The Rebellion of Yale Marratt

by Robert H. Rimmer

  Seeing the tears in the corner of Pat's eyes, Yale knew that at that moment he couldn't break away, that he must wait to talk with Mat Chilling. And then Pat had proudly directed him across the street and pointed out the new car. "It's yours, Yale. Brand new, hottest Ford on the market. Wait till you try it out. The pick-up is terrific."

  Only half-hearing him, trying to be enthusiastic about the car, Yale had caught a glimpse of Mat walking down College Avenue.

  Thinking now how he had missed the opportunity, Yale pounded his pillow in dismay. He was unable to hold back his tears. God, why hadn't he run after Mat? If only he had said, "Pat, I must talk with that man! You see he knows where Cynthia is. I must! I must find her." Instead, he had tried to be the good son. Tried to avoid the showdown that he knew would occur at the mention of Cynthia's name.

  Leaning out his bedroom window, with a feeling of loss so deep that it was as if he had sustained an actual physical blow, Yale brushed the tears from his cheeks. Below him, covering nearly an acre of lawn strung with hundreds of pale orange lights, he watched the carnival that Pat had created for Barbara's wedding reception. In the center of the west lawn a green and white tent bad been erected. Yale estimated it was big enough to house a three-ring circus. Flanking this tent were two smaller tents. One was erected to accommodate a champagne bar.

  Four hundred invitations had been sent out. This was the event of the season that the mothers of Midhaven daughters would try in the future to emulate and never quite succeed. Pat had spared no expense, Yale mused, as he listened to the romantic strings and muted trumpets of Jeffrey Gardner's famous society orchestra. The lawn was vibrant with the movement of the carefully gowned Midhaven women, comparing their dresses and their men with the thirty or more female guests who had arrived yesterday with the bridegroom's contingent from Texas. Everywhere that he looked Yale could see flashbulbs popping as reporters from as far away as New York recorded the event. In the church just before the ceremony Pat had proudly mentioned to Yale that Henry Luce was sending down a few photographers from Life .

  "Al Latham knows him," Pat explained. "Al feels that a story of this kind in Life would do a lot for Midhaven. Help attract new industry. Make people realize that in addition to fine rail and sea facilities, Midhaven has a top-drawer social group."

  Yale looked at his watch. It was nine-fifteen. The catered dinner of shrimp cocktails, lobster newburg, squabs, and an inexhaustible choice of delicacies from caviar to rattlesnake meat had been served and eaten. Activity at the champagne tent showed a sharp increase as waiters dressed in deep red tuxedos mingled with the more impatient guests who couldn't wait for table service. Soon the bride and groom would leave for New York and their European honeymoon. After their departure some of the more sedate guests would leave. But the drinking majority would stay, for it was only the "shank of the evening" and this was the party of the season.

  Yale realized that he was hungry. Other than a light breakfast he had eaten only a sandwich. All this time he should have been sitting at the bridal table, eating and drinking. Many of the guests would have asked Pat and Liz where he was. The apologies that would be made for him would anger them even more. It was impossible to give their friends a rational explanation of Yale's behavior. In plain words he was in the dog-house again. The sweetness and light that had occurred with Pat for a few hours after graduation would have vanished. By now his refusal to appear at the reception would be one more count against him, topping a long series of his irrational actions.

  Yale snapped on the lamp near his bed and looked at himself in the mirror. His suit was rumpled. His eyes were bloodshot. To hell with it. If Cynthia could care so little for him as to do this, to deliberately hide from him, to run away with someone like Mat Chilling; then, to hell with her! Hurriedly, be changed into his tuxedo. Within minutes, his face ruddy from the cold water he had splashed on it, he was on his way downstairs.

  He met Barbara on the stairs. She looked at him disdainfully. "Well, at last the prodigal brother puts in his appearance. Better late than never."

  "I'm sorry, Bobby. It was nothing personal. Up to a minute ago I just couldn't face all those people. Now, I think I'll have a few drinks in memory of your soon to be vanished virginity."

  Barbara ignored the sarcasm. "What's the matter, Yale? I thought you and Pat made up this afternoon? Liz was so happy to have the family united again."

