Bon Marche

by Chet Hagan

  “Good for you. And him.”

  “You approve?” She seemed surprised that her father’s close friend would side with her.

  “Of course. I’m in favor of adults making their own way in life. You must do what you think is best for you, not what might be thought best for your father.”

  She kissed him on the cheek. Spontaneously. “I wish you were my father.”

  “No, you don’t. Your father is a fine man; he’ll come around. I said earlier that you had your mother’s good looks. Now I know that you also have your father’s grit. That’s a fine combination.”

  Corrine gasped. “You think I’m like him!”

  “Very much so.”

  The young girl shook her head. “I never thought of it that way before. But, I think you may be right. I am a Dewey, aren’t I?”

  IV

  LOUISE Dewey, MacCallum learned quickly, wasn’t at all like her older sister. At sixteen, she was willowy, pretty if not beautiful, and somewhat of a tomboy. Not a woman; not yet. But, there was a certain iciness in her that suggested she would mature into a woman of style. Of class. To Andrew, such an inevitability seemed preordained.

  Andrew spent a morning at the training track, watching Louise handle spirited two-year-old thoroughbreds, riding them with an expertise of a jockey.

  “You seem to be at ease on a horse,” he said to her while she was unsaddling one of the young animals.

  “It would be strange if I wasn’t, don’t you think?”

  “Yes and no. Your sister, Corrine, doesn’t seem to be interested in equines.”

  “Corry is a pill!”

  “Oh, is she?”

  “Yes, and a damned prude, too! Uncle Andrew, I get sick to my stomach sometimes with her. It’s always Billy this and Billy that, as though Billy Holder had hung the moon.”

  “You don’t like Holder?”

  “He’s all right, I guess. It’s just that he’s so certain about everything.” She paused. “And I don’t like the way he argues with Father. He doesn’t show him any respect.”

  “And you think your father merits respect?”

  “Of course I think he merits respect!” She grinned at him. “Uncle Andrew, you’re baiting me.”

  “Guilty,” MacCallum laughed.

  “Why?”

  “To get to know you better. To understand the younger generation of Deweys. To make up for all those years that I was away from you—from all of Charles’s children.”

  Louise studied his face. “That makes sense, I guess. But I’m not special. I’m just me. I hope that doesn’t disappoint you.”

  “Not at all. What do you want in life, Louise?”

  “I never thought of it,” she answered flippantly.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  She laughed. “You’re wise, aren’t you? Like Father.”

  “At times,” he admitted.

  “I know what I don’t want. I don’t want a Billy Holder. If I ever get married, I want a man! Someone mature.”

  “Like Charles Dewey?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. But a man who knows where he’s going. Who isn’t just a complainer, like Billy. A man who … well, Father says that everyone ought to shake the world a little bit. I guess I’m going to look for a shaker.”

  “You’re the one, young lady, who’s wise.”

  “Me? No. I told you, I’m just me.” She grinned at him. “Would you wait for me, Uncle Andrew? Maybe, after I’m a few years older, Father would agree to my marrying you.”

  “You’re a terrible tease, Louise.”

  She sobered. “I don’t think so.” There was a moment of silence. “When I find my shaker, Uncle Andrew, there will be no teasing. I’ll know!”

  V

  GEORGE Washington Dewey was a delight to MacCallum. Extroverted, jolly, candid, self-assured—in love with life. All of it.

  “Louise claims,” George said, “that you’re studying us, Uncle Andrew. Are you?”

  “Yes, in a sense.”

  “I never thought of the Deweys being worth study. Except, maybe, for Father.” An extra thought: “And Mother.”

  “You like your stepmother.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Better than that. I love her. She’s tops! She makes Father very happy. They’re great lovers, you know.”

  MacCallum smiled. “How old are you, George?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “And you know about lovers?”

  The young man chortled, dropping his voice into an intimate whisper. “Uncle Andrew, I know a little bit about horses, a little bit about gambling, a little bit about good food—and a great deal about love!”

