A Family Trust

by Ward Just

  Charles nodded, thinking. A truly lovely old man. He’d known him since the first year of his life, loyal as a parent and strong as pig iron. He said patiently, “Elliott, we can’t afford sentiment. It interferes with the hard thinking we’ve got to do. I understand what you say and I agree with it. And I would act on it if it were possible to do so. But it isn’t. And the important thing is that the paper ... survive. Survive as we have known it. We have put too much into it for too long to see it ... pissed away Which it will do if the management is not competent.” The younger man turned away briefly, gathering his thoughts. “I’d rather see the I go to an outsider and survive than to see it stay in the family and... piss away through inattention or damn foolishness.”

  Townsend said, “Give me a minute to think.” The old lawyer had never thought of the newspaper as a thing apart from the family that owned it. It was theirs, as much a part of them as their physical characteristics. If it were owned by others it would cease to be the Intelligencer. It would be something else. It would be as if Amos Rising never existed. The old man was fully alert now, as alert as he had been in a year. He felt he was fighting for his own life. “What about Dana?”

  “I said it,” Charles said. “Dana’s different from. us.”

  “In what way? Specifically?” He thought he would pursue it as a lawyer. For the moment he would be careful and dispassionate. He would ask questions to which he already knew the answers, like any good lawyer. He would try to understand as much of Charles’s point of view as he could. Then he would find a way out. “We must look beyond the third,” he said.

  Charles looked up. “The third what?”

  “The third generation. Look to Dana’s children.”

  “There’s only one. She only had one before that son of a bitch—”

  “The father.”

  “Low-life,” Charles said. “She’s only nine and her name is not Rising, if that’s what’s so goddamned important—” He stopped short, and put his hands out. “Forgive me, Elliott. I hate that son of a bitch so. Hated him from the moment I saw him and hated him more when he left Dana. Not that it matters, what I think. Dana apparently doesn’t hate him, or didn’t the last time I asked her. About four years ago. He isn’t one of the subjects we discuss a whole lot.”

  “A girl,” Elliott said.

  “Nine years old,” Charles said.

  “She could have more.”

  Charles said, “She’s thirty-six.”

  “The same reasoning would apply to Jake,” he said carefully. It was not a subject he cared to pursue but it bought time. “Three children, doesn’t he?”

  “Come on, Elliott.”

  The old man grunted. “Maybe he’ll change,”

  “He’s forty years old. Look, He hates my guts. Yours, too, to be blunt about it. I’m not dealing with him. The hell with it. Chosen to break up your partnership and go on his own. So he sits down there at Mason’s and takes potshots at you, at me, it the I. No. It isn’t going to work and you know it isn’t going to work.”

  “Dana,” Townsend said. “She’s your daughter. Your father’s granddaughter. She has the blood, that’s what counts. When the chips are down, she’s with you, A Rising, a member of the family She wouldn’t let you down, I know that.”

  Charles shook his head. “Elliott, she’s a girl. A young woman, I guess I should say. Doesn’t know anything about the I and doesn’t care anything about it. She has her own life, has had it for damn near twenty years. I could as easily hand the paper over to your secretary.”

  “I like Dana,” he said.

  Charles smiled. “She was a good girl. An angel.”

  “Able,” Townsend said.

  “I don’t know about that,” Charles said.

  “Deserves a chance, Charles,” The old man leaned forward, suddenly enthusiastic. “Absolutely. You had your chance.” Certailly. That was it. The lawyer was on firmer ground now. He understood what had to be done. “You had your chance, now she deserves hers. You’ve got good people down there at the newspaper, you’ve got friends in the business. The details she can learn. Anybody can learn details. The blood. The blood, Charles! The blood will take care of the rest.”

  Charles shook his head. How could he explain it to the old man? “I’m not sure, Elliott, that I’ve made myself completely dear. Site doesn’t want it. She—”

  “Have you asked her?”

  “Some things you don’t have to ask.”

  “I’d ask,” he said.

