The Rebellion of Yale Marratt (18 page)

 

 

While he tried to keep it off his mind and concentrate on the coming
day alone with Cindar, the thought of Pat's anger, cold and contained,
kept recurring to him. "Your tantrum on the golf course wraps it up,
my friend," Pat had said to Yale the next day. "You can hand over the
keys to your Ford. You're grounded for a month. Perhaps, that will
help you realize that I am not going to be continually embarrassed by
your behavior."

 

 

They were sitting at the breakfast table. Liz listened quietly to the
conversation, feeling the hostility like an actual presence hovering
between them.

 

 

"I suppose you know that I am planning to drive Cynthia back to school
week after next," Yale had said, slowly buttering his toast.

 

 

Pat smiled grimly. "I had no idea of your plans but if I had, I would
have objected to them, anyway. You can consider the loss of your car a
two-edged sword. Kindly give me the keys -- both sets."

 

 

Yale flung the keys across the table.

 

 

Pat scooped them up. Without comment he put them in his coat pocket.

 

 

"Don't bother to wait for me to drive to work with you," Yale snarled.
"From now on I'll take the bus."

 

 

For two weeks he had avoided Pat, spending most of the time in a frenzy of
wondering how he was going to get a car to go to New Jersey. He knew that
nothing was going to prevent him from having the "day" that he and Cynthia
had planned. Even if he had to steal a car. Right up to last night there
had been no solution. He had decided that as a last resort he would try
to rent a car. Then he remembered that Pat had given Whit Jones another
set of keys to all the cars. It made it easier when Pat wanted to have
one of the cars brought downtown to a garage for greasing or overhaul.

 

 

A simple excuse to Whit that he had left his keys at the plant and Yale
had the problem of the car settled. At least until he returned. But the
bitter taste remained, combined with the feeling of uneasiness about
meeting Cynthia's family. Cynthia's relatives were just names. They
lacked reality. There was Lennie, the younger brother who was Yale's
age. He attended Cornell. Michael, the oldest, had finished agricultural
college years ago and was helping his father run the farm. Then there was
Aunt Adar, who had really brought Cindar up. Yale had a mental picture
of the whole family examining him with ill-concealed hostility. Cynthia
had told him that her father was quite orthodox. He frowned on the idea
of intermarriage. A Jewish version of Pat? It amused him to think that
on one thing they would probably agree. Dave Carnell wouldn't care for
Gentiles any more than Pat Marratt cared for Jews.

 

 

Cynthia was sitting on the fence at the side of the highway when he drove
up. She ran to the car, her hair flying. She was wearing rolled up boy
jeans and she looked about fifteen. She hugged him excitedly. "Gosh,
I thought you would never get here. I've been watching the cars -- and
every time a red convertible would appear, I'd think it was you . . .
my heart would start to hammer and then the car would go by and I felt
just sunk. Aunt Adar came out with my father in the pickup truck about
ten minutes ago. She gave me fifteen minutes more. She thinks it's very
unladylike to sit around in boys' pants. Besides, I have to change very
soon, it will be sundown before you know it. We have to eat. Oh, Yale,
darling. I could eat you up." She climbed into the car. Yale kissed her
lips for a second and smelled the wonderful warmth of her. "Drive down
that dusty road. You can see the house over there. And all around you --
are Carnell tomatoes."

 

 

Yale followed her glance, noticing the acres and acres of tomato
plants. About a half a mile from the road he could see a white farmhouse
and several barns. "I've driven by here lots of times with Pat, on the
way to Philadelphia, once coming back from Miami. If I had only known
then that you were living right here. . . ."

 

 

"What would you have done?"

 

 

"I'd have turned the car right down this road, and if I had found you
in your front yard playing with your dolls, I'd have run up and asked
you to play house and let me be the father."

 

 

Bubbling with laughter, Cynthia showed him where to leave his car. "Daddy
and Michael are out in one of the sorting sheds. They'll have to come in
and change pretty soon. You can come in and meet Aunt Adar . . . then we'll
look for Daddy."