  “You do, eh?”

  “Absolutely. I’m the best lover at Bon Marché. Except for Father, maybe.”

  “And what has made you such an expert?”

  “Careful study. Like you, Uncle Andrew, I study people. Especially women.”

  “What have you learned?”

  “Enough. For example, did you know that you can tell if a woman is going to be … uh … cooperative by the way she walks?”

  “I’m afraid such a thing has been beyond my study.” He was thoroughly amused by the conversation.

  “Well, you can. Now, a woman who just minces along, with her legs held tightly together”—he demonstrated such a walk—“is not a good choice. But a woman who walks freely, unconcerned about the comparative positions of her legs”—he demonstrated another walk—“is a good candidate for…” He shrugged. “Well, you understand what I mean.”

  “That’s an infallible test, is it?”

  “Nine out of ten times,” George assured him. “Not bad odds, eh?”

  “Not bad at all.”

  “Of course, not all women who walk freely are candidates. Some are married and find themselves unavailable. Not all of them, you understand, but marriage is sometimes a barrier.”

  “I see. Have you any more of this wisdom for an old bachelor?”

  “Eyes are important, but you have to study them carefully. It’s subtle. Eyes tell you little things. If you hint at some … uh … indiscretion, and the eyes show no reaction, just forget it. But if the eyes moist over—just a tiny bit—the lady may be willing. Most often.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “The first thing I learned, Uncle Andrew, is not to listen to words from a woman. Words don’t count at all. Some of the most outspoken women can be cold. On the other hand, some of the most shy girls—those who find it difficult to respond verbally—can be cold, as well. So you have to discount everything a woman says, unless it’s ‘yes’ at the proper moment. Even then, the words aren’t important. Few girls who are willing actually say ‘yes.’ They just go ahead and do it. Without words.”

  “I seem to be in the company of a connoisseur.”

  George shook his head doubtfully. “I don’t know that any man can be a complete connoisseur of women. But I try.”

  “Do other things keep your interest?”

  “Oh, sure. Dancing, gambling, books—and horses, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m not a serious student of horses, as Franklin is. Franklin is a superb horseman—better than Father in some ways. Women are more fun than horses, though.”

  “I gather from this conversation that you’re not seriously thinking of marriage.”

  “Marriage? Certainly—someday, when it suits my purpose.”

  “What kind of woman will hold you?”

  “I haven’t worked it all out yet. She’d have to be strong, like Mattie. And loving, like Mattie.”

  Was every man seeking a Mattie Dewey? MacCallum wondered.

  “And I believe I’d like it more if she were wealthy,” George went on. “I mean, I’m going to be wealthy, aren’t I? Assuming that Father doesn’t cut me off.” He laughed at such a foreign thought. “So that money wouldn’t become a decisive factor in our relationship, she ought to have her own wealth. Right?”

  “Far be it
from me to disagree with your evaluation of what a woman ought to be.”

  “How is it that you haven’t married, Uncle Andrew?”

  “I haven’t found the right woman.”

  “You’ve looked?”

  “Not with your dedication, perhaps, but—”

  “Have you ever been to bed with a woman?”

  MacCallum told himself that he ought to be offended by the audacity of the question. But he wasn’t. “Yes,” he said, “I have.”

  “More than one?”

  “More than one.”

  George clapped Andrew on the back. The gesture was man-to-man, not younger man to older man.

  “Then there’s hope for you yet,” George Dewey assured him.

  VI

  LEE Dewey was difficult to talk to. He wasn’t sullen or impolite or without words, but MacCallum had trouble getting through to the lad’s inner thoughts.

  They chatted amiably one day in the foaling barn, when Lee’s chore was to keep watch on a foal that was having difficulty nursing because the mare had tender teats and was forever kicking the youngster away. They covered a lot of subjects: books, music, mathematics—Charles had bragged to Andrew about Lee’s proficiency in mathematics—horses. But the sixteen-year-old—Louise’s twin—seemed reticent about opening up, about taking the older man into his confidence.