  “Elliott, Do you know what she’s doing? Where she is? She is with her daughter and another man living abroad. She is living in Ireland, has been for the past six weeks. That’s where she is. When Lee—got sick this morning. Last night. I had to send a cable to Dana. I telephoned but there was no answer. She is living in a place where I have to send a cable—” He realized he was almost shouting. “Please,” he said. “Understand it. Understand this. Dana is way away from all of us. She doesn’t want the I. Doesn’t want anything to do with it.”

  “That’s screwball,” Townsend said. “It—” Suddenly he lost his way; what were they talking about? Was it Amos? No, it was the I, its character and responsibility ... He heard Charles say his name and abruptly his mind cleared. On impulse he reached for his drink. “Screwball,” he said. “If she doesn’t want the I, what does she want?”

  “I don’t know, Elliott.”

  “There are people who could help her—”

  “I’m damned if I’ll give it to her,” he said thickly.

  “Wait a minute, Charles.”

  “I’m goddamned if I will, not that she wants it anyway Not that she would ever have the slightest thing to do with Dement.”

  “Now you’re saying something else.”

  Charles stood and walked to the bookcase and peered at the burgonet. He had a very brief memory of an afternoon in the Field Museum, suits of armor and mummies; his nose pressed against the glass of the mummy case. He and Mitch moving through the huge room, he remembered marble walls and lofty ceilings. A nice afternoon, and then the long drive back to Dement, arriving late. His father bundling them quickly off to bed, then sitting in the parlor with Elliott, their voices rumbling. It was Elliott who came up to kiss them good night, accepting their thanks with a smile and a pat on the head ... He moved to the window and put a fingernail on the glass, the tremor in his hand making a tickatackaticka sound. It was entirely dark now and he stood in shadows by the window, his face partly obscured by the lace curtain, his hands plunged deep in his pants pockets. On the way back to Dement from Chicago they had sung, “Row Your Boat” and other rounds, and stopped for dinner somewhere this side of Aurora. When he spoke his voice came from the darkness. “She’s never done a damned thing to earn it. Shit.” Then he wheeled around, facing the old lawyer, his words coming quietly and coldly. “The crap I had to take off Dad. It was only for the sake of my mother, I would’ve packed up.” He paused. “He was always amused, ‘Charles and his numbers.’ When I reorganized the company he thought it was some kind of legerdemain. Some sleight of hand, a minor talent. The balance sheet. Oh, that, he’d say as if it were a turd. He never thought it was serious except that it saved the Intelligencer, but he never understood that either. I’m sixty-three years old and I still remember it. I remember it like it was yesterday.”

  “Charles, wait a minute.”

  “There aren’t any silver platters in this world.” Then, “There was only one way to do it. He needed me, or said he did, so I ... honored that. It was the way things worked then. Apparently they don’t work that way anymore.”

  The old man was steady, listening as carefully as he could. He did not entirely understand the last statement, or the one before it. He felt that he was facing a compass swinging on its axis; he wanted to freeze the needle, to face in only one direction at a time. He said, “Yes, but—”

  “If you could help, you helped. No question. Tradition, you helped your father as repayment. I suppose it was repayment f
or his being your father. It was a debt that had to be settled.”

  “But.” Townsend was confused. “But you didn’t—”

  “Of course I did. For Christ’s sake, Elliott. You were the one who came down to get me. You remember that? I’m sitting in class and the door opens and you’re there. I walk out, close the notebook; we get in your car and we drive back to Dement. We didn’t say a word, as I recall. But I can remember sitting in that seat and looking around and seeing you there. Collecting my notes and leaving, the damned classroom silent as a desert.”

  Townsend nodded slowly. Yes, it was true; he’d somehow managed to forget. It was the most awkward thing he’d done in his life, and he had pushed the memory away out of sight. “It was a hard thing for me to do. I told your father that he ought to do it himself, It was his responsibility to do it, not mine. He said, ‘No. You do it.’ So I did. What was the class?”

