The Rebellion of Yale Marratt (75 page)

 

 

"You don't mean to say that Alfred Latham's great aunt is here?
Not Aunt Agatha," Barbara said, aghast. Then she laughed, "Oh, brother,
that's rich! How much stock does she own in the Latham Shipyards?"

 

 

"I see by your new concern with finance," Yale said lightly, "that you
have something you may want to tell me. The only reason that I'm greeting
you here is that I wanted to prepare you. Actually, you see, my guests
appreciate the privacy. We're not running a nudist camp here . . . this
is the Abbey of Thélème. You know 'fais ce que voudrais.' However, since
many people would believe that because we are casual about clothes we
are equally casual about sex, we have to be careful whom we invite." Yale
grinned, "'However I will vouch for you."

 

 

"From what I hear about your marital life I would assume that you were
quite casual about sex . . ." Barbara said, ". . . and 'doing what you
wish' in that area, too."

 

 

"As a matter of fact, I am," Yale said equably. "If you would like to
come out to the pool, you can show your good intentions by shedding your
clothes. You can leave them upstairs. I'll wait for you. But hurry. You've
interrupted a fascinating discussion about the new book that Challenge
Incorporated has just published."

 

 

"Do you think I'm crazy? I'm not walking around naked in front of a lot
of people," Barbara said. "Not this chicken!"

 

 

"Okay, you can go home." Yale started for the jeep Weeks had left.
"I'll drive you back to the gate."

 

 

Barbara's mouth sagged as she realized that Yale meant what he said.

 

 

"All right, I'll do it," she said, thinking that if this was the only way
to find out what was going on . . . well, what the hell. Wait until Liz
heard about this!

 

 

Yale told her to undress in the large bedroom, second door on the right at
the top of the stairs. He was sitting on the carpeted stairway, waiting
for her when she finally returned. He watched her coming slowly down the
stairs. Barbara blushed. "You look pretty good for a gal of thirty-two,"
he said, enjoying her embarrassment.

 

 

Barefoot, they walked over the soft grass and along a narrow pathway
through the woods in the back of the house. Ahead of them Barbara could
hear the sound of voices. "Listen, I'm pretty broadminded," she said
nervously, "but this gives me the cold shakes."

 

 

Yale looked at her sympathetically. "It's only for the first time . . .
after that if you ever come again you can wear your clothes or not as you
wish. The idea is that by arriving nude you will create a tacit bond of
fellowship, and give assurance that you'll keep your mouth shut. None
of us are militant nudists. We have simply discovered that sometimes
being nude is very comfortable -- especially on a day as hot as this."

 

 

They walked into a huge clearing girded by pines that cast inviting
shadows over a tremendous swimming pool. Barbara guessed it was nearly a
hundred feet long. At one end there were cabanas. Near them, on a patio,
a number of people were sitting in beach chairs, talking excitedly. As
they walked closer, Barbara realized that they were talking in different
groups. Several different subjects were being discussed.

 

 

"Cindar! Anne!" Yale shouted. "Come help me introduce my sister."

 

 

Barbara recognized Cynthia coming toward her wearing a skirt but nothing
else. Cynthia's breasts swayed as she walked. Abreast of her . . . about
equal in height was a blonde girl who was completely naked. She was as
darkly tanned as Yale.

 

 

"It's nice that you have come, Bobby," Cynthia said, smiling at her.
Barbara, forgetting that she, too, was naked, tried not to look at
Cynthia's breasts. They seemed to stare at her; proud with their weight
of milk.

 

 

"I'm Anne," the blonde girl introduced herself. She smiled easily at
Barbara. "I suppose Yale gave you the business on how you simply had to
undress. He just does that to make himself comfortable. You should have
told him you had your period. Clara Higgins did. You should have seen
Yale blush."

 

 

Anne and Cynthia led her toward the others. "Come on, we'll introduce you."

 

 

Barbara was led from one group to another. She met Sam Higgins and his
wife. Sam, sprawled in a beach chair, his fat stomach protruding, looking
white and indecent to Barbara, leered at her. He said, "There's no doubt
about you being a beauty, but where in hell did you get a brother like
Yale Marratt? Jesus, I've been around plenty, but I've never spent an
afternoon like this. My brains are fagged." Sam took a swallow of a
drink he was holding.

