Read The Rebellion of Yale Marratt Online
Authors: Robert Rimmer
The Rebellion of Yale Marratt (7 page)
"It wouldn't surprise me if Roosevelt were a Jew, too!" Pat said,
looking at him coldly. "The world is going to hell." Yale knew what
Pat meant. Eventually he would hear further explosions from Pat on the
subject of his interest in Cynthia.
Liz tried to mollify the situation and in Yale's mind made it worse.
"Oh, you forget, Pat, that right here in Midhaven some of our best friends
are Jews."
Yale heard the platitude for the first time in a new light. It was
the necessary qualification that any really prejudiced person made
to prove their complete lack of prejudice. He felt like arguing with
Pat. To prove to him that without the great religious thinkings of the
Jews there would have been no Christians. He was aware for the first
time that he was reaching beyond the courses he was taking in religion
at Midhaven College to a unification of his own thinking.
Before he could say anything, however, Pat had started on a new line of
inquiry. "What does your father do, Miss Carnell?"
Cynthia explained that he was a farmer in New Jersey. Yale listened,
warily. He saw the connection forming in Pat's mind.
"Well, for God's sakes," Pat exploded, "don't tell me that your father
is the Carnell that has all that tomato acreage. I'll be a son-of-a-gun.
We've been buying most of his crop for the past ten years. He's a pretty
shrewd operator. Joe Freeman, our purchasing agent, has dealt with him.
I've never met him." Pat's voice trailed off. Unsaid, but very apparent,
was the thought that he hadn't known that Cynthia's father was Jewish.
"He raises nice tomatoes too," Cynthia said, the smile still playing
lightly on her lips.
"You can say that again!" Pat said. "The finest that come on the market
every year are from the Carnell farms. Believe me, Marratt Corporation
only buys the finest."
Amy walked into the room, and whispered to Liz. "Pat," Liz said, "the
Tangles and Middletons are here." As she spoke their names, Dr. Tangle
walked into the room, blowing on his hands, followed by his wife,
Lucy. Frank Middleton and his wife, Marie, were just behind them.
Liz performed the introductions. Yale noticed that both Dr. Tangle and
Frank Middleton looked at Cynthia with evident interest. "So you're
a friend of the Marratts?" Doctor Tangle said, his words leaving a
question unspoken, and chuckled with the heh-heh that trailed almost
every statement he made. "Well, it is nice that our out-of-town students
can get acquainted with some of the prominent people in Midhaven."
"Bill Sawyer called me at the Club," Frank Middleton said to Pat. "I told
him I was coming over here. Bill was at the plant meeting. The entire plant
is going to join the union. Every damned one of them. Cohen has promised
them the world. I thought you would want to know. They'll be around to
demand an election in a few days."
Pat noted that already Liz was putting a Dry Martini into Frank's hand.
She murmured that it was made just to Frank's taste. Marie Middleton,
a dumpy, blonde woman, remarked that Frank was just crazy about Liz's
Martinis.
"I don't give a damn if they do join the union," Pat said, feeling as
irritated at Frank as he did at Harry Cohen. "It burns my ass. After
all of the good things I have done for those people, they can turn
right around, and let a skunk like that Cohen run away with them. Only
six months ago when I walked through the plant everyone would smile and
wave to me. Now, they look at me as if I were some kind of a rat. Six
months ago that bastard Cohen was in a soup line. We give him a damned
good job and the first thing you know he's biting the hand that feeds
him. They can join a union if they think it'll do them any good. I'm
not paying one damned cent more in wages. Let them strike!"
"A strike wouldn't be a very good thing for Midhaven," Dr. Tangle said
apprehensively. "I don't like to have that kind of publicity in a community
like ours. It spreads the idea that we are more of an industrial city.
That's bad for college enrollments."
"To hell with your enrollments, Amos," Pat said, his face mottled red.
"I've been checking with Reece all afternoon and we've got sufficient
inventories in our warehouse in every line to keep going for a couple of
months without any trouble at all. We've probably got too damned much
inventory anyway. So, let them join a union! Let the crazy bastards
strike. We can operate for a couple of months without them."