  “Torts. Never forgot that. Second week of classes, and that was that. I’d talked my way into that place, it doesn’t even exist anymore. Hell, I don’t even know if it was certified. I guess it was. But there wasn’t any looking back. ‘Your dad needs you now. I’ve come to take you back to Dement.’ I didn’t believe it could happen. I hadn’t ex-petted it. I had two brothers, they were there; Mitch was working, Tony was working. But that wasn’t enough for him. I had to be there, too. Be perfectly honest. I suppose I was flattered a little. Dad didn’t give out a whole lot of compliments. Flattered and frightened. Frightened of what he would do if I’d refused.” Charles looked at the old man, his face still in shadows. But Townsend could feel the slight smile. “So that was the end of that particular ambition. I had an idea that I’d apprentice myself to you, after law school. Townsend and Rising, that was how I saw the firm. I saw you becoming a judge and I saw myself—running things. Well.” He shrugged. “I do run things, but not from a law office. From a publisher’s office, maybe it’s the same thing. What the hell, maybe it’s all the same.”

  “I never knew that,” Townsend said.

  “Well, that was the way it was.”

  “It meant a lot to your dad—”

  “So Jake did what I wanted to dog,” Charles said. “Went to law school and joined your firm. And I was happy as hell to see it, to tell you the truth; I wasn’t eager to have Jake around the plant. I was happy to see him hook up with you and I was happy to see him foul it up. The opportunity you gave him. I was happy both ways.” He was unconsciously rubbing the small of his back, bending forward slightly. Then he took a small vial from his pocket and opened it and placed two tablets on his tongue and washed them down with whiskey. “Let me tell you, there isn’t anything worse than having a legend for a father. Living or dead, he’s still a legend and something that’s with you all your life. I watched him die. He died but the shadow didn’t die. The shadow won’t die until I do and then it’ll die for good. I’ve learned to live with it. That took some time and some doing and now that I’ve made room for it—” He turned away. “You know, Lee couldn’t speak last night. She could barely nod. I’d like to’ve taken a gun and shot us both—”

  “Charles!”

  “The truth,” he said. He was still rubbing his back.

  “Are you in pain?” the old man asked gently.

  “No,” he said. Then, “You’re damned right I’m in pain. But it’ll pass in a moment, when the pills take effect.”

  “Well, sit down then.”

  “Doesn’t help the pain.” There was silence between them. Mrs. Haines had apparently gone to her room, for there were no more noises from the kitchen. It was night now and from the street he could hear a car’s horn and a squeal of brakes. Teenagers, drag racing. Charles sipped his whiskey and looked at the older man. “So let’s get back to business.”

  “Charles, you were the pride of his life. I can attest to that. It’s something I know.”

  “No, I wasn’t.” He sat down, cradling the whiskey up against his stomach. “The I was the pride of his life, always. As it is the pride of mine, for different reasons. I’ve used it in different ways, and I suppose it’s used me in different ways. But I love it. I love it as much as he did...”

  Townsend could feel himself slipping again, overwhelmed by memory. He remembered a time, many years ago, when he had moved Amos to the back shop. The makeup man was gone that day and. Amos was working the stone, laying type himself. He remembered the care with which he lifted the long metal trays of type, laying them carefully to one side, then returning portions to the stone. He was laying out the editorial page, one eye on the clock, the other on the stone. He worked from the top down, the masthead, and the editorials flush left under the masthead. Solemn black stacks of type, a rule between each column and the next. His fingers worked faster as press time drew near. His fingers caressed the type as if it were skin; the skin of the newspaper. When it came to the letters to the editor he slowed, measuring with his eye. Begin with a short letter, follow with a long one, a long and a short, two longs, ending with a short. There was never a shortage of letters to the editor. He’d step back from it, like a painter examining a canvas, and smile slightly, wiping his hands on a rag near at hand. Their he’d make a change and step back again. “Pretty page,” he’d mutter, patting it, then taking the wood block and with sudden violence banging the type into place. Townsend thought Amos Rising’s fingers worked as delicately as any surgeon’s. Then, reading the reversed type right to left, he scanned the entire page, ordered a proof, and moved away from the stone, arms folded, a big cigar in his teeth, standing still as a statue, waiting for the proof that would confirm his own hasty scrutiny. The stereotypers were waiting impatiently but the old man would not be hurried and no one dared interfere. Finally the pressroom foreman approached him. “We’re three minutes late,” he said bluntly. Amos looked at him and smiled. “Soon’s the proof gets here you can run.” The foreman said, “It’s your money” And Amos just laughed. The page proof arrived and he stood reading it, his bright eyes dancing along the lines of type. Satisfied, he turned to the foreman, standing easily to one side. “Go,” he said, and presently the floor began to tremble from the vibration of the Goss. Watching Amos with the I was like watching a stonecutter with a gem. He said once, “Paper ought to look pretty. Clean and uncluttered and above all regular. Orderly, Nervous papers aren’t reliable. They naturally reflect the editor and nervous editors aren’t reliable.” Townsend shook his head and returned again to the present. He said, “You wouldn’t sell it.”

