The Rebellion of Yale Marratt

by Robert H. Rimmer

  "What doesn't bore him?" Pat asked with disgust. "The two summers that I've had him down to the plant, he acted as if I were infringing on his valuable time." Pat shrugged his shoulders. He pushed one hand through his thick, grey-black hair. "It's a screwball world. I've worked and sweated to create a business worth at least twenty million dollars, and what happens? I end up with a daughter who, if I let her alone, could blow every cent I've accumulated in a couple of years, and a son who would prefer to starve to death trying to write poetry, or figure out some crazy philosophy in a cold water flat in Greenwich Village. Of course, he wouldn't mind if I supported him in the meanwhile . . . just so long as I let him alone."

  "But you won't let him alone, will you, Pat?" Liz worried about Pat's unceasing drive toward perfection. Patrick Marratt believed that he could pound and shape his environment to reflect his own image. Liz sighed. So far, with the notable exception of Yale, he had succeeded.

  "Damned right, I won't let him alone," Pat said. "Someday, Yale Marratt will thank God that he has a father like me. Every kid goes through this wishy-washy phase. Our 'friend' in the White House with his pseudo-intellectual braintrusters has given these radical ideas a lot of glamour. Because we are in a depression it is smart to figure that capitalism is done. It frightens hell out of me, Liz . . . to think what some of the stupid asses who are running the country today would do, if there weren't a few Republicans left to restrain them." Pat swung into a filling station. "There's your rest room. Hurry up. I want to get home by five and play a few holes. We can eat at the Club."

  He watched Liz walk toward the ladies' room at the rear of the station, pleasured with the shapely wiggle of her behind. A pretty good figure, he thought, for a woman in her late forties. Compared with some of the mothers to whom he had been introduced today with their matronly bosoms hanging down to their bellies, Liz looked like a young girl. It had been some time, Pat reflected, since he and Liz had mingled with such an assortment of Connecticut blue-bloods. Stacked up against the tweedy looking men and overstuffed women that they had met this morning, Pat felt that he, as well as Liz, came out well on top.

  At least five men that morning had recognized Pat immediately. "Oh . . . Marratt? You must be the Marratt Corporation down in Midhaven." When Pat admitted that he was, he noticed (and he couldn't help grinning) their heightened interest. He guessed that they had read the write-up about him in Fortune magazine, or had examined his Dun and Bradstreet rating. In the past several years men like these had approached him with plans for selling his stock. "You are ready for the American Exchange at least, Pat," they told him. "Spread the stock around. Cash in while the going is good."

  The men who came to him came with a banker's knowledge of a good thing. The Marratt Corporation was a good thing, Pat thought, and he controlled eighty percent of its stock. None of these sideline spectators . . . these stock jugglers, would get it. Someday it would be an even better thing. Come hell or high water, Yale Marratt, his son, would be a part of that future.

  Sitting in a hard wooden chair under newly budded elms, Pat had watched Yale receive his diploma. It should have been a special day. A day that would be remembered not only by his parents, but by Yale as well. But, it hadn't been that kind of day. Pat and Liz had arrived just after lunch. They found Yale, alone in his room, reading. He acted as if they weren't expected, as if his own graduation were an unpleasant interruption to whatever was preoccupying his mind.

  Pat had looked out the windows of Yale's room, across the rolling green lawns that flanked the dormitories and classrooms of Buxton Academy. Liz was putting the finishing touches to Yale, checking his tie, adjusting his graduation cap. And Pat remarked, as he had many times before, that this was a damned splendid layout.

  Pat compared this room with its separate study and bedroom shared only by Yale and his roommate, with the linoleum covered kitchen table he had used when he was studying his International Correspondence Courses in Business Administration and Accounting. Here, each boy not only had his own private desk and lounge chair, but they shared their own tiled bathroom. In addition, each room had a fireplace that actually worked.

  Pat had done his studying nights, after an eight or nine hour day as a pipefltter at Latham Shipyards. Some different was this life. Here a man could study in solid comfort and then go to bed for a good night's rest without the worry of getting up at five thirty in a freezing house or having to walk the dark streets of Midhaven shivering with cold as he plodded to work.

