by Allen Drury
“Well, then,” she said, dreading the answer, telling herself desperately, I do not want to talk to Mr. Barbour, “what do you think I can do about it?”
But Tay surprised her.
“I just wanted to know,” he said, suddenly looking her straight in the eye with an anguished appeal, “if you think I’m crazy.”
She was relieved and pleased in about equal measure.
“I most certainly do not!” she exclaimed. “I think you have the mind for it, and the character, and I think it’s wonderful you want to do something like that. Just wonderful! And if I had anything to do with it by assigning you in our little play, then I shall be proud of it for the rest of my life! And proud of you! So there!”
“Well,” he said, relaxing for the first time and giving her the shy, easygoing grin that was one of his most attractive characteristics, “if you feel that way and I feel that way, then maybe I’m not so far out, after all.… But,” he said, reverting again to gloom, “that doesn’t make it easier with my dad.”
“Well!” she said, and took a deep breath. “What about your mother?”
He looked a little less glum, but still with the world on his shoulders.
“She’s a Taylor, you know, from over in the San Joaquin Valley. They’re ranch people, too. She’ll probably feel the same way.”
“Maybe not,” she said thoughtfully. She took a deep breath. “I tell you what. Suppose I try to find a way to talk to your mother alone about it. Sometimes when we girls—we ladies—put our heads together; we can get the men to agree to a lot of things they didn’t think they would. How would that be? Would you mind?”
“Oh, Miss Tillson!” he said, face lighting up with a great relief. “That would be great.”
“Good,” she said, feeling quite giddy with daring and excitement and triumph at not having failed this tall, gangling, earnest youth—at least, not yet. “I’ll do it!”
“You will?” he demanded, not daring to believe it or to hope that it would really solve anything.
“Cross my heart!” she said with a giggle that sounded surprisingly youthful for one so elderly (she must then, he estimated years later, have been about forty). “And hope to die!”
And joined him in the relieved and happy laughter into which this schoolyard promise plunged him.
But after she shooed him out—“Get along now, or you’ll be late for basket-ball practice!”—she sat at her desk in the empty classroom for quite some time, telling herself, Erma, you’re a fool. You know you shouldn’t get involved in your kids’ family matters. You know you shouldn’t. But Tay, she realized, was a special kid of hers, not just any kid. So presently she took a deep breath, uttered a little prayer to the Lord above, and told herself firmly: It is meant to be. It will be all right.
And so, much to her surprise, it was. Helen Barbour, to begin with, was much more approachable than Frank, being a small, petite, dark-haired woman with a kindly, pleasant face and a personality to match. She also possessed considerable charity and a perception that permitted her to empathize with old-maid schoolteachers rounding forty and becoming aware that surrogate children were probably the only ones they would ever have. She did feel a momentary and inescapable pang of jealousy when Erma Tillson, having driven out to the ranch to see her on a day when she had ascertained that Frank would be away on business in Stockton, disclosed hesitantly but determinedly that her son had turned first to his teacher instead of his mother. But Helen was a fair-minded woman and this swiftly passed. They both, she realized, loved Tay and wished him well; and that was more important than anything.
“Tell me about it,” she said comfortably, sitting back in the porch swing overlooking the valley and studying Erma with a kindly attention as she sipped on the heavily scented herb tea into which Helen had thoughtfully slipped a teaspoonful of vodka out in the kitchen. Poor Erma needed something, she had told herself, she was so tense. But Erma was quite determined enough, as it turned out, though the unsuspected liquor did perhaps make her words a little more fluent than usual.
“Tay is a good boy,” she began. “And,” she added firmly, “my favorite pupil. I think he has great potential.”
“So do I,” Helen agreed. “Is it something to do with his potential that’s involved here?”
“That and—and the ranch. And his father.”
“Does he want to leave the ranch?” Helen asked, dismay seizing her heart—but she could not, being perceptive and honest, claim surprise.