 

 

"Yale and Peoples McGroaty have been discussing the philosophy of Challenge.
They are trying to get Sam as a director of the foundation," Cynthia
explained. "This is Barbara Marratt, Clara. Clara is Sam's wife."

 

 

Clara, a rather hard-looking, silver-dyed-blonde, greeted Barbara suavely.
"Hi -- get Weeks to make you a drink and sit down."

 

 

Barbara noted that Clara was wearing a Bikini type bathing suit, it
occurred to Barbara that Clara looked far sexier than Anne or Cynthia,
though it was obvious she had no better figure.

 

 

"That's a good looking rear end." A voice behind Barbara startled
her. "Introduce me."

 

 

Barbara turned, blushing.

 

 

A man in his late fifties, wearing old-fashioned steel-rimmed spectacles,
stared at her, amused.

 

 

"You're Pat Marratt's daughter." He put out his hand. "Glad to know you,
I'm Harold McGroaty."

 

 

Barbara realized that he was the famous Peoples McGroaty who was editor
and owner of the
Midhaven Herald
.

 

 

"After you've met the others come back here," Peoples said. "We've got
a most interesting discussion going. Yale is trying to convince us that
his multiple marriage is simply a by-product of a philosophy of life that
believes that human beings can be the masters of their own destinies."

 

 

Anne, who had gone over to an impromptu bar that had been set up near one
of the cabanas, returned. She handed Barbara a drink. "Here's a vodka
and tonic. Give you something to do with your hands. When Bob Coleman,
who isn't married, looks wolfishly at you, just take a swallow and stare
very coolly back at him. Come on. Bob is worth meeting." Anne introduced
Coleman as the wizard architect.

 

 

Coleman, nude and tanned, stood up. He grinned at Barbara. "Lady, do you
take after your brother? If so, I want to know you better."

 

 

Anne was right, Barbara thought, Coleman was a six-footer, and
handsome. She took a swallow of her drink.

 

 

Coleman was obviously studying her with interest.

 

 

"Which do you like best, my breasts or my legs?" Barbara asked. She tried
to return his stare just as coolly. She hoped she wasn't blushing.

 

 

"Touché -- stabbed to the quick." Coleman chuckled. "Yale says you
get used to it, but so help me if I design the most beautiful edifice
in the world, it wouldn't compare to the wonder of your shoulders,
and the grace of your clavicle . . . not to mention the proud curve of
your breasts . . . any female's breasts, human or animal, are among the
graceful wonders of the world."

 

 

Yale walked up beside them. "He's quoting from Mat Chilling! He's not
original. Don't let him fool you."

 

 

"But damn it! I believe it," Coleman said. He handed Barbara a book
from a pile of similar ones on the table. It had a brilliant orange
cover. Barbara read the title. It was lettered in black:
Spoken in
My Manner
.

 

 

"Who is Mat Chilling?" she asked.

 

 

"One of the wise men . . ." Yale said, shrugging. "This book is the
manifesto of Challenge. In a sense, Mat Chilling is the real father of
Challenge, Incorporated."

 

 

Both Cynthia and Anne joined them. Cynthia shook her head, denying
Yale's statement. "I'll tell you something, Barbara. Yale is pleased
to credit this book to Mat Chilling -- but make no mistake, Mat left it
in pretty crude shape. Actually, Yale and Anne and I spent nearly three
months rewriting it, while we tried to keep warm in front of the kitchen
fireplace . . . at the same time Bob Coleman and at least fifty men were
tearing the house down around us and rebuilding it."

 

 

"All three of you are nuts!" Coleman said. "I'll prove it to you,
Barbara." He called Weeks from behind the bar. "Who wrote this book,
Weeks?"

 

 

Ralph stroked his beard. He smiled broadly. "I did. My picture is on
the cover."

 

 

"That's not your picture, Ralph." Anne laughed. "That's a background
vignette of Socrates."

 

 

"Yale said it was a picture of me. He told me that without me the hook
wouldn't have been written," Weeks said affably. "Anyway, how could the
three of you have written it? So far as I could figure, you've spent the
last three months in bed."

