The Rebellion of Yale Marratt (29 page)

 

 

Seeing the tears in the corner of Pat's eyes, Yale knew that at that moment
he couldn't break away, that he must wait to talk with Mat Chilling.
And then Pat had proudly directed him across the street and pointed out
the new car. "It's yours, Yale. Brand new, hottest Ford on the market.
Wait till you try it out. The pick-up is terrific."

 

 

Only half-hearing him, trying to be enthusiastic about the car, Yale
had caught a glimpse of Mat walking down College Avenue.

 

 

Thinking now how he had missed the opportunity, Yale pounded his pillow
in dismay. He was unable to hold back his tears. God, why hadn't he run
after Mat? If only he had said, "Pat, I must talk with that man! You
see he knows where Cynthia is. I must! I must find her." Instead, he
had tried to be the good son. Tried to avoid the showdown that he knew
would occur at the mention of Cynthia's name.

 

 

Leaning out his bedroom window, with a feeling of loss so deep that it
was as if he had sustained an actual physical blow, Yale brushed the tears
from his cheeks. Below him, covering nearly an acre of lawn strung with
hundreds of pale orange lights, he watched the carnival that Pat had
created for Barbara's wedding reception. In the center of the west lawn
a green and white tent bad been erected. Yale estimated it was big enough
to house a three-ring circus. Flanking this tent were two smaller tents.
One was erected to accommodate a champagne bar.

 

 

Four hundred invitations had been sent out. This was the event of the
season that the mothers of Midhaven daughters would try in the future
to emulate and never quite succeed. Pat had spared no expense, Yale
mused, as he listened to the romantic strings and muted trumpets of
Jeffrey Gardner's famous society orchestra. The lawn was vibrant with
the movement of the carefully gowned Midhaven women, comparing their
dresses and their men with the thirty or more female guests who had
arrived yesterday with the bridegroom's contingent from Texas. Everywhere
that he looked Yale could see flashbulbs popping as reporters from as
far away as New York recorded the event. In the church just before the
ceremony Pat had proudly mentioned to Yale that Henry Luce was sending
down a few photographers from
Life
.

 

 

"Al Latham knows him," Pat explained. "Al feels that a story of this kind
in
Life
would do a lot for Midhaven. Help attract new industry. Make
people realize that in addition to fine rail and sea facilities, Midhaven
has a top-drawer social group."

 

 

Yale looked at his watch. It was nine-fifteen. The catered dinner
of shrimp cocktails, lobster newburg, squabs, and an inexhaustible
choice of delicacies from caviar to rattlesnake meat had been served and
eaten. Activity at the champagne tent showed a sharp increase as waiters
dressed in deep red tuxedos mingled with the more impatient guests who
couldn't wait for table service. Soon the bride and groom would leave
for New York and their European honeymoon. After their departure some
of the more sedate guests would leave. But the drinking majority would
stay, for it was only the "shank of the evening" and this was the party
of the season.

 

 

Yale realized that he was hungry. Other than a light breakfast he had
eaten only a sandwich. All this time he should have been sitting at
the bridal table, eating and drinking. Many of the guests would have
asked Pat and Liz where he was. The apologies that would be made for
him would anger them even more. It was impossible to give their friends
a rational explanation of Yale's behavior. In plain words he was in the
dog-house again. The sweetness and light that had occurred with Pat for
a few hours after graduation would have vanished. By now his refusal to
appear at the reception would be one more count against him, topping a
long series of his irrational actions.

 

 

Yale snapped on the lamp near his bed and looked at himself in the mirror.
His suit was rumpled. His eyes were bloodshot. To hell with it. If Cynthia
could care so little for him as to do this, to deliberately hide from him,
to run away with someone like Mat Chilling; then, to hell with her!
Hurriedly, be changed into his tuxedo. Within minutes, his face ruddy
from the cold water he had splashed on it, he was on his way downstairs.

 

 

He met Barbara on the stairs. She looked at him disdainfully. "Well, at
last the prodigal brother puts in his appearance. Better late than never."

 

 

"I'm sorry, Bobby. It was nothing personal. Up to a minute ago I just
couldn't face all those people. Now, I think I'll have a few drinks in
memory of your soon to be vanished virginity."

