American Dreams (14 page)

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Fritzi turned away from the brass carbon-cup receiver, covered her

¦

mouth, and said, 'I can't hear you, Mr. Manchester, I'm very sorry, goodbye.'

She

rang off. Suddenly her eyes focused on a figure in the street doorway.

Mrs. Perella, a string bag full of onions in hand.

.

'Why you talk in that crazy voice, Fritzi? You sick?' J

'No, no, I feel wonderful,' Fritzi cried. She seized Mrs. Perella by the j

shoulders and danced her around, onions and all. j
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Next afternoon's delivery brought a note on stationery of the Novelty Theater. Mr. Hobart Manchester begged to inform Miss Crown that he desired her to play Second Witch in his forthcoming production, and would she please arrange to be at the theater at ten tomorrow morning to discuss salary?

16 Grosse Pointe Games

The Rapid Interurban carried Carl and a box of chocolates out to Grosse Pointe, a journey of almost ten miles. He got off by a two-story brick waiting room across the street from one of the most photographed landmarks in Wayne County, the large and brightly lit Country Club of Detroit. Music and laughter drifted from Dobson's Road House opposite.

Nearly every big, imposing house that he passed was brightly lit.

Windows were open, sending animated voices, the cries of children, the music of a piano roll, into the soft darkness. The village of Grosse Pointe was essentially still a summer resort, and the season was in full swing.

As he turned the corner from Grosse Pointe Drive onto Lakeland, he smelled a warm wind redolent of fish blowing off Lake St. Clair. At the end of the street, by the water, the windows of a two-story house laid yellow rectangles on the manicured lawn. The house was done in the rustic shingle style. A pier extended from the side yard into the lake. A small lacquered sign on the fence said this was vii J a clymer. If a place this fancy served as a summer cottage, what must their home be like? he wondered.

A long black Clymer touring car parked in front reflected the lights in the curved brass of its enormous headlights. The top was folded down, showing off the gray leather seats. Perhaps the most telling sign of the car's cost was the hand-painted decorative pinstripe on each wheel spoke. Who owned the car? Wouldn't Lorenzo Clymer park his in a garage?

He'd taken great care to be presentable. Taken a bath after work, even washed his hair. He wore a new fifty cent necktie and his coat sweater, black ribbed wool - a bit too warm for the evening. He wished he hadn't given his Princeton sweater to Fritzi.

A voice from the porch startled him. 'Carl? Is that you? Do come in.'

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Striving

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The sweet sound of it banished his anxiety. He charged up the walk, swept off his cap. Tess stepped into the light from the open front door.

'You found us with no trouble?'

'Oh, yes, easy. Here, these are for you.'

'Why, thank you. Chocolate creams are my favorite.'

They gazed at each other in awkward silence. Maybe other men wouldn't find Tess Clymer beautiful, but he did; a certain chemistry had started bubbling the moment she spoke to him at the racetrack.

She knew how to show herself to advantage. She wore a short fitted jacket, navy blue, with a matching skirt, and a filmy blouse that enhanced the billowy curve of her breasts. She'd fixed her hair in a chignon, fastening it with three tortoise-shell combs inset with rubies.

'Would you care to sit, or look at the lake? Supper won't be served until half past eight.'

'I thought I saw a yacht tied at the end of your pier.'

'You did. It's my father's. He commutes to his office in Detroit when we're living out here. The captain sleeps aboard.'

They strolled down the gently sloping lawn to a concrete sea wall. A bright yellow half-moon the color of butter hung above the lake, tinting the wavelets. The long white yacht bobbed gently. A half mile offshore Carl saw the running lights of another.

'People claim to have seen sea serpents in the lake,' Tess said.

'Drunk or sober?'

'The people, or the sea serpents?' It made him laugh. She said, 'We could play croquet if you like.'

'Croquet? It's dark.'

He felt like a dunce when she said, 'Oh, Father's taken care of that. He installed brand-new lights for the tennis court and the back lawn. Come.'

She took his hand.

She stepped inside the four-bay garage behind the house. Bright lights on poles suddenly bathed the croquet court. Handsome pear trees grew in neat rows behind it.

'I should caution you,' Tess said as they walked to the mallet rack.

