The Rebellion of Yale Marratt (91 page)

 

 

Anne hugged her. "We're all attached, sister . . . attached with
unbreakable links."

 

 

 

 

 

 

13

 

 

The day before Yale's trial, Agatha telephoned Pat Marratt. "It occurs to
me, Patrick," she said into the silent phone that echoed Pat's surprise,
"that you might like to take an old lady to lunch." She heard Pat's grunt
of annoyance, and listened patiently while he temporized, trying to probe
the reason for Agatha's call.

 

 

It occurred to Pat that Yale might be using this means to try and patch
up their relationship. He wondered if Agatha was being used as a go-between.
Even Liz had been working on him lately, especially after that disgraceful
affair at the supermarket when those women Yale was living with had been
practically raped.

 

 

"No matter what you may feel," Liz told him, "I think, for your own peace
of mind, you should talk with Yale. Everyone in Midhaven is enjoying our
misery. Some of our so-called best friends are gloating over what everyone
is calling 'the Marratt affair.' Yale is our son, Pat. Can't we disagree
with him privately?" Liz had begged. "Can't we present a united front
to the world?"

 

 

Pat had been exasperated. "You must be losing your mind, Liz. I didn't
start this. Have you read that damned book of his? I honestly can't
believe sometimes that Yale is any part of me! Believe me, Liz, if he
wasn't your son, and you read the stuff he writes . . . you would say
this man is dangerous! He not only tries to deny that any God exists
except man, but he writes a thing like that Second Commandment. How in
hell does it go?" Pat thought a minute. " 'Man must be taught to challenge
and excoriate any concepts that deny the ultimate divinity of man.' Those
are crazy, dangerous words." Pat sighed. "I'm not a religious man and I
may be content to just accept the idea that there is a God, but I sure
as hell could never advocate anything that would destroy all organized
religions. Men are basically rotten . . . without religions of some kind
and the fear of God the world would go to hell. I've given it a lot of
thought. Yale may be a genius . . . but I can only conclude that he is
partially insane. If he isn't, why does he persist? Why does he insist
on letting this thing come to a trial and making a laughingstock out of
the Marratt name? The whole business could have been squelched easily.
I would have even helped him. All he had to do was to get rid of that
Jewish girl. She was the last one that he married. Yale told me himself
that he married the blonde girl in India. Baker told me that would make
that marriage the legal one even though it was a Hindu ceremony. That
damned Carnell girl has been a noose around his neck ever since he met
her. She has no claim on him. The kid is hers, not Yale's."

 

 

Pat told Liz that he had called Rabbi Weiner. "He's a good sort," Pat said
inconsistently. "He told me that even her own people have ostracized her.
You'd think that she would have better sense and clear out."

 

 

Pat remembered that Liz had said, "You are so blind, Pat. If you had
let things alone years ago . . . all this wouldn't have happened. Yale
would have married her, and probably would have been working with you
right now."

 

 

He wondered if Liz was right. Lately, he had been having moral twinges
that handicapped his usual straight-line thinking. Christ almighty,
couldn't Liz understand that in trying to get that girl out of Yale's
life, he had been doing it for Yale's own good. Some day Yale would wake
up. When they put him behind bars for a while, and let him cool off,
he'd probably come to his senses.

 

 

Pat finally agreed to meet Agatha at the City Club at one o'clock.
He found her sitting in the lounge talking with a dark-complexioned
man who had a decidedly semitic nose. Angrily, he decided that Agatha
was just trying to get his goat. She introduced him with a twinkle in
her eye, observantly noting that Pat's jaw was twitching. "This is Saul
Angle. He is defending Yale tomorrow. I thought that you would like to
meet him, Patrick."

 

 

"Listen, Agatha, I have a great deal more to do than to discuss the
peccadillos of my stupid son with his lawyer. I don't give a damn what
they do to Yale. The quicker this thing is forgotten by the newspapers
the better I will like it. I understand that bigamy is good for five
years in prison. Maybe that is what he needs to bring him to his senses."

 

 

While he was talking, Pat sensed that Saul Angle was examining him
casually. "You really don't need me, Agatha," Saul said, looking at
Pat. "I'd prefer to eat my lunch in a calmer atmosphere. Besides,
Mr. Marratt has to be careful with whom he associates these days."
His smile was sarcastic. "I understand that there are all kinds of odd
fish in town for this trial tomorrow."

 

 

"I need you, Saul. Patrick, if you can't afford it, I'll pay for the
lunches. But let's not stand here and haggle. Have the decency to take
us into the dining room. I'm an old lady. I like to eat my meals on time."

 

 

Sipping a Scotch on the rocks while they waited for their lunch, Agatha
extolled the merits of liquor for the aged. "Makes me feel twenty years
younger. I kind of get into the spirit of things when I've had a little
nip." She nudged Pat's arm. "Aren't you excited? I can't remember when
Midhaven had so much publicity. Peoples McGroaty told me that there must
be at least five thousand people in town for the trial. Every room for
miles around is sold out. I hear they are putting up some of the reporters
in the old Army barracks in West Haven. All kinds of foreigners have
come to Midhaven. They have heard rumors that this trial may be fought
out on classic issues."

