A Family Trust

by Ward Just

  “Well, he’s not anything. Not anything at all. He’s very young, wasn’t born here, hasn’t lived here but five years. He’s just someone they’ve got to file, to fill out their slate, and he figures if he makes a name for himself it’ll help his law practice. That’s all. See, that’s what they’re basing his campaign on. He’s a lawyer, as if that had anything to do with being a competent sheriff. He doesn’t know Dement, my God can you imagine what that gang would do if they had the sheriff’s department. And of course with Red and his troubles—”

  “Is Eurich in this anywhere?”

  She looked away. “No, Elliott.”

  “That’s odd, a matter of this kind...” He felt himself slipping away for good now.

  “Well, Elliott ...” Did she want to say anything? Bill Eurich had not been much in Dement for three years. He’d moved on to a town farther west; had taken his profits and his connections and was now busy in another small midwestern town, and in the states of Arizona and Florida. His offices remained in numerous midwestern cities. He’d retained his interest in one or two investments in Dement, and of course his memberships on the boards of directors of the bank and the newspaper, but was seldom seen. He’d moved on—like a summer drought, she thought, leaving the land dead and dry, and a dozen very rich men in control of it. He’d promised to make money for his partners and had kept the promise. She couldn’t remember exactly where he was now; it was a small, promising town, a more remote Dement near the state line. But he was no longer concerned with Dement politics. She said gently “Yes, it is odd.”

  “He’s usually very much involved.”

  “Yes, one way or another.” She said, “Well, Elliott. I’m sorry. I’ve stayed too long.” He looked wretched now, his long face thin and drawn and white as paper.

  He held up his hand. “I’ll call Charles... tomorrow.”

  “Only if you want to.”

  He smiled. “Want to.” He closed his eyes, and when he next spoke the words were badly slurred. “When we fish visting ... I’ll call you.”

  He was almost asleep and did not hear her reply. But he felt her dry lips on his cheek and the pressure of her hand on his. His mind was still alert but he could not control the fatigue, and was asleep before she left the room.

  In the event, he did not have to call Charles Rising. Charles called him. He had been too long a lawyer to let on that he knew the subject at hand. Charles merely reported that he had something of importance to discuss. Townsend said he would be delighted to have a drink with Charles the next day.

  The younger man was late, and the old lawyer was sipping his drink and conserving energy. He had taken a bit of cheese and found it hard and cold, refrigerated too long. He tried to relax as thoroughly as he could, sipping whiskey slowly. But he was nicely excited, back in the game now, advising Rising; his special mission. He believed he was not meant to sit idly by on the sidelines; he’d been close to the center too long. He believed himself the last formal link to the past, though half of him was below ground; but still, his memory connected to the frontier. His origins wound back to the town’s earliest beginnings. He’d been rehearsing a little speech, much as he used to rehearse summations to the jury, though he had not been in a courtroom for ten years. His counsel was most effective behind the scenes, always had been...

  “Elliott.”

  He opened his eyes to see Charles striding toward him, limping slightly. He had not seen him in a month and he looked tired, his face heavy and blurred. “Charlie,” he said warmly, extending his left hand. The younger man pulled up a chair and eased himself into it slowly. Mrs. Haines came to the door and smiled benignly. Charles turned. and they exchanged greetings. Then she went away.

  Charles helped himself to a drink, heavy on the ice, heavy on the Scotch. He sipped it, satisfied, and looked at the old man. “You’re looking good.”

  “Feel good. Feel better than I have in some time.”

  Charles glanced at the door. “Is she giving you any trouble?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle,” Townsend said.

  Charles laughed. “Seriously—”

  “Nothing I want that I don’t have,” Townsend said. “Except maybe ten more years.”

  “You’ll have them. You’re too damn tough and mean—”

  Townsend snorted. “Well, my head’s dear anyway.”

  “More than I can say,” Charles said. “Well, what do you know?”

  “Not a hell of a lot,” Townsend said. They had opened conversetions in that way for thirty years.

  “What’s happening politically?” The next question, inevitably.

