Balance Wheel

by Taylor Caldwell

  Again, a hand touched his arm, this time more firmly. People were passing; he saw them as blurs. Then he saw the anxious young face of Father Hagerty. “Mr. Wittmann!” said the priest. “What is it? I tried to speak to you before. Is something wrong?”

  He looked at Charles, so swollen and red, and with such ferocity in his eyes. He had an impulse to step back, then he tightened his hand on Charles’ arm. This was a man in the direst distress and torment; he seemed almost out of his mind.

  “Go away,” said Charles, roughly, and tried to go on. “No,” said the priest. “I’ll walk on with you. Did you know people are looking at you, Mr. Wittmann? Let me walk along with you, for a little way. There’s someone nodding—”

  Charles walked faster. The young priest walked beside him, his lean legs, in their shabbby trousers, moving rapidly. People stared at Charles, and at Father Hagerty, and their eyes were pointed with curiosity. What was wrong with old Charlie, running along like that, like a madman, with that priest beside him?

  They were coming to quieter streets, now, shaded with trees. They were approaching the area of the Wittmann shops. “Mr. Wittmann,” said Father Hagerty, when he could get his breath. “Let me help you. Something’s wrong; I know it. You helped me; it’s my turn, now.”

  Charles stopped abruptly. His face was streaming with sweat. “You can’t help me,” he said. “Nobody can help me. Please go away. I don’t want to insult you, Father—”

  “This isn’t like you, Mr. Wittmann,” said the priest, calmly and earnestly.

  Charles stood there and looked at him. “No,” he said at last. “It isn’t like me. But who knows what anyone is ‘like’ until—something—happens? Please go away.” He began to walk again, though slower, for his heart was pounding and he was shaking.

  The priest followed, desperately tenacious, and again he caught up with Charles. That violence he had seen, that torture—Mr. Wittmann was on his way, somewhere, to do something, not with that considering mind of his, but with powerful emotions that were dangerous. Charles saw the black shadow beside him, and once more he stopped, with huge exasperation. “Father Hagerty,” he began. But the priest said: “Mr. Wittmann, stop just a moment. Let me talk with you. Look,” and he pointed to a small house nearby almost shrouded in heavy trees. “I must go in there. I’d like you to come in with me for a moment.”

  “No,” said Charles. “I’ve asked you—”

  “In that house lives an old man,” said the priest. “He’s dying. He received the Last Sacrament a few days ago. This old man is very poor; his neighbors are supporting him, even though they’re poor themselves.”

  Something changed for only an instant in Charles’ eyes, but the priest saw it. “Very poor people; they haven’t enough to eat, sometimes. But they give everything they can. They’re his friends. They thought he was rich,” and the priest smiled sadly. “They thought he was a miser, and that he didn’t need anybody, and that he was self-sufficient. And so they envied him, and they gossiped about him.” The priest said to himself: I don’t know whether it is what I’ve said, but he’s listening as though I’ve told him something he ought to know. “They never thought he was just a man like themselves, and that he needed their help,” the priest continued. “You see, he wasn’t young when he married, and neither was his wife. They had a son, when they were middle-aged. All they had: a son. They were proud of him; they bragged to their neighbors about him, and they held their heads high, feeling strong.”

  Charles looked at the sidewalk.

  “The mother died, without ever finding out what her son really was,” said Father Hagerty. “That was fortunate. So there the old man was alone, with his son; he’d educated him well. He was going to teach geology—the son. Then he went away, to Titusville. That was ten years ago. Somehow, he got into an outfit that was prospecting for oil. He found it. He became rich, almost overnight. It was then that he stopped writing to his father, after the first letter telling what he had done. The father was nearly seventy, then. He wrote to his son, letter after letter, but never heard from him. But he did hear about him, in the newspapers. How he made so much money, and married a wealthy New York girl, and how he lives so fine in New York. The old man couldn’t get over it; it was so wonderful. He was prouder than ever. He carried newspaper clippings with him, to show everybody, and he boasted of how much his son loved him, and all the money he sent him.” The priest sighed. “The son never sent a cent; he never wrote a single letter. The old man had a little money saved, and he lived on that, when he couldn’t work any longer. The money’s gone, now. The neighbors found out; they found out he was practically starving. That’s when they went to work, these friends of his.”

