The Rebellion of Yale Marratt (6 page)
Read The Rebellion of Yale Marratt Online
Authors: Robert Rimmer
"I guess I don't like dirty songs," he said slowly. "Why do people want
to make sex so ugly? I don't understand it."
Cynthia had tears in her eyes as she tried to answer him. "I'm not wild,
honestly, Yale. I guess it is kind of an act. For a long time in school,
no one knew I existed. I was just a smart Jewish kid whose father grew
tomatoes. I was shy and I studied hard, and the better marks I got the
fewer friends I had. I was the wallflower at all the dances. Then I
watched how the other girls acted -- and I found that if I acted sexy
and said crazy things like they did that I could have dates too. It
worked. I was very popular in my senior year."
"Sure," Yale said, acidly. "You were hot stuff!"
Cynthia stood up. The sunlight, drifting through the leaves, made
a shimmering pattern of shadows on her body. "I take it back," Yale
said. "You are a chaste goddess."
She kissed him quicldy. "Cynthia is a moon goddess." She grinned. Then
she blushed. "We better go back."
They dressed, shyly, turning away from each other, On the way back to
the campus she told him not to worry -- that from now on she would go
back to being a wallflower. "And when you find out what a grind I am --
even you won't like me."
Yale smiled. He had a friend, a beautiful, wonderful friend. A girl --
he thought. A girl. The word was filled with a sense of magic. He squeezed
Cynthia's hand. "I like you, Cynthia, very much. . . ."
3
Within a month after college started Yale had established that Cynthia
was his girl. Because Cynthia was very definite in her desire to complete
her major requirements in English, Yale decided he would do the same. It
had the added advantage that they were able to take many of the same
classes together.
Sonny Thompson labelled them the "inseparables" He told Yale in a leering
voice that the rumor abounded that Cynthia could be "had." One night Sonny
carried it too far. When Yale returned to their room around ten-thirty,
after a date with Cynthia, Sonny looked up from the book he was studying.
"You must be Charles Atlas or something," he said with a smirk.
Yale, filled with happy thoughts of the lingering kiss Cynthia had just
given him, failed to catch the drift of Sonny's remark. "What do you mean?"
"It takes a strong man to knock off a piece of ass every day -- Saturday
and Sunday included." Sonny howled at his own joke. Yale grabbed his
Introduction to Freshmen English and hurled it at Sonny, hitting him
squarely on the side of his face. Yale threw the book with such force that
the binding broke. Sonny slumped off his chair, a glazed look in his eye.
Yale pulled him to his feet. He was shaking from the violence of his anger.
"I'm sorry, Sonny -- but keep your dirty mind off my life." He didn't say
that the crude expression that was bandied about in every bull session
by pimply faced students irritated him as much as Sonny's inference.
Sonny rubbed his face. "Listen, you crazy bastard, I'll tell you for
your own good. All the guys in this school think you're a fruit. Hanging
around with a dame all the time. You don't take part in any of the normal
activities. You don't go out for sports -- you never show up at football
rallies. Believe me if this dump had any fraternities you'd never make
a pledge. I hear through the rumor channels that a few of the sophomores
plan to take you for a little ride in the country and straighten you out."
Yale looked at him incredulously. "You must be nuts. What I do is none of
your goddamned business. I don't happen to care whether Midhaven wins a
football game or not. As far as sports go I'll beat anyone in the college
at tennis or golf -- if I want to -- but it so happens I think golf is
stupid, and I play tennis when the mood suits me, and not for the glory
of Midhaven. You can tell your beloved sophomores to stay clear of me
because I think freshmen hazing is little boy stuff. I wouldn't hesitate
to report anyone who tries it on me. Remember," he finished sarcastically,
"we don't go in for hazing and infantilism at Midhaven to quote the good
Dr. Tangle."
"You're a spoiled rich man's son," Sonny said sourly.
"Well, don't expect a 'Good-bye Mr. Chips' ending," Yale said. He began
to laugh. The ridiculous prep school atmosphere that Sonny and a good
portion of the freshman class thought should prevail at Midhaven College
amused him. He had had his fill of that at Buxton Academy. "Believe me,
Sonny -- my father has tried for eighteen years to make me a 'man's
man.' I don't care for the type. I've known it all my life -- and if
the great Pat Marratt couldn't succeed -- you and a few sophomore goons
won't accomplish it."