 

 

"You're a damned old Peeping Tom," Anne said calmly. Cynthia blushed.

 

 

A short, dark man joined them and introduced himself. "I'm Harry Cohen,"
he said. Barbara had an impression of flashing white teeth, an aquiline
nose, and very spirited brown eyes. She realized suddenly that he was
naked, but was surprised to notice that her reaction of shame and dismay
was fading.

 

 

"That's my plump wife, Sarah, sitting over there talking to Auntie
Agatha. We've been discussing the labor situation in Midhaven." Harry
asked Barbara if she could identify the title of the book,
Spoken in
My Manner
. Barbara shook her head. "To tell you the truth," she said,
"I don't know anything about the book . . . or anything else about my
brother's mad doings." She tried to remember where she had heard Cohen's
name, and then remembered, startled, that he was the union organizer
with whom Pat had had so much trouble.

 

 

Coleman took her arm. "Come on for a swim. Let me bring you up to date
on this fabulous brother of yours."

 

 

As she followed Coleman toward the pool, Barbara noticed that the others
had gravitated around Aunt Agatha. The whole party and the strange bits
of conversation she had heard so far were crazy . . . only partly
intelligible. It reminded her of something. As she dove in the pool,
delighting in the wonderful coolness of the water embracing her
naked body, she remembered. She emerged from the water exploding with
laughter. Coleman, swimming ahead of her, asked what was so funny.

 

 

"I've been trying to recall what this afternoon reminds me of. It just
came to me . . . it's a re-creation of the Mad Tea Party in
Alice in
Wonderland
. My brother is the Mad Hatter. . . ."

 

 

Coleman swung easily onto the edge of the pool. He offered her a hand.
She sat beside him, and they dangled their feet in the water in silence.

 

 

"Is he really married to both of them?" Barbara asked.

 

 

"What's marriage?" Coleman countered. "Was it a marriage when some
minister spoke some accepted words and pronounced you and that Texan
man and wife?"

 

 

"I see you read the scandal sheets." Barbara's voice was bitter.

 

 

"Don't get upset. There's a rule of Challenge that if you ask a serious
question, you get a serious answer."

 

 

"Look, what in hell is Challenge?" Barbara demanded.

 

 

Coleman grinned. "Damned if I can answer you. It's a way of life, I guess.
Some of the clue is in the title of that book. It's Yale's title.
A quotation from Plato's dialogue,
Apology
. 'I would rather die,'
Socrates said, 'having spoken in my manner, than speak in your manner
and live.'"

 

 

Barbara looked at Coleman, a puzzled expression on her face.

 

 

Coleman shrugged. "Yale would say to you, I think, that marriage is an
act of faith between a man and a woman. The measure of the faith is made
by the participants. No outside source, neither religious nor State, can
insure a marriage or make it valid. Yale has made his act of faith with
two women. He fascinates me. In him you can see . . . on a different
plane, of course ... Lenin, the doer the man of action discovering
the thinker, Marx. Then excitedly the doer translates the ideas of the
thinker into a way of life. Mat Chilling parallels Marx with his book,
of course. And, while your brother is a thinker, he is the revolutionist,
too . . . the man of action."

 

 

"I still can't believe that two women could get along. They must have
moments when they are ready to tear each other's hair out."

 

 

"I've known them for three months," Coleman said. "Of course I don't
see them all the time, but I've never seen them angry. They are, all
three of them, argumentative. Give them a chance, they will discuss and
disagree all night long, but whenever one of them brings an argument to a
point of dealing with personalities, one or the other of them will twist
it into its humorous aspects. I mentioned it to Anne once. She said,
'There is only one thing of ultimate importance in the world, and that
is the magnitude of our understanding, and love for each other as mortal,
fallible human beings.'" Coleman was silent, thinking his own thoughts.

 

 

"Sounds like some of those sweetness-and-light religions that appeal
to old ladies," Barbara said sarcastically. "God's in his heaven,
all's well with the world -- and my brother is some twentieth-century
Candide. According to his theories, and the placid little harem he has
accumulated, I suppose he would accept that a man like my ex-husband was
just a nice little fallible mortal . . . only problem: Tom is a little
stray-pussy happy, that's all. . . ."