The Rebellion of Yale Marratt (3 page)
Read The Rebellion of Yale Marratt Online
Authors: Robert Rimmer
Dean Tracy, with years of experience in dealing with irate parents,
refused to rise to Pat's anger. "Well, I did graduate from Harvard,
many, many years ago," he smiled. "But you know how it is with
Yale and Harvard." The smile faded from his face when he noted Pat's
expression. "Sorry for the pun, Mr. Marratt. But, I don't believe that
I ever asked Yale how he came by such an unusual name."
Pat grumbled something about it being his wife's maiden name. For the
second time that day he was reminded of his youth. It seemed an eternity
ago. He had finished the International Correspondence courses in
Business Administration and had taken a job as assistant accountant in
one of the A & P branches. Barbara was three years old. Liz was pregnant
again. "If he is a boy, could we name him Yale?" she asked him. "Dad
would be so pleased."
In those days, Liz's father had been vice-president of the Midhaven
National Bank. Since Pat had begun to have visions of the future Marratt
Corporation, and would need a loan to get started, the boy was christened
Yale Marratt by his grandfather, who was happy to have the family name
survive in this fashion.
"I wish I could help you, Mr. Marratt," Dean Tracy said, fiddling
nervously with a pipe that he had taken from the pocket of his tweed
jacket. How could he tell this man that in all probability if it hadn't
been for Patrick Marratt's donations to Buxton Academy, the faculty
would have recommended that Yale not graduate with his class. Either
way it was an insult. Marratt had a right to expect that Buxton would
have prepared his son for one of the better Eastern colleges.
"While I have a few connections at Harvard," Tracy admitted, "there
is nothing I can do. Yale only passed the College Board examinations
in English . . . and that exactly reflects his work at Buxton. This
shouldn't be a surprise to you, Mr. Marratt. I have written you several
letters. Your son has a brilliant mind. He has probably read more widely
than any student we have ever had at Buxton. Unfortunately, whatever he
has learned, he could just as well have learned on his own. I believe
I have brought this up before with you. Yale does just exactly what he
wants to do. When he should have been applying himself to his courses in
mathematics and science, we discovered that he had been spending all of
his time studying Greek philosophy. That we don't happen to have courses
at Buxton in Greek philosophy didn't seem to deter him. That he barely
passed Chemistry and Geometry didn't disturb him in the least. I gather
from several conversations with him that he has no interest in going
to college. To be perfectly frank, Mr. Marratt, I have been unable to
reach through to whatever it is that makes Yale tick. It seems to me he
might be the type to let go his own way and see what develops. He's a
very quiet boy. You've no concern on that score."
"Listen," Pat fairly snarled, "I may be fairly well off, but I'm not
permitting my only son to drift aimlessly through life. This is a tough
world. You can get in and fight and develop a hard fibre, or end up
the way Yale is heading, a long-haired intellectual. We have enough of
them around, now; developing cobwebbed ideas they hope will uproot the
system that supports them. Yale is a kid. I expected Buxton Academy would
give him direction." Pat shook his finger in the area of Dean Tracy's
nose. "Since you can't, or won't, make any effort, all I want from you
is the assurance that you won't foul up my plans. I'm not a college man,
but from what I have seen of academic circles," Pat sneered, "a few good
American dollars properly placed will lubricate the machinery and stop
the squeaks."
In the bright June sunlight Dean Tracy found Pat's intense, staring
eyes somewhat uncomfortable. "You may be sure, Mr. Marratt, that Buxton
Academy will help you with your son's future in every way possible." He
watched Pat walk away and shrugged his shoulders. Teachers today were
expected to be parents, he thought. It was nice to have a whipping boy to
punish for your own deficiencies. The real trouble with Yale Marratt was
Pat Marratt. Some rich men's sons became drunkards. They chased around
with women, or spent money wildly. This was the normal, the expected
rebellion. It disturbed nothing essential. But this rebellion of Yale
Marratt, if it continued, was more fundamental.
Tracy lit his pipe and made a mental note to check up in a few years
and see what had developed. He doubted that Yale would be successful in
his attempt to undermine the foundations of a man like Pat Marratt. Yale
would eventually line up. He would become the not-quite-so-successful son
of a successful man. In twenty years or so, a Pat Marratt II, or a Yale
Marratt, Jr. would be brought to Buxton by a more subdued Yale Marratt;
the rebellion would have been finished years before. Like most rebellions,
it would have accomplished little.
