The Rebellion of Yale Marratt

by Robert H. Rimmer

  "How much money have you got?" Yale asked. He tried to keep his voice matter-of-fact, not wishing Cynthia to know how much he wanted to brush the tears from her eyes.

  "Yale, there was nothing until a month ago. That's why I sold the house. We had no equity in it. I got a job in Jordan's during the Christmas rush, and then I was laid off. Last month I got Mat's G.I. insurance money. I have a little over ten thousand dollars. So you see I'm all right."

  Yale was silent -- wondering what the future would have in store for her. Ten thousand dollars wouldn't last long. A few years. She would have to work and support her child. Probably she would marry again. With Cynthia's face and body it shouldn't be difficult.

  "I suppose now . . . I could marry you," Yale said bitterly. "It's obvious that Anne was just another dream I cooked up for myself. So there's nothing in the way. . . ."

  "I'll never marry you, Yale." Cynthia's face was tight with repressed tears. "And I'll forgive the rotten way you have asked me."

  Yale pulled her toward him. He held her, tense and reluctant in his arms. "I'm sorry, again, Cindar. I just can't help but feel that you have messed up our lives. I want to help you. I have to do that much for myself. But you've got to tell me what happened. What did I do?"

  Nervously, she kissed his cheek. She jumped up quickly from the bed. "Yale, it's three o'clock. I'm starved. Take me out for a sandwich and a cup of coffee. Will you?" It was apparent that she was trying to keep him from questioning her further.

  They ate in a small restaurant near her room. He sat opposite her in a booth. They tried to pick up the threads of the past, clutching pathetically at memories. As they talked they carefully avoided the years they had been separated, and confined their discussion to Midhaven Colege. Unexpressed was a if-we-could-only-turn-back-the-clock feeling, but inexorably the memory would recur to Yale of the day before graduation. And Cynthia remembered her fatal meeting with Pat. It was settled . . . over. The fleeting idea of trying to recapture the love they had known was forever squelched. As a person grows older the endless possibilities of youth narrow to a series of "it might have beens."

  Through the window they watched the snow whipping furiously along the cobbled streets. It was only four o'clock, but it was already dark. They had covered their Midhaven memories. The surface ones . . . not the deep feeling memories of young love and excitement and discovery . . . memories they dared not say aloud . . . so their words vanished, paralyzed by things too deep for tears, even.

  "Are you going back tonight?" Cynthia asked, breaking the silence. She wondered what he was thinking. Could she say to him that it would be all right to stay? They had slept together . . . had intercourse together . . . many times. She felt a longing to have a man with her. Someone . . . tender . . . understanding . . . to break the loneliness of her dismal room. But it was crazy. She couldn't ask Yale and then repulse him again. She couldn't say I want your body close to me tonight, Yale. Not for passion but because I'm scared. I'm going to have a baby -- and I'm alone and frightened. If she said it -- even implied it -- it would be as if she asked him to marry her. She would have to explain what had happened. How could she explain? Too many years had passed. It was too late. How could she evoke for Yale her fright and fear of Pat so many years ago? Now it seemed silly. She should have told Yale that day. They would have overcome Pat's hatred. Somehow. Even if they hadn't . . . they had their love for each other. But what would it accomplish now? She was pregnant -- and not by Yale. Yale was married to someone else. The future held no possibilities for them.

  Yale was deep in melancholy. Why had he come to Boston? If he hadn't come the memories of Cynthia would have fallen into perspective. But now it was so very clear. Anne hadn't wanted him, either. She had gotten rid of the baby. Why . . . God . . oh, why had he made the only two loves he had known his religion? Why couldn't he have accepted Cynthia and Anne as normal average women and not enmeshed himself with the Universe? Right now he had a set-up. Play it easy and he could have Cindar back in her room in bed in no time. Screw her good . . . dispassionately to see what it would be like, and then leave her in the morning. Tell her he would be in touch with her and then disappear entirely. Tell her anything, and then to hell with her. It's funny, he thought, I can think these thoughts but they are not me. Cindar -- get the hell out of my life, he thought, I'm confused enough.