Yale continued to see Cynthia as much as possible. While the girls'
dormitory rules made this somewhat difficult, they discovered a
small Italian delicatessen about a half mile from the college called
Mama Pepperelli's. Even though the faculty of the college had tried
unsuccessfully in the past to close the place, Mama's had acquired a
reputation as a college hangout. Since no liquor was sold, there was
little that Doctor Tangle could do about it.
Here amidst the occasional boomings of a juke box, Cynthia and Yale took
refuge and studied their common courses together. The wide reading that
Yale had done over the past five years came suddenly into focus. He was
able to interrelate the subject matter in his various courses in a way
that was surprising to his professors. His fervor delighted Cynthia. "Your
father must be pleased with you. At the rate you are going you will have
the best marks in the freshman class."
Yale laughed. "If Pat knew that I had the highest marks in a course called
'Biblical History,' he would get Doctor Tangle on the telephone and ask him
why in hell his son was taking such a course. What
practical
value could
it have? if I told him that the course was unsuspectingly giving me a
tremendous appreciation of the cultural contributions of the Jewish people
to the world, I think my father would blow his top."
While Yale had questioned Cynthia endlessly about Judaism he had carefully
avoided telling her about his parents' reactions; particularly Pat Marratt's
feelings about Jews. She sensed that his family wouldn't approve of her.
One evening in March, Yale brought Cynthia to a family dinner. As they
drove up the tree-lined, three-quarter mile drive to the Marratt home,
Cynthia remarked nervously that this was some difference from the dirt
road that led into her home in New Jersey. "In the summer I live in the
middle of tomato plants as far as you can see. There are no rolling green
lawns and pine trees. In the winter our house is surrounded by acres of
muddy level land. New Jersey is a lot flatter than Connecticut, you know."
Yale looked over at Cynthia. She was wearing a light-brown wool coat.
A scotch-type beret with a colored knob perched on the side of her head.
His eyes filled with tears. She was so delightfully feminine, as she
looked at him with big questioning brown eyes. He wanted to put his arms
around her protectively. "Stop worrying, it won't be so bad. We'll leave
early."
Yale tried to see the house through Cynthia's eyes. He knew she was
impressed. Pat Marratt had built in 1933, the middle of the depression,
and people in Midhaven had thought he had gone crazy. What most of
the town didn't know was that he had picked up the hundred acres of
Connecticut farmland on both sides of the Mamaputock River on a farm
foreclosure for less than three thousand dollars. Pat's idea had been,
some day when the pressure let off, to start a dairy farm as a hobby. The
plan had not yet materialized. The day-to-day operation of the Marratt
plant demanded too much of his attention.
The house with its lonely setting obviously appealed to Pat. It probably
would never have occurred to him that its very remoteness had contributed
to the development of Yale's character. With the nearest friends more than
a mile distant, Yale had spent his teens roaming the woods and fields,
or kept to himself, reading, alone in his room.
Yale drove past the house and down a narrow road that led to a boathouse.
He noticed that Pat's car was in the garage. It was only six thirty.
Pat would be showering. It would be easier to arrive just a few minutes
before seven when he was certain that dinner would be ready. It would
save sitting around, awkwardly, trying to talk with Liz.
"This is the boathouse. Come on, I'll show you." He led Cynthia in the
door at the back. "That's Pat's Chris-Craft," Yale said, pointing at
a boat snuggly cradled and glistening with new varnish and paint. "He
uses it to go to work in the spring and summer. The factory is down the
river about six miles."
Cynthia clung to Yale's arm. "I'm afraid, Yale. I never realized that
your family was so rich. They won't like me. I just know it. Have you
told them about me?" When she said it Yale knew she meant, "Have you
told them I am Jewish." He hugged her close and kissed her lips. "Stop
worrying. They're not ogres. I won't let them bite you."
Neither Pat nor Liz were downstairs when Yale took her in the house.
"They're gettin' ready," Amy, the Marratts' maid and cook, told Yale.
"The roast beef is all done. We'll eat as soon as they come down."
Yale led Cynthia into the huge living room. A fire crackled warmly in
the fieldstone fireplace. Yale looked at the room through Cynthia's eyes,
realizing for the first time that the expensive antiques collected by Liz,
the luxurious chairs and sofas set in casual groupings on a tremendous
oriental rug gave an impression that was equivalent to entering the
lobby of a plush hotel.
