Titans

by Leila Meacham

  “I am. We have a lot of time to make up for, don’t we? Let’s go inside. Your father’s on the way, but we’ll have a little time to get acquainted before he butts in. Come, Rebecca, darling.”

  They came from around the hedge, the girl so spindly and the woman so fragile a puff of his breath could have blown them away. Yet the little girl skipped with the bounce of youth and her grandmother stepped with a will of such strength that Nathan thought he might cause offense if he offered his arm. “Is that your only luggage?” Mavis asked, poking Nathan’s knapsack with her cane.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  “There doesn’t look enough in it for a change of clothes.”

  “I don’t plan to stay long.”

  “Really? Well, we’ll see about that. You’ll lodge with us, of course.”

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t do that, ma’am. I saw a boardinghouse on my way here.”

  “Nonsense. I’ll have a guest room made up for you. No grandson of mine is staying in a bedbug-infested boardinghouse. Rebecca, why don’t you run and tell Lenora to report to me in the parlor and to bring us tea with plenty of sandwiches. Your brother looks hungry. Don’t forget your book, Nathan.”

  Deeming it pointless to argue, Nathan picked up the book and his knapsack and followed the two slight figures in their pretty pastel dresses into the house. They had made his acquaintance outside in case he proved to be too unsuitable to be invited in, he realized. He must have passed muster, but closing the ebony door behind him, he wondered what he was entering into and if it was a place from which he could easily make his escape.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was the grandest house Nathan had ever seen or hoped to see, not counting the fancy residence Lily hoped to inhabit someday as the wife of a rich man. “Sit over here next to me so you’ll be close to the tea trolley, Nathan, and don’t be afraid to sit on the damask. Your pants are clean enough,” Mavis said, taking what appeared to be her usual spot before a softly glowing fire. “Besides, it’s nice to have another male Waverling in my parlor in clothes that look to have done a day’s work. Your uncle, my other son, was just such a fellow. I wish you could have known him, too. That’s his picture there.” She gestured toward the mantel where a portrait of a man who looked nothing like his urbane brother was positioned facing his mother’s chair. There was a handsomely framed photograph of Trevor on the other end of its marble length as well, but the one of his brother reigned over the room.

  “He’s… deceased?” Nathan wondered if there was a picture of her husband anywhere around—his grandfather.

  “Three years ago,” Mavis said. “Mystery surrounds his death to this very day, but that’s a story for another private moment.” A large tabby jumped down from an embroidered seat on another chair and went immediately to hop onto Nathan’s lap. “Well, well,” Mavis said. “First Rebecca, now Scat seems to have taken to you, and they’re not bad judges of character, either. Get down, Scat, before I take my cane to you.”

  The cat looked at her, yawned, and curled up in the nest of Nathan’s cap before he could put it in his pocket. Nathan chuckled. “I don’t mind. He’s nice and warm. I’m sorry about your son. Were he and… my father your only ones?”

  “My only ones. No daughters. Believe me, I am sorry my boy’s gone, too. Jordan, his name was. Rebecca worshipped him. Jordan introduced her to poetry. It was a great love of his, and the reason Rebecca parrots it so. He read to her every night from his books of poems. Ah, here’s Lenora with the tea tray. Lenora, this is my grandson, Nathan. He’ll be staying with us awhile. Will you make up the blue room for him, please?”

  “How’d do,” Lenora said, her little curtsy accompanied by a sharp look of doubt that Nathan was who he claimed to be and a warning that he better watch himself. He acknowledged her meaning with a nod and small lift of his shoulders to convey that the invitation was not his idea.

  “I’ll try to be no trouble,” he said.

  “Be all the trouble you like,” Mavis said. “You can tell a lot about a person by the trouble he causes. Lenora, take Scat to the kitchen so the boy can eat his sandwiches in peace, and keep Rebecca with you for a while so Nathan and I can talk. Nathan, heap your plate. I’ll pour the tea. How do you like it?”