  He said, "I've got to get back. Come on." He held her arm and guided her along the snow-covered sidewalk. In the front hall that seemed to smell even more violently of unwashed baby diapers and stale cooking odors, he gave her a quick, awkward hug.

  "I'll be back in a few days," he said. "I'll help you get another place. You can't live here. "

  2

  Yale glanced at the dashboard clock. It was ten-thirty. He should be almost at the entrance to the Marratt Estate. He must stop thinking about Cynthia and Anne and concentrate on the road. It was impossible to drive faster than twenty miles an hour. Ordinarily, he would have recognized every turn, but tonight the edges of the road had disappeared in a swirling plain of snow that extended as far as his headlights could penetrate.

  Trees swung in the wind. Above the throb of the engine, he could hear the snap of breaking branches. This blizzard was going to set some new records. He hadn't seen another car in more than an hour. Obviously, most people had more sense than to be out on a night like this. The car skidded out of control for a split second before he got it back onto the road. He had a quick vision of himself in an overturned convertible with no one to find him until morning; dead or dying from exposure.

  And Cynthia -- she would live, of course. Probably never realize that he was dead. Death in an automobile in Connecticut. He would simply be a statistic, among the many casualties that were bound to result from this storm. Cindar would think he had simply run out on a bad situation. Yale shrugged. The smartest thing to do was not to go back to Boston, anyway. Inevitably, he would create another mess.

  He slowed the car to a crawl, fearful of missing the turnoff, and then realized that while he was thinking his gloomy thoughts he had actually passed it. He peered out the right-hand window and caught a glimpse of the fieldstone fence that encircled the entire Marratt land. He estimated that the road into the house was about a hundred yards back. He backed slowly, the car door open. The wind and snow blew against his face and neck. The snow was drifted several feet high in front of the gateposts but the gate itself had been swung back by the wind. The road into the house wasn't plowed and it was exactly a mile and six-tenths to the house. He'd freeze to death if he tried to walk it. Maybe he could plow the Ford through. He slammed his foot on the gas, swinging the car into the entrance. For about a hundred yards the car whipped and skidded, and then, suddenly, the dark outline of another car stalled across the road sprung up before his headlights.

  Yale gripped the steering wheel as he crashed. For a moment he sat trembling, catching his breath. Who in hell had left a car like that?

  He jumped out into snow up to his knees. Plodding toward the car he had hit, he noticed that it was a Cadillac convertible. He pulled the door open. The head and arms of a woman tumbled toward him, falling on the edge of the car's seat. Yale was so startled that it was seconds after he had grabbed the girl's head and shoved her body back into the car that he realized it was his sister, Barbara.

  Pushing in beside her, he was overwhelmed with the odor of whiskey that permeated the interior. He leaned over her. She was breathing. Drunk, he thought. Jesus! Drunk! How do you like that?

  "Bobby!" He shook her. "Bobby, wake up for God's sake. You scared a lung out of me. What in hell are you doing here? Why aren't you in Texas? Where's Tom?"

  Barbara opened her eyes and looked at him. "Whaddya know," she muttered drunkenly. "My baby brother, Yale. Now I'm in luck."

  "You damned fool," Yale cursed. "Sitting here in below zero weather. Drinking yourself cock-eyed. What the hell's the matter with you?"

  "Got fed up with my darling husband," Barbara muttered
. "Left him. Came home to Mother, after six stupid years. To hell with him! To hell with the kids!"

  Yale pushed her into a sitting position. "Well, I've got news for you, chum . . . your darling mother and father are basking in the sun in Miami. The house is practically closed up. Whit Jones has gone into town while they're in Florida. Amy has gone to see her daughter in North Carolina. It's bachelor diggings for the next month." Yale pulled on the dash light. He looked closely at Barbara. She was wearing a mink jacket, with the collar flung high in back, providing a frame for her face. In the faint light from the dashboard her features were heavily shadowed, but Yale could notice a half smile on her lips.

  "Okay, so I'll drive to Miami . . . I've driven from Dallas in four days. Get a plow, darling brother. Get me out of here!" She shivered, "Ye gods, I'm freezing. Used up all my gas running the heater. What time is it?"