  "I didn't make it, Pat," Yale said when they had completed their questions on his health, and how long the actual graduation would take, and whether he would drive home tonight or tomorrow morning with his things. "Princeton turned me down, too. I'm not the college type, I guess."

  Pat's tanned face turned a deep red. He tried to conceal his anger. "Listen to me, son, you are going to college. I don't know what in the devil has gotten into you in the last year or so, but you can just get it out of your head that you are one of these rich man's sons who is going to live on his old man's hard earned dough. I went through the sixth grade. My advanced education was the school of hard knocks. My father was an Irish fruit peddler. I've come up from nothing. Nothing, do you hear me?" Pat's voice was hard and vibrant with controlled fury.

  It exasperated him to see Yale flipping the pages of a book, and seemingly only half listening. "You're not of age yet. I've got three years yet to work on you. I'm not buying this stuff about sending you to Europe for a year. You can come down off your cloud and get a grip on yourself."

  Pat looked around the book-littered room. Books were piled high on the window seats, dropped in confusion on the floor and in heaps on top of Yale's desk. "This is your trouble," he said, waving his hand disgustedly at the books. He picked up a couple of them muttering their titles aloud. "Kant, Santayana, T. S. Eliot. You think I'm ignorant; that I don't know these names, don't you? Well, I know them." Pat slammed the books down on the desk. "They were jerk professors living in a dream world. Two of these fine fellows couldn't even stomach American democracy. They gave up their citizenship. They went to live in Europe because they were such gentlemen. The other one was a German kike."

  Yale stared out the window, a sullen look on his lean face. "Go ahead, sulk. You think I'm a Babbitt, don't you? Well, I'll tell you something, I learned long ago to fight fire with fire. The only way for me was to know more than the next guy. I ploughed through plenty of this type of so-called literature." Pat walked to the door. "You stay here with your Mother while I look up Dean Tracy. Just get it into your head that you're going to college. I'm going to see that you get an education and finish cooking some of your half-baked ideas."

  Pat found Dean Tracy near the gym supervising several workmen who were completing the erection of an outdoor stage. The Dean's expression implied that he was busy now. He would talk to Pat later. Pat ignored it. "I want your advice," he said to the reluctant Tracy. "For the past three years I have donated five thousand dollars a year to this institution. That's pretty good money for times like these. It would seem to me that with this trifling incentive, I should now be pleased to hear that my son had been accepted into one of the better colleges. I understand that you, yourself, have some affiliations with Harvard. That should have made it possible to smooth the way for Yale."

  Dean Tracy, with years of experience in dealing with irate parents, refused to rise to Pat's anger. "Well, I did graduate from Harvard, many, many years ago," he smiled. "But you know how it is with Yale and Harvard." The smile faded from his face when he noted Pat's expression. "Sorry for the pun, Mr. Marratt. But, I don't believe that I ever asked Yale how he came by such an unusual name."

  Pat grumbled something about it being his wife's maiden name. For the second time that day he was reminded of his youth. It seemed an eternity ago. He had finished the International Correspondence courses in Business Administration and had taken a job as assistant accountant in one of the A &P branches. Barbara was three years old. Liz was p
regnant again. "If he is a boy, could we name him Yale?" she asked him. "Dad would be so pleased."

  In those days, Liz's father had been vice-president of the Midhaven National Bank. Since Pat had begun to have visions of the future Marratt Corporation, and would need a loan to get started, the boy was christened Yale Marratt by his grandfather, who was happy to have the family name survive in this fashion.

  "I wish I could help you, Mr. Marratt," Dean Tracy said, fiddling nervously with a pipe that he had taken from the pocket of his tweed jacket. How could he tell this man that in all probability if it hadn't been for Patrick Marratt's donations to Buxton Academy, the faculty would have recommended that Yale not graduate with his class. Either way it was an insult. Marratt had a right to expect that Buxton would have prepared his son for one of the better Eastern colleges.

