A Family Trust

by Ward Just

  “All right,” Mitch said. He pointed at Charles with his glass. “Just tell me this. You’re editor and publisher now. Where do I fit in? What’s my role here? What do I do with my days at the I?”

  “What you’ve always done,” Charles said patiently “And done damn well,”

  “That won’t do, brother. You said it just then. Dad is gone. I operated with him. That was what I did. There was a race for sheriff or state’s attorney I went down and checked out the available guys. I spent a lot of time talking to people and a lot of time listening, too. Talking for him. I was his right-hand man p’litically and everyone knew that.” He paused and looked away. “Of course, I could do for you what I used to do. Is that what you want? Maybe you want that. Is that what you want me to do? Maybe that’s my highest and best use.”

  Charles stared at him a long minute, then turned away. When they were schoolboys, Mitch Rising, larger and more combative than his younger brother, was a protector. The slender and more vulnerable Charles was saved from beatings by fear of Mitch’s retribution. The dependency ceased when Mitch ran away to join the army in 1923, and had never resumed. When he returned home in 1926 Charles was in high school, and it was a different Charles. He’d grown remote, not the least interested in stories of the army life at Fort Riley. But every time Mitch looked at him he saw a fifth grader, books under his arm, in flight from a gang of other fifth graders. A bright boy, popular with teachers. Mitch had never been popular with teachers. Charles said calmly, “I don’t think that’s necessary, Mitch.” He paused to light a cigarette, feeling the past collapse into the present. “But the other is still important. Very important. Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “It’s not the same,” Mitch said.

  “I know that. But it means you’re more valuable than ever. You’re the only one of the three of us who know—”

  “That’s right,” Tony said.

  “Really, Mitch. More than ever.”

  “Oh Christ,” Mitch said, turning again. He wasn’t looking at anything now. “I don’t want him to be gone.”

  The three men moved forward in their chairs. The lawyer saw his opportunity. He said, “The spirit, we can keep that alive. That’s what Amos wanted. I wish I could remember everything he said, the last time I saw him. He was a happy man, knowing he had you three. He wanted the spirit to live. His. Yours, now. All of you three—”

  “Tony, you, me,” Charles began.

  “We’ll make it the best paper,” Tony said.

  “It already is,” Mitch said. He was waiting to be convinced. “That damned committee—”

  “It’s a committee that’ll never meet,” Townsend said.

  Tony said, “Elliott’s right.”

  “Dad should’ve had confidence—”

  “He did,” Charles said, looking angrily at Townsend. “That’s why he put you on the committee. Put you there to watch out for Tony and me, God knows what Tony would do in a pinch. Sell the I to Pulitzer, maybe.” He smiled, winking at Tony.

  “Yeah,” Mitch said. He was smiling.

  “Hell, Tony would sell the I to anybody given half a chance.” Charles watched his brother carefully. He was certain now that the storm had passed. But he did not want to leave it like this. He wanted no false memories. The truth was, the committee would meet. Not now, not perhaps for twenty years; but it would meet. “Mitch, let me talk seriously for a moment. Let me tell you what I think is involved, and what Dad had in mind. The problem is not us, it’s the next generation. We simply don’t know what’s going to happen.” He wanted to avoid any mention of Jake Rising. “We all agree that the main objective is to keep the I together, in this family, forever. Now take my own family. Dana, you don’t know what’s going to happen with a girl, who she’s going to marry or ... how she’s going to be. What she’s going to be like, what she believes in or doesn’t believe in.”

  “Dana’s a sweetheart,” Tony said.

  “We’ve got to have a mechanism to pass on control, keep it in the family without dispersing the stock in such a way as to foster, uh—”

  “Instability,” Townsend said.

  “Instability” Charles said. “And that’s the reason for the committee and the reason you’re on it.” It did not harm anything to bend the truth, and he’d managed to conceal his own resentment. The truth was, there was no reason at all for Mitch to be on the committee. He, Charles, was the natural choice. But his father and Townsend had seen fit to ignore logic.

  Mitch nodded. “With girls, you never know.”

  “Well.” Charles’s voice fell a little. ‘Lee wants to send Dana away to school. She wants to send her east.”

  “East?” Mitch said.

  “East”

  “Jesus Christ,” Mitch said.

  “Lee’s got her mind set on it and there’s nothing I can do about it. Anyway, Dana goes east. What happens then? You don’t know.”

  “Damn screwballs,” Mitch said.

  Charles’s voice fell again. “Don’t I know it. But Lee doesn’t like the situation in the schools here. And I guess I can’t blame her. She wants Dana to go to college somewhere and doesn’t believe she can get in, from here. The high school’s barely accredited.”

