Yes, somehow he would convince Cindar to marry him. As he fell asleep he wondered if, when married to Cindar, he would forever worry about Anne. Why had Anne thought so lightly of their love? Could it be that he would never be a complete person again? When would he grow old enough to be more blasé? Look at Barbara. Tom Eames obviously didn't give a damn that his wife had almost frozen to death . . . or nearly got screwed by her brother. . . .
3
While they slept the snow kept falling. A northeast wind blowing in from the Atlantic whipped it into huge drifts, and then in howling dissatisfaction picked up the drifts and deposited them in even greater piles somewhere else.
In Midhaven, weary men seated high in the cabs of trucks hastily rigged with plows, worked hopelessly against the storm. All through the night, as fast as the main roads were cleared they filled in again. Six people died. They were buried in drifts or, abandoning their cars, froze to death or had heart attacks trying to reach home.
Yale slept restlessly. He tossed and turned, unaccustomed to sleeping with a woman. He awoke to a cold grey room. His nose felt frozen. The electric clock on Barbara's dresser said nine-fifteen. That must have been the time last night that the power went off. What time was it now?
He looked at Barbara. Her hair was scattered on the pillow, one bare arm flung over her head. Her breasts were uncovered. She looked at him and smiled faintly. "I'm awful sick," she said. "I must have wakened you going to the bathroom. I've got the runs. Feel as if I'm burning up."
Yale felt her face and drew back alarmed. "For God's sake. Cover up, you fool! You've got a fever."
He jumped out of bed, found some clothes in his room, and located a thermometer in the master bathroom. When he came back Barbara was shivering violently. Her skin looked bluish. He shoved the thermometer between her trembling lips. A few minutes later he looked at it in dismay. It read 101. "Lady, you're a sick pup!" he muttered. "I'm going to call a doctor." He found a telephone book. "Do Pat and Liz still have old Starkey?"
"I'll be all right," Barbara whispered. "Just pooped from the trip back . . . don't need a doctor."
Yale found the telephone number. He picked up the phone. There was no dial tone. The lines must be down. Barbara was perspiring and moaning a little. What could he do for her? He searched the medicine cabinet in the master bathroom and found some aspirin. Better than nothing. She swallowed two, tears in her eyes. "I'm sorry, Yale. I guess I'd be dead if it wasn't for you. How did you ever get me to the house?"
Yale put his hand on her cheek with a friendly caress. He was frightened by the heat of her skin. "Look, Bobby, you've got to have a doctor! The phone isn't working. I'm going to see if I can get the plow hitched up to the farm truck and plow out the road. It will take some time." He pulled the phone over beside her bed. "I'll write down Starkey's number. Keep trying. They may get the lines fixed."
It was still snowing lightly when Yale went out the back door. He jumped through drifts to reach the garage. Whit had backed the truck in and the plow was attached, evidently prepared for a storm. The truck started easily. About fifty feet from the garage, he plowed into a drift nearly two feet high. The truck bucked, skidded. If Whit had been home he would have kept plowing every hour or so through the night. Now it was too late. The drifts were too high for the lightweight truck. Discouraged, he backed into the garage. There was only one way to reach the highway and that was on foot.
Nothing to do but try. Barbara must have a doctor. Dressed in a lumberman's jacket, high boots, and a woolen hat pulled over his head, he reached the highway in about an hour. Puffing and feeling slightly sick from the exertion, he was relieved to find one lane had been plowed. There was no traffic. He walked in the direction of Midhaven. He remembered a small grocery store and a cluster of houses about two miles away. As he walked he was impressed with the strange quiet of the morning. The snow had temporarily put a forest hush on the land. The only sound was his boots crunching the snow beneath him.
He finally reached the grocery store. It was damp inside and smelled of wet cardboard boxes. Three men stood around an old pot-bellied stove. In answer to his query one of them pointed to a phone on the wall. As he picked it up, one of them said, "It ain't working." The others laughed in great good humor at Yale's stupidity. Yale looked at them angrily.
"Can one of you drive me into Midhaven? I've got to get a doctor for my sister."
One of them, a man of about sixty, heavy-built, with a two-day growth of beard, introduced himself. "I'm Ralph Weeks. You're young Marratt, ain't you? I used to work for your pa."