"Golly," Cynthia said in awe. "You could lose thirty people in here and
never miss them." She took off her coat and sat on the needlepoint bench
in front of the Steinway. She touched a chord and then another. "I haven't
been near a piano for nearly six months. Daddy would be ashamed of me."
Yale was surprised. "I didn't know you played the piano." Her grin was
mischievous. "There's lots of things you don't know about me. May I play?"
Yale listened, astonished. Her fingers touched the keys easily without
flourish, yet with conviction. The music she played conveyed her emotion.
The delicacy of the moment, the firelight on her face, and the lost quality
of the expression on her face brought tears to his eyes.
She finished and sat bemused.
"That was very well done."
Yale jumped. He turned to find Pat standing behind his chair. Cynthia
looked at Pat and blushed.
"This is Cynthia, Pat," Yale said. "I didn't know she played the piano
until just now. Pat is a piano enthusiast himself, Cynthia. Maybe he'll
play for you."
Pat shook his head. "I am just a dabbler alongside this girl. After
hearing the Appassionata played like that, I'll beg off. How long have
you studied?" Cynthia told him she had started taking piano lessons when
she was five.
Liz came in and was introduced. She greeted Cynthia coolly with the
appraising eye of a mother as well as a woman. "Amy is about ready
to serve, I hope you both are hungry." She led them into the dining
room. Cynthia was seated across the table from Yale. He winked at her.
"Did you hear this girl playing, Liz?" Pat asked. "It gets me sometimes.
Here we have the finest piano money can buy. Neither of my kids can play
it. I'll bet you learned to play on an old upright, didn't you?"
"Well, it was old," Cynthia said smiling, "but it had nice tone."
"It couldn't have been like the one I practiced on, by God! The whole
damned thing was out of tune. I think my father found it in a dump. It's
funny," Pat mused. "Today we give kids everything. Offer them the things
we fought to have, and when they get it handed to them on a silver
platter, they sneer at it."
Cynthia and Pat talked about music. Yale could tell that Pat's interest
surprised her. "I never thought businessmen cared much about music,"
she said.
Pat shrugged. "You've got the same Babbitt complex that Yale has. That
damned fellow Sinclair Lewis is a menace. You can't stereotype anyone.
Even Jews, with all their money grabbing, have produced fine musicians."
Pat ate his roast beef, lost in his thoughts.
Liz talked with Cynthia casually about college. Liz told her Barbara
was a Junior at Bryn Mawr. Yale breathed a sigh of relief. So far, with
the exception of Pat's remark about Jews, the evening had gone well.
A little formal, perhaps, but he had expected that.
After dinner, sitting before the fire, Pat Marratt questioned Cynthia
pointedly. "You're Jewish, aren't you?" Pat, hunched in his wing-backed
chair, looked like a huge questioning judge.
"Is it so apparent?" Cynthia asked, and then said, "Yes, I am."
Yale tried to interrupt, knowing that Pat had none of the normal inhibitions
in discussing any subject. "Don't suppose you know a fellow named Harry
Cohen." Cynthia shook her head negatively. "There are lots of Jewish
people in the world."
"Oh, Pat, drop the subject, will you," Yale said angrily.
Pat ignored him. "This Cohen is a bastard. He's trying to organize my
factory. I don't know what it is about Jews but they can't leave well
enough alone. They are either ferreting their way into some place they
aren't wanted or they are off on some idealistic program to change the
world. Like some of these cronies of Roosevelt's. There's a real Jew
lover for you."
Yale watched Cynthia's face and was filled with compassion for her.
Pat amazed him. In one breath he could talk about stereotyping
businessmen. Now, he had fallen into his own trap by stereotyping
Jews. Yale wanted to get up, put his arm around Cynthia and quietly walk
out of the room. But none of Pat's sparks ignited on Cynthia. She just
listened to him with a half smile on her face.
"What I don't like about the Jews," Pat continued, chewing on a cigar,
"is their pumped-up emotionalism. You should hear this guy Cohen. He lays
it on so thick to my employees that you can't scrape it off. Of all the
emotional crap and ding-dong you have ever heard, he takes the cake and,
sister, the damn fools lap it up."