  “Though it was good enough for all of us,” Mitch said.

  Charles said, “It sure was.”

  “Good enough for—all the kids.” Mitch was staring at his shoes.

  Charles looked at him and could see the sadness coming again. But he had said what he had to say; nothing of importance was concealed now. “Look, Mitch.” Charles went to him and put his arm around Mitch’s shoulders. The older man turned away, trying to hide his tears; next to him, Charles looked very small and years younger. “Mitch, I think it’s entirely appropriate for you to take Dad’s office. It’s what he would’ve wanted and it’s what I want. You move in there tomorrow, lock, stock and barrel ... Let’s have one more drink.”

  “The army,” Mitch began.

  “No,” Charles said.

  “If—”

  “—no, no.” He took his brother’s arm and led him to the liquor cabinet. It had happened when he mentioned Dana’s name and the high school. He knew what Mitch was about to say and he didn’t want to chase that hare again. Late at night, drinking heavily, Mitch believed that if he had reentisted at the outbreak of the Korean War, Frank would have been saved. “Spared.” It was not a belief that Charles or anyone else could shake. Mitch believed it and would always believe it. He believed it for the same reasons that he believed he was responsible for Charles’s success. Charles had always, as he said, had it easy because he’d had protection; he’d always had someone to back him up. First his older brother; next his father. Charles had never had to go it alone.

  Mitch stood quietly to one side while Charles made the drinks. He said, “We’re not going to change anything.” It was part statement, part question.

  Charles shook his head. “No.”

  “The politics remain the same.”

  “Down the line,” Charles said.

  “We have our instructions,” Tony said, smiling.

  “And damned good instructions they are,” Townsend said.

  Charles clinked glasses with Mitch. He said, “To the old man.” The others rose and repeated, “To the old man.” For a moment conversetion was general. Then Mitch turned to his brother. “What about that thing we were talking about on Sunday. That development, the shopping center. Kerrigan—”

  “It’s settled,” Charles said.

  “It’ll go through?”

  “Like a greased pig,” Charles said.

  Mitch turned to Townsend, frowning doubtfully “Dad didn’t think it was such a good idea. What do you think?”

  “I think at the end he was reconciled,” Townsend said softly. “I think he wanted to move ahead.”

  Mitch shook his head. “Dad—”

  “Hell, that’s something else,” Charles said cheerfully. “That’s business. Something else altogether. L
et’s talk for a minute about the newspaper and the policy. The editorial policy. Politics. The serious stuff.” He looked at Mitch. “We’re going to have two damn tough races next year.”

  “You’re sure about the development?” Mitch asked.

  “Yes, for Christ’s sake.” Charles was suddenly weary, tired of Mitch and his damned resentment. Tired of Townsend and his lawyer’s talk. Tired of talk. Tired of this family, of which he was now the head. But he smiled at Mitch and continued. “Two damn tough races—” He hesitated, trying to remember what they were. Who was running and for which offices. Townsend quickly intervened, naming the races and the probable candidates. They stood there around the liquor cabinet talking county politics, the conversation gradually taken over by Mitch and Elliott Townsend.

  She had stayed back among the coats, out of sight, not moving. She’d heard everything and her heart went out to Mitch Rising. She was shocked hearing his voice; he sounded broken. Because of his bulk and hearty manner she had always thought of him as strong, inside as well as out. This family business, she saw it suddenly as a live thing; a thing with a life of its own, a history and geography independant of the family that owned it. These men sounded to her as if they were dedicating their lives to it, as to an ideal of some kind, marrying it as if it were a woman or a religion. All of them were marrying it but each would receive different pieces of it in return.

  They spoke of her, Dana, as mysterious. They did not know what she would “believe in.” You don’t always know what’s going to happen with a girl. It stunned her and she almost laughed out loud. With joy, not scorn. She had always believed that they knew absolutely; it was a secret they had and would not share. It was an astonishing admission, one her father never would’ve made if he’d known she was listening. But surely he spoke the truth: they really didn’t know. The conversation made that clear. They were frightened of the East Coast, the edge of America, these men of the interior. They really didn’t know what she would or could become. They didn’t know any more than she did. Dana had always believed that they had a kind of superior knowledge, withheld from her as a matter of course; they knew her future in a visceral way and did not choose to reveal it. Therefore she believed her life was foreordained and she fought this knowledge, searching for contrary evidence in the books she read. But not all the evidence was contrary and none of it was conctusive. She assumed she was “in a line” as her brother had been. She leaned against the coats, smiling widely, warm in the tiny vestibule. It was true after all, life could be a series of surprises; it could be shaped, like a painting or a novel. The future suddenly opened before her, a vast and gorgeous country. Dement would always have a claim on her, the place of her birth and the source of her earliest memories; the location of the family and its business, the I. But that was all it had: a claim. It was not a destination, it was a starting place.