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'You mustn't be upset by Father's manner. He's rather blunt with everyone, me especially. He's ruled me with a strict hand ever since my mother died when I was fifteen. At twenty-one I'm still trying to break him of that.

Which color would you like?'

'Do you have a favorite?'

'Green.'

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He handed her a ball and mallet, took red for himself. They walked to the starting stake. 'Is your father in the house?'

'Yes, he's meeting with his advertising agent, Wayne Sykes. Wayne's an old friend of the family. A Detroit boy. He handles the Clymer auto account. He's been waiting since three o'clock, poor man. Father was detained in the city at an emergency board meeting. He's on the board of two banks. My father works seven days a week and expects everyone else to do the same.'

'Do you have any brothers or sisters?' He regretted the question when her face clouded.

'I did have. Roger, my older brother, died of influenza when I was thirteen.

My younger sister, Winona, was killed in a cycling accident a year later. Mother passed away the year after that.'

'I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to bring up--'

'We live through these things,' she said with a smile meant to reassure him. it's been lonely without them, that's all. You go first.'

The mallet felt small as a toothpick in his big hands. His stroke caromed the ball off the first of the two wickets, shooting it to one side. 'Hell,' he said without thinking. 'Oh, sorry. I haven't played for a while.'

'Just take your time. We're not competing for a prize,' less said gently.

Still, she was adept at the game, and competitive - no posturing as the winsome girl outmatched by the big man. She made clean, confident strokes that went where she aimed. Behind from the start, Carl stayed behind, missing wickets and steadily losing ground. He was approaching the stake at the far end when she intercepted him, hit his ball, and whacked him away. As he chased the ball, his shoe caught a wicket and he fell. He jumped up, brushed himself off. Dumb ox. Keep it up, she'll never want to see you again. .

'Are you hurt?' She was solicitous, not scornful. He stood barely two feet
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away, her dark blue eyes reflecting the moon. He wanted to grab her and kiss her, devil take the consequences.

'No, fine.' He picked up his ball. He returned to the end wickets and went through on his next turn. He missed the stake on both followup shots. 'Blast.'

By the time he hit the stake and started back, she was already at the other end of the court, in front of the starting wickets, although a foot and a half to one side. She bent over the ball, studied the path, hit. The ball rolled through the first wicket, struck the second, miraculously slid through. She tapped it against the stake.

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Striving

'Good game. You beat me.'

'Unfair advantage. I play golf. There's Father, with Wayne.' She turned off the lights. On the porch Carl saw two men, one with a lighted cigar; his voice carried.

'I'm just not sure of the advisability of featuring my portrait as the main illustration.'

'Lorenzo, take my word. It's the right approach. Everyone knows you or has heard of you. The ad speaks not only through the copy but more subtly. It says the Clymer must be a quality car if a man of your stature and reputation puts his name on it. The picture drives the nail in solidly.'

The speaker had an unctuous voice Carl disliked at once.

'All right, but I definitely don't care for that fancy border on the ad.'

'We'll change it. Whatever you want. What would you like?'

'I don't know. Show me a few other ideas.'

'Certainly. You're the client.'

'Tess, hello. I've asked Wayne to stay for supper since I kept him late.

This is your guest? Good evening, young man, I'm Lorenzo Clymer.'

Clymer shook Carl's hand with a firm grip. Wayne Sykes merely nodded. They went inside to a huge dining room, where two serving girls were placing platters of veal and side dishes and pouring water and wine.

Clymer's fine white suit and the trim blazer and gray trousers worn by Wayne Sykes made Carl feel shabby. He stepped toward Tess's chair to hold it for her, but Sykes was quicker.

Under the glittering electric chandelier he could see the two men
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clearly. Lorenzo Clymer's features were unremarkable. He was short and slightly built, with small hands and sleek dark hair. Evidently Tess got her height from her mother. Carl had learned a few things about his host. A self-made millionaire, Clymer had established a successful iron foundry, bought another, plus a heat-treating plant, then expanded into casting wheels for locomotives and railway cars. This business made him rich, then rich a second time when he sold it to the giant Michigan Car Company. He kept his other operations; Jesse worked at Clymer's first foundry.

Clymer said, 'Tell us about yourself, Carl. Where do you hail from?'