“Yes, he does,” Erma said, finding suddenly that all her doubts and hesitations had disappeared: Helen was so easy and understanding. “You remember we had that class project a while back, when we set up a mock government and he was ‘Chief Justice’?”
Helen chuckled.
“He was absolutely fascinated. But isn’t it a little early for him to think about being Chief Justice? I believe that takes a little time and a few more years.”
“But you have to start by being a lawyer,” Erma Tillson said. “You don’t do it running a ranch in the Salinas Valley. And there,” she added, something making her a little more daring and blunt than she might normally have been, “is where he’s afraid he’s going to run squarely into his father. And I agree. I’m afraid Mr. Barbour strikes me,” she said, feeling slightly giddy with her daring, “as a stubborn, if not, one might say, even a hardheaded man.”
Helen Barbour smiled, evidently not at all offended.
“He has his opinions,” she agreed. “But, then, so do I, and we seem to have managed pretty well for almost twenty years.”
“I think,” Erma said, now feeling completely and delightfully free to say whatever she pleased, “that it’s obvious that he adores you. I think he’ll do anything you say.”
Helen laughed.
“I’d like to think so, on both counts. But I don’t carry the day every time. My record is pretty good, but not perfect.”
“In this case,” Erma Tillson said solemnly, “I think it is extremely important to your son’s whole future and happiness in life that you do carry the day. If, that is, you agree with me that the young, if they really find a goal in life as imperative as this seems to be for Tay, be allowed to pursue it.”
“Oh, I do agree.”
“Then you will persuade Mr. Barbour that Tay should be allowed to leave the ranch and go to law school?”
“I’ll do my best,” Helen said, “but I think first you should talk to him directly yourself.” For a second Erma looked so stricken that her hostess laughed. “He won’t eat you up,” she promised. “Really. I know he intimidates a lot of people, including, obviously, his own son, but he’s really quite amiable. Why don’t you come back tomorrow afternoon and we’ll have tea? You’ll find it much easier than you think.”
And to her amazement, as she told Tay years later, Erma did. Frank Barbour was formidable and apparently challenging at first, but this soon changed, and presently he was agreeing mildly with both of them that possibly, after all, it was time for those Barbours who wished to, to venture from the ranch.
“Of course,” he said, looking so like a big disappointed lion that Miss Tillson almost wanted to throw her arms around him and comfort him, “he is the oldest son, and I have been counting on it. In fact, I never thought there would be any question. But if that’s what he really wants to do—”
“It is,” Helen said. “Erma’s just told you how he feels.”
“I think,” Frank said, shooting them both a gloomy glance, “that it’s time he tells me so himself. Don’t you?”
“Yes,” Helen agreed. “I think maybe, now, it is.”
Their interview, Tay remembered while Cathy listened intently, had been initially one of the hardest things he had ever done and ultimately one of the easiest and most rewarding. For this he always thanked Erma.
“And you never thanked your mother?” Cathy demanded sharply. “That was a damned thoughtless thing, considering she was really the one who paved the way for you—”
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br /> “Just a minute!” he said with equal sharpness. “I didn’t say I never thanked her. I often did.”
“But you thanked Erma more, somehow, didn’t you?”
“Well—maybe,” he admitted uncomfortably. “But I did thank Mother. She knew how I felt. But I just didn’t feel—well, that I should gush about it. She understood.”
“Mothers like to be gushed over,” she said. “Didn’t you like your mother?”
“Are you kidding?” he demanded. “Cut this amateur psychology, okay, and let’s get on with it. Anyway, how do you know what mothers like?”
“Because I am one,” she said tartly. “And don’t you get into any amateur psychology, either, okay?”
“Ah ha!” he said dryly. “So all this demon journalism, all these piercing questions, all this killer instinct is just getting back at some man, right? He got you pregnant and left you and now you’re stuck with his child? What is it, a boy or a girl?”