  “Very sad,” said Charles, bitterly. He took out his wallet, and withdrew three yellow twenty-dollar bills from it, and gave them to the priest. “Thank you,” said Father Hagerty, gently. “The friends found someone in New York who would send the old man letters, in his son’s name. He’s almost blind; he can’t see the letters, and they’re read to him, and there’s always money in the envelope. It’s making him very happy, these last days. He’s been told his son’s in Europe, and he insists that no one inform his son of this illness of his, because he doesn’t want to worry him.” The priest looked at the bills. “This will help pay for his funeral,” he remarked. “His friends have been worrying.”

  Now he looked directly at Charles. “A man always finds friends when he needs them, provided they know he needs them,” he said. “Mr. Wittmann, I’m your friend. So is your minister. Let us help you. You need help. No one’s strong enough to go on alone, all the time.”

  Charles said: “Thank you. Yes, I believe you’d help me, if you could. In a way, you’ve helped already. Someday I’ll tell you.” He paused. “There’s something I must do, but now I can do it without—well—without rage. Just quietly, reasonably, as it ought to be done.”

  He walked away then, the heavy flushed look subsiding from his face. Father Hagerty, still wondering what he had said to Charles which had made him stop and listen, went into the tiny house.

  Friends, thought Charles. I’m going to need them. I’d forgotten Oliver and George, and this young feller, the priest, and Mr. Haas. And Mrs. Holt. I’ve never given them a chance to help me before, because I’ve let them know, all the time, that I would never need them. I’ve certainly been a dogged kind of cuss.

  His rage and sorrow and violence had hardened into cold common sense again. Joe would have to get out, and as soon as possible. Yes. But it would be done sensibly, and sharply. That was all.

  When he had entered his office he called Parker and asked him to ask Mr. Jochen to come in, at once. Mr. Parker informed him that Mr. Jochen had left for the afternoon “on business,” and would not return. Charles leaned back in his chair, and the hard muscles sprang out around his mouth. He pointed to the telephone. “Call the Connington Steel Company, and ask if Mr. Jochen is there. No, I don’t want to speak to him. Just find out for me, Parker.”

  Parker, without a glance of surprise, made the call. Then he put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Mr. Jochen’s there,” he muttered. “Hang up,” said Charles. “And now, send Mr. Friederich in to me.”

  Friederich came in at once, carrying a sheaf of paper. “The speech, Karl!” he exclaimed, beaming. Charles frowned. “You wanted to hear it, remember,” added Friederich. He sat down, carefully, so as not to crush his clothing.

  Charles said: “I don’t—I mean, Friederich, that it isn’t necessary. I want to enjoy it, myself, tomorrow. Just surprise me. I know it’s very good,” he added.

  Friederich took off his glasses. “I think so,” he said, simply. “Not too long a speech, Karl. But I put my heart into it, as it deserved. The Wittmann Civic Park. It is wonderful.”

  “I just had lunch with George Hadden,” said Charles.

  Friederich became very alert. “A fine young man,” he said, coloring as usual when he heard the Hadden name.

  Charles moved
his inkwell carefully on his desk.

  “George told me something today, Friederich. I thought of telling you now. But it can wait.” He moved the inkwell back. “But I can tell you this: George gave me his advice. I’m going to follow it.”

  Friederich nodded, solemnly. “You can be sure it’s excellent advice, Karl.”

  Charles thought of the Wittmann Civic Park, and cursed to himself. He had forgotten the Park. This matter would have to wait until the day after tomorrow, the twenty-ninth. Nothing must happen to ruin the opening of the Park. How was a man to live with this inside him for forty-eight hours?

  “You don’t think George Hadden would lie to me, do you, Fred?” Charles asked.

  “Lie?” Friederich was aghast. “George is a Quaker! And he’s my friend.”

  “You think I can trust him, that what he’s told me is the truth?”

  “You can believe every word!” cried Friederich.

