Balance Wheel

by Taylor Caldwell

  The house was full of ghosts. I’ll sell the damn thing, thought Charles, and knew he would not.

  Jimmy, out with some of his friends, had been born here. But Charles was not thinking of his son. He saw the ghosts of his young brothers, and he was tired and listless with his regret. It was all tied up with his aversion to Mondays, in some way, his shrinking from seeing Jochen, his weariness with Friederich.

  It was like having an unexploded bomb, but ticking, in the offices, to have Friederich there. Not that Friederich was too difficult. He had applied himself, not for three days, but a whole week, to the shops, and was now in his own office, studying ledgers and accounts and books about machine tools with his old ferocious absorption. He was always coming in on Charles, excitedly, and trustingly, to have something explained to him. He was forever running back into the shops, with a textbook in his hand, or a magazine issued by some machine-tool company, to identify something for himself. Charles never saw him speak to Jochen. Jochen was a persistent man, yet he apparently made no effort to approach Friederich. He’d given him up, thought Charles, uneasily. It’s Willie he’s after, now. He thinks I have Fred.

  Where were Wilhelm and Phyllis? Charles had heard nothing from either as yet. They couldn’t remain in Philadelphia for the rest of their lives! Charles sat up, removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes. He listened to the silence of the house. He had always liked it. Now it oppressed him. Mrs. Meyers had gone for the afternoon, as usual. No one knew when Jimmy would return. I haven’t any real friends, I suppose, thought Charles. If I haven’t, it’s my own fault. I haven’t encouraged any closeness, any familiarity. I’ve been so damned self-sufficient, and this is where it’s landed me, in an old house, on an old sofa, on an April afternoon, and with thoughts enough to poison anybody.

  A door banged, the back door. Jimmy tiptoed to the door of the parlor, and peered in. “I’m not asleep, son,” said Charles, with relief. “But why are you back so early? Mr. Haas chase you away?”

  Jimmy coiled himself awkwardly in Jochen’s old chair, and gave an exaggerated sigh. “You don’t think I’d be at the parsonage on a Sunday?” he demanded, outraged. “The whole town’s bad enough on a Sunday, but at the parsonage—” He ended his remark with a feeling groan.

  Charles laughed. The ghosts had gone away. Young life sat in that chair, eager life that had hopes and plans, and knew nothing about middle-aged Sundays. Jimmy stood up, restlessly. “Mind if I play a few records, Dad?” he asked. He began to crank the gramophone, whistling abstractedly to himself. Charles watched him, and his uneasiness came back. Something was wrong with Jimmy these days, something which made him jumpy and tense.

  “Something light, eh?” said Charles, reaching up to close the windows.

  “Dad,” said Jimmy, with patient tolerance, “you know I don’t like that trash. Why, I haven’t bought a single popular record since I was young!” Charles lay back on his cushion, vaguely content.

  Then his content began to go, for the opening strains of the “piece” were full of muted suffering and sorrow. Higher and higher, stricken with wild despair, the music rose, crying aloud hopelessly, full of unbearable desolation. Charles wanted to speak out, in denial, for the music was his own renewed pain, and it was more than he could stand. Just as he was about to protest, a man’s subdued yet powerful voice joined the mourning instruments, and they dropped to the background. The voice did not clamor its agony; it accepted it, made it articulate, expressed it with a resigned and tormented bitterness.

  Stop it, said Charles, in himself. Stop it. He wanted to put his hands over his ears, to shut his eyes. But he could only listen, achingly. He could only stare before him and see Phyllis’ face. His hunger came rushing at him like a beast, tearing at his flesh. He pushed himself to a sitting position. The waning sun had withdrawn from the window sills; the wind was closer, and it was becoming part of that man’s voice so that everything cried out with it and the shadows in the room were postures of anguish.

  Then there was silence, except for a grinding sound which Jimmy quickly stopped.

  “What—what the devil was that?” asked Charles, hoarsely.

  “That?” said Jimmy, indignantly. “‘That’ was Caruso. And that song was Massenet’s Elégie. I bought the record yesterday, and it’s wonderful.”