Yale, embarrassed at confiding personal information and pleading for help, explained his problem.
"Well, young fellow, you're in luck. If your danged employment manager, Jim Sanford, hadn't given me the sack last week because I was too old to be liftin' crates, I wouldn't have gone out and gotten me a job plowing yesterday. Too old, how do you like that?" Weeks clapped Yale on the back, with a thunderous blow. Yale could feel the strength of the man.
"Might have a little rheumatism. Might need a few drinks to warm me up now and then, but by god Ralph Weeks ain't too old yet! Got a city plow down the street. I'll plow you right up to that no-good Starkey's front porch, and then plow you back home at city expense." Weeks laughed a belly-shaking laugh. Yale was impressed with the good-humored, country-bred warmth of the man.
Sitting in the cab, Yale watched with admiration the dexterous way that Weeks handled the big truck. "Twenty years ago I used to operate a steam shovel for a construction company." Weeks' breath curled in a cloud around his face. "Then, Martha, my old woman, inherited the Langley house. Damned big ark. Must have been built after the Revolutionary War. So I quit and started a truck farm. Good way to starve to death. Off and on I worked for Marratt. Me and Martha liked the old place, though. Then the kids grew up and went their way. Last year Martha died. I'm living there by myself, now."
Weeks reached behind him and produced a pint of liquor. "Have a shot, son! It's damned cold. Made this myself. Got a little still now that Martha is gone. Liquor and women, that's what makes life worth living, boy. Trouble is you get older. You keep thinkin' about a nice young female cuddled up with you and there ain't none available. Guess I'll sell the house and move into town. Don't know anyone like to buy an old ark, do you? They don't build houses like that today. It's got ten rooms and six fireplaces plus a barn and forty acres of glacial stone and woods."
Yale remembered the house. It was a Georgian colonial, sitting on the crest of a hill a few miles beyond the Marratt house. The house had seen better days. Pat used to complain that it looked like something out of Tobacco Road. Unpainted, weather-beaten, it seemed to have a personality of its own; benign and disinterested in the progress of the world that had passed it by.
Weeks interspersed his conversation with an occasional shot of whiskey, passing the bottle each time to Yale. It had the light flavor of corn liquor and went down easily, erupting in a glow that spread throughout his body. Yale was feeling slightly tipsy when they pulled up in front of Doctor Starkey's house. To get there, Weeks had plowed a fresh lane through the virgin snow.
"I'll finish the street while you rouse Starkey," Weeks said. "He must be home. We are the first plow in this section. I'm out of my territory but what the hell."
When he recognized Yale, Doctor Starkey wasted no time. "Might be pneumonia," he said. "Got something, pretty new . . . penicillin. Good chance to try it."
They plowed easily through the drifts on Pat's private road. Yale asked Weeks to come back later and plow out his car and Barbara's.
Yale watched Starkey as he examined Barbara. "You've got to stay right in that bed, young lady. This could develop into something if you're not careful." He gave Barbara an injection and left some medicine.
On the way downstairs Starkey remarked on how cold the house was. "Your sister has all the symptoms of pneumonia. I don't know how this penicillin will react. It should help . . . but she's going to need a nurse. I don't want her o
ut of that bed." He looked at Yale seriously. "I'd try to get a hold of your father and mother."
Yale explained that he wasn't sure where they were staying in Florida, but he would try to contact them once the phone was working. Starkey asked him if he knew some woman that might come in. Yale shook his head.
"You can't get a nurse unless you personally know one," Starkey said gloomily. "There's been a real shortage around here since the war." He told Yale that he would come back around five o'clock, if he could get his car out.
"Keep her on that medicine. Change the bed, if she sweats too much. Feed her liquids."
From the upstairs window, Yale watched the truck disappear in the distance. He realized that he hadn't eaten since yesterday afternoon.
Later, puttering around in the kitchen, Yale remembered Cynthia. He wondered if he could ask her to help him. If Barbara really had penumonia, he was going to need a woman. But it was unreasonable. He couldn't ask Cynthia to expose herself to pneumonia. Unless he could contact Pat and Liz, the best thing would be to get Barbara to a hospital.
