The Rebellion of Yale Marratt (77 page)

Spoken in My Manner
. . ." Cynthia whistled.
"And just wait until your father reads it and gets Barbara's report.

 

 

"Cindar is right," Anne said. She leaned on her elbow so that she could
look at both of them. "In the next few months Challenge may be poking into
a hornets' nest. When you start questioning the customs that people live
by . . . when you laugh at the 'sacred cows' . . . you are stirring up
an emotional brew that can explode all over the place." She paused and
looked at Yale and Cynthia fondly. "I'm not afraid, and I don't really
think that you are, Cindar. During the spring when we were rewriting
Mat's book, you were as wild and passionate with your theories as any
bearded Bolshevik. Now that some of your ideas are going to show up in
print I'm afraid you won't be able to deny them."

 

 

Cynthia grinned. "I guess I'm a sneaky radical . . . before our marriage
I just
thought
my ideas, or said them in a low voice to Mat when he
didn't seem to be listening seriously." Cynthia was on her elbow talking
across Yale's face directly to Anne. Yale ran his fingers across their
dangling breasts. They both jumped.

 

 

"You cut that out!" Anne warned him. "Or you'll end up in the trouble
that Cynthia and I have been promising you! She lay on her stomach. "What
is really bothering me, Yale, is Harry Cohen. It's very bad timing. Does
he really have to call the strike at the Marratt plant Wednesday?"

 

 

"It's too late, now. This is the first time that Harry has managed to get
an affirmative strike vote from the employees." Yale reviewed the labor
problems at Marratt Corporation for them. "He's been trying to organize
Marratt for nearly eight years. Pat and he have played checkers with
the employees in the plant. Pat has his stooges. Harry has his. They
usually each have a pretty good idea what the other is up to. Finally,
during the war, Harry won the elections with a clear majority. They had
hired so many new people to replace those who were drafted that the old
loyalties disappeared. It's been the same all over the country. . . .

 

 

"But Harry hasn't gained much. Pat has been able to ignore his demands
because he has been careful to keep the company in a position where he
would have a good chance of breaking the strike, and maybe the union as
well. Pat has tried to have sufficient inventories to last six to eight
months. He has a Strike Day program to get the stuff to his distributors
and brokers that is practically impregnable. In the past it meant that
Cohen would be tackling a long strike. His headquarters would never
okay that.

 

 

"Right now, Harry thinks the time is ripe. The demand has been so great
that the plant is working practically around the clock. Inventories are
way down. On the other hand, three or four thousand people have been
laid off at the Latham Shipyards in the past year. The city has plenty
of unemployed. Pat might try to employ a whole new crew. He'd warn those
who didn't come back that they would be out of a job permanently. This
could be Pat's golden opportunity to break the union. But Harry can't stop
now. It's a gamble. The existence of the union depends on Harry getting
better wages for them. He's in between the devil, Pat . . . and the deep
blue sea . . . no union at all. Still, if it became an extended strike,
Pat could lose millions of dollars."

 

 

Anne sighed. "Doesn't it bother you, Yale, that you know what is going
to happen, and you haven't told Pat?"

 

 

"It's not a question of loyalties. Harry is my friend, but he didn't have
to tell me his plans. He naturally assumes that I won't tell Pat. Oh, I
know . . . you want to say that blood is thicker than water. But that's a
cliché that really doesn't mean anything. Each situation contains its own
challenge, if we are to prove the value of what Challenge is trying to
do we must sit above the fray, and offer judgment based on the soundest
principles we can devise."

 

 

"I wish I didn't have such an imagination," Anne said. "I can see your
father bewildered, contemplating the ruins around him, betrayed by his
son. . . ." Anne's eyes were open wide and liquid with the sincerity of
her emotion. "For Challenge, to Pat, will be a betrayal . . . he must
have loved you, Yale . . . he must have had high hopes for you. . . ."

 

 

"That was the trouble . . . high hopes. . . ." It's all right to hope
generally for someone, but when you try to impose your specific wishes,
desires, ambitions on another person . . . it doesn't always work out,
It smacks of despotism." Yale ran his fingers lightly along the separation
in Anne's buttocks, and slowly up her back. She shivered pleasantly.