“Talk about killer instinct,” she said, putting down her pen and notebook and giving him an appraising look. She was really quite pretty, he realized, especially when annoyed—not angry, he could sense that, just annoyed. The distinction suddenly seemed quite important for some reason he didn’t really want to think about.
“If you must know,” she said, “and obviously you must if we’re going to get any further with my interview of you, I met this boy at Columbia when we were both in journalism school. It was Watergate time and everybody was going to save the world and win a Pulitzer, no one more surely than he and I. So we lived together for a while, and then we got married, and then we had babies, Sandra and Rowland. And then I began to be successful and he began to fail and he started drinking and his fatal charm wore off and then we got divorced and then I came to Washington at thirty-three, landed on the magazine two years ago, and here I am.”
“Hardly drawing a breath,” he said with mock admiration. “How do you do it?”
“I’ll show you sometime,” she said shortly. “Now can we get back on the track, please? That must have been a tough talk you had with your father.”
“Not really,” he said; and looking back now he could see that it really hadn’t been, although at first his father, as always, appeared massive, formidable and quite overwhelming to the nervous and genuinely frightened youth Tay was then.
“Let’s take a walk,” Frank Barbour suggested next night after dinner; and, “Yes, sir,” he said humbly, thinking, Oh, my God, here it comes. What will I do? But his mother gave him an encouraging smile and a definite nod that said: Don’t worry. That was comforting but not enough to make it an easy walk. It was a silent one, ending in the middle of the newly plowed fields when his father broke the silence with an abrupt “Let’s stop here.”
Tay would always remember what a beautiful spring evening it was, the air soft and warm with the smell of fresh-turned earth, the valley stretching away below as far as the eye could see, the western range falling into darkness behind them, the eastern still aglow with the gently fading purple light. He would find his private tranquility here many, many times in the future but it was not here now. He felt frightened, miserable, terribly tense and just plain sick.
“You see all this,” Frank Barbour said with a quick, almost embarrassed gesture that encompassed it.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“Four thousand acres of it belong to us. That’s a mighty damned hell of a lot.”
“Yes, sir.”
His father stopped quickly, scooped up a handful of the rich black soil, let it dribble through his fingers.
“It’s damned fine ground, too,” he said harshly, as though someone were arguing with him.
“Yes, sir!” agreed Tay, who wouldn’t have dreamed of it. Or dared to.
Frank Barbour swung around and looked him squarely in the face.
“Why don’t you like it?”
“I do like it!” he cried then, halfway between tears and anger. “I love the ranch! You know that! I love the ranch!”
“That isn’t the way I hear it.”
“Then you don’t hear the truth!” He paused for a moment, everything heightened by emotion, the earth darker, the sky bluer, the mountains sharper, his heritage everywhere more lovely. “Who told you that?” he demanded finally, voice shaking. “That isn’t true!”
“Your mother and your teacher say you want to leave it.”
“But that doesn’t mean I don’t love it!” he protested, quivering with the unfairness of it. “They didn’t say that!”
“No,” his father admitted grudgingly. “But they said you like something else more.”
For a moment he didn’t answer, knowing that it would be one of the most decisive answers he would ever give to anything. Then he said, very low, “Yes sir.”
A silence fell, evening deepened, night advanced. Finally his father spoke, more softly and more reasonably.
“Tell me about it.”
“I like the law,” he said, voice still shaking at first but growing calmer and steadier as he went along; and not deterred by his father’s first derisive “Hmph!”
“Yes, sir,” he said, more strongly, ‘I think I want to be a lawyer.”
“Hmph!” his father said again, but this time in so much more reasonable a tone that Tay was emboldened to tell him, with a shaky little laugh, “And don’t say Hmph! It can be an honorable profession.”
“Really?”
“Don’t you think it will be when your son is in it?” he demanded like a flash; and before he knew it his father had started laughing, and after a tentative moment he joined in, though at first he didn’t quite know why.
“That’s mighty sharp,” Frank Barbour said, still chuckling. “Mighty quick. You turned it right back on me. Maybe you wouldn’t be such a bad lawyer, at that.”
