The Rebellion of Yale Marratt (12 page)

Perhaps Doctor Tangle was right, Pat thought. Yale was just a kid.
He grinned to himself as he thought of a conversation with Liz a few
nights before.
Liz had rushed into the bathroom while he was showering. "Do you know what
I just found out?" she demanded. "I'm so ashamed!" Pat poked his head out
of the shower, looking at her with a helpless what-now expression.
"Marie Middleton just told me. Beatrice confessed to her that she and
that Cynthia Carnell girl and Yale and his roommate stayed overnight
in a tourist cabin!" Pat continued to soap himself, wondering what was
coming next. "It was terrible," Liz said. "Beatrice said they played
strip poker." There were tears in Liz's eyes. "I don't know what you're
going to do with that boy, Pat, but it's simply awful. If Doctor Tangle
heard about it, they'd all be expelled from Midhaven."
"Oh, hell, Liz, Yale's got to find out about girls sometime.
Stop worrying about it."
It was a part of growing up, he thought, as he turned on to Route 6.
He wondered what kind of a cluck the Middleton girl was that she would
tell her family. The only real trouble, he reflected, was that the
situation with the Jewish girl had gone too damned far. Christ, the
first thing he knew Yale would get her pregnant, or they would just
suddenly get married. It seemed incredible to him that this puppy-dog
love had survived nearly three years. Something definite would have to
be done before things reached a real crisis. The trouble was that it was
so difficult to talk to Yale. He just listens to me rave, Pat thought,
and then does what he damn well feels like doing.
"I hope you're not getting in too deep with that Cynthia Carnell," he said,
glancing at Yale slumped down in the seat beside him. "I haven't got
anything against Jews but you've got to face it, Yale. You can't mix
these things up. Even the Jews realize it. I don't think her family
would appreciate her going around with a Gentile."
Yale didn't answer him.
Pat continued, realizing as he spoke that he had said the same thing
at least a dozen times to Yale in the past two years. "Besides, boy,
you've got your future to think of. You've got responsibilities, you
know. Someday, you and I will build the Marratt Corporation into a real
giant. After all, what is it now compared with outfits like General Foods
and Standard Brands? Once I know you're with me, boy, we'll do a little
branching out. I've got some plans that in a few years, with the two of us
pulling together, could move the Marratt Corporation right to the top of
the heap."
They passed the empty building of the old American Piano Company.
Yale could remember helping a gang of boys throw stones at the narrow
windows which shattered so perfectly on a direct hit. Radio had come
to New England, and in true American fashion, the natives found it
easier to listen to someone else who had sweated more perseveringly
over the intricacies of flats and sharps than try to learn the piano
themselves. The building had been empty for as long as Yale could
remember.
"I could pick that building up for a song," Pat said as they passed it.
"Being so close to the plant it might come in handy someday. I think I'll
talk it over with Frank Middleton."
They pulled into the large parking space that flanked one entire side
of the Marratt Corporation factory. Pat was proud of his plant, which
had been designed by a New York architectural firm for a substantial
fee. Surrounded by green lawns on three sides with the Mamaputock River in
back, the quarter-mile-long plant had an air of efficiency and cleanliness
in keeping with the quality tradition of the Marratt products. When the
plant had been completed Pat had insisted that a reproduction of it be
incorporated on the letterhead of the firm.
"We've got something to be proud of, now," he told his executive staff.
"The Marratt products are no longer being made in an old pre-Civil War
building. Every time the public eats my jam I want them to know it came
out of a factory like this."
Over the entrance to the factory, a huge American flag, and below it
a flag that carried the Marratt crest, fluttered in the early morning
July breeze.
"What do you say to a cup of coffee and a couple of doughnuts?" Pat asked
as they walked in the front door. He edged Yale toward the cafeteria.
Yale looked at him surprised. "You just ate breakfast." It wasn't that
Yale objected. He actually was in no hurry to put himself behind the
desk in the office next to Bert Walsh. It would be a day spent working
on inane advertising ideas which Bert hoped that Yale would attempt to
develop into complete advertisements.
The unexpected humanness of his father caught Yale off guard. "To tell
you the truth, Yale, the coffee this morning was very much on the down
side. I've been telling Liz to get a new cook but Amy seems to be all
she wants. Since we don't eat home too much, I guess it doesn't matter."
The cafeteria was deserted except for the manager who fawningly placed
coffee and doughnuts in front of them. "There's a dance tonight at the
Club, Yale," Pat said. "Your mother and I would like to see you there.
I'm going to break away about three o'clock and play a few holes of golf
with Bert Walsh and Doctor Tangle. Why don't you come along and make it
a foursome?"
Yale was about to refuse. Although Yale had once been able to play golf
in the middle eighties, the sport held little allure for him. The sharply
competitive hole-by-hole betting that Pat engaged in, coupled with
endless commentaries about the various courses that Pat had played
throughout the country, seemed shallow and purposeless. If he had been
left to his own devices, Yale probably never would have learned to
play. He would have preferred to spend the time in idle, introspective
walks along the Mamaputock River. He decided now, however, in view of
his father's good humor, to accept the invitation. He was pleased with
Pat's happy reaction as they strolled through the corridor leading to
the administrative offices.
Bert Walsh had left several layouts on Yale's desk that were evidently