  Carefully she opened the door, then slammed it hard. She walked down the hall to the library, rubbing her hands. They were all standing, talking beside the liquor cabinet, a little tight, even Elliott Townsend. She stood in the doorway, looking at them, four older men. Her father motioned her in and put his arm around her waist and kissed her on the cheek. He smelled of whiskey and she wrinkled her nose. She said, Yes, she would have a ginger ale; then to Mitch Rising, Yes, her schoolwork was coming along fine. She had an urge to take out her silver cigarette case but did not.

  Tony said kindly, “I hear you’re going east to school.”

  She nodded. Yes, it looked like it.

  “It’s a great opportunity.” Then, in a low voice, glancing at the others, he added, “And it’s about time.” He looked at her, smiling. “Where is it?”

  Dana was surprised; Tony Rising was not often free with his opinions. She said, “We’re going to look at three or four of them. In Connecticut and ... Massachusetts.” The names sounded foreign to her; she might have been saying “England” or “Italy.”

  “You’re the first one in the family to go away like that,” Tony said. “Except of course for Mitch and his travels were a little different. At the command of the United States government.” Tony walked off then, toward the window.

  “Damned East,” Mitch Rising said.

  She looked at him innocently. “What’s wrong with the East, Uncle Mitch?”

  “Screwballs,” he said. “Damned liberals.”

  Her father said, “Now Mitch.”

  “’S true,” he said.

  Her father looked at her. “We’re, not even sure, definitely, that she’s going yet. You’re sure you want to go?”

  She shrugged; yes and no.

  “You know,” he said quickly, “nothing’s signed and sealed. It’s just in the idea stage—”

  “I’d like to try it,” she said.

  “Well, sure.”

  “If it doesn’t work—”

  “Sure,” he said.

  “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

  “That’s what your mother says,” he said.

  Charles Rising turned away; he would say no more. He did not want to interfere with his wife and would never form, an alliance against her. It was a guiding principle of his life that parents were on one side of the street and children on the other. When that principle was compromised chaos followed. But his expression was anxious and as he backed away from the conversation she felt suddenly sorry for him. It was true, she would change; her father wouldn’t like the change, whatever it was. Any change represented a threat. Her mother did not see it the same way, believing that blood was thicker than any other single thing in life. Her mother did not see it as change, she saw it as improvement. Perhaps she saw Dana as a missionary leading Dement out of the wilderness. In any event, her mother was bound and determined and it was important that Dana not show too much enthusiasm. The talk drifted away from her; they were discussing some political matter. She filled her glass again with ginger ale and stood listening for five minutes. Then she slipped out of the room and ran upstairs. She could hear her mother in the kitchen. She hid the cigarette case among the things on the top shelf of her closet and flopped down on the bed, reaching for the phonograph. In a minute the sound of the blues washed over her. She turned the volume low. Then she picked up Lie Down in Darkness, opening it at the marker. Immediately she felt the damp heat and brilliant colors of the South, and the sharp anticipation of tragedy. Then she was in New York City, burning in the summer’s scarlet heat; Peyton Loftis whirling to her own destruction. Dana was quickly captured by the novel and did not hear the angry voices of the men downstairs. They had resumed the argument.

  September, 1960

  SHE SAID to him, Sometimes on Sundays I went riding with my grandfather.

  My father dropped me off at the old man’s house on Oak Street, and we’d spend an hour with the Chicago Tribune funnies. Tim Tyler’s Luck, the Katzenjammer Kids. My grandfather would put me in his lap, big as a pillow, and then he would read, beginning always with Tim Tyler. The old man smelled of cigars and something else and only later did I understand that the “something else” was brandy, and that was surprising because I’d never seen him drunk. I was told later that he took a pony of brandy every morning before breakfast and it was the death of his wife, my grandmother, but there was nothing she could do about it. It was in that living room reading the funnies after lunch that I heard of the attack on Pearl Harbor and the end of the war in Europe. When my brother Frank was killed we all went instantly to my grandfather’s house; that parlor. I came to believe that all events, wonderful or terrible, found their way to Oak Street, sooner or later.

