The Rebellion of Yale Marratt (79 page)

 

When Pat Marratt arrived the next morning, Anne, Cynthia, and Clara were
making breakfast. Weeks had waited for Pat at the gate to escort him to
the barn.

 

 

From the kitchen window, Yale saw them go by. Weeks was in the farm jeep
followed by Pat's green Cadillac convertible. Pat was driving with the
top down. "He's alone," Yale said. "I thought that he was going to bring
Paul Downing with him."

 

 

"Don't keep him waiting," Cynthia said nervously. A vague feeling of
dread had pursued her all morning. "I don't see how you can sit there
so calmly and eat while he's waiting."

 

 

"It's giving me indigestion," Yale admitted with a grin, "but it will
do Pat good to simmer a bit. What do you think, Sam?"

 

 

Sam looked at Yale, amused. He chewed his toast thoughtfully.

 

 

"You look inordinately pleased with yourself this morning," Yale remarked
slyly. "And Clara seems to be bubbling, too. What gives?"

 

 

Sam smiled. "I think that you mentioned once that your father has a trick
of purposely keeping salesmen and certain customers waiting. His theory is
that it unnerves them . . . they over-perfect their lines, and when they
finally get onstage they blow up. . . ." Sam buttered another piece of
toast. He gave Clara a peck on the cheek as she poured more coffee.
"In answer to your other question . . ." Sam pulled two cards out of his
pocket, and handed them to Yale. "Clara and I have read enough of Mat
Chilling's book to think that the least we can do is to become charter
members. Here's your membership cards . . . all filled out."

 

 

"Give them to Anne . . ." Yale smiled. "With twenty bucks! Those copies
you read were publisher's copies, and I don't remember that you paid
for them!"

 

 

Aunt Agatha walked into the kitchen, shaking her head. "Imagine . . .
eating breakfast at nine o'clock in the morning. I've been up since
six-thirty. Ralph made wheat cakes for me." Agatha sat down at the table.
"I just saw the Great Man go by. He's waiting for you, Yale. Will you
need me?"

 

 

Yale told her that he would meet Pat alone. Later he would introduce him
to Anne and Cynthia. Cynthia grimaced. Yale guessed that the reason that
Pat had come without Paul Downing was that Pat was expecting a showdown
family argument.

 

 

"I'd like to be a fly on the wall," Aunt Agatha said. "I figured you
wouldn't need me. If it's all right with you, Ralph is going to drive
me to Hartford."

 

 

"Sure . . . take the Buick. Watch out for Ralph, though, he knows all
the tobacco fields around here where you can go necking!"

 

 

"Not me ..." Agatha snorted. "I'm way past that cuddling nonsense."

 

 

"Aunt Agatha! . . . you are only eighty," Clara said seriously. "I know
that I'll want to be cuddled when I'm eighty."

 

 

"Well, you're the helpless type!" Agatha said coolly. "I never would let
any man think that he is my boss." She squeezed Yale's arm fondly.
"I might have succumbed to this one, though. . . ." She was delighted
when Yale blushed. "See what I mean . . . he makes me feel as if we have
secrets together."

 

 

Ralph stomped into the kitchen. "The old buzzard is up there," he said.
"I followed your instructions and brought him right into your office.
You should see him staring at everything. Guess he ain't never seen a
barn like that one. You better get up there before he bursts a blood
vessel. He seems a bit put out."

 

 

Yale told Cynthia and Anne to wait. He would call them on the house phone
as soon as he saw how things were going. As he walked up the narrow
back road that led to the barn, he tried to gauge the extent of Pat's
anger. Without a doubt the money that had been spent remodeling the barn
would be a shock to Pat. Even Bob Coleman had been surprised when Yale
outlined his plans. The bottom floor was to be a modern office equipped
with desks and office machines for at least fifty clerical workers. In
the back would be four private offices and a director's room. Upstairs
would be six rooms and accommodations for overnight guests. The entire
rebuilding was to conform to the colonial lines of the barn. Yale told
Coleman that he wanted an atmosphere that conveyed solidity. "As if
Challenge Incorporated had been in business for at least a century . . ."