 

 

"You've tried to impose your high hopes on us," Cynthia said, grinning at
him. "The truth is if you would admit it . . . that you are pretty much
a despot yourself."

 

 

Yale chuckled. "There never was a despot who could tyrannize two women!"
He touched his fingers on the curve of Cynthia's stomach almost perceptibly.

 

 

"He's asking for trouble, Anne."

 

 

"I think you're right, Cindar."

 

 

"What's going on between you two?" Yale demanded. "What are all these
innuendoes?" He sat up on the bed and looked at them curiously. Then,
as they both touched him, he realized what they meant.

 

 

He blushed. "Oh, no . . . you don't!"

 

 

When Yale, Anne, and Cynthia walked onto the back patio, Weeks looked
sarcastically at his watch. He turned back to the outdoor fireplace and
continued to flip the sizzling hamburgers and hot dogs. "I told you to
just have patience," Weeks said grimly to Sam Higgins. "You've got to get
accustomed to the three of them. Eventually, they get hungry. . . . I know
one thing: they're going to have to hire a cook pretty quick. I'm getting
a phobia against making my own meals."

 

 

"Ooooh you!" Cynthia said. She pushed Weeks away from the grill.

 

 

"You're an old buzzard," Anne protested hotly to Weeks. "This is the first
time in a month you've come close to making a meal . . . even breakfast."

 

 

"What in hell have the three of you been doing?" Sam demanded suspiciously.
"I've showered, shaved, shampooed . . ." Sam skipped the first "s"
that belonged to the alliteration, but Cynthia and Anne had evidently
heard it from Yale. They laughed. "I've been sitting down here an hour
with Agatha," Sam continued. "Jesus, I can't figure out how you manage
it . . . think of it . . . two women. . . ." Sam watched Yale preparing
drinks at the portable bar for Anne, Cynthia, and himself. "Come on, Yale
tell Agatha and me . . . what's the secret?" He grinned craftily. "You
can start by telling us what the three of you have been doing for the
last two and a half hours!"

 

 

Yale heard Aunt Agatha chuckle. He winked at her, and then said to Sam,
"Did you ever play chess?"

 

 

Sam admitted that he had.

 

 

"Well, we've developed a new game. It's not in any of the books. You
have to be somewhat of a genius to win at it. It's played singlehanded
against two players who are in conspiracy against you."

 

 

Cynthia, who was helping Anne load hot dogs and hamburgers into their
buns, started to choke with laughter. Anne grinned and patted her
solicitously on her back.

 

 

Yale smirked at them. "Well, the trouble with this game is that you
suddenly find you're up against two queens who can put your king in
check with the greatest of ease . . . your opponents have a thorough
grasp of the play . . . they know that the king can only make one move
at a time. . . ." Yale handed Sam, who was looking very puzzled, a hot
dog. "Here, without regard to its phallic qualities, put some of Pat
Marratt's piccalilli on it." He chuckled. "See, the Marratts add spice
to your life literally and figuratively."

 

 

"Where's Clara?" Cynthia asked. As she spoke, Clara, wearing a print skirt
with a detachable halter, came out on the patio. "Speak of the devil,"
Clara said, trying to appear lighthearted, "I was in your library,
Yale. God . . . it's fantastic! How many books have you?"

 

 

"About eight thousand, I guess. Contributions from several different
sources. Mat Chilling's books are all there . . . over four thousand
of them. Cynthia had collected four or five hundred of her own. Anne
remembered her husband Ricky's books. We had them trucked in from Ohio
. . . more than a thousand. I must have had a couple of thousand. Bob
Coleman thought we had gone crazy . . . first private library he ever
designed. It's a mess . . . a lot of duplicates. Anne and Cynthia are
going to straighten it out one of these days. . . ."

 

 

"That's what he thinks," Anne said. She handed Clara a drink. "He has
so many projects for us we both would have to live two lifetimes to
accomplish them."

 

 

Clara took the drink dubiously. "After this afternoon, I don't know
whether I should drink any more." She looked at them all, and said
bravely, "I was a bitch. I'm really sorry." Clara sat down on a wicker
porch chair and she started to cry.