  Townsend looked at him. That was the opening, all right, except something was missing in Charles’s tone. He said, “I understand there are troubles with Callahan’s boy.”

  Charles Rising sipped and nodded. “I heard something about it the other day. Some of the boys in the courthouse are worried, they think the Democrat—what’s his name?” Townsend said, Stone. “Stone. They think that Stone may beat him. I don’t believe it myself. Hell, Red Callahan’s unbeatable in this county. Related to half of it.”

  “My information is that Red hasn’t been a model of deportment.”

  Charles smiled. “Since when have we had a sheriff who was?”

  “Stone’s a lawyer.”

  “As bad as that?”

  “Maybe worse.”

  “I’m kidding,” Charles said. “I suppose. I suppose you’ve heard that the I isn’t doing all it should. That we’re giving a tree ride to the Democrats.”

  “I have heard something along that line.”

  “Christ,” Charles said. He shook his head in a gesture of contempt. For a moment Charles Rising was the shadow of his father; the old lawyer had to blink to clear the memory. “You know what that is, Elliott? They want me to do their work for them. They think it’s the I’s mission to keep them in office. Jesus! They are a collection of the laziest, most bone-idle—” The shadow passed and he was Charles again.

  “It was Marge who came to see me.”

  “Well, Marge is all right.”

  “More than all right, Charles. She’s the greatest friend your family ever had.”

  “I like Marge.”

  “Well, it’s Marge that’s worried.”

  “What does she want?” he asked slowly.

  There was a weariness and caution in Charles’s tone that disappointed Townsend. He had never used that tone in speaking of Marge Reilly; Marge was one of those who went way back. Townsend looked away, out the window, trying to compose his thoughts. “They’re worried and they’ve got reason to be worried. They think you’re tilting to the other side. They think this is ... not deliberate. They think you’ve been so busy with other things that you haven’t noticed what that new editor and the others are doing with the newspaper.” As dispassionately as he could, Townsend sketched in the facts about Red Callahan. His father and his wife’s illness, the difficulties with the children, and of course the other thing ... As he talked he watched the afternoon sun fall behind the cornfield, the field now a brilliant yellow. Twenty years now since the last cornroast, and suddenly the backyard was alive with old friends. Amos, Tilberg, Steppe, Marge Reilly, all the others, the corn dripping with butter, beer sloshing over the lips of paper cups, loud talk, laughter, he and Amos moving from group to group, a handshake, a reassuring arm around the shoulder. The autumn colors faded and became blurred; the leaves stirred in the autumn air. He talked on, his voice solemn, describing things as they had been. He was speaking now of tradition. But Charles wasn’t listening; his eyes were glazed and turned inward. He looked as if he were alone in the room, leaning forward, both hands cupped around the glass. The old lawyer stopped talking, simply ceased at the end of his seentence, and returned immediately to the present moment. There was complete silence and then other sounds came into focus, Mrs. Haines moving around in the kitchen, the clink of a plate, the heavy ticking of the old clock on the mantle.

  Charles
nodded and rubbed the edge of his highball glass up and down his cheek. His mouth was shaped in a peculiar half-smile. “Well,” he said. Townsend did not reply and suddenly he felt afraid, he wished then that he could terminate the interview, send Charles away with a pat on the back and fresh instructions and a promise to meet again next week. He had seen distress too often at a distance in the courtroom not to recognize it when it was three feet away in his own parlor. “Well, well,” Charles said again. He had heard every word the lawyer had said and none of it was of any interest to him.

  “I guess you’ve got something else on your mind,” Townsend said. He felt foolish, misunderstanding the situation. He did not often do that.

  “I guess I have,” Charles said.

  “And it doesn’t have anything to do with politics.”

  “No, not too much.”

  “Make me a drink and tell me about it.”