  “My God,” said Charles. “It’s terrible. Don’t play it when I’m around again, son.”

  Jimmy’s indignation increased. “It’s wonderful,” he repeated. “It cost me three dollars. Out of my own allowance, too.”

  “I don’t care what it cost you,” said Charles.

  Jimmy, in eloquent silence, walked away from the gramophone. He sat down. “The trouble with you, Dad, is that you don’t know anything about music. No one sings better than Caruso. And the Elégie—well, it’s one of the most ‘moving’ songs in the world. That’s what our music teacher says. I think it is, too.”

  Charles’ face was in shadow, and so the boy could not see it. He saw his father take out his handkerchief and mop his face. “It’s not warm in here, Dad,” said Jimmy. “You haven’t a fever, or anything, have you?” he asked, with sudden anxiety. “You haven’t been looking well for months.” He stood up. “Why don’t you let me take your temperature?”

  “For God’s sake, no,” said Charles. “Stop playing the doctor with me, Jimmy. Elégie? What’s that? Sounds funereal to me, I think.”

  Jimmy sat down again. “It is, in a way,” he said. “It’s a man’s—well—lamentation for his dead wife.” He considered. “It’s in French. He says something about ‘bright summer days’ being lost forever, and birds, and sunshine. It’s all about his grief, and how it’s always darkness for him now.”

  Charles sat with his rumpled white handkerchief in his hands; his shoulders were bent. He looked down at the piece of cloth. “Yes,” he said. “Of course.”

  His very bones felt cold. “Yes, of course,” he repeated. This sinking in him—it wasn’t new. It would go away. It was worse this time, but it would go away. Eventually.

  “Then you knew what it was?” asked Jimmy.

  “Yes,” said Charles. I’ve always known it. And now I know it’ll never get any better. I’ve been fooling myself all this time.

  Jimmy stood up, and pushed his hands deep into his trousers’ pockets. He began to walk up and down the room, restlessly, his head between his shoulders. It was a long time before Charles became aware of that beating of young feet up and down on the carpet. Then Jimmy stopped before his father. “Dad,” he said, “I haven’t seen Gerry for two weeks. I want to talk to you about it.”

  Charles put away his handkerchief. “Is something wrong with her, son?”

  Jimmy shook his head. For the first time, Charles saw the boy’s misery, and then he knew that he had been vaguely seeing it for some time.

  “I thought she might be sick,” said Jimmy. “So I called her house. But someone always said she was at her music lessons, or studying and couldn’t be disturbed, or was out. And then on Friday, I got a letter from her.” The boy swung his head distressedly, and his thick dark curls fell on his forehead. He pushed them away with impatience. “She said she’d see me soon, when she could. She couldn’t explain just yet, she said. But she wrote that Uncle Joe’s going to send her to school next September. Mrs. Brinkwell’s old school, down on the Hudson. Not near Harvard at all. And this summer, she said, she and Aunt Isabel and May and Ethel were going to stay at Mrs. Brinkwell’s house near Philadelphia. It’s out in the country, somewhere, on a lake.”

  The pain had retreated, back in some formless limbo. Charles sat up erect on the sofa, and there was that clutching in his stomach again, the old twisting and spasm.

  “Dad,” said Jimmy, “has something happened between you and Uncle Joe? Gerry didn’t actually say so, but she said you’d had a ‘misunderstanding’ or something, and maybe it would pass. It can’t be serious, can it, Dad?”

  “Yes,” said Charles. “It’s worse than ‘serious,’ s
on. It’s a break. And nothing can ever mend it. I ought to have told you before. Sit down, Jimmy. I keep forgetting that you’re practically a man. I think you should know.”

  He told Jimmy what had happened. He told nearly all, from the time of Roger Brinkwell’s coming. But he did not tell Jimmy of his fears. He implied that it was a matter of patents which he did not want to lease or sell.

  When he had finished, Jimmy did not speak. However, he finally began to whistle dolorously. He kept nodding his head as he thought. “I see,” he said, at last. “You did the right thing, Dad. I’m glad you did. There wasn’t any other way. and now you’ve got Uncle Fred eagerly rushing around, and Uncle Willie’s gone into the silences, through Uncle Joe. It must be hell for you.”

