"Where do you keep yourself, Yale?" Beatrice asked. "Here it is July. This is the first time you've been out to the club."
Yale ordered a rye and ginger ale from the waiter. He remembered he hadn't eaten. "Oh, I've been around. Working man, you know."
"Do you work at the Marratt plant?" Jim asked.
Yale nodded. "I'm in the advertising department."
"My pater feels that this summer-vacation-working-in-business is a joke," Jim said. "Play around while you can, he says. I jolly well agree. A fellow lives only once. Next summer, three of us are going to Europe. Bill Swanson, Ken Burke, and myself. Tell your old man, Yale, and come along with us. It's going to be a gay old time." Jim finished his Manhattan.
God, Yale thought, what a crummy bastard.
Jim was sitting casually tipped on his chair, balancing it on two legs. Yale felt an urge to poke it out from under him. He'd like to see the silly ass go splattering on the floor. Instead he drank his highball in two swallows and ordered another. The drinks tasted sickish going down but in a few minutes he felt a warm glow spread through him. Jim was talking to one of the other fellows, Bob some-thing-or-other. Yale listened to him expound the merits of a European "jaunt" before one settled down to the "old grind."
"Do you hear from Cynthia?" Beatrice asked. Her question reminded Yale that he was pretty irked with Beatrice. The absolute dumb dodo. How could she have told her mother about the overnight cabin? Every time this summer he had encountered Frank Middleton at the plant Frank had looked at him curiously. Yale had felt guilty. Now he felt like going up to him and saying, "No one wronged your daughter. Her virtue is still intact."
Yale took another swallow of his third drink. Suddenly he felt a strange power.
"Did you hear me?" Beatrice said, leaning her face closer to him. "It's so noisy. I was asking if you heard from Cynthia."
Yale leaned toward her. "I want to whisper something in your ear," he said flirtatiously.
Beatrice, delighted, turned her ear toward his mouth.
"You absolute, God-awful, stupid bitch," he whispered, still smiling. "You don't know a fart from a breath of perfume. You don't know your ass from a hole in the ground. From now on I'm telling everyone I know that you wear falsies. You're knock-kneed and you have halitosis . . ." Yale had a lot more to say but Beatrice screamed. She tugged at Jim Latham's arm.
"Oh," she gasped. "He insulted me. No one in my whole life has ever said such dirty words to me." She started to cry loudly, attracting the attention of several other tables. A group of people, young and old, gathered around. Jim Latham stood up and grabbed Yale's shoulder.
"I say, fella . . . you can't do a thing like that."
Yale looked at him loathingly. "Keep your mitts off me," he snarled. Almost reflexively he drove his fist into Jim's stomach. Jim doubled over with pain. Yale remembered he had seen a James Cagney picture. The follow-through was to plop them on the chin for a clear knockout. He swung, missed Jim's chin and grazed him on the side of his nose which started to bleed.
Jim did not go down. Too late, Yale remembered that Jim was on the boxing team at Harvard. He tried to stave off Jim's rapid blows. Fists hitting him one after another on the face and the body. He heard people shouting. Somebody grabbed him as he went down. Before he passed out he demanded to be let alone so that he could finish off Jim Latham.
When he was again completely conscious of his surroundings he realized that he was in a car speeding along Route 6. His head ached dully. His right ear stung, and he felt sick to his stomach.
"I volunteered to drive you home," Barbara said.
"What happened?" he mumbled.
"Well, you messed him up a bit," Barbara said cheerily. "But wait until you see yourself."
"I can feel myself," Yale groaned. "Stop the car. I've got to puke."
"Little boys shouldn't drink," Barbara said, holding his head. "Be careful of my dress. I'm going back as soon as I deposit you at home, Brother," she said as she finally led him up the stairs to his room. "You have done it today. Insulting your father. Stealing his car. Insulting Liz. Saying dirty words to little girls. Getting drunk. Starting a brawl with the son of Pat's best friend. Disturbing the peace and dignity of Midhaven Country Club." Yale tumbled on his bed. Barbara undressed him, leaving him in his shorts. She patted his head. "If you think you've got trouble, now. Wait until tomorrow! You'd better hang yourself. . . ."