For the rest of the long day he sat in Barbara's room, huddled in an overcoat. Barbara slept, breathing heavily. Every hour or so Yale tried to telephone but there was no response.
During the day the conviction had grown on him that he needed Cynthia. If she was willing, they would try to recapture the love and close compatibility they had once known. He would tell her about Barbara. Without directly asking her help, he would see if she would offer to come. Unless she had changed from the person he had known, he knew that he wouldn't have to ask her. Cynthia would come. Having her in the house, meeting a common problem, he would break through her reserve. He was convinced that if he could discover what had happened to her the day before their graduation, he could gradually rebuild their love. Cynthia's obsession with her Jewishness was completely silly. Yesterday, she had practically admitted that she loved him.
Sometime in the afternoon Yale got the telephone operator. Explaining to her that there was probably no telephone where Cynthia lived, he gave the operator her address. She agreed to telephone-canvass the street. In less than an hour she called back and Yale heard Cynthia's voice.
"Yale, are you all right?" she asked. Her voice sounded husky and warm. "I worried about you all night. It's been the worst storm on record."
Yale felt an agreeable shiver of happiness as he realized her concern. When he told her what had happened, purposely minimizing how sick Barbara was, Cynthia said softly, "Yale, I'll come if you want me to. . . ."
She arrived at the Midhaven railroad station at one o'clock in the morning. Yale met her in his Ford which Ralph Weeks had helped him extricate from the snow. The grille had been smashed, and one mudguard caved in from the crash with Barbara's car, but the car ran all right.
Cynthia had immediately taken over. She insisted that Yale looked worn out and made him go to bed. Yale left the bathroom doors open between his room and Barbara's. He didn't attempt to introduce Cynthia to Barbara. Barbara's temperature was still very high. She was moaning unintelligibly.
Yale called Starkey several times during the day. At four in the morning he arrived, looking irritated and wan. "I have had it today." He sighed. "I've been on the go all day. Two emergency operations, three heart attacks, a couple of cases of pneumonia. You need to be two men. Are you an R. N. Mrs. Chilling?"
Cynthia explained that she wasn't but that she could follow instructions. Starkey responded to her crisp manner. He told her in detail what to do for Barbara.
For the next two days Cynthia maintained an almost unceasing vigil. She made light meals, persuaded Barbara to eat, changed her sheets, and bathed her. When Yale tried to draw her into conversation she avoided him. "I came to help you with your sister, Yale," she said. "We can talk later. In case you don't know it, I don't think Barbara is fighting at all. She hopes she'll die. Something happened with her husband. Some other woman, I guess."
Monday night, Yale made Cynthia lie down in the guest room. "You're acting crazy," he told her, "as if you had a mission that must be accomplished. If you keep going this way you'll end up catching pneumonia yourself. I'm not helpless, you know. I can watch Barbara. What's eating you, anyway?"
"A long time ago I asked you never to bring me to this house again." Cynthia sighed. "Now, I have come of my own volition. Some day, you can tell your father that Jews aren't so bad."
When Doctor Starkey looked at Barbara on Wednesday, he smiled. "Chalk it up to penicillin and Mrs. Chilling. We caught it in time. She'll be on her feet in a few days."
After bringing a tray for Barbara, Cynthia made supper for herself and Yale in the kitchen. Yale sat at the table and watched her while she prepared the meal. A deep feeling of tenderness flowed through him. How was he going to talk with her . . . how make her confess what had happened to their love? An idea occurred to him. "I think we both need a drink," he said. "We'll help ourselves to some of Pat's liquor."
"Oh, I don't think I want a drink, Yale. It's been a long time since I've had anything except a glass of beer. Mat never drank."
Yale ignored her. He went behind Pat's bar just off the living room. Something powerful, he thought with a grin. Something that went down easily and worked like dynamite. Tonight, whether she knew it or not, Mrs. Chilling was going to get good and tight.
He came back to the kitchen with a pitcher full of Manhattans. Cynthia was putting a steak on his plate and hers. "You wouldn't refuse to have a Manhattan with me for old times' sake, would you?"
Cynthia smiled. Sipping the drink he had poured, she murmured, "It's very good. Just right. Not too strong."