"The only trouble is, Pat, with this European situation the way it is
you're likely to lose the people to the Latham Shipyard. I was talking
with one of the boys at the Club tonight. He says that it's almost certain
that they are going to get a couple of British freighter contracts. If
that happens, you are going to have to go up plenty in wages in order to
hold anyone. Al Latham may be your friend, but he can't stop the upward
trend when he starts hiring." Frank Middleton sipped his Martini and
waited for Pat's reaction.
Pat relighted his cigar. "I'm telling you, if they don't get that Roosevelt
out of the White House in the November elections, this country will go to
hell. Landon may not be much, but at least he's a Republican."
The conversation started to take a political turn. Neither Yale nor Cynthia
was included in it. Liz started her own independent conversation with
Lucy Tangle and Marie Middleton. Rather pointedly she left Cynthia out
of it. Yale made their departure excuses.
"There you are," Pat said, frowning at Yale. "I've got one son and
eventually he will inherit this business. You can see how much it concerns
him. All he's interested in, Amos, is in soaking up every damn bit of
radical nonsense he can get his hands on. It would be interesting to know
just how many Reds you have on the faculty down there at Midhaven. That
Jack Leonard that teaches Sociology -- I'll bet a couple of bottles of
good Scotch that he carries a party card." Pat turned to Yale. "You just
wait . . . if the Marratt Corporation goes under and you have to earn
a dollar on your own, you'll get some sense into you!"
"Now! Now!" Doctor Tangle said. "Don't you worry about Yale. He'll come
around. Good solid background in that boy. His true colors will show up."
Liz walked to the front door with Yale and Cynthia. "I won't apologize
for Pat," she said to Cynthia "He's a very blunt man and sometimes not
very tactful. It was nice to have you to dinner. Perhaps Yale will bring
you again sometime." She said the words in a way that implied that that
of course was highly unlikely.
"You won't apologize for him," Yale said to Liz as he helped Cynthia
with her coat, "but I will, and for you, too, Liz. It will be a long
day before I bring any of my friends to this house."
Liz looked at Yale coolly. "At this age, darling, you should be aware of
the facts of life. Stop trying to break out of your environment. Some
day you'll know that your parents are your real friends. Good night,
Miss Carnell."
Yale slid behind the wheel of the car. "It was awful, Cynthia, I'm sorry."
He tried to put his arm around her.
"Don't, Yale! Not here. Please never bring me to your house again."
As they drove toward the college Cynthia was silent.
"Cynthia," Yale said, trying to reach her, "I'm Yale Marratt, not Pat
Marratt. Remember, that I can't help the way Pat is, any more than you
can help being Jewish."
"I don't want to help being Jewish," she said scornfully. "I'm proud of
it, Yale. It's no good. My family wouldn't approve of you, either."
Yale drove the car off Route Six into a side road. He turned off the
ignition.
"Please, Yale, take me back to the dormitory. I feel kind of sick."
"No, I won't -- not until we get a few things straightened out! Okay,
I admit it. I was wrong in not telling you how my family felt about
Jews. Actually, I wasn't sure myself until this evening. I didn't know Pat
could condemn you because of your religion without even knowing you. He
listened to you play the piano, and enjoyed it. He couldn't help but
see that you are lovely as a woman. Yet, he and Liz could be absolutely
boorish and discourteous to you. Why? Why? I kept asking myself all
evening. Do you know why, Cynthia? Because they are afraid! Supposing
I brought a Catholic home or a Chinese girl, and they thought I was in
love with her. They would have had the same reaction. A terrible fear of
anyone who challenges the narrow concepts they have lived by. I strike
at the shallow roots of their life because I care for a person who
is a Jew. But you are not a Jew to me. No more than I am a Christian
to myself. I don't go around saying, 'I'm a Christian.' I'm just me,
Yale Marratt, and you are just you, Cynthia Carnell." Yale looked at
her helplessly. "Honey, don't you understand?"
"I'm cold, Yale," Cynthia said. She huddled against the door of the car.
Yale started the engine and turned on the car heater. "I wonder, Yale,
if I'm just a kind of rebellion for you. Some kids break windows or get
drunk or steal cars. You just want to shock people."
"Oh, God, don't you understand, Cynthia? I'm not trying to wave your
religion at Pat like a red flag at a bull. I love you. It wouldn't make
any difference to me if you were a Catholic or a Mohammedan. I love you."