"The world is changing, Pat," Yale interrupted. "You reach people
today not in what you say but how emotionally you say it. Roosevelt
proves that."
to make sex so ugly? I don't understand it."
Cynthia had tears in her eyes as she tried to answer him. "I'm not wild,
honestly, Yale. I guess it is kind of an act. For a long time in school,
no one knew I existed. I was just a smart Jewish kid whose father grew
tomatoes. I was shy and I studied hard, and the better marks I got the
fewer friends I had. I was the wallflower at all the dances. Then I
watched how the other girls acted -- and I found that if I acted sexy
and said crazy things like they did that I could have dates too. It
worked. I was very popular in my senior year."
"Sure," Yale said, acidly. "You were hot stuff!"
Cynthia stood up. The sunlight, drifting through the leaves, made
a shimmering pattern of shadows on her body. "I take it back," Yale
said. "You are a chaste goddess."
She kissed him quicldy. "Cynthia is a moon goddess." She grinned. Then
she blushed. "We better go back."
They dressed, shyly, turning away from each other, On the way back to
the campus she told him not to worry -- that from now on she would go
back to being a wallflower. "And when you find out what a grind I am --
even you won't like me."
Yale smiled. He had a friend, a beautiful, wonderful friend. A girl --
he thought. A girl. The word was filled with a sense of magic. He squeezed
Cynthia's hand. "I like you, Cynthia, very much. . . ."
3
Within a month after college started Yale had established that Cynthia
was his girl. Because Cynthia was very definite in her desire to complete
her major requirements in English, Yale decided he would do the same. It
had the added advantage that they were able to take many of the same
classes together.
Sonny Thompson labelled them the "inseparables" He told Yale in a leering
voice that the rumor abounded that Cynthia could be "had." One night Sonny
carried it too far. When Yale returned to their room around ten-thirty,
after a date with Cynthia, Sonny looked up from the book he was studying.
"You must be Charles Atlas or something," he said with a smirk.
Yale, filled with happy thoughts of the lingering kiss Cynthia had just
given him, failed to catch the drift of Sonny's remark. "What do you mean?"
"It takes a strong man to knock off a piece of ass every day -- Saturday
and Sunday included." Sonny howled at his own joke. Yale grabbed his
Introduction to Freshmen English and hurled it at Sonny, hitting him
squarely on the side of his face. Yale threw the book with such force that
the binding broke. Sonny slumped off his chair, a glazed look in his eye.
Yale pulled him to his feet. He was shaking from the violence of his anger.
"I'm sorry, Sonny -- but keep your dirty mind off my life." He didn't say
that the crude expression that was bandied about in every bull session
by pimply faced students irritated him as much as Sonny's inference.
Sonny rubbed his face. "Listen, you crazy bastard, I'll tell you for
your own good. All the guys in this school think you're a fruit. Hanging
around with a dame all the time. You don't take part in any of the normal
activities. You don't go out for sports -- you never show up at football
rallies. Believe me if this dump had any fraternities you'd never make
a pledge. I hear through the rumor channels that a few of the sophomores
plan to take you for a little ride in the country and straighten you out."
Yale looked at him incredulously. "You must be nuts. What I do is none of
your goddamned business. I don't happen to care whether Midhaven wins a
football game or not. As far as sports go I'll beat anyone in the college
at tennis or golf -- if I want to -- but it so happens I think golf is
stupid, and I play tennis when the mood suits me, and not for the glory
of Midhaven. You can tell your beloved sophomores to stay clear of me
because I think freshmen hazing is little boy stuff. I wouldn't hesitate
to report anyone who tries it on me. Remember," he finished sarcastically,
"we don't go in for hazing and infantilism at Midhaven to quote the good
Dr. Tangle."
"You're a spoiled rich man's son," Sonny said sourly.
"Well, don't expect a 'Good-bye Mr. Chips' ending," Yale said. He began
to laugh. The ridiculous prep school atmosphere that Sonny and a good
portion of the freshman class thought should prevail at Midhaven College
amused him. He had had his fill of that at Buxton Academy. "Believe me,
Sonny -- my father has tried for eighteen years to make me a 'man's
man.' I don't care for the type. I've known it all my life -- and if
the great Pat Marratt couldn't succeed -- you and a few sophomore goons
won't accomplish it."