 

 

Coleman had achieved it by using lumber torn out of ancient Connecticut
buildings. The interior had a hand-hewn effect accentuated by carefully
chosen Colonial antiques. Original stables had been retained, and ancient
harness and gear rooms were converted to private offices. Everywhere,
the original crude but powerful structure of the huge barn had been made
a part of the new structure. Into this atmosphere Coleman had contrived
to bring the most modern lighting combined with modern metal office
furniture. In fine cursive letters over the front door, fashioned out
of black wrought iron was the legend "Challenge Inc.," and beneath it,
"A Non-Profit Foundation."

 

 

When Coleman had finished just last week, he handed Yale the keys to
the front door and said: "There she is, friend. The most ancient-modern
offices in the country. The only things missing are employees and
business. . . ."

 

 

Pat was waiting in front of the barn. Yale held out his hand to him,
reflecting as he did that the discussion with Pat would he the first
formal business transacted in the office of Challenge Inc.

 

 

Pat was dressed in a light tan palm beach suit. He looked in surprisingly
good health, with a white shock of hair neatly framing his tanned face.
He ignored Yale's hand and looked disgustedly at his watch.

 

 

"Our appointment was for nine o'clock. I've been waiting for thirty-five
minutes. Who in hell do you think you are?"

 

 

"The son of Patrick Marratt," Yale said equably. "Shall we go inside?
It's cooler out of the sun." Pat followed him through the empty outer
offices into Yale's private office in the rear of the barn.

 

 

Yale motioned at his desk. "Sit behind the desk, if you wish. It gives
a position of dominance."

 

 

Pat ignored the sarcasm. He sat in a red leather chair. "I want to get this
over with quick. I don't want you to get any idea that because I'm here,
I approve of what's going on. In blunt words I am fed up with this
nonsense of yours. I'm sick of being greeted by friends with dirty rumors
of what's happening within three miles of my house. People saying that my
own son is running a disgusting nudist camp . . . that my son is living
with two women, and now with this crap . . ." Pat waved his arm. "A mad
scheme to change the world, I understand. The first thing I want to know
is what is the truth behind these rumors?"

 

 

"Oh, they have a certain validity. Didn't Bobby confirm to you that we
were all swimming naked here, yesterday?"

 

 

Pat stared at him grimly. "I didn't see your sister last night. She was
supposed to have dined with us but she didn't show up. Now, look here,
Yale . . . I never did understand what in hell motivated you . . . but
one thing is certain . . . you are not going to ruin my good name in
Midhaven. I'm not going to have anyone think that I'm associated with
your activities . . . whatever the truth may be." Pat lighted a cigar.
He was unable to keep his hand from shaking. "I'm asking you for the truth.
. . ."

 

 

Yale raised his hands in a gesture of acquiescence. "Whatever you want
to know, Pat. Just ask it."

 

 

Pat wasn't certain how to phrase his question. It was embarrassing to
even consider the question of bigamy . . . what kind of people could
be involved in such vulgarity? "Are you living here with two women?"
he asked.

 

 

"Yes. I think you should know . . . I married Cynthia Carnell. You knew
her . . . years ago. . . ." Yale stared at Pat. Pat shifted uneasily
in his chair. "My marriage to Cynthia was a civil marriage. I married
Anne Wilson in India in a Hindu ceremony."

 

 

"A Hindu ceremony!" Pat exploded, and then looked relieved. "What kind
of crap is that? That kind of a marriage has no legality in the United
States."

 

 

Yale smiled. "To tell you the truth, I haven't bothered to investigate
whether it has or not. The important thing is that it was consummated
willingly, and I consider it quite binding." Yale could see that Pat's
face was twisted with restrained anger. "Frankly, Pat, it's not right
for us to discuss this in a mood of anger." Yale picked up a copy of
Spoken in My Manner and slid it across his desk to Pat. "Here, this
book will explain it all to you. When you have read it I will be pleased
to discuss my accidental bigamy with you as well as our other beliefs
that you will find summarized in the Ten Commandments of Challenge."

 

 

Pat looked at him hotly. "Because you have managed to swindle a few bucks,
probably with money stolen from the U.S. Army, don't think that you can
talk to me that way. Pat shook his head in complete disbelief. "I've never
heard such gall in my life. I can't believe that you are my son!"