Yale repeated the words and in the process of saying them became quite
convinced himself. He wondered for a moment if that was how you fell
in love. If you said "I love you" to a girl, was it because you said
the words that you loved her? When did love between a man and woman
start? When you said, "I love you" what did it mean? It was a new feeling,
and Yale had had no experience with it. He simply knew that Cynthia seemed
to fill all his waking thoughts and the confused worries and fears that
beset him vanished when he was with her. He felt that when he said
"I love you" he could just as well have said, "I will die for you,
or I will live because of you."
"Cynthia, dear," he said, touching her cheek, "you know what I am going
to call you. I am going to call you Cindar. Every time I say it, it will
be just like saying Cynthia dear. I can make love to you in public,
just with words. Good idea?" he asked, trying to kindle a smile on her
face. "Oh, Cindar, what's the matter?"
Cynthia looked at him sadly. She didn't really know how she felt about
Yale. She admired his iconoclasm. She knew that he had the ability to
inspire her with his enthusiasm toward abstract ideas, in the few classes
she had with him she was amazed at Yale's headlong approach and his
challenge of the teachers. No other student in the freshman class seemed
to have the ability to get into the deep discussions that he did. She
was pleased when Professor Walters, who taught freshman literature,
remarked on Yale's ability to inter-relate one course with another; to
take what he was learning in religion or psychology and reapply it in
a study of some phase of English literature. Professor Walters had read
a composition to the class in which Yale made an examination of English
social structure in the Elizabethan times by analyzing the Shakespearean
plays. Walters seemed to be particularly impressed that Yale had read
every play that Shakespeare had written; an accomplishment which he
assured the class was not true of ninety per cent of the seniors and
even most of those who graduated with a Bachelor's degree in literature.
While Cynthia enjoyed Yale's restless, probing mind, she didn't clearly
understand the roots, nor did she care for the minor key of his thinking.
Yale was moody. He would fling himself furiously into a project, carry it
halfway through, and then claim that the end result would not justify his
effort. A few days later he would plunge headlong into some other idea.
In this way he did a prodigious amount of reading in philosophy, sociology
and psychology, continually searching for the answer to ideas so vague
that he found difficulty in explaining even to Cynthia what motivated him.
Under the influence of Clifford Odets, whose plays he greatly admired,
Yale had started to write his own play. So far he had written one act
which he had read to her. It was a symbolistic thing about labor leaders.
Now that she had met him, Cynthia could recognize a characterization of
Pat Marratt. "Does your father know about your play?" Cynthia asked.
Yale wanted to know what his play had to do with anything at the moment;
particularly the fact that he had just told her he loved her. "Oh,
i don't know," Cynthia admitted, "it just seems to me, Yale, that you
are playing with fire. You say you never realized how your parents
felt about Jews, but I have a feeling you did know, and maybe you were
just using me as a test or experiment. The play you are writing, maybe
you are doing it just to aggravate your father. If he ever read it,
he would have a fit. Why do you do it, Yale?" she asked, looking at
him with tears in her eyes. "You seem to be always sailing against the
tide. I heard what you said in the psych class the other day. it's all
over the College. If it ever gets back to Doctor Tangle and your father
and mother . . ." She looked at him in wonder.
Yale laughed, "What did I say that was so terrible?"He knew what it
was. Professor Ratnor who taught the introductory Psychology course
used a portion of the course to introduce his classes to Freud. Using
a tiptoe approach, the happy sexual adjustments of the students at
Midhaven were explained. By happy sexual adjustment, of course, was
meant as complete a sublimation of sex as possible for girls and boys in
their late teens. After listening to Ratnor discuss Freud and the Id and
Libido for several class hours, Yale was quite thoroughly disgusted. When
Ratnor called on him to answer some question, Yale managed to use the
opportunity to voice his own opinion. The trouble with Freud, Yale
had said, and most of the psychologists following him, as well as most
writers, and so far as Yale could see, religious leaders to boot, was
that they failed completely to understand the love relationship between
a man and woman. Instead of seeing it in its cosmic beauty they tended
to reduce it to a machine-like rutting: a union of two sewerage systems.