It took Pat Marratt until late August to admit defeat. As he told his
executive staff all one had to do was define one's objectives carefully
and then accomplish them. During the summer, he put his secretary to
work tracing the background of his personal and business friends. He
discovered at least a dozen Ivy League graduates who were indebted to
him in one way or another. With their help he reached the top deans
and even college presidents. Just as he would feel success within his
grasp, a letter would arrive on official college stationery. It would
suggest that if Yale Marratt would take another year of preparation his
application would be re-considered. Pat was reading one of these refusals
when Liz stepped into his office on her way to her hairdresser's.
"It beats me," he said. He tossed the letter to her. "These damn fool
colleges are crying poverty. They are out beating the bushes looking for
alumni with money. Yet, when I offer them a deal they act as if they had
been stabbed. I had one of the big shots at Harvard on the phone, long
distance yesterday. He talked for a half hour on
my call
about academic
standards. I get applications from Harvard graduates every week looking
for jobs. Most of them don't know their ass from their elbow."
"Why don't you let Yale take another year at Buxton?" Liz suggested.
"Really, Pat, I think you are making a tempest in a teapot. You didn't
go to college, Yale doesn't want to go. Is that so bad? Why don't you
follow Dean Tracy's advice? Don't drive Yale so hard. Let him drift for
awhile. He'll probably decide later that he wants to go."
Pat shook his head. "You don't get the point, Liz. I don't give a damn
about a college education. I'm stalling for time. Yale is nineteen. He's
too young to work for the company permanently. I'd just create a job
for him, and he would continue to drift. It isn't as if Yale knows what
he wants to do in life. If you asked him, he'd probably say nothing,
or come up with that Europe crap again. If I could get him anchored for
four years the chances are that he'd grow up a little. It's not as if
he were stupid."
"Why haven't you talked with Dr. Tangle?" Liz asked. "You have the one
man right in Midhaven who could help you, and you won't ask him."
Pat raised his eyebrows and looked at her disgustedly. "I suppose, next,
you'll suggest that Yale could go to Midhaven College. Wouldn't Doctor
Tangle go for that, though?" he asked sarcastically. "The son of Pat
Marratt attending a Baptist theological school . . . Jesus Christ!"
"It hasn't been a theological school for years, and you know it, Pat.
Only last week, at the Woman's Club, Doctor Tangle was talking about the
changes that have occurred at Midhaven College. Midhaven has a complete
curriculum. It's recognized as equal to any college in the East. In a way,
you should be proud of Doctor Tangle. He has done a lot for Midhaven."
"So, I haven't done anything for Midhaven? Just because I haven't the time
to monkey around in city politics and I don't go around to Women's Clubs
shooting off my mouth about the glorious city of Midhaven. . . . Just you
remember that if the Marratt Corporation folded up -- several thousand
people in Midhaven would go hungry! What has Doctor Tangle done to put
bread in their mouths?"
Pat wanted to continue the discussion, but Liz interrupted him with a
request for a few hundred dollars. Pat chuckled. "For Christ-sakes, Liz,
you're the limit. You go to some damned meeting and listen to a smooth
old bastard like Doctor Tangle; you swallow his oily ideas hook, line
and sinker. But, when your husband tries to explain what he is doing, it
just doesn't have 'class,' does it? It's just old Pat wound up in some
sales garbage. It's the way he makes all that dirty money. Well, if it
weren't for me and the Marratt Corporation, your dear Doctor Tangle would
be back in China whacking the bushes in search of converts. Instead he
lives a life of luxury . . . President of Midhaven College and Pastor of
the Midhaven Congregational Church. Do you know that his last quarterly
dividend check, courtesy of Pat Marratt, amounted to five thousand three
hundred and ninety-three dollars? Brother, what a return to get every
three months on an investment of two thousand dollars."
"Bye, bye, Hon -- I've got to go," Liz smiled. She had heard Pat rave on
the subject of Doctor Tangle's good fortune many times before. As she was
about to close the door, a thought occurred to her. "Speaking of Doctor
Tangle reminds me that it's been at least three months since we've had
him out to dinner. It might be a nice gesture to keep in closer touch
with the only other stockholder in the Marratt Corporation. If you did,
you might discover that Amos gives most of his dividends to the Doctor
Tangle Scholarship Fund for worthy students at Midhaven College."