  Yale looked at his watch. "It's eleven-thirty."

  "Christ, I've been here since eight o'clock. Good thing I had the bottle."

  Yale picked it off the floor of the car. It was three-quarters gone. He took a swallow. "I don't suppose you have any overshoes?"

  She held up her legs, showing silk stockings and high-heeled shoes.

  Yale shook his head. "That's great. You're going to have a nice long walk, practically barefoot, in the snow."

  "The devil I am." Barbara shriveled into her coat. "If I was going to walk I'd have done it hours ago. Anyhow, I'm too damned tight . . . couldn't put one foot in front of another."

  "You can't stay here, you'll freeze to death."

  "Who cares? I've heard it's an easy death. You just go to sleep like this." Barbara put her head against the seat and closed her eyes. Yale realized that when she had discovered her car was stuck in the snow she had probably started drinking, not caring what happened. Whatever was wrong between Tom and her must be a real mess, he thought. Was this what happened to all modern marriages? Too much money. Too much booze. Maybe he was just as well off.

  Yale shook her and got no response.

  "Come on, Bobby! Come to! You may feel like croaking but I'm not going to have you on my conscience." He slapped her face. It made a stinging sound.

  She looked at him bitterly. "Just like my goddamned husband . . ."

  Yale leaned across her and pushed the door open. He shoved her into the snow. She screamed, "Leave me alone. I want to die. Who do you think you are . . . God?"

  Yale grabbed her arm and pushed her toward what looked like the center of the road.

  "Okay! Okay! Stop pushing. I'll try to make it."

  They lurched against the wind, the snow whipping and smacking against their faces. At first it felt clean and good, but in a few seconds it stung as it melted and froze on the skin. Yale half-led, half-dragged Barbara. It was impossible to talk. The wind was so cold it was difficult to breathe without gasping. Yale tried to gauge the depth of the snow on the road. For a few minutes they would walk on bare road. Then they would be confronted with a wide expanse of drifted snow, in some places waist high. Yale plowed ahead. He tried to trample some sort of path, waving his arms to keep his balance. He sank beyond his knees. His overcoat dragged across the top of the drifts.

  Barbara tried to follow him. Stumbling, she nearly fell forward on her face. Finally, the only way she could walk was to hitch her dress around her hips, hooking it under a large gold belt she was wearing. But in a few minutes her legs were raw and freezing cold. They felt numb beneath her. Staggering, trying to keep up with Yale, she suddenly tripped and plunged face down into a drift.

  "Yale," she moaned.

  He turned back, caught her by the back of her coat, and pulled her to her feet. She tottered against him, and he nearly lost his balance. "Are you all right?" he yelled.

  She tried to nod, and he heard her say, "Oh, Yale, I can't make it. I'm done in."

  Yale leaned over her. "Come on, Bobby! You've got to make it." He saw her bare legs for the first time. Her dress was still gathered around her waist. Her stockings, wet and sleazy, supported by a garter belt, made her look both ridiculous and somehow very feminine and fragile.

  Half pulling her to her feet, he slid his hand between her legs, and felt the wet hair of her mons, and then the curve of her buttocks. With a tremendous effort, he twisted her across his shoulder in a fireman carry.

  "You can't carry me!" she screamed. "I'm too heavy!"

  "Shut up." Yale groaned. "I'm doing it, aren't I? If we ever get back, you better dig out your red flannels. This isn't any weather to be walking around without panties."

  For the next few minutes Barbara's weight, balanced as it was, felt light enough. Holding her calf to keep her from falling, Yale's hand slipped back again to the curve of her buttocks. "Your fanny feels nice and warm," he teased her. Her voice in a weak "Cut it out," seemed to come from some distance behind him.

  The fury of the storm seemed to be increasing. The pines that Pat had planted years ago were the only clue to the turnings of the road. It had been years since he had walked the distance between Route 6 and the house. The turns, familiar in an automobile, seemed strange and intimidating on foot. As he struggled against the wind he tried to look into the biting onslaught of the snow to see if he could distinguish the outlines of the house. He prayed that it wasn't much further.