 

 

Barbara ignored the sarcasm. "What's the matter, Yale? I thought you
and Pat made up this afternoon? Liz was so happy to have the family
united again."

 

 

"Happy . . . shit," Yale snarled. "There was nothing the matter that you
or Liz couldn't have prevented by sending one of those fancy engraved
wedding invitations to just one person." Yale noticed the chagrined look
on Barbara's face. "Just one more invitation among the four hundred.
I can see by your expression that the budget just wouldn't stand it.
One more person and there wouldn't have been enough food to go around."
Yale patted her on the shoulder. "Bye, bye, Bobby. I know it probably
isn't your fault. Good luck. Your man from Texas looks like a good
egg. Let me know when I'm an uncle."

 

 

When Yale walked into the tent, the orchestra was taking an intermission.
Striding across the dance floor to the bridal table he wondered how
many of the guests were noticing him. From the tables surrounding the
circular dance floor he thought he detected a discernible drop in the
hum of laughter and conversation. He knew that it was probably his
imagination, but he blushed, anyway. There were four round tables in
the bridal group each seating eight couples. Walking up to where Pat and
Liz were seated Yale smiled uncomfortably. "Sorry to be late," he said,
smiling warily at them and at Tom's parents, who eyed him coolly.

 

 

Pat, who had been talking to the elder Eames, looked at Yale grimly and
continued his conversation. Liz held Yale's arm. She pulled him close
to her. "This is my baby," she said to the woman next to her whom Yale
recognized as Sarah Latham.

 

 

Smelling the liquor on her breath, Yale knew that Liz was feeling very
gay. "He's kind of stubborn and pig-headed once in awhile, but Pat and I
love him." Reluctantly Yale nuzzled his face against hers. "Your place
is right there waiting for you," Liz said, pointing to the table next
to them. "Beside Margie Latham, dear. Isn't she sweet?"

 

 

Taking a quick look at the people seated at the table, Yale sat down.
Marge Latham ignored him. He nodded across the table to Katherine Harvey
and Tom's sister, whom he had met earlier in the afternoon just before
the wedding. She smiled politely. A very coo], distant type, Yale thought.
Quite aware of her family money. Katherine was seated near Bob Baker,
who had roomed with Tom at Princeton. Next to them were Jim Latham
and Leslie Ames. The empty seats next to Marge Latham, Yale realized,
must have been occupied by Tom and Barbara, who were changing into
their going away clothes. It occurred to him that Liz had arranged
the tables purposely in this way; that she had paired him with Marge
Latham. Without a table companion for nearly two hours, Yale imagined
that Marge was probably at a boiling point. He smiled in her direction,
noticing that she wore her brown hair in a page boy style, low on her
bare shoulders. Yale told the waiter hovering near him to bring him two
double Old Granddad's and soda. He turned to Marge conversationally.
"I haven't seen you in years. Where have you been keeping yourself?"

 

 

Marge turned toward him. "Are you speaking to me?" she asked coldly.

 

 

"Oh, no, it was six other people," Yale said trying to stare down her
cold blue eyes.

 

 

"Well, you'll excuse me, I hope, but that chair has been empty so long it
seems strange to have it occupied. Has the world's greatest brain been
occupied with some world-shaking problem, or have you simply deigned to
spend a moment with the common herd?"

 

 

Yale took the drink the waiter had put on the table. "I didn't know
you cared, Marge," he said, drinking the highball, thinking to hell
with you, Marge Latham. I had a girl who would make two of you. He
remembered suddenly that he didn't have Cynthia any more. Again he felt
an overwhelming grief.

 

 

This was the kind of girl that his family expected bim to marry . . .
this Marge Latham, poised, sophisticated, socially acceptable, and this
was the kind of wedding reception it would be, and afterward he would
bed down with the wealthy Marge Latham and within weeks he would join the
club, become part of the cocktail, bridge-playing set, and be looked upon
as one of the rising young men in Midhaven social life. With his education
completed at Harvard, there could be the possibility of a political life.
A future congressman or senator from the First District. Yale shook his
head, finished his drink and started on another. No! Whatever he did want
out of life, married and settled into the boredom of Midhaven society
was not it. He grinned at his imaginings. In a second he could not only
picture himself married to Marge Latham, but getting ready to divorce
her. What would she think of his thoughts?