9
On the Rosh Hoshanah card he had sent Cynthia, Yale had written, "I love you. I can't wait to see you."
Driving toward New Jersey a few days later, it occurred to Yale that Yom Kippur would begin at sundown. He looked at his watch. It was one o'clock. He had already crossed the Pulaski skyway. According to the little map Cynthia had sent he was about two hours from the turnoff to the Carnell farms. He felt a little strange. He knew it would be awkward to arrive a few hours before the most important day in ihe Jewish year.
Cynthia had written him from the girls' camp in Maine. "I know you'll like Daddy and Aunt Adar. I have already told them that you will come down to New Jersey to drive me -- and my huge pile of junk -- back to school. There's no help for it. I suppose Doctor Tangle, or whoever arranges things like opening dates at college, didn't give it a thought. Why should he? I guess there are only about twelve or so Jews in the whole school (enough as you pointed out to establish the lack of prejudice) -- anyhow, my darling, the way it works out school starts the day after Yom Kippur. I know it doesn't mean much to you but if we are to have the day we've waited for, for so long --( imagine a whole wonderful day to ourselves. I will love you, love you to pieces, sweetie . . .) it's going to mean that we have to leave for New York on Yom Kippur. But not before afternoon . If I'm to please Daddy and Aunt Adar, I will be fasting all day, but that will be easy after this long fast for you. Oh, Yale darling, I blush when I write this . . . for while I am not the most religious person in the world, it seems wicked somehow to be planning to spend the night after Yom Kippur with you -- the day after the day of atonement -- when I should have atoned for the wrongs committed against God. But you would try to convince me, wouldn't you? I know you would . . . that God could never conceive of our love as a wrong against Him."
Yale had kept the letter with nearly one hundred others that he had received from Cynthia in the two long summers of separation since they had known each other. No matter what happened this must be the last time they were separated.
While he tried to keep it off his mind and concentrate on the coming day alone with Cindar, the thought of Pat's anger, cold and contained, kept recurring to him. "Your tantrum on the golf course wraps it up, my friend," Pat had said to Yale the next day. "You can hand over the keys to your Ford. You're grounded for a month. Perhaps, that will help you realize that I am not going to be continually embarrassed by your behavior."
They were sitting at the breakfast table. Liz listened quietly to the conversation, feeling the hostility like an actual presence hovering between them.
"I suppose you know that I am planning to drive Cynthia back to school week after next," Yale had said, slowly buttering his toast.
Pat smiled grimly. "I had no idea of your plans but if I had, I would have objected to them, anyway. You can consider the loss of your car a two-edged sword. Kindly give me the keys -- both sets."
Yale flung the keys across the table.
Pat scooped them up. Without comment he put them in his coat pocket.
"Don't bother to wait for me to drive to work with you," Yale snarled. "From now on I'll take the bus."
For two weeks he had avoided Pat, spending most of the time in a frenzy of wondering how he was going to get a car to go to New Jersey. He knew that nothing was going to prevent him from having the "day" that he and Cynthia had planned. Even if he had to steal a car. Right up to last night there had been no solution. He had decided that as a last resort he would try to rent a car. Then he remembered that Pat had given Whit Jones another set of keys to all the cars. It ma
de it easier when Pat wanted to have one of the cars brought downtown to a garage for greasing or overhaul.
A simple excuse to Whit that he had left his keys at the plant and Yale had the problem of the car settled. At least until he returned. But the bitter taste remained, combined with the feeling of uneasiness about meeting Cynthia's family. Cynthia's relatives were just names. They lacked reality. There was Lennie, the younger brother who was Yale's age. He attended Cornell. Michael, the oldest, had finished agricultural college years ago and was helping his father run the farm. Then there was Aunt Adar, who had really brought Cindar up. Yale had a mental picture of the whole family examining him with ill-concealed hostility. Cynthia had told him that her father was quite orthodox. He frowned on the idea of intermarriage. A Jewish version of Pat? It amused him to think that on one thing they would probably agree. Dave Carnell wouldn't care for Gentiles any more than Pat Marratt cared for Jews.