  Charles Rising took the glass and slowly dumped two cubes of ice in it, neglecting the tongs, and absentmindedly filled it to the brim with whiskey. Then he saw what he’d done and poured part of the liquor back into his own glass. His right hand trembled slightly and he moved to shield his hands from the man in the chair. “We’ve got to talk about the I now,” be said. The old lawyer looked at him, puzzled; that was what he had been talking about, the I, its character and responsibility, and obligations to the community. “We’ve got to begin the process of succession.” He looked at Townsend and added, “Who follows men.” Townsend peered more closely at the younger man; it was plain he was holding on with difficulty. He felt a stab of irritation, then brushed it aside. Charles walked to the window and looked out. Dusk was falling quickly. “This time we’ve got to act.”

  “It’s necessary to do this now,” Townsend said. It was half statement, half question. They’d talked about “the succession” for almost twenty years, never to any satisfactory result. They’d talked about it in 1965, the year Mitch died, and again three years later when Lee had a stroke. No solution had presented itself and the meetings always ended in frustration. But Townsend was feeling his way now.

  “Yes,” Charles said. He coughed and looked away. “I took Lee to the hospital yesterday. Another stroke, a bad one.” His eyes began to tear and with his free hand he wiped them dry. “There isn’t anything they can do.”

  “My boy,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “This thing has washed me out.”

  “Charles.” He reached for Charles’s hand, caught it, and held on. He could feel Charles’s hand shake. His whole body seemed to be trembling. He felt the core of Charles’s body move uncontrollably. He looked at the son and saw the father. The set of the shoulders and the nose were identical. He was watching Amos fifty years ago. But now the face was worn and there already seemed an ominous pallor to it. He gave the younger man’s hand another squeeze.

  “But I’m not here to talk about that,” Charles said. “I’m not in a mood to talk medical details, hers or mine either.” Townsend nodded sympathetically, but a single phrase repeated itself in his mind. He’s only sixty-three,the youngestson of my oldest friend. At sixty-three Amos Rising had been at the pinnacle of his life. Charles looked up suddenly and smiled. “Actually, I told them to spare me the details. What’s the good of knowing them if you can’t fix them?” He sighed and took a long swallow of his drink. He was still looking out the window. “Funny, I’ve felt it for some time. Lee didn’t actually change but I could sense—” He paused. “Something.”

  “Charles—”

  “We don’t seem to be a long-lived family,” he said. “Maybe Dad used up all the longevity genes. Didn’t pass any on to Mitch or me. Frank, now Lee. Me soon, for sure. Maybe Tony got some, but then Tony’s been retired since 1935.” He laughed quietly and put his drink on the coffee table. “Even this stuff doesn’t taste as good as it used to.”

  “You’re young—”

  He smiled at the old man. “From your mountaintop, sure. Not from mine. No, I can feel it.” The old man began to sputter. “Truly, Elliott. I can feel it. I’m tired, I feel I’ve got one last thing to do, and that’s to provide for the I. I’ve done my best for Lee and the—others. That’s what I’m here for.” Then he added, barely audibly, “And that’s what I’ve always been here for.”

  “Charles,” Townsend said. “Charles, men pick up and go on. Life goes on—”

  He lifted his chin slightly. “Why?”

  Why? Elliott Townsend had clung to life for so long, had fought for it as he had fought for everything he had, that he did not understand the question and had no answer to it. He thought. Because that is what you do. You fight like hell because if you don’t it’ll be taken away from you. Anything can be taken away if you don’t fight. But looking at the younger man he, too, knew that something was wrong. He knew that Charles spoke the truth. He said tamely, “For yourself, your family—”

  “Well, there aren’t many left, are there?”

  Townsend did not want to get into that; they would get nowhere. pawing over the past. He began, “You—”

  Charles said, “I feel it. I’m drained, washed out by everything. I can feel it in my system, there’s an imbalance of some kind. it’s as if some part of my body has been starved and is dying, I don’t have the resources anymore. My account’s dry.” He picked up his glass and jiggled the ice in it. “I don’t have the will. There’s something wrong that oughtn’t to he wrong and I don’t have the stuff to fight it. I fell asleep sitting in Lee’s room at the hospital last night. I couldn’t fight sleep. I’ve given part of what I have to her and the rest goes to the I. And there won’t be anything left over.”