  "While I have a few connections at Harvard," Tracy admitted, "there is nothing I can do. Yale only passed the College Board examinations in English . . . and that exactly reflects his work at Buxton. This shouldn't be a surprise to you, Mr. Marratt. I have written you several letters. Your son has a brilliant mind. He has probably read more widely than any student we have ever had at Buxton. Unfortunately, whatever he has learned, he could just as well have learned on his own. I believe I have brought this up before with you. Yale does just exactly what he wants to do. When he should have been applying himself to his courses in mathematics and science, we discovered that he had been spending all of his time studying Greek philosophy. That we don't happen to have courses at Buxton in Greek philosophy didn't seem to deter him. That he barely passed Chemistry and Geometry didn't disturb him in the least. I gather from several conversations with him that he has no interest in going to college. To be perfectly frank, Mr. Marratt, I have been unable to reach through to whatever it is that makes Yale tick. It seems to me he might be the type to let go his own way and see what develops. He's a very quiet boy. You've no concern on that score."

  "Listen," Pat fairly snarled, "I may be fairly well off, but I'm not permitting my only son to drift aimlessly through life. This is a tough world. You can get in and fight and develop a hard fibre, or end up the way Yale is heading, a long-haired intellectual. We have enough of them around, now; developing cobwebbed ideas they hope will uproot the system that supports them. Yale is a kid. I expected Buxton Academy would give him direction." Pat shook his finger in the area of Dean Tracy's nose. "Since you can't, or won't, make any effort, all I want from you is the assurance that you won't foul up my plans. I'm not a college man, but from what I have seen of academic circles," Pat sneered, "a few good American dollars properly placed will lubricate the machinery and stop the squeaks."

  In the bright June sunlight Dean Tracy found Pat's intense, staring eyes somewhat uncomfortable. "You may be sure, Mr. Marratt, that Buxton Academy will help you with your son's future in every way possible." He watched Pat walk away and shrugged his shoulders. Teachers today were expected to be parents, he thought. It was nice to have a whipping boy to punish for your own deficiencies. The real trouble with Yale Marratt was Pat Marratt. Some rich men's sons became drunkards. They chased around with women, or spent money wildly. This was the normal, the expected rebellion. It disturbed nothing essential. But this rebellion of Yale Marratt, if it continued, was more fundamental.

  Tracy lit his pipe and made a mental note to check up in a few years and see what had developed. He doubted that Yale would be successful in his attempt to undermine the foundations of a man like Pat Marratt. Yale would eventually line up. He would become the not-quite-so-successful son of a successful man. In twenty years or so, a Pat Marratt II, or a Yale Marratt, Jr. would be brought to Buxton by a more subdued Yale Marratt; the rebellion would have been finished years before. Like most rebellions, it would have accomplished little.

  It took Pat Marratt until late August to admit defeat. As he told his executive staff all one had to do was define one's objectives carefully and then accomplish them. During the summer, he put his secretary to work tracing the background of his personal and business friends. He discovered at least a dozen Ivy League graduates who were indebted to him in one way or another. With their help he reached the top deans and even college presidents. Just as he would feel success within his grasp, a letter would arrive on official college stationery. It would suggest that if Yale Marratt would take another year of preparation his application would be re-considered. Pat was reading one of these refusals when Liz stepped into his office on her way to her hairdresser's.

  "It beats me," he said. He tossed the letter to her. "These damn fool colleges are crying poverty. They are out beating the bushes looking for alumni with money. Yet, when I offer them a deal they act as if they had been stabbed. I had one of the big shots at Harvard on the phone, long distance yesterday. He talked for a half hour on my call about academic standards. I get applications from Harvard graduates every week looking for jobs. Most of them don't know their ass from their elbow."

  "Why don't you let Yale take another year at Buxton?" Liz suggested. "Really, Pat, I think you are making a tempest in a teapot. You didn't go to college, Yale doesn't want to go. Is that so bad? Why don't you follow Dean Tracy's advice? Don't drive Yale so hard. Let him drift for awhile. He'll probably decide later that he wants to go."