  “The worst of it is that I don’t know where it’s going to end,” said Charles. “But somehow, worse than anything else is having this happen to you, about Gerry. You’re the innocent bystanders, you and Gerry. I wish to God it had never happened. I wish to God Brinkwell had dropped dead before he came here.”

  “If it hadn’t been Mr. Brinkwell, it would’ve been someone else,” said Jimmy. He got up and sat down on the sofa beside his father. “Dad, don’t feel about it, like that—I mean, about Gerry and me. We’ll find our way. We’ve got our whole lives. It’s you I’m worrying about. So that’s why you’ve looked like the devil for months!” He put his hand on Charles’ shoulder. “Worrying yourself to death. Uncle Joe’s a fool, and he’s got a mouth like a carp, and he’s always wanting more money. He’d have sold you out to anyone, sometime. But what could he be doing with Uncle Willie? Why haven’t you been up to his house lately, and beating him down and making him listen to sense?”

  “Because, as I told you, Jimmy, he’s always away.”

  The warmth of the young hand on his shoulder penetrated to Charles’ flesh. It was comfort and tenderness and sturdy affection.

  Jimmy frowned. “Sometimes, when he used to be up in the air about something he’d do this to you, Dad. And you’ve always gotten after him. You could do it now. Don’t wait.”

  Jimmy was looking at the Picasso, and laughing feebly. “You’ve always gotten around Uncle Willie. Do it soon. Find out if he’s at home—today.”

  The telephone began to ring in the hall, and Jimmy jumped up and ran for it. He thinks it might be Gerry, thought Charles. Then Jimmy was back in the room, beckoning excitedly. “It’s Aunt Phyllis, Dad! She wants to talk to you.”

  Charles went to the telephone. The old trembling had come back. He had to sit down to talk. Jimmy stood near him, and Charles did not see his son.

  “Phyllis?” said Charles.

  “Charles. Oh, Charles.” Her voice came to him gently, and quickly. “You received my letter?”

  “Yes. I received your letter, Phyllis.” He was talking stupidly; he should be asking her about Wilhelm. But he could only clutch the edge of the table and strain to hear her. “Thanks, Phyllis. How—how are you?”

  Jimmy was puzzled. He had never heard his father speak like this, as if he was having difficulty in breathing.

  “I’m very well, I suppose, Charles.” Phyllis spoke in a lower tone. “Wilhelm’s here, downstairs, and I’m talking from upstairs. We’re alone. If you want to see him, please come now. We returned only this morning.”

  “Yes,” said Charles.

  “Charles? Is there something wrong? You sound very faint—”

  Grief, and darkness, and then out of it Phyllis’ voice. Charles said: “I’ll come at once. Right away.” It wasn’t death, after all. She was speaking, and for some queer reason, for the past hour, he had believed he would never hear her again. He said: “I thought—I thought you’d gone away, Phyllis—It’s like hearing from someone you thought had—”

  There was no answer. Charles waited. He leaned forward. “Phyllis? Phyllis?”

  “Yes, Charles.” Then again: “Oh, Charles.”

  He heard her replace the receiver. He took his from his ear, and stared at it blankly. He turned it in his hand. From the mouthpiece came a peevish female voice: “Number, please? Number, please?”

  Charles hung up. He sat there, his hands planted on his knees. Something made Jimmy retreat silently, and then go upstairs, his young face greatly disturbed.

  The telephone rang again, shrilly, and Charles answered at once. It was only Friederich, however. “Karl, I’m sorry that Herbert Belz didn’t come last week. But I have a letter from him, which I didn’t open until now, and he says that he will be here about the tenth. He’s still in Chicago.”

  Charles decided to drive the big red automobile, himself, to go to his brother’s house. Jimmy had taught him to drive very well during the past month. He was putting on his coat and hat when Jimmy came downstairs again. “It was only your uncle Fred,” said Charles. “And your aunt says your uncle Willie is at home, alone, and I’m taking your advice and going up to see him at once.” He tried to smile. “No, you needn’t drive me. I can manage well enough for myself, thank you, son.”