  In the silence that followed, Townsend felt confounded. But when he looked at Charles he knew that at least part of what he said was true. But if he felt that his family had slipped away from him, there was still the I to be served. The I existed now as always, as much a part of the Rising family as any living member. “The I has been your life,” he said.

  “Exactly, Elliott.” Charles’s voice held a note of triumph. “Exactly right. That’s what we must put our minds to now. We cannot leave it in limbo. We are going to set it up in such a way that it’ll survive forever, and I’ll tell you now that it’s not going to be easy But we’ll work at it all this week if we have to because we’ve got to establish the line of succession. You’re the only one I can talk to about it. I want us to have our minds made up and then we’ll go to Marge and ratify what we’ve decided, as per”—he smiled—“that codicil that has worked so well for so many years. So it’s just you and me. Trying to figure out how to save the newspaper. That’s the important thing, isn’t it?”

  “It is. Definitely.”

  “And we both know that there’s only one way to go.”

  “Wrong approach,” the old man said. “There’s never just one way There’s always a better way but never just one way. We’ll find there are several ways. Two come to mind immediately. Either you transfer to Tony or you transfer to Dana. Transfer to Tony and it means transferring to Jake. Transfer to Dana and it means—you’ll have to tell me what that means,” The speech took something out of him and the old man pushed back into his chair. He had not seen Dana in two years. He knew there was a strain between her and her father but did not know the details. He knew that Charles had tried to persuade Dana to return permanently to Dement when Lee had her first stroke and that Dana refused. She stayed six weeks, and then returned to wherever she was living. Townsend had forgotten where.

  Charles took the chair directly across from Townsend. “Dana isn’t like the rest of us. And she has her own life. Which of course she is entitled to. And she wouldn’t know what to do with the if she had it, which she won’t.” His voice was harsh and he looked away, then back at Townsend. “Tony isn’t suitable either, for all the reasons we know so well. Hell, he isn’t here half the time. And Jake isn’t either. Is he?”

  Townsend shook his head sadly. A great disappointment. He had tried to guide the boy
, giving him the benefit of more than fifty years at the practice of law. There were just the two of them and he had been generous in the distribution of profits, more than generous ... But the partnership had not worked and after five years Jake had left He had his own practice now and was doing extremely well, active in the Bar Association. But he was on the other side of the fence politecally, and in other ways.

  “As I said,” Charles said, “one way to go.”

  It seemed to Townsend that they were stymiyed now as they had been stymied for twenty years, though in the beginning Jake was a likely candidate. He said nothing, waiting for Charles to speak. sell the I”

  “Sell the I?” Townsend was horrified. “The I can’t be sold. It’s not for sale, it’s never been for sale. It’s intolerable.” His voice trailed away into a rumble. “I won’t have it,” he said. “It can’t be sold.”

  “Of course it can,” Charles said harshly “It’s a piece of property, like any other. A house or a car or a block of stock, or any other thing.”

  “No,” Townsend said.

  “All right,” Charles said, more softly not “Of course it’s something more. It’s a good deal more than a piece of property But we can’t blind ourselves, either.” He leaned over and touched the old man on the knee. “We don’t have any other way to go. There isn’t any other solution.”

  “Dana—”

  “—is a young girl. Who does not live here. She has chosen her own life. And if she hadn’t.” Charles paused; it was a possibility he considered often, to no satisfactory conclusion. “It wouldn’t make any difference, not really. The only thing to commend Dana is that she’s a Rising. Supposedly. She has the name, anyway Or did.”

  “It means a lot,” Townsend said.

  “Used to,” Charles said.

  The old lawyer looked at him. Used to? What did he mean, “used to”? It always had, always would. It was inconceivable to him. that Charles Rising could even consider selling the I. He could not imagine Dement controlled by outsiders, its history written by others. Dement was not a colony, it stood on its own; its principles were its own. For eighty years the Risings had been synonymous with the town. He said, “I could not be a party to a sale. It would break my heart. I tell you that honestly.”