 

 

Yale liked the friendly look of the large wooden farmhouse. If it had
any particular style it might have been called turn of the century
Victorian. Some of the pitched roof remained, and the gimcrackery, but
the white painted house had the clear earthy appeal of a painting by
Charles Burchfield. Even the windows caught the glare of the sinking
October sun. As they mounted the steps Yale noted the hammock on the
porch and the rocking chairs. He hoped the evening might be warm enough
to sit in the hammock with Cindar.

 

 

On the right of the door he saw what he was looking for. "Is that a
mezuzah?" he asked pointing at the bronzed metal canister.

 

 

"I told you, Yale, Daddy is quite religious. We don't have one at every
door in the house. He's not that bad."

 

 

"Honey, I don't think it's bad for a man to have his beliefs. If I ask
a million questions it's only because I want to know. This is the first
time I've ever been in a Jewish home. I love you. I want our children
to grow up knowing all the Jewish traditions. We will observe the Jewish
holidays as well as the Christian ones."

 

 

"So we're talking children, already. Before the Chupah even?"

 

 

Yale looked up and blushed. Just inside the screen door a woman was
standing with her large arms crossed in front of very full breasts.
She opened the door and came out. "So this is your young man . . ."
She looked at Yale with a severe expression. Cynthia introduced her as
Aunt Adar. Yale liked the bright busy look of her. Plain, wearing no
make-up, her gray-black hair pulled tight against her head and brought
to a pug in the back, Aunt Adar seemed to have an efficient, no-nonsense
manner that concealed a tender good humor. She spoke rapidly to Cynthia
in Jewish. Yale was surprised to hear Cynthia answer. It pleased him to
know that Cynthia could speak another language and he envied this extra
knowledge she had acquired as a part of her heritage.

 

 

"Hey -- what are you two saying?" Yale demanded.

 

 

Cynthia chuckled. "Auntie is nervous that we talk so seriously. She can't
believe that I am old enough to be married." As they followed Aunt Adar
into the living room Cynthia told him that the Chupah was the wedding
canopy which would symbolize their new home.

 

 

Yale looked at her curiously. "Do you want to be married in a synagogue?"

 

 

"Silly," she smiled. She snuggled quickly against him and whispered,
"You look so worried, Yale. I wouldn't care if we were never married --
so long as you would live with me and love me always."

 

 

Aunt Adar interrupted any answer Yale might have had by telling Cynthia
it was impolite to whisper when others were present. "You change your
clothes, now, quickly. We will eat in an hour. Show this young man
of yours to Lennie's room. He can sleep there tonight." She turned to
Yale. "Cynthia tells us that you know some of our customs. I am glad for
that. It seems strange to us to have a Gentile in our house at a time like
this. You understand we have a fear of appearing ridiculous . . ."
Aunt Adar paused, obviously embarrassed and finally continued.
"Anyway, we do not expect you to fast with us."

 

 

Yale smiled. "If I did not fast I would feel strange about going to
services with you tonight. Cynthia has promised that I may go."

 

 

Cynthia took Yale's arm. "Auntie knows you are going to services with us.
She's just a worry bug. I told you, Auntie, he's a mensh." She led Yale
upstairs.

 

 

"What does mensh mean?" Yale asked, following her, dropping his bag near a
large feather bed in what he assumed was Lennie's room. He tried to grab
Cynthia for a kiss, but she eluded him and stood in the doorway. "Mensh
is what you are -- just good and yummy." Unable to resist her impulses
longer she ran into his arms. "Oh, Yale, Yale . . . it's been such a
long summer, and I've missed you so terribly much."

 

 

Holding her in silence, feeling her lips and tongue seeking his mouth,
the wonderful pressure of her stomach and breasts against him, Yale
enjoyed for the first time in weeks a feeling of unity. Was this
ability of Cindar's to polarize the crazy currents of his emotional
drives an actual fact -- or something that he imagined? No, it was
real enough. Being with Cynthia was like being rejoined to a part
of himself that had been lost. He cupped her buttocks in his hands,
pulling her against him, feeling the throatiness of her whispered
"I love you" in his ear. Suddenly, she pulled away in a panic. Downstairs,
he heard a screen door slam. "It's Daddy -- I've got to change."
She showed him the bathroom, and told him that after he had washed he
could go downstairs. Then, she decided, no. It would take at least half
an hour before she would be ready. Grabbing him by the hand, she pulled
him toward the stairs. "I'll introduce you to Daddy, first." Halfway
downstairs, Cynthia in the lead, pulling Yale by his hand, they bumped
into Dave Carnell and Michael. Trying to catch her breath Cynthia said
gasping, "This is Yale, Daddy . . . and my brother Michael."