preliminary roughs for a fall advertising campaign on the Marratt line
of preserves. Yale looked them over indolently, wondering what Bert
expected him to do with them. Trying to pass the slowly dragging time
until college started, knowing that he was only a temporary part of
the Marratt productive scheme, and feeling that both Bert and Pat were
trying desperately to find something for him to do, made each day seem
endless. He shoved aside the layouts and shuffled in his desk, locating
the first act of a play he had started. He read it over. It wasn't bad,
he thought. It seemed incredible that he had started this play nearly
two years ago. He remembered reading it to Cindar. He decided that today
he would see if he couldn't write the second act. He was scribbling away
industriously when Bert Walsh walked in.
Standing beside Yale's desk, Bert looked very polished and crisp. He wore
a Palm Beach suit which was perfectly creased and a white shirt with an
expertly knotted tie. Yale was wearing a sport shirt, with the collar
open at the neck. Compared with Bert, Yale felt a little awkward and
then he realized that while he could dress as casually as his father,
probably in the last analysis Bert Walsh was afraid to drop the more
conventional dress. Either that or he was just the type who would remain
always dignified and unruffled; in a way a carbon copy of Frank Middleton,
the handsome executive-type whose pictures Yale had examined with dismay
in the
Fortune
magazines that were left in the reception office of the
Marratt Corporation. Magazines that never seemed to be read by anyone
else except the salesmen who called to sell Marratt.
"Glad to see you getting your teeth into those layouts, Yale. I worked
on them until about ten thirty last night. What do you think of that copy?
Your father is a great one for a lot of white space. Plenty of prestige.
No fill. Just plain facts."
Yale fingered the layouts, trying to conceal his embarrassment. "I haven't
read them. If you want to know, I'm writing a play." Yale picked up the
rough copy Bert put on his desk and read aloud: "Marratt Jams on your
table bring you the incomparable taste thrill of fresh, whole fruits
chosen with care and processed in the sunlit Marratt factories. Whenever
you serve Marratt Jams -- for breakfast -- for lunch -- for late evening
snacks -- you serve the ultimate in fine quality."
Yale shrugged. "And if you can't afford Marratt Jams you can buy the
same thing for five cents less with an A & P label. Ye Gods, it would
seem to me that if we cared so much for Marratt Jams we wouldn't pack
the same jams using private brand labels."
"You may be right," Bert said, "but remember, if we don't pack
private brands, some other manufacturer will." Bert gathered up his
layouts. "Well, I've got work to do," he said ironically. His yoice
implied that Yale being a rich man's son could do what he wished. "What's
your play about anyway?" he asked before he left, trying to show a
little interest.
Yale grinned. "About the unions and birds like you and my father. By the
way, how are we doing with the union? I haven't asked Pat for several days."
Bert told him that there was talk of a sit-down strike unless Pat granted
a general ten cents an hour increase. "Your father has got them buffaloed.
Some of the supervisors had a meeting at Harry Cohen's home in Helltown
last night, I understand. Cohen has kept them in an uproar for two years.
What have the poor suckers got out of it? A few cents an hour that they
would have got anyway without benefit of union dues."
On the way out to the Midhaven Country Club that afternoon Bert sat
in front with Pat. Yale, sitting on the back seat, listened to them
discuss the union problem further. "I may be wrong," Pat said, "but I
think they're getting fed up with this Harry Cohen. After all, what
does he know about our situation. He's been here two years now with
this damned union. I'm just waiting for one false move. When he makes
it I'll can him. Then we'll start a drive on the members and get these
union rabble rousers out of the plant." Bert agreed with him. It was
a temporary condition, aggravated by Roosevelt who would play footsies
with any political group in order to get elected.
In the Club, Pat and Yale went to Pat's private room. Bert took off
to the general locker room. Pat had made Bert a temporary member,
giving him locker room rights. Pat Marratt and Alfred Latham were the
original founders of the Midhaven Country Club. Having purchased the
largest portion of the original bond issue, they were instrumental in
designing the club so that there were ten private rooms available for the
original charter members. Each of these rooms was in reality a miniature
apartment with a large sitting room, a kitchenette and a good sized tiled
bathroom. The sitting room made a convenient retreat at the various social
functions and frequently Pat or Liz used it for private cocktail parties.
"It's nice to have you with me again," Pat said as he changed into
his golf clothes. "You ought to do more of this. There's a good gang
of fellows out here. Lot of the younger set are your age. You used to
play with Jim Latham. He's on the golf team at Harvard. Wait until you
see the drive he has developed. Straight as a die. Puts him on the green
eight times out of ten. You need to get away from books -- and have more
male company."
Yale recognized the veiled reference to the time he spent with Cindar.
What was it about Pat, he thought, that kept him so eternally in pursuit
of his objective? Even though he might have occasionally enjoyed playing
golf, Yale had stayed away from the club purposely, refusing to yield
to Pat's insistent desire to recreate him in his own image.
"Golf's all right," Yale said, tying his shoes, "but I've got other fish
to fry. . . ."
They walked together downstairs toward the pro shop where their clubs
were kept. As they walked along the veranda of the club Pat said,
"Speaking of other fish -- I hope you are keeping in mind that there
are a great many other fish in the ocean beside gefilte fish. From what
I hear . . . you and that Carnell girl got pretty chummy a few weeks ago."