  Charles smiled to himself.

  “And you’ll believe it when you hear it, right in this office, day after tomorrow?”

  “If George said it, then I’ll believe it, Karl.” Friederich stood up, tremendously alarmed. “Why can you not tell me now?”

  “Because,” said Charles, “George advised against it. That’s why I must ask you to trust me.” He made himself smile at Friederich. “Sorry I interrupted you. I just wanted to know that you were with me.”

  When Friederich had gone, Charles called Hadden, who heard his voice with relief, remembering how Charles had looked only an hour ago. Charles said: “George, I’ve made up my mind considering everything, considering Brinkwell and Joe’s associations with him. And then what you told me today. I’m throwing Joe out, George.”

  George Hadden was silent for a few moments. Then he said: “But calmly, Charles. Yes, I see it’s necessary, as you say, considering everything. You couldn’t do otherwise.”

  “But not until day after tomorrow. The Park, you know.”

  He then called Mrs. Holt, who was exuberantly glad to hear from him. “Why, Charlie, how nice!” she said. “I was going to call you, myself, about the Park. That Caesar, you know. Braydon’s having it hauled there tomorrow morning. Dreadful old thing, and I think it’s only a fraud, but it’ll look very imposing, in the shrubbery. It really has a nice face; much nicer than Caesar’s was, probably.”

  “I’m sure it is. And you’re going to be there, Minnie, and Braydon, too?”

  “We wouldn’t miss it, Charlie. It’s just wonderful. The Mayor, and all. Of course, the Mayor is an old fool, and he’ll probably talk for hours and hours. He’s coming up for election this fall, you know. Just hours and hours. Charlie,” she said, suddenly, “what’s the matter?”

  Charles kept his voice light. “How much money can you lend me, Minnie?”

  Her own voice was quieter: “Bad, Charlie?”

  “Very bad. You see, Minnie, I’ve just found out today, from Oliver Prescott and George Hadden, about the stories that’ve been going around about me and—about me. And I know who started them, kept them going, and made them bigger. My brother Joe.”

  “I see.” All the joviality had left her voice.

  “You’ve heard the stories, Minnie. You wanted to tell me.”

  “Yes. But then I thought they’d blow over. Then they’ve become worse. That’s why I tried to persuade—her—to leave for a while. I knew something would come up; I knew you’d find out.”

  “I never knew,” said Charles. “I never knew.” He kept a firm control over himself; his hatred and violence were returning, and he struggled with them.

  “I know you didn’t, Charlie. It’s all over. And it’s such a relief to talk to you about them. Can you come up for a while, for tea, and we’ll discuss this thoroughly?”

  “I can’t, Minnie. I don’t want to talk about it. I only want to know if you and Braydon will lend me some money. I’m afraid I’m going to need it, and I haven’t all I need.”

  Mrs. Holt sighed. “Charlie, you can have anything you want. Anything.”

  Charles nodded, as if she could see him. “And Minnie, will you persuade—Phyllis—to go away? I can’t see Phyllis just now. Invent something. It’s going to be hard to see her at the Park, tomorrow. Perhaps you could persuade her not to come.”

  “I can’t think what I ought to say to her,” said Mrs. Holt, distressed. “But I’ll manage. Leave it to me, Charlie. Oh, Charlie. I’m so awfully sorry. Braydon and I and so many others have just been seething. And we couldn’t say anything, because we didn’t want you to know.”

  So many others, thought Charles, after he had said goodbye to Mrs. Holt. They were my friends, in spite of what my enemies believed. I have friends, he said to himself. I knew it, before. But I didn’t know I had enemies, too, imbecile that I was. Good old Charlie Wittmann. Everybody loves him.

  If I hadn’t met that young feller, that priest, thought Charles, I would have called Joe back here, or I’d have pushed up to the Connington, and made a fool of myself. It would have been all over town. Horrible, for Phyllis. I would have acted insanely. My God. The things I would have said, the things I would have done.

  He tried to work, but a furious headache had set in, behind his forehead. The heat of the June day was almost insupportable to him. He put down his pen. He could not stand the steady heat of the shops. So long as Joe is part of this place, I won’t be able to do anything, thought Charles. I’ll go home.