  Pat shook his head. "You don't get the point, Liz. I don't give a damn about a college education. I'm stalling for time. Yale is nineteen. He's too young to work for the company permanently. I'd just create a job for him, and he would continue to drift. It isn't as if Yale knows what he wants to do in life. If you asked him, he'd probably say nothing, or come up with that Europe crap again. If I could get him anchored for four years the chances are that he'd grow up a little. It's not as if he were stupid."

  "Why haven't you talked with Dr. Tangle?" Liz asked. "You have the one man right in Midhaven who could help you, and you won't ask him."

  Pat raised his eyebrows and looked at her disgustedly. "I suppose, next, you'll suggest that Yale could go to Midhaven College. Wouldn't Doctor Tangle go for that, though?" he asked sarcastically. "The son of Pat Marratt attending a Baptist theological school . . . Jesus Christ!"

  "It hasn't been a theological school for years, and you know it, Pat. Only last week, at the Woman's Club, Doctor Tangle was talking about the changes that have occurred at Midhaven College. Midhaven has a complete curriculum. It's recognized as equal to any college in the East. In a way, you should be proud of Doctor Tangle. He has done a lot for Midhaven."

  "So, I haven't done anything for Midhaven? Just because I haven't the time to monkey around in city politics and I don't go around to Women's Clubs shooting off my mouth about the glorious city of Midhaven. . . . Just you remember that if the Marratt Corporation folded up -- several thousand people in Midhaven would go hungry! What has Doctor Tangle done to put bread in their mouths?"

  Pat wanted to continue the discussion, but Liz interrupted him with a request for a few hundred dollars. Pat chuckled. "For Christ-sakes, Liz, you're the limit. You go to some damned meeting and listen to a smooth old bastard like Doctor Tangle; you swallow his oily ideas hook, line and sinker. But, when your husband tries to explain what he is doing, it just doesn't have 'class,' does it? It's just old Pat wound up in some sales garbage. It's the way he makes all that dirty money. Well, if it weren't for me and the Marratt Corporation, your dear Doctor Tangle would be back in China whacking the bushes in search of converts. Instead he lives a life of luxury . . . President of Midhaven College and Pastor of the Midhaven Congregational Church. Do you know that his last quarterly dividend check, courtesy of Pat Marratt, amounted to five thousand three hundred and ninety-three dollars? Brother, what a return to get every three months on an investment of two thousand dollars."

  "Bye, bye, Hon -- I've got to go," Liz smiled. She had heard Pat rave on the subject of Doctor Tangle's good fortune many times before. As she was about to close the door, a thought occurred to her. "Speaking of Doctor Tangle reminds me that it's been at le
ast three months since we've had him out to dinner. It might be a nice gesture to keep in closer touch with the only other stockholder in the Marratt Corporation. If you did, you might discover that Amos gives most of his dividends to the Doctor Tangle Scholarship Fund for worthy students at Midhaven College."

  "Oh, shit -- next thing you'll suggest that Yale apply for a scholarship. Goodbye! Stop and see Frank Middleton on the way out. He and Marie expect us to dinner tomorrow."

  Pat looked closely at Liz when he mentioned Frank Middleton. Middleton was Vice President in charge of production. Although he had risen to his present job with the same rough and ready background as Pat Marratt, somewhere Middleton had acquired a gloss and polish. Frank Middleton irritated Pat, but Pat couldn't help but admire him. He knew that Middleton with his throaty, radio announcer's voice and his wavy grey hair was the cynosure of most female gatherings. Liz had betrayed no reaction, however, and Pat said to himself . . . "The hell with it . . . why worry . . . it's only sex." But he knew the worry was there. It cropped up every time he saw Liz and Frank together.

  His thoughts returned to Doctor Tangle . . . twenty-three years. Liz's mother had picked Amos Tangle to marry them. He had been an assistant minister, then.

  It made little difference to Pat. On his death bed, Pat's father had requested a priest. Pat remembered his mother, who was cockney English, shaking her head and saying, "Look at the likes of him who wants a priest." But she hurried out and came back with one in time to see that "her old man" got the last rites of the Church. Both of them were dead when Pat married Elizabeth Yale. It probably was just as well. Though they had never gone to church regularly, they wouldn't have thought very highly of their only son marrying a "dirty Protestant."