 

Yale blushed. Before going home for summer vacation, Sonny Thompson
discovered that Beatrice had spilled the beans about the tourist cabin
to her mother. Evidently the story had gone full circle.

 

 

"I'm not prying into your sex life at the moment," Pat said carefully,
"but you keep a couple of fundamental things in mind. One: I am going to
take up with Doctor Tangle the possibility of your applying for Harvard
Business School when you graduate. Two: and perhaps more important,
don't get yourself tangled up with any kikes. Believe me, Liz and I
are one on the subject. This affair with you and that Jewish girl has
nowhere to go . . . the sooner you realize that the better off you'll be."

 

 

Yale could feel the anger surging in him. He was about to tell Pat to
hell with it; Pat could find someone else for the foursome. But before
Yale could reply, Dick Cannon, the Midhaven pro golfer, greeted them.

 

 

"Doctor Tangle and Mr. Walsh said for you to join them for a quick one
at the bar. I'll have your clubs ready when you come out."

 

 

"Good idea," Pat said. They walked into the cool, shadowed interior of
the club. Doctor Tangle, dressed in 1920 style knickers, was sitting at
the bar with Bert Walsh who wore an immaculate T shirt and pressed white
flannel pants. Yale wondered if Doctor Tangle realized how outdated he
looked. A baseball cap covered his almost cleanly bald head; a light
knitted sweater hugged his paunch.

 

 

"We're only having a lime rickey," Doctor Tangle explained. "Got to keep my
wits about me playing against you, Pat. How will we match up?" Pat ordered
two more lime rickeys.

 

 

"Yale and I will take on you and Bert. No handicap. Yale hasn't played for
a year and Bert is pretty good. Want to make it a dollar a hole, Yale?
I'm paying him thirty a week this summer," Pat explained to Doctor Tangle,
proudly. "He's not worth it but I've got to encourage him." He pounded
Yale on the back, ignoring Yale's rising color. "What do you think, son,
can we take them?"