After Yale's speech, Professor Ratnor was scarcely able to continue the
class for the balance of the hour. There was a hail of laughter from the
men and embarrassed titters from the girls, followed by an instant buzz
of conversation around the room.
looking at him coldly. "The world is going to hell." Yale knew what
Pat meant. Eventually he would hear further explosions from Pat on the
subject of his interest in Cynthia.
Liz tried to mollify the situation and in Yale's mind made it worse.
"Oh, you forget, Pat, that right here in Midhaven some of our best friends
are Jews."
Yale heard the platitude for the first time in a new light. It was
the necessary qualification that any really prejudiced person made
to prove their complete lack of prejudice. He felt like arguing with
Pat. To prove to him that without the great religious thinkings of the
Jews there would have been no Christians. He was aware for the first
time that he was reaching beyond the courses he was taking in religion
at Midhaven College to a unification of his own thinking.
Before he could say anything, however, Pat had started on a new line of
inquiry. "What does your father do, Miss Carnell?"
Cynthia explained that he was a farmer in New Jersey. Yale listened,
warily. He saw the connection forming in Pat's mind.
"Well, for God's sakes," Pat exploded, "don't tell me that your father
is the Carnell that has all that tomato acreage. I'll be a son-of-a-gun.
We've been buying most of his crop for the past ten years. He's a pretty
shrewd operator. Joe Freeman, our purchasing agent, has dealt with him.
I've never met him." Pat's voice trailed off. Unsaid, but very apparent,
was the thought that he hadn't known that Cynthia's father was Jewish.
"He raises nice tomatoes too," Cynthia said, the smile still playing
lightly on her lips.
"You can say that again!" Pat said. "The finest that come on the market
every year are from the Carnell farms. Believe me, Marratt Corporation
only buys the finest."
Amy walked into the room, and whispered to Liz. "Pat," Liz said, "the
Tangles and Middletons are here." As she spoke their names, Dr. Tangle
walked into the room, blowing on his hands, followed by his wife,
Lucy. Frank Middleton and his wife, Marie, were just behind them.
Liz performed the introductions. Yale noticed that both Dr. Tangle and
Frank Middleton looked at Cynthia with evident interest. "So you're
a friend of the Marratts?" Doctor Tangle said, his words leaving a
question unspoken, and chuckled with the heh-heh that trailed almost
every statement he made. "Well, it is nice that our out-of-town students
can get acquainted with some of the prominent people in Midhaven."
"Bill Sawyer called me at the Club," Frank Middleton said to Pat. "I told
him I was coming over here. Bill was at the plant meeting. The entire plant
is going to join the union. Every damned one of them. Cohen has promised
them the world. I thought you would want to know. They'll be around to
demand an election in a few days."
Pat noted that already Liz was putting a Dry Martini into Frank's hand.
She murmured that it was made just to Frank's taste. Marie Middleton,
a dumpy, blonde woman, remarked that Frank was just crazy about Liz's
Martinis.
"I don't give a damn if they do join the union," Pat said, feeling as
irritated at Frank as he did at Harry Cohen. "It burns my ass. After
all of the good things I have done for those people, they can turn
right around, and let a skunk like that Cohen run away with them. Only
six months ago when I walked through the plant everyone would smile and
wave to me. Now, they look at me as if I were some kind of a rat. Six
months ago that bastard Cohen was in a soup line. We give him a damned
good job and the first thing you know he's biting the hand that feeds
him. They can join a union if they think it'll do them any good. I'm
not paying one damned cent more in wages. Let them strike!"
"A strike wouldn't be a very good thing for Midhaven," Dr. Tangle said
apprehensively. "I don't like to have that kind of publicity in a community
like ours. It spreads the idea that we are more of an industrial city.
That's bad for college enrollments."
"To hell with your enrollments, Amos," Pat said, his face mottled red.
"I've been checking with Reece all afternoon and we've got sufficient
inventories in our warehouse in every line to keep going for a couple of
months without any trouble at all. We've probably got too damned much
inventory anyway. So, let them join a union! Let the crazy bastards
strike. We can operate for a couple of months without them."
"The only trouble is, Pat, with this European situation the way it is
you're likely to lose the people to the Latham Shipyard. I was talking
with one of the boys at the Club tonight. He says that it's almost certain
that they are going to get a couple of British freighter contracts. If
that happens, you are going to have to go up plenty in wages in order to
hold anyone. Al Latham may be your friend, but he can't stop the upward
trend when he starts hiring." Frank Middleton sipped his Martini and
waited for Pat's reaction.