'Chicago. My father owns the Crown brewery.'

'Crown Lager? Never tried it,' Sykes said as he helped himself to rice and passed the bowl. 'Personally I'm a whiskey man. If not Kentucky bourbon, then French champagne. Eh, Tess?'

He said it as though they shared a secret Carl couldn't possibly appre Grosse Pointe Games

87

ciate. Sykes was a few years older than Carl, auburn-haired, slender, and tan. I le had a look of supple strength, as though he rowed or played a lot of tennis. His nose was long, his mouth mobile, his eyes black, with a mean light in them. Or am I just jealous?

'What college did you attend, old man?' Sykes asked.

'Princeton.'

'Graduated when?'

'I didn't.'

'Really? Urn. I'm Harvard '98 myself.'

'And a bit uppity about it,' Tess teased. 'Just like all Harvard men.'

Lorenzo Clymer waved at the serving girl by the sideboard. 'Don't stand there sleeping, Greta. Fill up the water glasses.'

'Sorry, sir.'

'Where do you work, Carl? What's your profession?'

He was prepared for the question. He'd discussed it with Jesse, who counseled him to be truthful, regardless of Clymer's feelings about Henry Ford. 'You got to tell him sometime if you're as crazy about this girl as you
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act like' was Jesse's languid comment.

"I don't exactly have a profession, sir. I'm a driver for the Ford Motor Company.'

'Well.' Sykes tossed his napkin aside and sat back, folding his arms. The single word conveyed a clear meaning: Carl had done himself in. To judge from the look on Lorenzo Clymer's face, he agreed.

'I don't expect you to condemn an employer, Carl. In fact, to do so would be base disloyalty. But neither will I hide my personal feelings about Henry Ford. The man's a bumpkin, with an ego big as a barn.'

'A clown,' Sykes said. 'His people were shanty Irish from Cork.'

'Seven years ago, right here in Grosse Pointe, Henry's "999" race car beat Alex Winton's "Bullet,"' Clymer said.

'Yes, I know about that,' Carl said.

'On the strength of that victory,' Clymer said, 'the Henry Ford Company was organized. I put a considerable amount of money into it. In six months Henry damned near wrecked the company with his dilatory tinkering. The board got rid of him and put a good old Detroit name on the door, Cadillac. I made money when I sold out my interest, but I'll tell you, son, Henry's ideas are all wet. This new Model T won't amount to a thing after the first flurry of interest. Personally I wouldn't be seen in the kind of car he wants to build. The top of the market is where a smart auto man aims his product.'

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Defensive, Carl said, 'Excuse me, Mr. Clymer, but aren't there a lot more ordinary people than rich ones?7

'Well, yes,' Sykes laughed, 'but who'd want to associate with them?'

Lorenzo Clymer wanted to be sure he made his point. 'Henry Ford is a renegade in the auto business. A man of no education or breeding -- a stubborn farmer with the wrong market orientation. He'll be gone in five years, if not sooner.'

These men are damn snobs, Carl thought. No wonder Ford hates the Grosse Pointe crowd.

Tess looked uncomfortable. Clymer noticed and tried to lower the temperature of the discussion. 'Nothing at all wrong with your drawing a salary from him till that happens. Do you like working there?'

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'I like being around automobiles, but I'm not one for fixed hours or time clocks.'

'Tess tells me you race.'

'I drive for Hoot Edmunds.'

'I wouldn't suppose there's a great future in that.'

'Not unless you're Barney Oldfield,' Sykes said. 'And he's throwing his money away on drink and cards and cheap women. Got a wife, too. His second.' He sniffed.

Carl said to Clymer, 'I never worry too much about a future as long as I'm doing something I like.'

'Crown's is a large brewery, isn't it?'

'Eighth or ninth in die country. And growing steadily.'

'Does your father have plans for you to join the firm?'

'I suppose he does. But I don't.'

i see.' Lorenzo Clymer looked at his daughter in what Carl took to be a pointed way.

The supper limped on. Clymer discussed the arrival of America's Great White Fleet in Yokohama. Carl apologized for not knowing about it; he seldom read a newspaper. After a nervous cough or two, Sykes said, 'Say, Lorenzo. On the way out here I got a speeding ticket. I didn't want to be late for our appointment.'