 

 

Dave Carnell looked at his daughter wonderingly. "Such energy you have
now . . . yet all week you loll around like a sick cat. This must be
a very unusual young man to give you such pep." He took Yale's hand in
his. Yale could feel the strength of his grasp and the rough farmer's
calluses. "I am glad to know you, Yale Marratt. The name is a familiar
one in this home. Even before Cynthy met you, we were familiar with the
Marratt Corporation."

 

 

Yale liked the rough sturdy frame of the man that pushed stoutly against
his farmer's overalls. In his dark complexion and frank glance, Yale could
recognize the softer expression of his daughter.

 

 

"I am glad to be here in your home, Mr. Carnell," Yale said deferentially.

 

 

He shook hands with Michael who withdrew his hand quickly, giving Yale
a sharp glance of ill-concealed hostility.

 

 

"In the old country this would be similar to the King sending his Prince
to visit his serfs, would it not?" Michael remarked coldly. "Come on, Pa,
we've got to change." He proceeded up the stairs. Cynthia looked at him
darkly. "Honestly, Daddy, does he have to be so sour?"

 

 

"I suppose," Dave Carnell said, shrugging his shoulders, "in a way we are
serfs. The King is your father, Yale, who pays us to grow the products
he bottles." Dave started to follow his son up the stairs.

 

 

"The fundamental difference is that nothing stops you from bottling
Carnell ketchup and competing with the King who raises no tomatoes of
his own."

 

 

Cynthia's father laughed, enjoying Yale's quick repartee. "Of course, the
King has more money to pay another group of serfs who bottle his ketchup."

 

 

"I'll tell you for a fact Pat Marratt has a lot of competitors bottling
ketchup. Some of them might pay you a better price for your crop than
the Marratt Corporation."

 

 

"No better prices than Marratt, else we wouldn't deal with them."
With a friendly wave, Dave Carnell disappeared down the hall.

 

 

"Oh, Daddy likes a discussion," Cynthia sighed. She gave Yale a peck on
the cheek. "I've got to run and get the bathroom first."

 

 

Yale waited in Lennie's room until the upstairs sounds told him that
they had all used the bathroom. Then he washed quickly and joined them
downstairs. Cynthia was waiting and led him into the dining room.
"We will eat quickly and be at the temple by sundown," she whispered.
"I hope you don't get bored to death." Yale squeezed her hand. He took
his place at the table beside her. Michael sitting opposite them looked
at him coolly. Yale knew that Michael resented him, picturing him as
some kind of interloper. He imagined that Cynthia had probably listened
to heated discussions as to her need for a Gentile boyfriend.

 

 

Before Dave sat down he quietly handed Michael his yartmelke. As Michael
put it on Yale looked at Dave and said quietly, "If you don't mind,
I would like to observe this custom with you."

 

 

"He can wear Lennie's," Cynthia said. She quickly got Lennie's prayer
cap from the buffet and handed it to Yale.

 

 

"Perhaps, he would like to say the Shema," Michael said sarcastically,
inferring that Yale would not understand his reference to the Hebrew
prayer.

 

 

Yale smiled, as he put on the cap. "I would like to say it, Michael.
If I make a mistake will you please correct me?" Yale noticed the startled
expression on all their faces, except Cynthia's, as he intoned in perfect
Hebrew: "Shema, Yisroel, Adonoi, Elohenu Adonoi Echod." He continued in
English . . . "and thou shalt love God with all thine heart, and with
all thine soul, and with all thine might. . . ." When he finished saying
the verses, Yale said, "I'm sorry I couldn't say it all in Hebrew."
He smiled at Cynthia. "Cynthia taught me the Hebrew words."

 

 

"She gave you a good accent," Dave grunted, and passed a plate full
of chicken. Yale could tell by his abrupt and gruff manner that he was
pleased. They passed the dishes quietly to each other. Dave asked Yale
about his courses at Midhaven College, and whether he planned to work
with his father when he graduated.