Pat relighted his cigar. "I'm telling you, if they don't get that Roosevelt
out of the White House in the November elections, this country will go to
hell. Landon may not be much, but at least he's a Republican."
The conversation started to take a political turn. Neither Yale nor Cynthia
was included in it. Liz started her own independent conversation with
Lucy Tangle and Marie Middleton. Rather pointedly she left Cynthia out
of it. Yale made their departure excuses.
"There you are," Pat said, frowning at Yale. "I've got one son and
eventually he will inherit this business. You can see how much it concerns
him. All he's interested in, Amos, is in soaking up every damn bit of
radical nonsense he can get his hands on. It would be interesting to know
just how many Reds you have on the faculty down there at Midhaven. That
Jack Leonard that teaches Sociology -- I'll bet a couple of bottles of
good Scotch that he carries a party card." Pat turned to Yale. "You just
wait . . . if the Marratt Corporation goes under and you have to earn
a dollar on your own, you'll get some sense into you!"
"Now! Now!" Doctor Tangle said. "Don't you worry about Yale. He'll come
around. Good solid background in that boy. His true colors will show up."
Liz walked to the front door with Yale and Cynthia. "I won't apologize
for Pat," she said to Cynthia "He's a very blunt man and sometimes not
very tactful. It was nice to have you to dinner. Perhaps Yale will bring
you again sometime." She said the words in a way that implied that that
of course was highly unlikely.
"You won't apologize for him," Yale said to Liz as he helped Cynthia
with her coat, "but I will, and for you, too, Liz. It will be a long
day before I bring any of my friends to this house."
Liz looked at Yale coolly. "At this age, darling, you should be aware of
the facts of life. Stop trying to break out of your environment. Some
day you'll know that your parents are your real friends. Good night,
Miss Carnell."
Yale slid behind the wheel of the car. "It was awful, Cynthia, I'm sorry."
He tried to put his arm around her.
"Don't, Yale! Not here. Please never bring me to your house again."
As they drove toward the college Cynthia was silent.
"Cynthia," Yale said, trying to reach her, "I'm Yale Marratt, not Pat
Marratt. Remember, that I can't help the way Pat is, any more than you
can help being Jewish."
"I don't want to help being Jewish," she said scornfully. "I'm proud of
it, Yale. It's no good. My family wouldn't approve of you, either."
Yale drove the car off Route Six into a side road. He turned off the
ignition.
"Please, Yale, take me back to the dormitory. I feel kind of sick."
"No, I won't -- not until we get a few things straightened out! Okay,
I admit it. I was wrong in not telling you how my family felt about
Jews. Actually, I wasn't sure myself until this evening. I didn't know Pat
could condemn you because of your religion without even knowing you. He
listened to you play the piano, and enjoyed it. He couldn't help but
see that you are lovely as a woman. Yet, he and Liz could be absolutely
boorish and discourteous to you. Why? Why? I kept asking myself all
evening. Do you know why, Cynthia? Because they are afraid! Supposing
I brought a Catholic home or a Chinese girl, and they thought I was in
love with her. They would have had the same reaction. A terrible fear of
anyone who challenges the narrow concepts they have lived by. I strike
at the shallow roots of their life because I care for a person who
is a Jew. But you are not a Jew to me. No more than I am a Christian
to myself. I don't go around saying, 'I'm a Christian.' I'm just me,
Yale Marratt, and you are just you, Cynthia Carnell." Yale looked at
her helplessly. "Honey, don't you understand?"
"I'm cold, Yale," Cynthia said. She huddled against the door of the car.
Yale started the engine and turned on the car heater. "I wonder, Yale,
if I'm just a kind of rebellion for you. Some kids break windows or get
drunk or steal cars. You just want to shock people."
"Oh, God, don't you understand, Cynthia? I'm not trying to wave your
religion at Pat like a red flag at a bull. I love you. It wouldn't make
any difference to me if you were a Catholic or a Mohammedan. I love you."