"Oh, shit -- next thing you'll suggest that Yale apply for a scholarship.
Goodbye! Stop and see Frank Middleton on the way out. He and Marie expect
us to dinner tomorrow."
Pat looked closely at Liz when he mentioned Frank Middleton. Middleton
was Vice President in charge of production. Although he had risen
to his present job with the same rough and ready background as Pat
Marratt, somewhere Middleton had acquired a gloss and polish. Frank
Middleton irritated Pat, but Pat couldn't help but admire him. He knew
that Middleton with his throaty, radio announcer's voice and his wavy
grey hair was the cynosure of most female gatherings. Liz had betrayed
no reaction, however, and Pat said to himself . . . "The hell with it
. . . why worry . . . it's only sex." But he knew the worry was there.
It cropped up every time he saw Liz and Frank together.
His thoughts returned to Doctor Tangle . . . twenty-three years. Liz's
mother had picked Amos Tangle to marry them. He had been an assistant
minister, then.
It made little difference to Pat. On his death bed, Pat's father had
requested a priest. Pat remembered his mother, who was cockney English,
shaking her head and saying, "Look at the likes of him who wants a
priest." But she hurried out and came back with one in time to see that
"her old man" got the last rites of the Church. Both of them were dead
when Pat married Elizabeth Yale. It probably was just as well. Though
they had never gone to church regularly, they wouldn't have thought very
highly of their only son marrying a "dirty Protestant."
A year after Liz and he were married, Amos Tangle had taken over the duties
of full-time minister of the Midhaven Congregational Church. His flock,
composed of prosperous businessmen and their wives, and particularly
Alfred Latham of Latham Shipyards, found his sermons inspiring. "It's
the kind of down to earth religion I think you'll like, Pat," Liz's
father had said. "This Tangle is only five or six years older than you
and Liz, but he's got a head on him. Besides, the Lathams attend church
regularly. . . . They are good people to know."
Tangle's appeal to the businessmen of Midhaven was a neat interpretation
of the Bible based on a religious philosophy that made the pursuit of
the dollar a fundamental part of militant Christianity. "Christ told
you to cast your bread upon waters. For you who are forging the future
of this great country, your bread is your boundless energy which comes
back to you, and the people of this nation twofold . . . in profits for
you and higher standards of living for those you employ."
In the early twenties Doctor Tangle's advice was a pleasant balm to his
congregation. While Pat couldn't particularly stomach Tangle's pompous
manner, he had to admit that what Doctor Tangle said was sound enough.
Liz's father told Amos Tangle about Pat's plans to start a food packing
plant and when Reverend Tangle cornered Liz after church one Sunday, she
had first apologized for the fact that her husband seldom went to church
and then invited Doctor Tangle to supper. It was the first time that Pat
had spoken to him since the wedding, six months before. Tangle's buoyant
manner, and his cheery inquiries about newly-wedded bliss brought blushes
to Liz's face, but Pat was surly. He couldn't believe that Tangle's
enthusiasm and good fellowship were sincere. Pat had continued to feel
that way through his long years of association with Doctor Tangle but he
had never been able to catch him in open hypocrisy. Pat finally came to
the conclusion that Amos Tangle actually believed everything he said. This
made Pat even more wary. An unreserved belief in every word you uttered
was a form of egotism beyond even Pat's ebullient self-confidence.
Before the evening was over Amos had warmed Pat up so thoroughly on the
subject of the future Marratt Corporation, that Pat revealed not only
his immediate plans, but his dreams of a brand line of canned vegetables,
fruits, jams, jellies and products packed under a label which would become
synonymous with top quality throughout the country. Pat was starting out
with five thousand dollars borrowed from the Midhaven National Bank and
three thousand of his own savings. Amos revealed that he had two thousand
dollars inherited some years before from his father's estate. He convinced
Pat that the extra two thousand dollar capital would iron out the rough
spots for the new company. With no more time than it took to withdraw
the money from the savings bank, and inveigle Pat into a few conferences
with his lawyers, Amos Tangle became a twenty per cent stockholder in
the newly launched Marratt Corporation.
refused to rise to Pat's anger. "Well, I did graduate from Harvard,
many, many years ago," he smiled. "But you know how it is with
Yale and Harvard." The smile faded from his face when he noted Pat's
expression. "Sorry for the pun, Mr. Marratt. But, I don't believe that
I ever asked Yale how he came by such an unusual name."