  “But those mountain roads, Dad. You haven’t done much driving on them, and then not on any steep grades.”

  “Nonsense. I know how to use the brake when necessary.”

  Jimmy saw that his father was still slightly breathless. “Well, all right. But be careful, Dad,” he admonished, with solicitude.

  Charles concentrated all his mind and effort on the mountain roads. Considerable work had been done here, under pressure from the people who lived on these slopes, but the roads, though good, were narrow, and the ditches along the side were full of soft spring mud. A slight miscalculation, a slight swerve, a wheel in the thick brown slime, and there was trouble until someone came along with a tow rope in another automobile and tugged one out.

  So Charles drove carefully, and negotiated very slowly around curves. He was not too fond of driving; he had discovered, with dismay, that the driver never saw the country, but only the road. So he was almost upon an automobile with its right rear wheel caught in the mud before he saw it.

  Why, that was old Harry Hoffman’s Ford, of which he was so proud, and which he had bought with the money a presumably grateful Government had given him for the injuries he had suffered during the Spanish-American War. The sad thing about it was that “old Harry” was not really old; in fact, he was younger than Charles. But he had been wounded and he had contracted a tropical disease, and he had become an old man. He used his automobile for the purpose of “hacking” at the station, and was doing well at it.

  Charles moved ahead of Harry’s automobile, and stopped his own machine. Harry was already hopefully approaching him, and tugging at his chauffeur’s hat, another proud possession. “Mr. Wittmann!” he said. “Lucky for me. I’m taking a passenger up to Mr. Brinkwell’s house, ’way up there, and I’ve got stuck.”

  Charles walked back with him. “I’ve got a tow-rope,” he said. Then he saw that Harry, the small and shrunken former Rough Rider, had been desperately attempting to heap little rocks and pieces of wood under the rear wheel. The man’s yellowed face literally dripped with sweat; his hands had become one welter of mud. He was panting with exhaustion. “I’ve been trying to get her out for nearly half an hour,” he said, dismally. “But she sinks in deeper all the time. If someone could’ve given me a shove from the rear I would’ve been all right, and on my way by now.”

  A lady passenger, then. “Well, I’ve got the tow-rope,” said Charles. “I’ll hitch it onto yours and I’ll pull you out. But I wish there was another man here to help us. You can’t push by yourself, Harry.”

  But Harry nodded confidently. “I’ve still got my strength,” he said. He lowered his voice as he accompanied Charles to the big red car on the road. “That feller in there—he wouldn’t help. Don’t suppose passengers have to, and he’s right in a way. But still—”

  Charles looked at Harry, then at the Ford. Harry’s breath was raucous in the chill mountain quiet, and his eyes were suffused. Charles went back rapidly to the smaller car an
d pulled open the door. He saw a man in the rear seat, his hat far down on his forehead; he was smoking impatiently. Charles said, angrily: “If you want to climb the mountains for about three miles or so, with your bag, then you can do it. But if you want to ride, you’ll get out and help Harry Hoffman shove from the rear, while I pull my car. Make up your mind.”

  The man stirred. “I’m not getting out into that mud,” he said. “I’m a passenger. It’s the driver’s job, not mine.”

  Charles said: “Well, take your bag and walk. Three miles up or five miles back to the station.”

  The man stepped out of the car. He was somewhat taller than Charles, and very slender, and it was impossible to say if he were thirty or fifty, for everything about him was neutral. He had a pale, smooth face, light gray eyes, light thin hair, a pointed nose and an expressionless mouth. His clothing was dark gray, and expensive, and his boots were polished. He was a man no one would remember, even after a dozen meetings, unless he had a name which one might urgently wish to remember. He would fade into any anonymous crowd, any static group. Brinkwell. Why hadn’t Brinkwell sent down his own automobile and chauffeur to the station?

  He spoke and his voice was oddly resonant in the quiet: “With your help, he’ll be able to get out well enough.”

  Charles told himself that if this man’s appearance was unremarkable his voice certainly was not. It had power and authority. Charles said: “I’m going up the hill, myself, to visit a relative, and I’ll call Mr. Brinkwell from there and tell him to send someone down for you. Unless you’re not expected.”