 

 

"Come, come!" Aunt Agatha said coolly. "You're a big girl now, Clara!"

 

 

Clara shook her head. "No, I'm not," she said bitterly. "I'm a little
scared kid. I just don't understand any of this stuff that you think is
so adult." She sighed and patted her skirt. I feel better now that we
all have clothes on. At least, I'm not embarrassed to look at everyone."

 

 

"Why don't you forget it, Clara?" Sam asked. "Just calm down."

 

 

"I'm calm, Sam. Calm enough to know that what Yale is doing is no worse
than what you are doing."

 

 

Sam looked at her, surprised. He anticipated what she was going to say.
"Let's not expose any dirty linen here, Clara."

 

 

"You're the one who made our lives filthy," Clara said, bitterly. "I'll
never forget the day that I saw the two of you . . . you and that cheap
tramp who was your secretary . . . sitting in the cocktail lounge of the
Savoy-Plaza . . . the both of you looking gooey-eyed at each other.
I wanted to vomit!"

 

 

Sam looked helplessly at Yale, Cynthia, and Anne who were sitting in a
semi-circle around a redwood table, eating while they listened to Clara.
Cynthia looked sympathetic, but Anne's face had an amused smile.

 

 

Aunt Agatha, who had been reading the financial section of the
Sunday
Times
, put the paper down and eyed Clara speculatively. Finally she
shrugged and said to Yale, "Well, there's the other side of the coin."
She laughed and took the drink that Weeks handed to her, confirming that
it was a Scotch on the rocks. "On one side, modern bigamy . . . marriage
with occasional solo flights with someone else, and on the other side,
down-to-earth bigamy à la Brigham Young. Take your pick." She sipped
her Scotch appreciatively. "If you were nearer my age, Ralph, I'd ask
you to marry me. These young people should be taught that there's more
to marriage than sex."

 

 

Ralph wagged his head. "I'm only eleven years younger than you are,
Agatha, but I'd never marry you for companionship, if that's what you
mean!" He stroked his goatee. "You look pretty chipper to me . . . even
if you are eighty . . . if you'd agree to some old-fashioned cuddling
I might change my mind."

 

 

Agatha snorted, but everyone could see that she was delighted.

 

 

Sam was relieved at the dexterous way Agatha had changed the conversation.
Clara was wiping her eyes. She had evidently decided not to discuss her
marital problems further.

 

 

"I've been here all day, Yale," Sam said. "You've got to bring me up to
date. Have you heard from Paul Downing? We've got to make up our minds
fast on what to do with the 'short-sellers.' The quicker we clean this
up . . . the better."

 

 

"Wait a second, Sam," Yale said. "I want to ask Clara a question."
Yale turned to her. "Do you love Sam, Clara?"

 

 

"Yale! Let well enough alone!" Cynthia said nervously.

 

 

"It's all right, Cynthia," Clara said. She looked at Yale sardonically.
"Yale is just using the Challenge technique on me. I'm not dumb, you
know, Yale. I graduated from Wellesley." Clara looked at Sam silently
before she answered. "We haven't slept together since April. . . ."
We just live together. I'm not so modern as some of my friends."

 

 

"Supposing you had never seen Sam with this other woman, Clara?" Yale
asked. "Your life would be pretty much the same. Sam must still find
you quite attractive. . . ."

 

 

"You mean share him! . . . like Cynthia and Anne have to share you?"
Clara asked disgustedly.

 

 

Yale shrugged. "Why not? You've got two kids. What would Sam gain if he
left you? I'll bet this woman that Sam knows is more insecure than you are.
I think a lot of divorce problems would vanish into thin air, if the
maligned wife invited the other woman home. Probably, if you invited
this girl to stay in your home, you might discover that under all the
nastiness and shame that society insists that you feel . . . really,
this other woman was a human being, too. It would be a nice solution
for the several million women in this country who never will marry."

 

 

Clara smiled. "Which is to say you are somewhat Victorian in your ideas
about females. . . . It's a man's world and all that crap. Some day,
Yale Marratt . . . someone is going to get pretty mad with you . . .
of all the dumb ideas!" Clara was silent, but Anne and Cynthia noticed
that she was looking at Sam quizzically.