Pat grumbled something about it being his wife's maiden name. For the
second time that day he was reminded of his youth. It seemed an eternity
ago. He had finished the International Correspondence courses in
Business Administration and had taken a job as assistant accountant in
one of the A & P branches. Barbara was three years old. Liz was pregnant
again. "If he is a boy, could we name him Yale?" she asked him. "Dad
would be so pleased."
In those days, Liz's father had been vice-president of the Midhaven
National Bank. Since Pat had begun to have visions of the future Marratt
Corporation, and would need a loan to get started, the boy was christened
Yale Marratt by his grandfather, who was happy to have the family name
survive in this fashion.
"I wish I could help you, Mr. Marratt," Dean Tracy said, fiddling
nervously with a pipe that he had taken from the pocket of his tweed
jacket. How could he tell this man that in all probability if it hadn't
been for Patrick Marratt's donations to Buxton Academy, the faculty
would have recommended that Yale not graduate with his class. Either
way it was an insult. Marratt had a right to expect that Buxton would
have prepared his son for one of the better Eastern colleges.
"While I have a few connections at Harvard," Tracy admitted, "there
is nothing I can do. Yale only passed the College Board examinations
in English . . . and that exactly reflects his work at Buxton. This
shouldn't be a surprise to you, Mr. Marratt. I have written you several
letters. Your son has a brilliant mind. He has probably read more widely
than any student we have ever had at Buxton. Unfortunately, whatever he
has learned, he could just as well have learned on his own. I believe
I have brought this up before with you. Yale does just exactly what he
wants to do. When he should have been applying himself to his courses in
mathematics and science, we discovered that he had been spending all of
his time studying Greek philosophy. That we don't happen to have courses
at Buxton in Greek philosophy didn't seem to deter him. That he barely
passed Chemistry and Geometry didn't disturb him in the least. I gather
from several conversations with him that he has no interest in going
to college. To be perfectly frank, Mr. Marratt, I have been unable to
reach through to whatever it is that makes Yale tick. It seems to me he
might be the type to let go his own way and see what develops. He's a
very quiet boy. You've no concern on that score."
"Listen," Pat fairly snarled, "I may be fairly well off, but I'm not
permitting my only son to drift aimlessly through life. This is a tough
world. You can get in and fight and develop a hard fibre, or end up
the way Yale is heading, a long-haired intellectual. We have enough of
them around, now; developing cobwebbed ideas they hope will uproot the
system that supports them. Yale is a kid. I expected Buxton Academy would
give him direction." Pat shook his finger in the area of Dean Tracy's
nose. "Since you can't, or won't, make any effort, all I want from you
is the assurance that you won't foul up my plans. I'm not a college man,
but from what I have seen of academic circles," Pat sneered, "a few good
American dollars properly placed will lubricate the machinery and stop
the squeaks."
In the bright June sunlight Dean Tracy found Pat's intense, staring
eyes somewhat uncomfortable. "You may be sure, Mr. Marratt, that Buxton
Academy will help you with your son's future in every way possible." He
watched Pat walk away and shrugged his shoulders. Teachers today were
expected to be parents, he thought. It was nice to have a whipping boy to
punish for your own deficiencies. The real trouble with Yale Marratt was
Pat Marratt. Some rich men's sons became drunkards. They chased around
with women, or spent money wildly. This was the normal, the expected
rebellion. It disturbed nothing essential. But this rebellion of Yale
Marratt, if it continued, was more fundamental.
Tracy lit his pipe and made a mental note to check up in a few years
and see what had developed. He doubted that Yale would be successful in
his attempt to undermine the foundations of a man like Pat Marratt. Yale
would eventually line up. He would become the not-quite-so-successful son
of a successful man. In twenty years or so, a Pat Marratt II, or a Yale
Marratt, Jr. would be brought to Buxton by a more subdued Yale Marratt;
the rebellion would have been finished years before. Like most rebellions,
it would have accomplished little.