  "Happy . . . shit," Yale snarled. "There was nothing the matter that you or Liz couldn't have prevented by sending one of those fancy engraved wedding invitations to just one person." Yale noticed the chagrined look on Barbara's face. "Just one more invitation among the four hundred. I can see by your expression that the budget just wouldn't stand it. One more person and there wouldn't have been enough food to go around." Yale patted her on the shoulder. "Bye, bye, Bobby. I know it probably isn't your fault. Good luck. Your man from Texas looks like a good egg. Let me know when I'm an uncle."

  When Yale walked into the tent, the orchestra was taking an intermission. Striding across the dance floor to the bridal table he wondered how many of the guests were noticing him. From the tables surrounding the circular dance floor he thought he detected a discernible drop in the hum of laughter and conversation. He knew that it was probably his imagination, but he blushed, anyway. There were four round tables in the bridal group each seating eight couples. Walking up to where Pat and Liz were seated Yale smiled uncomfortably. "Sorry to be late," he said, smiling warily at them and at Tom's parents, who eyed him coolly.

  Pat, who had been talking to the elder Eames, looked at Yale grimly and continued his conversation. Liz held Yale's arm. She pulled him close to her. "This is my baby," she said to the woman next to her whom Yale recognized as Sarah Latham.

  Smelling the liquor on her breath, Yale knew that Liz was feeling very gay. "He's kind of stubborn and pig-headed once in awhile, but Pat and I love him." Reluctantly Yale nuzzled his face against hers. "Your place is right there waiting for you," Liz said, pointing to the table next to them. "Beside Margie Latham, dear. Isn't she sweet?"

  Taking a quick look at the people seated at the table, Yale sat down. Marge Latham ignored him. He nodded across the table to Katherine Harvey and Tom's sister, whom he had met earlier in the afternoon just before the wedding. She smiled politely. A very coo], distant type, Yale thought. Quite aware of her family money. Katherine was seated near Bob Baker, who had roomed with Tom at Princeton. Next to them were Jim Latham and Leslie Ames. The empty seats next to Marge Latham, Yale realized, must have been occupied by Tom and Barbara, who were changing into their going away clothes. It occurred to him that Liz had arranged the tables purposely in this way; that she had paired him with Marge Latham. Without a table companion for nearly two hours, Yale imagined that Marge was probably at a boiling point. He smiled in her direction, noticing that she wore her brown hair in a page boy style, low on her bare shoulders. Yale told the waiter hovering near him to bring him two double Old Granddad's and soda. He turned to Marge conversationally. "I haven't seen you in years. Where have you been keeping yourself?"

  Marge turned toward him. "Are you speaking to me?" she asked coldly.

  "Oh, no, it was six other people," Yale said trying to stare down her cold blue eyes.

  "Well, you'll excuse me, I hope, but that chair has been empty so long it seems strange to have it occupied. Has the world's greatest brain been occupied with some world-shaking problem, or have you simply deigned to spend a moment with the common herd?"

  Yale took the drink the waiter had put on the table. "I didn't know you cared, Marge," he said, drinking the highball, thinking to hell with you, Marge Latham. I had a girl who would make two of you. He remembered suddenly that he didn't have Cynthia any more. Again he felt an overwhelming grief.

  This was the kind of girl that his family expected bim to marry . . . this Marge Latham, poised, sophisticated, socially acceptable, and this was the kind of wedding reception it would be, and afterward he would bed down w
ith the wealthy Marge Latham and within weeks he would join the club, become part of the cocktail, bridge-playing set, and be looked upon as one of the rising young men in Midhaven social life. With his education completed at Harvard, there could be the possibility of a political life. A future congressman or senator from the First District. Yale shook his head, finished his drink and started on another. No! Whatever he did want out of life, married and settled into the boredom of Midhaven society was not it. He grinned at his imaginings. In a second he could not only picture himself married to Marge Latham, but getting ready to divorce her. What would she think of his thoughts?

  His sister had returned to the tent. The orchestra did a fanfare for silence. Barbara was dressed to leave on her honeymoon. She was about to throw her bridal bouquet. Yale watched Marge and Leslie Ames as they walked toward the dance floor. Marge's red satin evening gown clung to her buttocks. He noticed that Jim Latham, across the table, was watching him. He grinned at him. "Your sister has grown up, Jim. Where's she been all these years?"

  Jim laughed. "Marge has been around every summer. Winters she goes to a dramatic school in New York. Watch out for her, she's a future Katherine Cornell. Where do you keep yourself, fella? I haven't seen you since last summer."