  “Just plain will do, thank you,” Nathan said, for politeness’ sake, taking only two of the miniature-sized sandwiches. He was wolfishly hungry. His last meal had been supper yesterday. He’d not taken time for breakfast after he milked Daisy in order to catch the 7:30 train to Dallas. Leon had seen him off at the station and slipped him a dollar.

  For breakfast, he’d said. Get yourself some eggs and bacon at a stop along the way. It’ll be a long, hungry ride to Dallas. But, not knowing what he’d run into in the city, Nathan had saved the money to add to his meager store of cash, safely tucked into the tops of his socks.

  Mavis handed Nathan his tea while adding more sandwiches to his plate. He sensed she could read and understand boys. He figured she was a good mother to her sons, though she didn’t seem to like her surviving one very much.

  “Let me tell you a little something about Rebecca,” Mavis said. “Did Trevor mention his daughter to you?”

  “Briefly to my stepfather,” Nathan said.

  “That figures. She’s his daughter by his first wife. Because of Rebecca, the second one was afraid to bear him any more children. I took my granddaughter into my home to raise after Trevor’s first divorce. Trevor lives here, too, but it’s my house, like everything else, but I sidetrack.” Mavis flicked away the digression with her pale, thin fingers. “The child is keenly intelligent, but her mind is manacled by some kind of nerve disorder. Doctors tell us her mental development will probably never mature beyond the age of eight or nine and she’ll always be a little girl. As you noticed, her verbal skills are severely limited, but she can parrot anything she hears or reads back to you, and she can comprehend and write reasonably well for someone of her arrested mental growth.”

  “I would think it would take a good mind to fit the lines of a poem to a situation,” Nathan said.

  “One would think.”

  There was the sound of the front door opening and closing quickly, strong, rapid footsteps in the foyer, and the bustle of Lenora hurrying to intercept the caller. “Oh, Mr. Waverling, I was expecting Benjy to bring you to the back!” the maid cried, her frantic greeting pierced by a squeal of “Daddeee!” and the rush of small feet down the hall.

  “Not now, Rebecca!” came the sharp rebuke. “Take her back to where she was, Lenora. I’ll speak to her later.”

  “Yes, Mr. Waverling.”

  “Behold the arrival of my second son and father emeritus,” Mavis said, her voice dry as a dead twig.

  The double doors to the parlor flew open. “Nathan! What a surprise!” Trevor Waverling cried, striding forth to offer his hand. Nathan rose to take it, perceiving in his father’s hale and hearty manner a clear attempt to hide his irritation at finding his son in his parlor. Where was the paternal enthusiasm he’d displayed at the farm? “I thought you understood you were to come to my office if you decided to accept my invitation.”

  “I decided to come here,” Nathan said.

  “And thank his good sense that he did,” Mavis said. “We’ve been getting acquainted, a pleasure I may have been denied if he’d gone to your office, Trevor.”

  “Oh, well, I… yes… I see you’ve met your grandmother and… Rebecca?”

  “He’s met your daughter, Trevor,” Mavis said.

  “Then you see that we have an… interesting household. Where are you staying?”

  “Here,” said Mavis emphatically. “Your son is staying here in the blue room, until Nathan decides he can’t abide us.”

  Trevor looked at his mother blankly. “Here?”

  Nathan put up his hands. “Look,” he said, embarrassed. He could feel his face turning red. “I came only for the day, actually, with no intention of staying. I planned to take the train back tonight aft
er I visited your place of business and met my… grandmother and sister, so please don’t go to the bother of putting me up.”

  “To look us over, in other words,” Mavis said. “Very smart, but you can’t do all that in one day, Nathan, and it’s no bother to put you up.”

  “I agree to both,” Trevor said, his composure restored. “Tomorrow morning is early enough for you to leave us if you feel you must get back. I’ve come to take you to the plant, and we’ll lunch downtown, so don’t expect us, Mother,” he said, his tone rejecting any notion Mavis might have to the contrary.

  “But I will expect you for supper, Trevor,” Mavis said, her look forbidding any idea he might have otherwise.

  “Come, Nathan,” Trevor said. “Let your father show you the family business with the hope you’ll see you didn’t make the trip for nothing.”