It took Pat Marratt until late August to admit defeat. As he told his
executive staff all one had to do was define one's objectives carefully
and then accomplish them. During the summer, he put his secretary to
work tracing the background of his personal and business friends. He
discovered at least a dozen Ivy League graduates who were indebted to
him in one way or another. With their help he reached the top deans
and even college presidents. Just as he would feel success within his
grasp, a letter would arrive on official college stationery. It would
suggest that if Yale Marratt would take another year of preparation his
application would be re-considered. Pat was reading one of these refusals
when Liz stepped into his office on her way to her hairdresser's.
"It beats me," he said. He tossed the letter to her. "These damn fool
colleges are crying poverty. They are out beating the bushes looking for
alumni with money. Yet, when I offer them a deal they act as if they had
been stabbed. I had one of the big shots at Harvard on the phone, long
distance yesterday. He talked for a half hour on
my call
about academic
standards. I get applications from Harvard graduates every week looking
for jobs. Most of them don't know their ass from their elbow."
"Why don't you let Yale take another year at Buxton?" Liz suggested.
"Really, Pat, I think you are making a tempest in a teapot. You didn't
go to college, Yale doesn't want to go. Is that so bad? Why don't you
follow Dean Tracy's advice? Don't drive Yale so hard. Let him drift for
awhile. He'll probably decide later that he wants to go."
Pat shook his head. "You don't get the point, Liz. I don't give a damn
about a college education. I'm stalling for time. Yale is nineteen. He's
too young to work for the company permanently. I'd just create a job
for him, and he would continue to drift. It isn't as if Yale knows what
he wants to do in life. If you asked him, he'd probably say nothing,
or come up with that Europe crap again. If I could get him anchored for
four years the chances are that he'd grow up a little. It's not as if
he were stupid."
"Why haven't you talked with Dr. Tangle?" Liz asked. "You have the one
man right in Midhaven who could help you, and you won't ask him."
Pat raised his eyebrows and looked at her disgustedly. "I suppose, next,
you'll suggest that Yale could go to Midhaven College. Wouldn't Doctor
Tangle go for that, though?" he asked sarcastically. "The son of Pat
Marratt attending a Baptist theological school . . . Jesus Christ!"
"It hasn't been a theological school for years, and you know it, Pat.
Only last week, at the Woman's Club, Doctor Tangle was talking about the
changes that have occurred at Midhaven College. Midhaven has a complete
curriculum. It's recognized as equal to any college in the East. In a way,
you should be proud of Doctor Tangle. He has done a lot for Midhaven."
"So, I haven't done anything for Midhaven? Just because I haven't the time
to monkey around in city politics and I don't go around to Women's Clubs
shooting off my mouth about the glorious city of Midhaven. . . . Just you
remember that if the Marratt Corporation folded up -- several thousand
people in Midhaven would go hungry! What has Doctor Tangle done to put
bread in their mouths?"
Pat wanted to continue the discussion, but Liz interrupted him with a
request for a few hundred dollars. Pat chuckled. "For Christ-sakes, Liz,
you're the limit. You go to some damned meeting and listen to a smooth
old bastard like Doctor Tangle; you swallow his oily ideas hook, line
and sinker. But, when your husband tries to explain what he is doing, it
just doesn't have 'class,' does it? It's just old Pat wound up in some
sales garbage. It's the way he makes all that dirty money. Well, if it
weren't for me and the Marratt Corporation, your dear Doctor Tangle would
be back in China whacking the bushes in search of converts. Instead he
lives a life of luxury . . . President of Midhaven College and Pastor of
the Midhaven Congregational Church. Do you know that his last quarterly
dividend check, courtesy of Pat Marratt, amounted to five thousand three
hundred and ninety-three dollars? Brother, what a return to get every
three months on an investment of two thousand dollars."
"Bye, bye, Hon -- I've got to go," Liz smiled. She had heard Pat rave on
the subject of Doctor Tangle's good fortune many times before. As she was
about to close the door, a thought occurred to her. "Speaking of Doctor
Tangle reminds me that it's been at least three months since we've had
him out to dinner. It might be a nice gesture to keep in closer touch
with the only other stockholder in the Marratt Corporation. If you did,
you might discover that Amos gives most of his dividends to the Doctor
Tangle Scholarship Fund for worthy students at Midhaven College."