  Charles said, “It would be hard.”

  “You couldn’t do it.”

  “I could, he said.

  “I remember Amos talking about Dana,” Townsend said.

  “Elliott,” Charles said.

  “—Amos had faith in her, he believed she had the stuff—” He looked at the younger man and stopped talking. They had already discussed Dana; that subject was closed. He’d skipped time again. “Charles,” he said. “Fill that drink for me. I’m sorry, I wandered. You’ve got to forgive me that. I’m all right now.” He watched Charles smile and turn to the cabinet. The image of his old friend beading over the stone was still with him. Amos loved. The I was a living thing and he loved it with passion; it was his ... He accepted the glass from Charles and consciously straightened himself in the chair. He took a long swallow, the drink burning its way to his stomach; he coughed and opened his eyes wide. Fatigue moved up his legs and he held himself rigid, trying to hold it back.

  “All right,” Townsend said. “What do you propose.”

  “We sell.”

  “Who?”

  “Dows,” Charles said.

  “There have- been inquiries?”

  “There have. It is a property that any publisher would want. The I is a Class A property.”

  “Price?”

  “Complicated, but it would work out well. Cash and an exchange of stock. More cash than stock. They would want me to stay on, but I wouldn’t.”

  The words came with difficulty; he
could concentrate on only one thing at a time. “Why not?”

  “When it goes, it goes. No strings, and no loose ends. I’m not dancing to any tune Harold Dows plays. I’m too old to play window mannequin.”

  “Mn,” Townsend said. “You talked about it with Tony.”

  “No.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter.”

  “Dows is offering the best price. Berlin and McLean are similar to Dement. Similar size, similar outlook. Of course there have been other offers, always are. We could get more money from the chains. But I don’t like chains.”

  “Harold Dows is not our kind of man.”

  “No, he isn’t. He certainly is not. But his boy is all right and they run a dean operation. I have some confidence in the boy. Most of Harold’s time is spent in Florida, he’s chairman and his boy is president. Junior does most of the work and makes the major decisions.”

  “I see.” The old man sighed as if it were his last breath. Perhaps by loving her so, Amos had worn her out. No doubt that was it. When he was finished with her, there was nothing left; there wasn’t enough nourishment for any man who came after. He’d loved her to death.

  “Young Dows wants to come up here, have a talk—”

  “Go ahead,” Townsend said.

  “You mean, commence negotiations.”

  “Yes, as far as I’m concerned.”

  Charles reached over and touched the old man on the knee. “Elliott, I’m sorry.”

  Townsend said nothing; he was moving in and out of sleep now. He raised his hand in a kind of farewell and his eves blurred. Then all the mist went away and he saw Charles put his drink on the sideboard and move quietly to the kitchen door and say something to Mars. Haines. Then he looked back but Townsend had closed his eyes. When he heard him in the hall, talking to Mrs. Haines, he let the tears go. He opened his eyes and let them slide down his cheeks, making no sound or movement to signal that he was alive and grieving.