  Andrew persisted, looking for the key to unlock him.

  “It seems to me that you have a unique opportunity here, Lee, with the horses. Few young men have the ready availability of such a superb training ground.”

  Lee just nodded.

  “Perhaps you don’t see horses in your future?”

  There was no immediate answer, but MacCallum waited patiently.

  “I guess I do,” the boy said finally. “You can hardly be at Bon Marché without realizing that.”

  “But it’s not what you want.”

  Another delay. “No.”

  “Would you care to tell me what you do want? What you dream of?”

  Lee sighed. “Oh, it’s not important. At least, Father would think it’s not important.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Father has made it clear that we are all to be fascinated by the horse business.” For the first time some bitterness showed.

  “I’m sure he hasn’t precluded another outlet for his children.”

  “He hasn’t said so, no.”

  “But you think he has.”

  “Yes. If I went to Father with any other thought but horses, he’d…” He didn’t finish the sentence.

  “He’d what?”

  “He’d be disappointed.” It seemed a weak answer.

  “And you don’t want to disappoint him.”

  “I guess not.”

  “Lee, let me say something, which I hope you’ll believe. Charles Dewey is my dearest friend. But that doesn’t mean I go carrying tales to him about everything I learn. Don’t you want to tell me what you dream? In confidence?”

  There was no answer.

  “Lee, I’m your friend, too.”

  Another deep sigh. “I want to be an artist. A painter.”

  “That’s marvelous!”

  The boy shrugged.

  “Do you believe you have talent for that?” MacCallum prodded.

  “I hope so.”

  “You’ve done some things?”

  “A few ink drawings.”

  “May I see them?”

  Still the suspicion was there, the doubt. After another silent moment, Lee climbed quickly to the hayloft above the horse stalls. When he came down again, he handed a sheaf of drawing papers to Andrew.

  MacCallum examined them slowly: a foal frolicking in the pasture, a reproduction of the Bon Marché mansion, the grain mill by the Richland Creek, an eerie grove of willow trees, portraits of his brothers and sisters, uncanny in their accuracy.

  “Lee, these are wonderful. Truly wonderful! You should show them to your father and mother.”

  “Could you…?”

  “No,” Andrew replied firmly. “This is something you have to do. You have to assert yourself. It seems to me you owe that to your talent.”

  Lee took back the drawings. “I will. Someday.”

  “Don’t delay too long.”

  “You really think they’re good?”

  “I do.”

  “Thank you.”

  The boy climbed the ladder to the hayloft again, and Andrew heard him hiding the drawings once more.

  Lee was hiding his future, MacCallum realized. It made him very sad.

  VII

  ON Christmas morning, Andrew accompanied Franklin Dewey on his rounds of the horse barns, observing his efficient dispatch of orders to the blacks assigned to the horses. He would soon be twenty-two, but MacCallum thought he seemed much older, much more mature, than that.

  “Your father seems to have given you a lot of responsibility,” the visitor commented.

  “He has.”

  “That must make you proud.”

  Franklin looked at him soberly. “It frightens me, Uncle Andrew.”

  “For God’s sake, why?”

  “Because Father has told me that, in a few years, I’m to be put in charge of the entire horse operation. And I don’t believe I can measure up to him.”

  “Do you think he expects that of you?”

  “It’s not Father I’m concerned about. It’s myself. I want to be like him, and I don’t think I can be.”

  “That’s an artificial challenge, Franklin, and you ought not to impose it on yourself.”

  “Maybe not, but I can’t help it.” His brow furrowed in a frown. “I have many shortcomings, Uncle Andrew.”

  “Nonsense!”

  “I do,” Franklin insisted. “What would you say if I told you that George had to instruct me on how to court Amantha?”

  MacCallum laughed. “I’d say that you had the good sense to go to the world’s leading authority.”