 

 

His sister had returned to the tent. The orchestra did a fanfare for
silence. Barbara was dressed to leave on her honeymoon. She was about
to throw her bridal bouquet. Yale watched Marge and Leslie Ames as they
walked toward the dance floor. Marge's red satin evening gown clung to
her buttocks. He noticed that Jim Latham, across the table, was watching
him. He grinned at him. "Your sister has grown up, Jim. Where's she been
all these years?"

 

 

Jim laughed. "Marge has been around every summer. Winters she goes to a
dramatic school in New York. Watch out for her, she's a future Katherine
Cornell. Where do you keep yourself, fella? I haven't seen you since
last summer."

 

 

"You should have told me you were a boxing champ," Yale said, trying to
be agreeable. No, he thought, even if Marge were a good partner in bed,
I couldn't stand you, Jim Latham, for a brother-in-law. You're just too
damned good to be true. The perfect son. Harvard graduate. Semi-pro golfer.
Nearly all-American last fall, and now you are going to Harvard Business
School. After Harvard back to Latham Shipyards to continue a tradition.

 

 

Marge returned to the table with Leslie Ames and Katherine Harvey. Leslie
had caught Barbara's bouquet. Doesn't it make you nervous?" Marge asked her.
"You're supposed to be next. What a fate! Marriage, kids, and one foot in
the grave before you're forty."

 

 

Yale could tell by Leslie Ames' expression as she smiled at Jim Latham
that she couldn't think of a more lovely fate.

 

 

"I'm glad you don't want to get married, Marge," Yale said, feeling
slightly dizzy from the liquor he had drunk so quickly. He warned
himself to be careful. Not having eaten much since breakfast he could
get very drunk.

 

 

Marge shook off the arm Yale had put around her. She looked at him
crossly. "What makes you so glad?"

 

 

"I just couldn't hear to think of feverish male hands exploring your
lovely white body," Yale sobbed. Half in earnest that sob was, Margie
old girl. Half in earnest, but not for you!

 

 

Not completely aware of where he was being led, he followed Marge
and the crowd of guests to the drive in front of the house. Barbara
and Tom emerged. They stood smiling while photographers recorded the
event. Then they rushed to Tom's Cadillac convertible, showered with
rice by the guests.

 

 

Yale waved a forlorn goodbye. "Farewell, old one-foot-in-the-grave, sister
of mine. Farewell to that good old maidenhead, untouched by human hands."

 

 

He felt Marge's hand grab his arm. "Shut up, you damned fool," she hissed,
"everyone is watching you." She led him back to the tent. The orchestra
had started playing again. They danced. The first dizziness from the
liquor suddenly vanished. Yale was surprised to find how easily Marge
danced with him.

 

 

After several dances they went to the champagne tent which was dimly
lighted and furnished night club style with tiny intimate tables. Yale
didn't know whether to mix champagne with the bourbon. His acquaintance
with champagne was fairly limited. He told Marge his problem.

 

 

"I thought you were a big man, little boy. I have been drinking gin
rickeys for the past two hours. Now comes the time to drink champagne
. . . with Yale Marratt, no less . . . the great lover."

 

 

Yale looked at her surprised. She held up her glass of champagne and
gulped it. "My old lady talks to your old lady," she said, blinking at
him. "How is your Jewish babe? Scandal of Midhaven, old boy. Worse than
old Higgins who married a female chimpanzee. Poor old Higgins. . . .
Hey, let's get us a bottle of this stuff and go neck somewhere."

 

 

A good idea, Yale thought, but I don't want to neck with you, Marge.
Oh, God, Cindar. I want you! You! He said: "Christ, you don't have any
privacy in this town, do you?"

 

 

"Plenty of places for privacy," Marge said, purposely misunderstanding him.
"Trouble is the grass is too wet. Say how about taking me for a ride in
your father's Chris-Craft. I'm bored with this party."