.” He glared at his uncle. “Our home,” he said. “Angie’s and mine.” And the two of them marched out of the lawyer’s office.
***
There was mail in the box when they got home. A long business-size envelope, with a Washington return address. The Air Force.
Angie was the one who got it out of the box and brought it to Paul. “Paul!” she cried. “Look at this!”
He took it from her. Noticing the return address he felt himself suddenly start to tremble. It was the answer, he knew it.
And if the answer were no? Then Uncle James would get the house. Then Paul would have to leave home again, this time forever. Because there wouldn’t be any home tor him to come back to.
It couldn’t be no, it just couldn’t.
“Open it!” cried Angie excitedly. “Open it!”
He did so, with trembling fingers, reading the letter while Angie watched his face. Then he looked at her and grinned. “I’ve got it,” he said.
“Oh, Paul!”
“I’ve got it. I’ve got it! I have to report to Manhattan Beach Air Force Station in Brooklyn to be discharged. Then I’ll be home for good.”
“Paul! Oh, thank God, Paul!”
She leaped into his arms, crying with happiness. He laughed and patted her back, and then they did a little dance around the living room floor. Paul stopped at last, holding her hands in his, saying, “Chicken, tonight we celebrate! By God, tonight we celebrate! We’re going into town--wait, just let me call Danny. I’ll borrow his car. He won’t need it tonight. We’ll go to a big restaurant, have dinner, then go to a movie downtown--by golly, we’re going to make a night of it, just the two of us! How about that?”
“How about that?” she cried, laughing.
***
They didn’t get back home till almost three in the morning. It had been a great night on the town, with dinner, a movie, drinks and dancing at a place called Ricky’s. They’d danced together and drunk toasts to one another until Ricky’s closed at two o’clock. Then, exhausted and a little high and so happy they couldn’t believe it, they’d piled into Danny’s old car and driven back out to Thornbridge.
At the house, Paul drove the car into the driveway and stopped. He didn’t have to return it till tomorrow morning. He turned off the lights and the engine, and swung around to look at his sister. He thought then, looking at her in the faint illumination from the street light down the block, that she was probably the prettiest--no, the loveliest--girl he had ever seen in his entire life.
He grinned at her. “It’s like old times for me. Like taking my best girl home from a date.”
She smiled hack at him, her eyes luminous in the near darkness. “It’s more like we’re married,” she said. “Because you’re coming right on home with me.”
“No,” he said. “It’s like a date. We went out and had a good time and now I’ve driven you home. And, of course, I always kiss my girl friends good night at their door.”
“Do you?”
“Well, sure.” He felt the sudden desire to kiss her; to know what his sister’s lips were like, to know how it would feel to hold her in his arms. Still grinning, still as though it were part of the joke, he said, “I always kiss my girl good night,” and he reached out for her, tentatively, waiting for her to make some joking response and push him away, as though she were shy, as though it were their first date or something.
But she didn’t. She moved closer to him in the car, her eyes brighter, her smile gentler. She whispered, “I think that’s a very good rule, Mister Dane, I really do.”
“You can call me Paul,” he said.
“Paul,” she whispered.
Then he kissed her.
It was supposed to be a joke, just a kind of funny gag at the end of the evening, but it wasn’t. She came into his arms. Her lips were soft and warm and exciting against his. Before he knew it, it was a real kiss and she was pressed close to him, her breasts separate pressures against his chest, her waist a lithe slimness to his arm, her mouth electric against his, her lips parted for his tongue.
The kiss went on, igniting a sudden fire in his loins, and it was with a conscious effort that he brought himself back to the knowledge that this was his sister in his arms, his sister toward whom that fire in the loins was forbidden. With a physical strain he forced himself to end the kiss and pull back away from her.
He forced himself to laugh, as though it had really been the joke he had intended. “There,” he said, trying unsuccessfully to keep his voice from shaking. “That’s what I call a kiss.”
“Wow, Mister Dane,” she said, her voice shaking, her smile unsteady, “do you kiss all the girls like that?”
“Only my best girl,” he said. It came out much more serious than he had intended.
He turned away suddenly, opening the car door, saying over his shoulder, “Hey, it’s late. We better get to--get into the house.”
Which made it the very first time he had ever felt awkward about mentioning bed to his sister.
What the hell is this? he thought. What the hell are we doing?
They left the car, walking together around to the front of the house and up the stoop and across the porch and into the house. Paul locked the front door as he did every night.
“Do you want a cup of coffee or something before you go--upstairs?” Angie asked self-consciously.
She, too, he thought, wondering.
He looked at her, knowing he’d better get away from her for a while. “No,” he said. “I’m pretty tired. I think I’ll just go straight on upstairs.”
“Okay,” she said. “I--I think I’ll make myself a cup of hot chocolate before I come up.”
“Okay. Uh, good night.”
“Good night,” she said.
They were stiff and uneasy with one another now. Paul hesitated a second longer, then hurried upstairs and into his bedroom, closing the door behind him.
He undressed quickly and crawled into bed. And lay there for a long time staring at the ceiling.
I better grab me something while I’m in New York, he thought. It’s been too long. My own sister. Jesus!
But she wanted it, too.
He forced that thought firmly from his mind.
SEVEN
Angie started work on Monday. Paul had left Friday for New York, to be discharged, and didn’t expect to be back before Tuesday at the earliest. He’d promised to call Monday night and let her know when to expect him home. Accordingly, she hurried straight home after her first day of work and waited by the telephone until eight-thirty. When he called, he told her he’d be back late Tuesday night, probably after midnight.