  Then he reached for the telephone, and called Father Hagerty’s house. “That old man,” said Charles, after the young priest’s stammered words of surprise. “How is he?”

  “He died an hour ago, Mr. Wittmann.”

  Charles moved the inkwell, round and round, in circles. “Father Hagerty, let him have a wonderful funeral. A fine one. All the flowers. And the services—”

  “A solemn requiem Mass,” said the priest, his voice trembling. “And all the neighbors there, and a fine coffin. You’ll come, Mr. Wittmann?”

  “I’ll come,” said Charles. He hesitated. “Order everything, Father Hagerty. I wasn’t myself, when I saw you this afternoon.” The inkwell stopped moving. “Send all the bills to me. A fine funeral. The cemetery—”

  “The Holy Cross, Mr. Wittmann.”

  “A good fine plot. And later, a headstone. A big one.”

  “It’ll be wonderful for his friends, Mr. Wittmann. They’ll go there often, and be proud. It’ll be something in their lives, to think of, and remember, as they sit under the trees and look at the monument. They’ll bring flowers from their gardens. God bless you, Mr. Wittmann.”

  Charles went home. It was almost four o’clock, this twenty-seventh of June, 1914.

  CHAPTER XL

  Jimmy usually called for Charles in the beloved red Oldsmobile at half past five, but as it was only four Charles ordered a station hack and drove home. The leisurely ambling through the green and sun-shot streets calmed him more and more by the minute, though it did not shake his resolution that Jochen must leave the Wittmann Machine Tool Company. This had to be done. His headache became worse, in spite of the subsiding of his unfamiliar violence and passion. He climbed the steps of his house heavily. He heard the strong and dolorous moaning of some somber music inside. Jimmy, then, was at home, and at his gramophone. Charles entered the parlor and found Jimmy and Walter Haas half-lying on the cool carpet, hypnotized by and engrossed in the majestic clamor. Between them, on a huge tray, lay a very light repast consisting of a large apple cake, four great roast-pork sandwiches, six apples, two bananas, two wedges of lemon pie, and two bottles of “cream soda.” They had just begun to demolish all this when Charles walked in. The boys scrambled to their feet, and Jimmy cried over the thunder of the music: “Dad!”

  “Now, look here,” said Charles, irritably, raising his hand. “I don’t have a cerebral hemorrhage, a coronary occlusion, uremia, diabetes—though you’ll probably have the last, you two, if you eat all that mess there—nor have I had an attack of gallstones, though you both w
ill have, from the looks of what you intend to eat. Or is this a picnic, and are you waiting for about a dozen other boys?”

  But Jimmy stopped the music, and then said: “Dad, what’s wrong?” His voice was tense with anxiety, and he walked towards Charles. Charles moved to the door.

  “Now, Jimmy, I just have a headache. It’s the heat. How are you, Walter?”

  The minister’s stocky blond son replied gravely: “Very well, Mr. Wittmann.”

  “Your father’s lucky that you don’t intend to be a doctor, Walter,” said Charles. “Jimmy’s practicing on me all the time.”

  Walter smiled solemnly, but Jimmy was not diverted. He said: “All right, Dad. But will you tell me about it, if there’s anything I can do?” He looked so young and troubled that Charles went to him and put his hand on his arm. He said: “Yes, Jimmy. I’ll do that, honestly I will. And I’ll tell you about it soon, even though there’s nothing you can do to help me, except”—and now he spoke more lightly—“keeping from getting acute indigestion over that tray of groceries. My God, how can you two—just you two—eat all that?”

  “It’s just a snack,” said Jimmy. “Walter’s staying for dinner. Mrs. Meyers is going out early this evening, so we have to eat before six.”

  Shaking his head, and with a last look at the tray, Charles went upstairs. But he moved less heavily now, remembering the expression in Jimmy’s eyes. It was good to have a child, even one who imagined you had a fatal disease when you were only bilious. But, thought Charles, in a way I have a fatal disease. I’ve developed an imagination.