 

 

Yale felt a twinge of sadness. He wondered if there weren't some way that
he could reach through the mire of words, and tell him: "Pat . . .
no matter what you have done to me . . . or not done . . . I would like
to think that you would at least make an effort to be interested in what
I'm trying to do. Maybe not understand it . . . but at least withhold
condemnation." Yale wondered why he wanted to appease the bitter man
sitting opposite him. For the first time he was aware that the Jesus-factor
-- the attempt at complete love and understanding of man -- carried within
itself the seed of destruction. Man could hate you because you turned
the other cheek. But Yale couldn't help himself, as he asked softly:
"Would you like to see your grandson? I think he looks a little like you."

 

 

Pat looked at him incredulously. "Grandson . . . you mean bastard, don't
you? I'm not interested in seeing the result of any of your wild oats,
thank you."

 

 

Yale stood up. "We seem to be reaching our usual impasse, Pat . . . I guess
we have nothing else to say to each other."

 

 

Pat didn't move. "I've got plenty to say to you, son." Pat's voice was
raspy with anger. "The only reason that I came up here was to see what
you intend to do in this Latham business. I don't understand how a
sincere, straight-dealing fellow like Paul Downing could get enmeshed
in your slippery maneuvering, but I'm telling you that I am not going
to stand idly by and see you ruin the Latham Shipyards. I don't own too
much stock, but I'm on the board of directors. Alfred and I will fight
you tooth and nail."

 

 

Yale picked up the phone on his desk, and dialed the house telephone.
Cynthia answered. "Come up, will you, Cindar, and bring Anne with you.
Your father-in-law is anxious to meet you."

 

 

Yale put the phone back on its cradle. He stared at Pat intently for
a second. "In a few minutes, Pat, two very good and decent young women
will walk in that door. They are my wives. They are also co-directors of
Challenge Incorporated. Challenge owns one hundred and ninety thousand
shares of Latham. Any discussion involving this stock must be attended by
them. I am simply financial advisor to this foundation." Yale's voice was
low, but his words, minutely spaced, contained a teeth-clicking fury.
"If you don't propose to conduct yourself as a gentleman . . . you can leave
now! Do we understand each other?"

 

 

For the first time in his life Pat felt a momentary sensation of fear.
He looked at Yale, bewildered, recognizing his son, but seeing for the
first time another man . . . a man with a frightening messianic sense of
mission. The feeling was gone in a second. He smiled at Yale sardonically.
"I know how to behave myself . . . with all kinds of women."

 

 

Yale drummed his desk with a pencil. "I'm going to tell you in advance
of any newspaper stories. Pat. There is nothing you can do about Latham
. . . and nothing Alfred Latham can do. At the moment, between Agatha and
me, we have two hundred and fifty thousand shares of Latham stock. Before
the week is out we will elect a new slate of officers. If it hadn't been
me, someone else would have taken over. Alfred Latham hasn't been doing
so well since the war ended, and Jim is just too busy with yachting and
playing golf. . . ."

 

 

Yale answered the knock on the door. Cynthia and Anne walked in.
Yale introduced them to Pat. Yale noticed that the contrasting blonde
and brunette beauty of the girls overwhelmed Pat. He stared at them
glumly. Cynthia and Anne sat down rather tensely, facing Yale and Pat.

 

 

"As I was telling Pat," Yale said, "the stock of the Latham Shipyards is
in the hands of Challenge Incorporated. In the process of accomplishing
this, some outside investors who had very little faith in the future of
the Latham Yards started to sell the stock short. To their surprise they
woke one day to find no stock available to cover their short sales. Your
friend Paul Downing may be an excellent golfer, Pat . . . but he is in
this 'slippery' business up to his ears. He thought the stock was bound to
fall in price once the buying was over. Thanks to my investment contacts
and the careful way Latham stock was purchased, Downing never guessed
that the stock would end up in a short supply. He was simply outguessed
and outfoxed along with some other short sellers. He might have made
considerahle money had he guessed right." Yale paused. He smiled at
Cynthia and Anne. "You know, Pat, if you would make an effort you would
discover that we are all quite human people in this room. You're not
some Doctor Frankenstein who has created a monster. I'm sorry about
Downing but he's capable of taking care of himself. Tomorrow Sam and I
are going to offer him forty thousand shares at seventy-five dollars a
share. That will get him off the hook. I'm taking a chance, too. Alfred
Latham or you could try to grab hold of whatever stock I let go to the
short sellers." Yale's eyes twinkled. "However, I think we can squeak
through at the director's meetings."