Yale continued to see Cynthia as much as possible. While the girls'
dormitory rules made this somewhat difficult, they discovered a
small Italian delicatessen about a half mile from the college called
Mama Pepperelli's. Even though the faculty of the college had tried
unsuccessfully in the past to close the place, Mama's had acquired a
reputation as a college hangout. Since no liquor was sold, there was
little that Doctor Tangle could do about it.
Here amidst the occasional boomings of a juke box, Cynthia and Yale took
refuge and studied their common courses together. The wide reading that
Yale had done over the past five years came suddenly into focus. He was
able to interrelate the subject matter in his various courses in a way
that was surprising to his professors. His fervor delighted Cynthia. "Your
father must be pleased with you. At the rate you are going you will have
the best marks in the freshman class."
Yale laughed. "If Pat knew that I had the highest marks in a course called
'Biblical History,' he would get Doctor Tangle on the telephone and ask him
why in hell his son was taking such a course. What
practical
value could
it have? if I told him that the course was unsuspectingly giving me a
tremendous appreciation of the cultural contributions of the Jewish people
to the world, I think my father would blow his top."
While Yale had questioned Cynthia endlessly about Judaism he had carefully
avoided telling her about his parents' reactions; particularly Pat Marratt's
feelings about Jews. She sensed that his family wouldn't approve of her.
One evening in March, Yale brought Cynthia to a family dinner. As they
drove up the tree-lined, three-quarter mile drive to the Marratt home,
Cynthia remarked nervously that this was some difference from the dirt
road that led into her home in New Jersey. "In the summer I live in the
middle of tomato plants as far as you can see. There are no rolling green
lawns and pine trees. In the winter our house is surrounded by acres of
muddy level land. New Jersey is a lot flatter than Connecticut, you know."
Yale looked over at Cynthia. She was wearing a light-brown wool coat.
A scotch-type beret with a colored knob perched on the side of her head.
His eyes filled with tears. She was so delightfully feminine, as she
looked at him with big questioning brown eyes. He wanted to put his arms
around her protectively. "Stop worrying, it won't be so bad. We'll leave
early."
Yale tried to see the house through Cynthia's eyes. He knew she was
impressed. Pat Marratt had built in 1933, the middle of the depression,
and people in Midhaven had thought he had gone crazy. What most of
the town didn't know was that he had picked up the hundred acres of
Connecticut farmland on both sides of the Mamaputock River on a farm
foreclosure for less than three thousand dollars. Pat's idea had been,
some day when the pressure let off, to start a dairy farm as a hobby. The
plan had not yet materialized. The day-to-day operation of the Marratt
plant demanded too much of his attention.
The house with its lonely setting obviously appealed to Pat. It probably
would never have occurred to him that its very remoteness had contributed
to the development of Yale's character. With the nearest friends more than
a mile distant, Yale had spent his teens roaming the woods and fields,
or kept to himself, reading, alone in his room.
Yale drove past the house and down a narrow road that led to a boathouse.
He noticed that Pat's car was in the garage. It was only six thirty.
Pat would be showering. It would be easier to arrive just a few minutes
before seven when he was certain that dinner would be ready. It would
save sitting around, awkwardly, trying to talk with Liz.
"This is the boathouse. Come on, I'll show you." He led Cynthia in the
door at the back. "That's Pat's Chris-Craft," Yale said, pointing at
a boat snuggly cradled and glistening with new varnish and paint. "He
uses it to go to work in the spring and summer. The factory is down the
river about six miles."
Cynthia clung to Yale's arm. "I'm afraid, Yale. I never realized that
your family was so rich. They won't like me. I just know it. Have you
told them about me?" When she said it Yale knew she meant, "Have you
told them I am Jewish." He hugged her close and kissed her lips. "Stop
worrying. They're not ogres. I won't let them bite you."
Neither Pat nor Liz were downstairs when Yale took her in the house.
"They're gettin' ready," Amy, the Marratts' maid and cook, told Yale.
"The roast beef is all done. We'll eat as soon as they come down."
Yale led Cynthia into the huge living room. A fire crackled warmly in
the fieldstone fireplace. Yale looked at the room through Cynthia's eyes,
realizing for the first time that the expensive antiques collected by Liz,
the luxurious chairs and sofas set in casual groupings on a tremendous
oriental rug gave an impression that was equivalent to entering the
lobby of a plush hotel.