Cynthia was sitting on the fence at the side of the highway when he drove up. She ran to the car, her hair flying. She was wearing rolled up boy jeans and she looked about fifteen. She hugged him excitedly. "Gosh, I thought you would never get here. I've been watching the cars -- and every time a red convertible would appear, I'd think it was you . . . my heart would start to hammer and then the car would go by and I felt just sunk. Aunt Adar came out with my father in the pickup truck about ten minutes ago. She gave me fifteen minutes more. She thinks it's very unladylike to sit around in boys' pants. Besides, I have to change very soon, it will be sundown before you know it. We have to eat. Oh, Yale, darling. I could eat you up." She climbed into the car. Yale kissed her lips for a second and smelled the wonderful warmth of her. "Drive down that dusty road. You can see the house over there. And all around you -- are Carnell tomatoes."
Yale followed her glance, noticing the acres and acres of tomato plants. About a half a mile from the road he could see a white farmhouse and several barns. "I've driven by here lots of times with Pat, on the way to Philadelphia, once coming back from Miami. If I had only known then that you were living right here. . . ."
"What would you have done?"
"I'd have turned the car right down this road, and if I had found you in your front yard playing with your dolls, I'd have run up and asked you to play house and let me be the father."
Bubbling with laughter, Cynthia showed him where to leave his car. "Daddy and Michael are out in one of the sorting sheds. They'll have to come in and change pretty soon. You can come in and meet Aunt Adar . . . then we'll look for Daddy."
Yale liked the friendly look of the large wooden farmhouse. If it had any particular style it might have been called turn of the century Victorian. Some of the pitched roof remained, and the gimcrackery, but the white painted house had the clear earthy appeal of a painting by Charles Burchfield. Even the windows caught the glare of the sinking October sun. As they mounted the steps Yale noted the hammock on the porch and the rocking chairs. He hoped the evening might be warm enough to sit in the hammock with Cindar.
On the right of the door he saw what he was looking for. "Is that a mezuzah?" he asked pointing at the bronzed metal canister.
"I told you, Yale, Daddy is quite religious. We don't have one at every door in the house. He's not that bad."
"Honey, I don't think it's bad for a man to have his beliefs. If I ask a million questions it's only because I want to know. This is the first time I've ever been in a Jewish home. I love you. I want our children to grow up knowing all the Jewish traditions. We will observe the Jewish holidays as well as the Christian ones."
"So we're talking children, already. Before the Chupah even?"
Yale looked up and blushed. Just inside the screen door a woman was standing with her large arms crossed in front of very full breasts. She opened the door and came out. "So this is your young man . . ." She looked at Yale with a severe expression. Cynthia introduced her as Aunt Adar. Yale liked the bright busy look of her. Plain, wearing no make-up, her gray-black hair pulled tight against her head and brought to a pug in the back, Aunt Adar seemed to have an efficient, no-nonsense manner that concealed a tender good humor. She spoke rapidly to Cynthia in Jewish. Yale was surprised to hear Cynthia answer. It pleased him to know that Cynthia could speak another language and he envied this extra knowledge she had acquired as a part of her heritage.
"Hey -- what are you two saying?" Yale demanded.
Cynthia chuckled. "Auntie is nervous that we talk so seriously. She can't believe that I am old enough to be married." As they followed Aunt Adar into the living room Cynthia told him that the Chupah was the wedding canopy which would symbolize their new home.
Yale looked at her curiously. "Do you want to be married in a synagogue?"
"Silly," she smiled. She snuggled quickly against him and whispered, "You look so worried, Yale. I wouldn't care if we were never married -- so long as you would live with me and love me always."
Aunt Adar interrupted any answer Yale might have had by telling Cynthia it was impolite to whisper when others were present. "You change your clothes, now, quickly. We will eat in an hour. Show this young man of yours to Lennie's room. He can sleep there tonight." She turned to Yale. "Cynthia tells us that you know some of our customs. I am glad for that. It seems strange to us to have a Gentile in our house at a time like this. You understand we have a fear of appearing ridiculous . . ." Aunt Adar paused, obviously embarrassed and finally continued. "Anyway, we do not expect you to fast with us."