  His foot struck bare road for a minute, and then he started to plow across what seemed to be an unending drift. Almost up to his waist, he plunged forward into the snow, Barbara half under him. For a minute he lay still, listening to the heavy sound of his own breathing. He wondered at Bobby's silence. He pushed himself to his feet, and looked down at her, half buried in the snow. He shook her and she sobbed: "Yale, I'm sick. I'm so sick."

  He could see that she was retching. He grabbed her roughly. No matter how sick she was, she couldn't stay here. "Snap out of it!" he said sharply, in a voice that reminded him of his Army days. "You can be sick in the house."

  Half carrying, half dragging, a sickness of exhaustion in his bowels, he finally got her to the porch.

  Gasping for breath, he fumbled with his keys and swung the door open. He snapped the switch. The front hall light didn't go on. The wires must be down. Barbara collapsed on the floor with a sigh.

  "Come on, stupid! You've got to get those wet clothes off."

  Groping in the dark, he found the stair railing. He hoisted Barbara to her feet and carried her upstairs to her bedroom. Although Barbara hadn't lived in Midhaven for six years, Liz had left her room untouched. It was occasionally used as an additional guest room. He dropped Barbara on her bed.

  The house was bitter cold. This was going to be a pretty mess. Snowed in . . with no lights and no heat. He fished cigarettes out of his pants. They were soaked through. He shook Barbara. She moaned. God, she had really tied one on. She was so drunk she didn't care whether she froze or not. He wrestled her out of her coat, undid the zipper on the back of her dress and pulled it over her head. In the blackness of the room it was almost impossible to see what he was doing. He remembered Liz had a candelabra in the living room. He fumbled his way downstairs, finally located it together with some matches. Barbara was still lying face down on her bed; naked except for her brassiere. She was shivering violently.

  He searched in the bathroom and found a turkish towel. He quickly took off his own wet clothes and gave himself a quick rub-down. Still shivering, he took off Barbara's bra and massaged the towel vigorously over her body. He flopped her over and she groaned.

  "Cut it out! Cut it out!" she kept repeating blearily. She opened her eyes and looked at him. She giggled. "You're naked! Look at that big thing sticking out of your belly."

  She grabbed him and held him hard. "Stick it in me, Tommy. Come on! Come on! I want it. I haven't had it in such a long time."

  Yale grinned. Barbara was so drunk, she thought he was her husband. He pulled away from her grasp. The thought crossed his mind that all he had to do was to lie down on her. She wanted it, didn't she? It had been almost eig
ht months since he had loved a woman. He observed himself for a moment with interest. Obviously nature didn't differentiate even if the woman happened to be your sister.

  He scooped the blankets out from under her. She fell back on the sheets.

  "Push over, Bobby," he said, lying beside her. He pulled the sheets and blankets over them.

  She snuggled against him. He blew out the candles, and thrashed his legs to warm the bed.

  "I know who you are," Barbara whispered. "You're Yale!"

  Yale slapped her on the calf. "Turn over, dearie," Yale said, amused. "This isn't for passion. This is just a practical way to keep from freezing to death."

  She turned over and curved her buttocks into his stomach. She felt damp and cold, and yet, he thought, it was nice to have female flesh pressed against you.

  Outside, the snow, half ice, splattered wildly against the window. The frames rattled and groaned as the wind struck against them in furious gusts. Barbara moaned several more times that she was sick, and then fell asleep.

  Listening to the wind, Yale trembled. This was a day to top them all, he thought. Right now he could be lying in Cindar's bed in Boston. They would be as they were years before in New York. Cindar, hungry, demanding; kissing him persistently, and then shy . . . wondrous . . . embarrassed at the fury of her passion and her unknown self . . . she would snuggle against him the sharp ecstasy replaced by a warm need for him.

  And while he made love to her, Barbara would have frozen to death. And he would have known that had he come home Barbara would be alive. Had she died, her death would forever have been his responsibility. Because that was the way it was, once you accepted responsibility. That was the way it was with Anne whom he had made pregnant. That was the way it was with Cindar who was pregnant and needed help, and probably loved him. Did it make so much difference that they had lost six years? Wouldn't it be an even deeper and more understanding marriage because they knew what it was to have lost each other?