Yale agreed. He had used one hundred proof bourbon with just enough vermouth and cherry juice to conceal the strength. They ate their steaks . . . at first in silence. "You're a good cook," Yale said. He watched for the effect of the liquor.
"Oh, any dope can cook a steak and brown a few potatoes."
Yale refilled her glass. "Remember the night we played strip-poker with Sonny Thompson and Bee Middleton?"
"That was awful!" Cynthia laughed. "Sonny was so darned eager. You can't be eager like that with a girl."
"They got married," Yale said. "Sonny was in the Navy. I guess he had to marry her to get it."
Cynthia giggled. She held a piece of steak aloft on her fork, and looked at it seriously. "Those days were fun."
"Did you think about us very much in the past few years?"
Cynthia looked at him. "You know I did, Yale. After all, we were quite involved once. The talk of the campus."
They had finished eating. "Cindar, would you play the piano for me?"
"Gosh, I don't know whether I can any more. I haven't been near a piano for five years."
Yale led her into the living room. He brought the pitcher of Manhattans and their glasses. He filled hers. As she sat down at the piano, she took another sip. "These are nice drinks. They warm you up. I'm glad the lights came back on. You don't know how dependent you are on the thousands of other people until you see how pitifully incapable you are without something like electricity." Cynthia finished her drink.
Three, Yale thought. He could feel the drinks making him a little giddy. Could Cindar drink another? He would have to be careful or he would get so high himself; he would lose control.
"What'll I play?"
"Anything you want to, Cindar."
"Need to practice a little first." She ran a few scales, and odd pieces that Yale recognized as intricate finger exercises.
"Feels good to play again. Okay, I'll see if I remember some of Chopin's nocturnes. Used to know 'em all." Cynthia smiled at him and the warm, searching melodies of Chopin filled the room. She played unerringly for fifteen minutes. Yale watched her, astonished both at her ability to play with such feeling after three drinks, and his own feeling of love for her. He wanted to put his arms around her and kiss her sweetly serious face.
When she stopped Yale filled her glass and led her over to a sofa. She sat dow
n, holding her glass, looking at him with brown eyes that were liquid with tears.
"I talked with Barbara today. Her husband, Tom, met another woman. He told her he didn't love this woman, but he wanted to keep seeing her occasionally. Barbara is going to divorce him. She says she hates him. But when she says it you can see she still loves him. She would forgive him, I guess, except that he doesn't see anything wrong with it. He wants to keep right on having two women. All their friends do it." Cynthia shivered. "What's wrong with marriage today, Yale? People get married and everything is all right the first years -- the years when they are struggling together to make a living. Then, when things get easier, they start to play around. Mat and I met the problem over and over again when he was preaching."
"What did Mat think about it?" Yale asked.
"He had a one-track mind on the subject. The carryover of ancient taboos, working like any prohibition, making people so sex conscious that they rebelled and then were involved in a morass of desire versus duty." Cynthia sipped at her drink. "You know somethin'? I'm getting a little tight."
"Relax," Yale said. "You've been working hard. I feel kind of sorry for Bobby. I'd have thought she might be sophisticated enough to handle that situation."
Cynthia looked at him querulously. "You think it's a sign of sophistication to play around when you're married?"
Yale shook his head. "No. Not particularly. I mean Barbara had a lot of dates before she was married. She should know men pretty well."
"You mean that's the way men are. Are you like that now, Yale?" Cynthia whispered. "I guess you've probably had a lot of women."
Yale smiled. He picked up her hand and looked at her strong, unpolished nails. "I've 'had,' as you put it -- you, Anne, and two other girls whom I remember only because I felt kind of sorry afterwards."
"Sorry --?" Cynthia asked, feeling a little tinge of jealousy.
"Oh, I just mean that I like women as much as any man, but the few times I have tried intercourse with them without anything but sexual urge I haven't felt it was worth it. I like to wake up with a woman and be glad she's there. Still, I haven't been married to one woman as a day-in day-out proposition. Maybe if I had," Yale said, teasing her, "I'd try and knock off a stray piece, now and then. What about Mat? Did he ever play around?"
The Rebellion of Yale Marratt Page 44