Yale smiled. "If I did not fast I would feel strange about going to services with you tonight. Cynthia has promised that I may go."
Cynthia took Yale's arm. "Auntie knows you are going to services with us. She's just a worry bug. I told you, Auntie, he's a mensh." She led Yale upstairs.
"What does mensh mean?" Yale asked, following her, dropping his bag near a large feather bed in what he assumed was Lennie's room. He tried to grab Cynthia for a kiss, but she eluded him and stood in the doorway. "Mensh is what you are -- just good and yummy." Unable to resist her impulses longer she ran into his arms. "Oh, Yale, Yale . . . it's been such a long summer, and I've missed you so terribly much."
Holding her in silence, feeling her lips and tongue seeking his mouth, the wonderful pressure of her stomach and breasts against him, Yale enjoyed for the first time in weeks a feeling of unity. Was this ability of Cindar's to polarize the crazy currents of his emotional drives an actual fact -- or something that he imagined? No, it was real enough. Being with Cynthia was like being rejoined to a part of himself that had been lost. He cupped her buttocks in his hands, pulling her against him, feeling the throatiness of her whispered "I love you" in his ear. Suddenly, she pulled away in a panic. Downstairs, he heard a screen door slam. "It's Daddy -- I've got to change." She showed him the bathroom, and told him that after he had washed he could go downstairs. Then, she decided, no. It would take at least half an hour before she would be ready. Grabbing him by the hand, she pulled him toward the stairs. "I'll introduce you to Daddy, first." Halfway downstairs, Cynthia in the lead, pulling Yale by his hand, they bumped into Dave Carnell and Michael. Trying to catch her breath Cynthia said gasping, "This is Yale, Daddy . . . and my brother Michael."
Dave Carnell looked at his daughter wonderingly. "Such energy you have now . . . yet all week you loll around like a sick cat. This must be a very unusual young man to give you such pep." He took Yale's hand in his. Yale could feel the strength of his grasp and the rough farmer's calluses. "I am glad to know you, Yale Marratt. The name is a familiar one in this home. Even before Cynthy met you, we were familiar with the Marratt Corporation."
Yale liked the rough sturdy frame of the man that pushed stoutly against his farmer's overalls. In his dark complexion and frank glance, Yale could recognize the softer expression of his daughter.
"I am glad to be here in your home, Mr. Carnell," Yale said deferentially.
He shook hands with Michael who withdrew his hand quickly, giving Yale a sharp glance of ill-concealed hostil
ity.
"In the old country this would be similar to the King sending his Prince to visit his serfs, would it not?" Michael remarked coldly. "Come on, Pa, we've got to change." He proceeded up the stairs. Cynthia looked at him darkly. "Honestly, Daddy, does he have to be so sour?"
"I suppose," Dave Carnell said, shrugging his shoulders, "in a way we are serfs. The King is your father, Yale, who pays us to grow the products he bottles." Dave started to follow his son up the stairs.
"The fundamental difference is that nothing stops you from bottling Carnell ketchup and competing with the King who raises no tomatoes of his own."
Cynthia's father laughed, enjoying Yale's quick repartee. "Of course, the King has more money to pay another group of serfs who bottle his ketchup."
"I'll tell you for a fact Pat Marratt has a lot of competitors bottling ketchup. Some of them might pay you a better price for your crop than the Marratt Corporation."
"No better prices than Marratt, else we wouldn't deal with them." With a friendly wave, Dave Carnell disappeared down the hall.
"Oh, Daddy likes a discussion," Cynthia sighed. She gave Yale a peck on the cheek. "I've got to run and get the bathroom first."
Yale waited in Lennie's room until the upstairs sounds told him that they had all used the bathroom. Then he washed quickly and joined them downstairs. Cynthia was waiting and led him into the dining room. "We will eat quickly and be at the temple by sundown," she whispered. "I hope you don't get bored to death." Yale squeezed her hand. He took his place at the table beside her. Michael sitting opposite them looked at him coolly. Yale knew that Michael resented him, picturing him as some kind of interloper. He imagined that Cynthia had probably listened to heated discussions as to her need for a Gentile boyfriend.
The Rebellion of Yale Marratt Page 13