  Nathan turned to his grandmother to thank her for her hospitality, his eye falling uncertainly upon his knapsack. “Leave it, Nathan,” Mavis said. “It will be in your room waiting for you when you return.”

  Nathan drew on his cap. “Until then,” he said, giving her a smile. “I really enjoyed the tea. The sandwiches hit the spot.”

  “If nothing else, the food is good here,” Mavis said.

  “Oh, Mother…” Trevor sighed resignedly. “Come on, Nathan.”

  Nathan followed the broad-shouldered figure of his father in his perfectly fitting suit out of the room. Glancing back at Mavis, he saw a look of yearning upon her porcelain fine face, but for who—for what? A pang of sympathy for her made him reluctant to leave. There was deep animosity in this house, he thought, but love, too—like two tigers circling in a cage. Which one would eat the other? Which one would win out? And why did he suddenly care?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Waiting in the circular courtyard before the town house were the same coach and pair of Thoroughbreds that had called upon the Holloways at their farm. At the reins was the circus clown. The Irishman hopped nimbly down and opened the coach door, his expression enlarging with recognition at Nathan’s appearance.

  “Benjy, this is Nathan,” Trevor introduced him. “You didn’t formally meet last time.”

  Benjy bobbed his head. “How do ye do? And the last name, sir?”

  Trevor hesitated, and Nathan answered, “Holloway.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, I’m sure,” Benjy said, lifting his stovepipe hat.

  An awkward silence settled in the coach to the sumptuous squeak of leather as Trevor and Nathan took their seats facing each other. Nathan had never been in such a conveyance but would not give his father the satisfaction of noting the fact by even a glance to admire the fine woodwork and velvet trappings. As they pulled away, Trevor said, “I gather you prefer to go by Holloway for now.”

  “I gather you prefer it,” Nathan said.

  “For your sake, I believe we should take things slowly. I don’t want to push you into a family, business, or social situation you do not wish to be a part of.”

  “Or think I’m suited for,” Nathan said.

  “I’m merely remembering our conversation when we first met, Nathan, in which you made it clear that you were happy where you were and had no wish to enlarge your estate in life or assume an acquaintance with me.”

  Nathan nodded. “True enough,” he said, feeling a little abashed.

  “You’ve given me every reason to believe you’re as reluctant to tell the world I’m your father as you believe I am to inform it you’re my son, so do not attribute my consideration for your feelings to snobbery,” Trevor said.

  Nathan was tempted to apologize but personal judgment told him snobbery was exactly the reason Trevor Waverling was of yet no mind to make their family relationship known. All the luck to him keeping their connection under his hat, he thought. Other similarities aside, a stranger had only to look at their eyes to know they were related. Nathan allowed the reproach to go unchallenged and said, “So for the time being, I’m merely Nathan and you’re… Mr. Waverling?”

  “That will do,” Trevor said. “We can spring the surprise later if all goes well, and you’re amenable to becoming a part of the family and Waverling Tools.” Trevor fixed him with an earnest stare. “I hope you will be, Nathan. I mean that.”

  “I haven’t heard my grandfather mentioned. Is he dead?”

  “He died five years ago, leaving my late brother, Jordan, in charge of Waverling Tools. Jordan drowned a couple of years later, and the business was left in my hands to run.”

  “But not to own, is that right?”

  Trevor went still, and in the few seconds of his motionless silence, Nathan suddenly understood his need of an heir. His father had no children other than him and Rebecca, and Nathan assumed his brother, Jordan, had died childless. But why now and why him? “Who told you that?” Trevor asked.

  “Your mother. She said everything belongs to her. I gather that means the business, too, huh?” Nathan leaned forward, vaguely aware of the fine brick streets over which the coach rumbled, the impressive buildings they passed, the congestion of vehicles, among them the phenomenon of several gleaming horseless carriages, the all-around commercial energy of this bustling city of Dallas. “Don’t you think you ought to put your cards on the table and tell me why I’m here, Mr. Waverling? I’d just as soon believe you can get milk from a rock as think it’s from a desire to unite with your son.”