"Golly," Cynthia said in awe. "You could lose thirty people in here and
never miss them." She took off her coat and sat on the needlepoint bench
in front of the Steinway. She touched a chord and then another. "I haven't
been near a piano for nearly six months. Daddy would be ashamed of me."
Yale was surprised. "I didn't know you played the piano." Her grin was
mischievous. "There's lots of things you don't know about me. May I play?"
Yale listened, astonished. Her fingers touched the keys easily without
flourish, yet with conviction. The music she played conveyed her emotion.
The delicacy of the moment, the firelight on her face, and the lost quality
of the expression on her face brought tears to his eyes.
She finished and sat bemused.
"That was very well done."
Yale jumped. He turned to find Pat standing behind his chair. Cynthia
looked at Pat and blushed.
"This is Cynthia, Pat," Yale said. "I didn't know she played the piano
until just now. Pat is a piano enthusiast himself, Cynthia. Maybe he'll
play for you."
Pat shook his head. "I am just a dabbler alongside this girl. After
hearing the Appassionata played like that, I'll beg off. How long have
you studied?" Cynthia told him she had started taking piano lessons when
she was five.
Liz came in and was introduced. She greeted Cynthia coolly with the
appraising eye of a mother as well as a woman. "Amy is about ready
to serve, I hope you both are hungry." She led them into the dining
room. Cynthia was seated across the table from Yale. He winked at her.
"Did you hear this girl playing, Liz?" Pat asked. "It gets me sometimes.
Here we have the finest piano money can buy. Neither of my kids can play
it. I'll bet you learned to play on an old upright, didn't you?"
"Well, it was old," Cynthia said smiling, "but it had nice tone."
"It couldn't have been like the one I practiced on, by God! The whole
damned thing was out of tune. I think my father found it in a dump. It's
funny," Pat mused. "Today we give kids everything. Offer them the things
we fought to have, and when they get it handed to them on a silver
platter, they sneer at it."
Cynthia and Pat talked about music. Yale could tell that Pat's interest
surprised her. "I never thought businessmen cared much about music,"
she said.
Pat shrugged. "You've got the same Babbitt complex that Yale has. That
damned fellow Sinclair Lewis is a menace. You can't stereotype anyone.
Even Jews, with all their money grabbing, have produced fine musicians."
Pat ate his roast beef, lost in his thoughts.
Liz talked with Cynthia casually about college. Liz told her Barbara
was a Junior at Bryn Mawr. Yale breathed a sigh of relief. So far, with
the exception of Pat's remark about Jews, the evening had gone well.
A little formal, perhaps, but he had expected that.
After dinner, sitting before the fire, Pat Marratt questioned Cynthia
pointedly. "You're Jewish, aren't you?" Pat, hunched in his wing-backed
chair, looked like a huge questioning judge.
"Is it so apparent?" Cynthia asked, and then said, "Yes, I am."
Yale tried to interrupt, knowing that Pat had none of the normal inhibitions
in discussing any subject. "Don't suppose you know a fellow named Harry
Cohen." Cynthia shook her head negatively. "There are lots of Jewish
people in the world."
"Oh, Pat, drop the subject, will you," Yale said angrily.
Pat ignored him. "This Cohen is a bastard. He's trying to organize my
factory. I don't know what it is about Jews but they can't leave well
enough alone. They are either ferreting their way into some place they
aren't wanted or they are off on some idealistic program to change the
world. Like some of these cronies of Roosevelt's. There's a real Jew
lover for you."
Yale watched Cynthia's face and was filled with compassion for her.
Pat amazed him. In one breath he could talk about stereotyping
businessmen. Now, he had fallen into his own trap by stereotyping
Jews. Yale wanted to get up, put his arm around Cynthia and quietly walk
out of the room. But none of Pat's sparks ignited on Cynthia. She just
listened to him with a half smile on her face.
"What I don't like about the Jews," Pat continued, chewing on a cigar,
"is their pumped-up emotionalism. You should hear this guy Cohen. He lays
it on so thick to my employees that you can't scrape it off. Of all the
emotional crap and ding-dong you have ever heard, he takes the cake and,
sister, the damn fools lap it up."
"The world is changing, Pat," Yale interrupted. "You reach people
today not in what you say but how emotionally you say it. Roosevelt
proves that."
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