  After the funnies we would go to the crossing at Blue Lake and watch the trains. Just that, nothing else. The old man sat behind the wheel of his Cadillac smoking a cigar and consulting his pocket watch. Five minutes, he’d say; then four minutes. Then we would open the windows and wait with great expectations. At last we heard the whistle and the ground would begin to rumble. The old man smiled and flicked an ash out the window. I’d
climb into his lap (I was six at this time, the time I am remembering) and we would wait together for the train, a slow freight bound for Chicago. The heavy engine came round the bend, drawing behind it a hundred cars; the most we ever counted was a hundred and sixty-seven cars, the majority carrying coal. The old man waved at the engineer, who would wave back. I remember him saying, “I worked as a sandy dancer for a summer once.” And shaking his head, “Never again.” We’d sit in the car feeling the rumble of the train and it was like putting a vibrator to your entire body, the rails bending under the great wheels. I imagined the goods, coal, furniture, soybeans, fruit, on the way to Chicago; all goods were destined for Chicago as all great events ended in Grandpa’s parlor. Presently the caboose would round the bend, its red lantern swinging from the grill-work, two bored trainmen playing cards inside. We’d wave, the trainmen would wave back, and my grandpa would laugh, “Dana, those are contented men. Pinochle beside a warm stove.” Then he’d fire the engine of the Cadillac and we’d move off toward town, bound for the newspaper. He always had an appointment after lunch on Sunday.

  We’d park in the alley, though there were plenty of places on the street. I remember the slow procession through all the departments, the pressroom, composing, classified advertising, and finally the third floor and the old man’s corner office. He strode through the place like an emperor, proprietorship in every look and gesture. I couldn’t imagine anyone owning the Intelligencer but Amos Rising. Not my own father or my uncles, any of them. He was like Duvalier, President for Life. The old man made his way through the building as if it were his own house, the vestibule here, the parlor there; here a wife, there a son. Finally we were in the office and he would sit in his leather desk chair, feet firmly on the floor. It was a small office. In the corner was a hat rack with a pearl-gray fedora hanging from the topmost arm; I never saw him wear the hat but it was always there. He was waiting for “a man.” When the man came, he said, I should remain where I was. But quiet, very quiet, “still as a mouse.” But if you’re smart, he said to me that day, talking to me as if I were an adult, you’ll listen. Listen hard, you might learn something of value—this last said kindly, accompanied by a pat on the head. Then Grandpa would open his desk drawer, taking from it a memo of some kind; he left the drawer open. I leaned over his shoulder, my arm light and small against his back, and looked into the drawer. Ah, what treasures! Two deputy sheriff’s badges, enough pencils for a school, political buttons, a zillion paper clips, a brass letter opener, a magnifying glass, a wristwatch, two cigarette lighters, a stale cigar, a bottle of aspirin, a key ring with a dozen heavy keys, a beer-bottle opener, paperweights, metal rulers, a tiny Bible, faded photographs—what else?—a. pair of eyeglasses with one lens missing, rubber bands, a gold coin, a line of type—and at the rear of the drawer, a revolver. Chrome-ptated, it was a snub-nosed .32 Smith & Wesson, hammerless, loaded. Beside it was a small box of cartridges, unspeakably lethal in appearance; a small box, tightly packed with heavy slugs. My hand moved to the rear of the drawer, drawn to the gun like a fly to a fire; I think it was the surprise. The surprise of seeing it there. I could feel his eyes on me, could feel the grin even before it came, and felt finally the small pressure on my arm. Then my grandfather’s big hairy hand reaching beyond my own, bringing the revolver from its place, expertly breaking the breech and emptying the bullets, then handing it to me, watching me while I took it awkwardly in my small hands, turning it, looking at it, then pointing it into the drawer, as if there were an enemy there, hiding among the pencils and paper clips and files. I remember him saying, “That’s right, Dana. Never point a gun at anyone, even in fun.” I had the gun in both hands, it was so slippery and hard to hold. I wondered—why? Why this gun in the drawer? But I never asked him. It was wonderful having the gun as a mystery, a secret shared between us. (And I knew I was one up on my brother, the old man’s supposed favorite.) It was another legend to spin around this old man, a man who kept a revolver in his desk drawer. I suppose just the way I held the thing, looking at it as if it were a talisman, he knew I’d never say anything about it. Even then at the age of six I loved him for his trust. My grandfather never needed to warn, This is our secret. They were all our secrets. No one would ever know about the revolver and the box of shells. (You’re the first person I ever told about it; you’re in on the secret now.) God knows what my mother would’ve thought if she’d known. I’d try to guess what would make him use the revolver, and decided that it could only be a threat to the newspaper. To the newspaper or to himself, either way the same thing; the same threat. That time I remember hearing a noise downstairs in the building and the old man quietly closing the drawer and telling me to go sit down quietly and listen. He closed. the drawer, the treasure sliding slowly out of sight. He winked at me as he closed and locked the drawer.