  A tinge of color appeared above the wolfish hollows of Trevor’s cheeks, then just as suddenly he laughed. “By God, Nathan, you’re quite a boy. Little seems to get by you.”

  “I’d like you to spread your cards, Mr. Waverling,” Nathan said, unamused. “Otherwise, I’m getting out of this carriage right now, walking back to your house, picking up my knapsack, and getting on my way.”

  “I so hope it will not come to that,” Trevor said. “Your grandmother has taken a liking to your knapsack.” A leap of respect shone in his sea-green eyes. “All right, Nathan, but not here. Let’s get to the office where we can talk comfortably, and then you can decide whether to stay or go. Deal?”

  “Deal,” Nathan said.

  Waverling Tools was located in a manufacturing district with direct access to the Southern Pacific Railroad. The belch of smokestacks and the odiferous smells from livery stables added to the industrial ugliness of loading docks and warehouses, foundries and storage buildings spread out close to the rail lines. That morning, Nathan had read a newspaper article describing Dallas as becoming an industrialized city, leading the Southwest in the manufacture of tools, building equipment, and machinery. Nathan had wondered to what extent Waverling Tools contributed to the production statistics. A lot, he thought, judging by the impressive two-story building before which the coach-and-pair reined to a stop. The masonry structure had been erected apart from its wood-framed neighbors and stuck out in appearance from the other manufacturing establishments like little Lord Fauntleroy in a band of guttersnipes. Attention to aesthetics had gone into first impressions of Waverling Tools. A tall wrought-iron fence protected a water fountain, a canna-bordered brick walk, and an immaculate patch of green grass from wagon wheels and horses’ hooves and the scraps of paper littering the dirt grounds of the other properties around it. Over the handsomely crafted doorway, WAVERLING TOOLS was announced in gold letters against a dark blue background, in contrast to the crude wooden signs nailed to posts or stuck into the ground of its neighbors.

  “Is this the plant?” Nathan asked.

  “The office,” Trevor answered. “The plant is behind it.” He pulled at a tulip-shaped instrument attached to a cord and spoke into its mouth. “Benjy, take us round to the back, please.”

  Nathan tried hard not to look impressed. What an amazing contraption, he thought. The idea of being able to speak to your coachman through a tube without having to leave your seat in the cab. What a world he had entered in Dallas, Texas. Something new, grand, and big on every corner.

  He and his father had exchanged little conversation o
n the ride, but at one point, Nathan asked, “What was my grandfather like? What was his name?”

  Trevor seemed pleased that he’d asked. His mouth softened. “My father? His name was Edwin. You remind me of him. I thought so the minute I laid eyes on you. Something about your”—he twirled a hand as if the word he desired could be spun from the air—“quiet but strong demeanor made me think of him. He was hard but fair, not an easy man to know. Most everybody feared him, including his sons, not out of fright but respect. Everything ran deep in him. Hardly anything ever rose to the surface, only the love he had for my mother.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Nathan said. “She’s a lovely woman. There was no picture of him in her parlor.”

  “That’s because he didn’t sit for many. He was not a vain man. The few taken of him are in her bedroom.”

  Nathan felt a surprising flush of pleasure to learn that the origin of some of his traits came from his paternal grandfather. He, too, was one to keep his feelings to himself, down deep where the still waters flow, so Lily called it, and he never sought notice for himself. Nathan would have liked to know if Trevor Waverling had loved his father. That would tell him a lot about the man who sat across from him.

  Trevor had volunteered no more about the family, and they had jostled along in silence, broken only when he made some comment about the city or pointed out a landmark or milestone of progress, all offered with pride. “Dallas is the most populous city in Texas,” he informed Nathan, “and someday it will be a metropolis to rival the great cities of the East. You mark my words.”

  They alighted in back of the building. Benjy opened the door, his droll look at Nathan curious, speculative, and Nathan wondered just how long the short-legged Irishman had been in his father’s employ, the secrets to which he was privy. Somehow he had the sense the two of them were like pocket to pant, if not out of loyalty to each other, by virtue of the impression that Benjy knew where the bodies were buried.