“Then you’ll let me—” he began eagerly. But his father held up a hand.
“Slow down, now. Slow down. I haven’t promised anything yet. You do owe me and the ranch something, you know.”
“Everything,” he said fervently. “Everything!”
“That’s right,” his father said, more grimly, “and don’t you forget it. First of all, you owe me an apology for not coming to me with this, first thing, instead of relying on a couple of women to do your work for you.” He paused and snorted. “That mousy little Tillson woman! She got you into this!”
“Don’t you hurt Miss Tillson!” Tay cried in sudden alarm. “Don’t you and your old school board do anything to Miss Tillson! She’s a fine lady! Don’t you hurt Miss Tillson!”
“I’m not going to ‘hurt Miss Tillson’!” his father said grumpily. “Probably wind up giving her a raise, when all is said and done, for helping my son discover what he really wants to do. That’s the tough kind of old son of a bitch I am. But that doesn’t make me any happier that you didn’t come to me first. Why didn’t you?”
“Well …” He paused and drew a deep breath, because he knew this would hurt, and probably terribly; but even at eighteen he realized that life does these things, inevitably. “Well, Dad—because I’m afraid of you. Anne and Carl are afraid of you, too. All of your kids are afraid of you. We love you, but we’re—we’re—just—afraid, I guess.”
Then there was a silence, a very long silence, during which he did not dare look at the massive figure looming beside him. Somehow it did not look quite so massive anymore; and when a strangled, savagely suppressed sound burst from it for a moment, he realized with a sort of horror that his father was actually crying. To his great relief it did not last more than a minute or two; after which the world was back in place.
“Well,” Frank Barbour said in a stifled voice, blowing his nose vigorously, “you know that isn’t what I ever intended.” His voice grew stronger and he kicked the earth with a sudden savagery. In some instinctive way his son knew it was far from the first time. “I’ve fought this earth all my life,” he said. “Sometimes it’s been easy, sometimes it’s been hard. Sometimes I’v
e licked it, other times it’s licked me. But the war never stops. Nature never gives up. You have to keep after her all the time. Maybe that’s why some of us ranch types get a little tough, sometimes. Maybe that’s why we scare the people we love. Maybe that’s why”—his voice trembled again and threatened to stop, but after a moment he went on as calmly as ever—“maybe that’s why it’s not so easy to see a son of mine, my oldest son, on whom I have always set my hopes, decide he’s going to give up the battle and go somewhere else.”
“That isn’t fair,” Tay said, quietly and more maturely now, fortified by the knowledge that his father knew it wasn’t fair. “I’m not giving up the battle, and I’ll never be far away. You know that Carl and Anne both want to stay on the ranch, and when they get married, Carl will get a lot of help from Anne’s husband—”
“Johnny Gonzales!” his father said in a strangled tone. “At sixteen, she thinks she wants to marry Johnny Gonzales! That—”
“Yes,” Tay said, without giving an inch. “And that’s great too. He’s a great guy and Carl and I want him in the family as much as she does. Things are changing, Dad. We need new blood in the family. And he loves the ranch as much as you and I do. After all, he’s grown up here almost as much as we have.”
“That’s the trouble,” his father growled. “If I’d only known what was going to happen—”
“You still would have hired Martin, because he’s the best foreman in the valley. And you still would have got his son along with him. And Anne would still have done what she’s going to do. So why make it tough for everybody?”
“Isn’t nature enough?” his father asked in a half-wry, half-bitter tone. “Do I have to fight my own kids too?”
Tay dared to laugh, knowing he had the upper hand now.
“Not at all, Dad. Just give in to ’em. It’ll be a lot easier.”
“Are you afraid of me now?” his father asked and again there was a long moment, and again a decisive answer.
“Not anymore,” Tay said quietly. “Not ever anymore, I think. But now I think we can begin to love you more than we ever have, too. So that’s something.”