  “I wish it were that humorous.”

  “Franklin, listen to me,” Andrew said, putting his arm about the young man’s shoulders. “All of us have doubts about ourselves. I myself have doubts. When I get back to New Jersey I have reason to believe that I’ll be offered the post of dean of the college.”

  “That’s great!”

  “And I have doubts I can handle it. But you know what? I will. To the best of my ability. I can’t do more than that.”

  The eldest Dewey son grimaced. “You don’t have to compete with a legend.”

  Now MacCallum laughed so much that his sides ached. “Legend? Charles Dewey?!”

  “Of course.”

  Andrew realized that the young man was dead serious.

  “Your father,” he said, “is not infallible. Thank God, no one is. This would be an impossible world in which to live if some of us were infallible. And you won’t be. Live with that, Franklin. It’s a universal truth.”

  Christmas Day moved swiftly: the exchange of gifts, the huge dinner, the entertainment at night, highlighted by little Alma May’s recitation of the Christmas story according to St. Luke. Warm, comfortable, loving.

  At the end of the day, Charles and Andrew, bundled against the cold of the night, strolled across the lawn in front of the mansion.

  “Have you completed your study of the Dewey family?” Charles asked in a disinterested manner.

  “The children spoke to you?”

  “Several of them did. They are convinced that you will immortalize the Deweys in some way.”

  MacCallum didn’t pick up his friend’s bantering tone. “Do you realize that Franklin considers you a legend?”

  “Oh, my God, he doesn’t!”

  “Yes. And he wonders how he can live up to it.”

  “That’s serious, isn’t it?”

  “Very. And one more thing, if I may presume on our friendship: Lee is so frightened of your damned image that he won’t tell you that he wants no part of the horse business; that he wants to be an artist!” />
  “An artist?”

  “Yes, and from what I’ve seen of a few of his drawings, he has a unique talent.”

  Dewey moaned. “You must think me a terrible father. You’ve been here—what? ten days?—and already you know more about my family than I do.”

  “I don’t think you terrible, Charles. It’s just that you have a … well, putting a candid face on it … you have a profoundly self-centered outlook. You don’t listen to others. No, let me put that another way: you don’t hear others.”

  They strolled along for several minutes before Charles spoke again: “You’ve always been my alter ego, Andrew. What you have just told me is proof, once again, that I need your guidance. Won’t you accept my offer and stay?”

  “No. Even if I stayed, though, you’d still have to do what I’m advising now—hear them, Charles.”

  The master of Bon Marché sighed. “You’re right, of course.” He chuckled. “I have accepted your advice on one thing: I found a few minutes today to write a letter to Katherine, telling her of the progress of the children. And wishing her a happy New Year. I’m afraid, though, that I couldn’t force myself to extend those greetings to Funston.”

  “It’s a start, old friend, it’s a start.”

  30

  EVEN if he had not been told that Andrew Jackson would be a guest at the wedding of Franklin Dewey and Amantha Bolling, Andrew MacCallum would have known who he was. Jackson’s appearance in the living room at Bon Marché, where the ceremony was to be held, started a buzz of comment.

  MacCallum guessed that everyone in the room already knew Jackson; yet there was a special quality about the man that stirred an excitement in them in spite of their familiarity with him. A step behind him was a subdued woman, handsome enough, but made plain, Andrew thought, by her pained shyness. That had to be Aunt Rachel, Jackson’s wife.

  As Andrew watched them, Mattie walked up to the Jacksons, smiling sweetly and proudly, kissing them both on the cheek. Charles Dewey was not in evidence.

  MacCallum waited until several of the other women drew Rachel into conversation, and Jackson stood alone for a moment.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Andrew said as he went quickly to Jackson’s side. “My name is Andrew MacCallum. I’m a friend of Mr. Dewey. We knew each other in Virginia.”

  Andy pumped his hand amiably. “Of course. Charles has spoken of you. His tutor, weren’t you?”