  "You should have told me you were a boxing champ," Yale said, trying to be agreeable. No, he thought, even if Marge were a good partner in bed, I couldn't stand you, Jim Latham, for a brother-in-law. You're just too damned good to be true. The perfect son. Harvard graduate. Semi-pro golfer. Nearly all-American last fall, and now you are going to Harvard Business School. After Harvard back to Latham Shipyards to continue a tradition.

  Marge returned to the table with Leslie Ames and Katherine Harvey. Leslie had caught Barbara's bouquet. Doesn't it make you nervous?" Marge asked her. "You're supposed to be next. What a fate! Marriage, kids, and one foot in the grave before you're forty."

  Yale could tell by Leslie Ames' expression as she smiled at Jim Latham that she couldn't think of a more lovely fate.

  "I'm glad you don't want to get married, Marge," Yale said, feeling slightly dizzy from the liquor he had drunk so quickly. He warned himself to be careful. Not having eaten much since breakfast he could get very drunk.

  Marge shook off the arm Yale had put around her. She looked at him crossly. "What makes you so glad?"

  "I just couldn't hear to think of feverish male hands exploring your lovely white body," Yale sobbed. Half in earnest that sob was, Margie old girl. Half in earnest, but not for you!

  Not completely aware of where he was being led, he followed Marge and the crowd of guests to the drive in front of the house. Barbara and Tom emerged. They stood smiling while photographers recorded the event. Then they rushed to Tom's Cadillac convertible, showered with rice by the guests.

  Yale waved a forlorn goodbye. "Farewell, old one-foot-in-the-grave, sister of mine. Farewell to that good old maidenhead, untouched by human hands."

  He felt Marge's hand grab his arm. "Shut up, you damned fool," she hissed, "everyone is watching you." She led him back to the tent. The orchestra had started playing again. They danced. The first dizziness from the liquor suddenly vanished. Yale was surprised to find how easily Marge danced with him.

  After several dances they went to the champagne tent which was dimly lighted and furnished night club style with tiny intimate tables. Yale didn't know whether to mix champagne with the bourbon. His acquaintance with champagne was fairly limited. He told Marge his problem.

  "I thought you were a big man, little boy. I have been drinking gin rickeys for the past two hours. Now comes the time to drink champagne . . . with Yale Marratt, no less . . . the great lover."

  Yale looked at her surprised. She held up her glass of champagne and gulped it. "My old lady talks to your old lady," she said, blinking at him. "How is your Jewish babe? Scandal of Midhaven, old boy. Worse than old Higgins who married a female chimpanzee. Poor old Higgins. . . . Hey, let's get us a bottle of this stuff and go neck somewhere."

  A good idea, Yale thought, but I don't want to neck with you, Marge. Oh, God, Cindar. I want you! You! He said: "Christ, you don't have any privacy in this town, do you?"

  "Plenty of places for privacy," Marge said, purposely misunderstanding him. "Trouble is the grass is too wet. Say how about taking me for a ride in your father's Chris-Craft. I'm bored with this party."

  Yale looked at her, astonished. "You know something. That's a good idea. I'll take you zippety-doo-dah up the river." He grabbed the arm of a waiter who was passing near their table. "Do you know me?" he asked, tipping his head sideways and looking at the waiter owlishly.

  "Yes, sir, you're young Mr. Marratt."

  Yale pulled him closer. "Now, look, do what I say and it'll get you ten bucks. Just stick six bottles of that champagne, nice and cold, in a box. Cover it with a napkin and follow us." The waiter shrugged as if to say you're the boss.

  "What are you going to do?" Marge asked curiously.

  "You and I are going on a cruise . . . a sneaky champagne cruise up the river." Yale watched the waiter walk toward the bar. He wondered if he would ignore the request. No, he was going behind the bar. In a few seconds they saw him in front of the tent carrying a box. "Come on, Marge, follow me! Silent like a bunny. Don't pick up any strangers."

  Yale led Marge around the back of the main tent and across the driveway. As they slunk toward the boathouse, Yale knew that they must appear to anyone who was watching them, like a couple of tipsy prowlers out of some old Hal Roach moving picture. They were accosted several times by equally happy revellers who demanded to know where they were going. Yale shook them off. Finally, they reached the footpath in back of the house that led to the boathouse. The noise of the party receded in the distance. The quieter sounds of the river lapping against the wharf and the honking of a frog seemed a pleasant respite to Yale.