Yale repeated the words and in the process of saying them became quite
convinced himself. He wondered for a moment if that was how you fell
in love. If you said "I love you" to a girl, was it because you said
the words that you loved her? When did love between a man and woman
start? When you said, "I love you" what did it mean? It was a new feeling,
and Yale had had no experience with it. He simply knew that Cynthia seemed
to fill all his waking thoughts and the confused worries and fears that
beset him vanished when he was with her. He felt that when he said
"I love you" he could just as well have said, "I will die for you,
or I will live because of you."
"Cynthia, dear," he said, touching her cheek, "you know what I am going
to call you. I am going to call you Cindar. Every time I say it, it will
be just like saying Cynthia dear. I can make love to you in public,
just with words. Good idea?" he asked, trying to kindle a smile on her
face. "Oh, Cindar, what's the matter?"
Cynthia looked at him sadly. She didn't really know how she felt about
Yale. She admired his iconoclasm. She knew that he had the ability to
inspire her with his enthusiasm toward abstract ideas, in the few classes
she had with him she was amazed at Yale's headlong approach and his
challenge of the teachers. No other student in the freshman class seemed
to have the ability to get into the deep discussions that he did. She
was pleased when Professor Walters, who taught freshman literature,
remarked on Yale's ability to inter-relate one course with another; to
take what he was learning in religion or psychology and reapply it in
a study of some phase of English literature. Professor Walters had read
a composition to the class in which Yale made an examination of English
social structure in the Elizabethan times by analyzing the Shakespearean
plays. Walters seemed to be particularly impressed that Yale had read
every play that Shakespeare had written; an accomplishment which he
assured the class was not true of ninety per cent of the seniors and
even most of those who graduated with a Bachelor's degree in literature.
While Cynthia enjoyed Yale's restless, probing mind, she didn't clearly
understand the roots, nor did she care for the minor key of his thinking.
Yale was moody. He would fling himself furiously into a project, carry it
halfway through, and then claim that the end result would not justify his
effort. A few days later he would plunge headlong into some other idea.
In this way he did a prodigious amount of reading in philosophy, sociology
and psychology, continually searching for the answer to ideas so vague
that he found difficulty in explaining even to Cynthia what motivated him.
Under the influence of Clifford Odets, whose plays he greatly admired,
Yale had started to write his own play. So far he had written one act
which he had read to her. It was a symbolistic thing about labor leaders.
Now that she had met him, Cynthia could recognize a characterization of
Pat Marratt. "Does your father know about your play?" Cynthia asked.
Yale wanted to know what his play had to do with anything at the moment;
particularly the fact that he had just told her he loved her. "Oh,
i don't know," Cynthia admitted, "it just seems to me, Yale, that you
are playing with fire. You say you never realized how your parents
felt about Jews, but I have a feeling you did know, and maybe you were
just using me as a test or experiment. The play you are writing, maybe
you are doing it just to aggravate your father. If he ever read it,
he would have a fit. Why do you do it, Yale?" she asked, looking at
him with tears in her eyes. "You seem to be always sailing against the
tide. I heard what you said in the psych class the other day. it's all
over the College. If it ever gets back to Doctor Tangle and your father
and mother . . ." She looked at him in wonder.
Yale laughed, "What did I say that was so terrible?"He knew what it
was. Professor Ratnor who taught the introductory Psychology course
used a portion of the course to introduce his classes to Freud. Using
a tiptoe approach, the happy sexual adjustments of the students at
Midhaven were explained. By happy sexual adjustment, of course, was
meant as complete a sublimation of sex as possible for girls and boys in
their late teens. After listening to Ratnor discuss Freud and the Id and
Libido for several class hours, Yale was quite thoroughly disgusted. When
Ratnor called on him to answer some question, Yale managed to use the
opportunity to voice his own opinion. The trouble with Freud, Yale
had said, and most of the psychologists following him, as well as most
writers, and so far as Yale could see, religious leaders to boot, was
that they failed completely to understand the love relationship between
a man and woman. Instead of seeing it in its cosmic beauty they tended
to reduce it to a machine-like rutting: a union of two sewerage systems.
After Yale's speech, Professor Ratnor was scarcely able to continue the
class for the balance of the hour. There was a hail of laughter from the
men and embarrassed titters from the girls, followed by an instant buzz
of conversation around the room.
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