"Oh, shit -- next thing you'll suggest that Yale apply for a scholarship.
Goodbye! Stop and see Frank Middleton on the way out. He and Marie expect
us to dinner tomorrow."
Pat looked closely at Liz when he mentioned Frank Middleton. Middleton
was Vice President in charge of production. Although he had risen
to his present job with the same rough and ready background as Pat
Marratt, somewhere Middleton had acquired a gloss and polish. Frank
Middleton irritated Pat, but Pat couldn't help but admire him. He knew
that Middleton with his throaty, radio announcer's voice and his wavy
grey hair was the cynosure of most female gatherings. Liz had betrayed
no reaction, however, and Pat said to himself . . . "The hell with it
. . . why worry . . . it's only sex." But he knew the worry was there.
It cropped up every time he saw Liz and Frank together.
His thoughts returned to Doctor Tangle . . . twenty-three years. Liz's
mother had picked Amos Tangle to marry them. He had been an assistant
minister, then.
It made little difference to Pat. On his death bed, Pat's father had
requested a priest. Pat remembered his mother, who was cockney English,
shaking her head and saying, "Look at the likes of him who wants a
priest." But she hurried out and came back with one in time to see that
"her old man" got the last rites of the Church. Both of them were dead
when Pat married Elizabeth Yale. It probably was just as well. Though
they had never gone to church regularly, they wouldn't have thought very
highly of their only son marrying a "dirty Protestant."
A year after Liz and he were married, Amos Tangle had taken over the duties
of full-time minister of the Midhaven Congregational Church. His flock,
composed of prosperous businessmen and their wives, and particularly
Alfred Latham of Latham Shipyards, found his sermons inspiring. "It's
the kind of down to earth religion I think you'll like, Pat," Liz's
father had said. "This Tangle is only five or six years older than you
and Liz, but he's got a head on him. Besides, the Lathams attend church
regularly. . . . They are good people to know."
Tangle's appeal to the businessmen of Midhaven was a neat interpretation
of the Bible based on a religious philosophy that made the pursuit of
the dollar a fundamental part of militant Christianity. "Christ told
you to cast your bread upon waters. For you who are forging the future
of this great country, your bread is your boundless energy which comes
back to you, and the people of this nation twofold . . . in profits for
you and higher standards of living for those you employ."
In the early twenties Doctor Tangle's advice was a pleasant balm to his
congregation. While Pat couldn't particularly stomach Tangle's pompous
manner, he had to admit that what Doctor Tangle said was sound enough.
Liz's father told Amos Tangle about Pat's plans to start a food packing
plant and when Reverend Tangle cornered Liz after church one Sunday, she
had first apologized for the fact that her husband seldom went to church
and then invited Doctor Tangle to supper. It was the first time that Pat
had spoken to him since the wedding, six months before. Tangle's buoyant
manner, and his cheery inquiries about newly-wedded bliss brought blushes
to Liz's face, but Pat was surly. He couldn't believe that Tangle's
enthusiasm and good fellowship were sincere. Pat had continued to feel
that way through his long years of association with Doctor Tangle but he
had never been able to catch him in open hypocrisy. Pat finally came to
the conclusion that Amos Tangle actually believed everything he said. This
made Pat even more wary. An unreserved belief in every word you uttered
was a form of egotism beyond even Pat's ebullient self-confidence.
Before the evening was over Amos had warmed Pat up so thoroughly on the
subject of the future Marratt Corporation, that Pat revealed not only
his immediate plans, but his dreams of a brand line of canned vegetables,
fruits, jams, jellies and products packed under a label which would become
synonymous with top quality throughout the country. Pat was starting out
with five thousand dollars borrowed from the Midhaven National Bank and
three thousand of his own savings. Amos revealed that he had two thousand
dollars inherited some years before from his father's estate. He convinced
Pat that the extra two thousand dollar capital would iron out the rough
spots for the new company. With no more time than it took to withdraw
the money from the savings bank, and inveigle Pat into a few conferences
with his lawyers, Amos Tangle became a twenty per cent stockholder in
the newly launched Marratt Corporation.
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