  Marge saw Pat's Chris-Craft tied against the dock. Gathering her evening gown in her hands she ran toward it. "Say, this is a beauty. I think it's bigger than Daddy's." She climbed aboard and sat behind the wheel. "I want to drive it. I'm going to take you on a ride you'll never forget."

  Yale tipped the waiter and took the champagne. Almost before he could untie the boat and get aboard Marge had punched the starter. The engine caught with a roar. Yale lurched into the seat beside her. Before he could stop her the boat was leaping forward, leaving a white spray of water behind them glistening in the moonlight. Yale thought he heard someone yelling from the boathouse but it was too late to turn back.

  "For Christ's sake, Marge. Watch out! There are a lot of rocks in this part of the river."

  She looked at him, laughing. "I love to go fast. Don't worry, little man, I'll get you back safely."

  Yale looked at her profile. Marge's hair was streaming behind her in the wind. Marge Latham was pretty. There was no denying that. But she had a cool sophisticated manner that was impenetrable to Yale and somehow frightening. Yale wondered if girls like Marge ever stood aside from themselves for a moment and observed the façade they had erected. Probably not. Probably their very certainty came from the sure knowledge that they were wanted. In Marge's case, wanted for her feminine aloofness as well as her eventual inheritance.

  Marge was driving the Chris-Craft at top speed. The trees edging the river passed so swiftly they seemed blended into a solid dark mass. It made Yale dizzy to look around.

  "Slow down," he yelled. "Come on, slow down before we take right off the water and start to fly."

  She shook her head, and twisted the boat into a left curve, tipping Yale's side up in the air. Yale heard the champagne bottles clink together. Drunk as he was, he knew that Marge was challenging him. He flipped the key in the ignition to the off position. The boat sputtered to a stop.

  "That was a hell of a thing to do," she said crossly, smoothing her hair. "What's the matter, scared?"

  "You crazy little bitch, you don't know this part of the river. There are a lot of outcroppings. You wreck this boat, a
nd I'll never hear the end of it . . . or will you. I'd like to see the expression on your father's face if he could have seen you. He'd probably beat your little bottom red, white, and blue. Big lady . . . just eighteen. You're just a hoked up little kid."

  She looked at him archly. "I'm big enough to have done anything you've done, Mr. Brain."

  Yale pulled her away from the wheel. He slid into the driver's seat. "What's all this Mr. Brain stuff?" he wanted to know. He started the engine, and drove the Chris-Craft quietly down the river. He estimated that they had come at least a mile. He heard her fumbling with one of the champagne bottles. Just as it occurred to him what she was going to do, it was too late. The cork popped off belting him on the side of the head; followed by a shower of champagne. She kept shaking the bottle and aiming it at him until he was blinded with the force of it striking his eyes and nose. Dripping with champagne, he looked at her furiously. She was choking with laughter. Angrily, he snapped off the engine again. He grabbed another bottle, spun off the wire, popped the cork, and sprayed her with the entire contents, finally pouring what wouldn't come out over her head.

  She continued to laugh tauntingly at him. "Look at my gown," she said finally. "It cost me one hundred and fifty dollars. You've ruined it."

  "Well," Yale said, grinning at the ludicrous appearance of her face. Champagne trickled down from her hair, making rivulets in her heavy makeup. "You started it. I don't think this tuxedo will ever go to another party. Why do you keep calling me Mr. Brain, and why are you mad at me?"

  "We've got four bottles left," she said, ignoring the question as she tried to dry her face with a small handkerchief. "Do you suppose we could drink the next two?"

  Yale opened another bottle, losing only a little of its quick effervescence. He handed it to her. She took a long swallow and passed it back to him. In a few minutes they emptied it and started on another bottle.

  Conscious that they were drifting, Yale's only concern was to keep the boat as near to the middle of the river as possible. He flicked the wheel occasionally to hold direction. Twisting in his seat, leaning against the splash rail, he watched Marge trailing her fingers in the water. From the noise of the orchestra and the confusion of the party to the wild roar of the Chris-Craft's engine, they now seemed to have been reclaimed by the black silence of the river, as it moved to the ocean. Marge's voice, as she softly sang the words of "Stardust," reached into the deep pockets of darkness on either side of the river.