 

 

Pat scowled. "Classic issues, baloney! These people are here for just one
thing, sex. They want to roll in it; pour it over themselves. They hope
to hear all kinds of juicy things. They want to see what a bigamist looks
like and what kind of women would live with him. Add to this that Yale
and his women go around naked and think nothing of it, and you inflame
everyone's imagination. It sounds like a Roman orgy." Pat stared at
Saul. "I've heard of you, Angle. You're a pretty smart lawyer. Why do
you want to get mixed up in this mess?"

 

 

Saul smiled. "I could say that I came to exonerate myself. If Yale
is a modern Jesus as some reporters are saying, then it is fitting
that a Jew should defend him." Saul ignored the dark anger in Pat's
face. "Actually, I am interested in the moral principles involved. If
you have read the book that Challenge has published, you will remember
the Sixth Commandment. I think it goes something like this: 'Challenge
believes that Man is the measure of all ethical and moral values and
the test of validity in man's ethics and morals and written laws should
be that they exalt and confirm the dignity of man.'" Saul sipped his
martini. "Now it is obvious that wasn't written by a lawyer, but it is
an interesting idea. In the case of Yale's marriages, I think it may be
a worthy defense, even if we do lose and who knows, we may win!"

 

 

Pat shook his head. He was out of his depth, and he admitted it to
himself. Bigamy was a sexually disgusting thing. It violated common
decency. Only animals indulged themselves that way. Sure a man might
play around a bit, but to want to live with two females day in and day
out . . . such a man must be a sap. Yet, Yale bothered Pat. There were
obviously quite a few men who were impressed with what Yale was trying
to do. This Saul Angle for one, and then there was Harry Cohen. There you
are, Pat thought, I'm accused by Yale of being antisemitic, yet I really
admired this fellow Cohen, even when he was fighting me hardest. Take
this fellow, Angle. He's obviously a pretty sharp cookie and I can't say
that I dislike him. It just shows that Gentiles and Christians can get
along. The smart Jews don't expect to mix socially with you . . . and
certainly don't want to intermarry any more than we do. They have their
ways and we have ours.

 

 

Yes, Pat thought, Yale obviously could sway diverse kinds of men. That
John Norwell, for instance. One look at him and you'd guess Norwell
wouldn't go for that Challenge crap; yet Norwell had capitulated. Of
course, Yale had been smart enough to see the handwriting on the wall
and re-elect Jim Latham president. But it was peculiar that a man like
Norwell would defend Yale.

 

 

"He's a breath of fresh air," Norwell had told Alfred Latham. "I may be
old but I decided not to close the window."

 

 

Pat realized that his thoughts were wandering. A bad habit that he had
developed lately. He knew that it was caused by uncertainty. He was
disgusted with himself. Agatha was telling Saul about the oil leases
that were among the Latham Shipyard holdings. "They were what interested
Yale," she said, "and alerted him to the Latham deal. He wants to buy
a drilling company." Agatha smiled. "Yale told me that he has that odd
tingling feeling. You should be proud of your son, Patrick."

 

 

While Pat was impatient to discover why Agatha had asked him to lunch,
he decided to wait for her to broach the reason. "I understand, Agatha,"
he said, trying to flatter the old lady, "that Yale owes everything to
you. If you hadn't backed him in this Latham deal, he would never have
made it."

 

 

"He owes me nothing." Agatha snorted. "He had already made his first million
dollars when he called me and asked me whether I thought he could hold a
corner on Latham stock. I went along for protection. He could have done
it without me. Of course, I did have the fun of teaching him about the
market . . . but that was years ago."

 

 

She didn't say: You damned old fool, Patrick Marratt. You should thank
God for giving you a fine, idealistic son . . . and, Agatha thought,
amused . . . two fine daughters-in-law. Three times blessed and this
stubborn man cursed his fate.

 

 

 

 

Agatha remembered a few nights ago talking with Yale in the big kitchen.
Anne and Cynthia had gone upstairs. She told Yale that she wanted to
stay up for a while.

 

 

"When you are as old as I am you don't waste time sleeping," she said.
She sat in one of the old-fashioned rockers that Anne and Cynthia
had placed near the hearth. She watched the logs that crackled in the
fireplace and warmed her thin blood.

 

 

"I've been happy here," she told Yale. "I didn't realize what a lonely
life I have been living in Belmont. Cats are all right but they are in
business for themselves even when they jump, purring, into your lap.
I like the life you are trying to live. You keep my old brain buzzing with
ideas. I don't know how I managed to live alone so long."

 

 

"You'll never be alone again, Agatha," Yale said, sitting on the flagstone
hearth, watching her as she rocked. "Only one thing, I want you to know.
I want you here, not because you are rich, but because you are a lovely
woman." Yale grinned, "Of course, Cynthia and Anne will tell you my trouble
is that I love all women." Yale stood up and kissed her cheek. "I hope that
Cynthia and Anne will grow old just as gracefully as you have . . .
and of course, just a little bit cantankerous . . . it adds spice."

 

 

After Yale had gone upstairs, Agatha touched her withered cheek where
he had kissed her. She felt sorry for Yale, and she knew that she
cared deeply what happened to him. In the past few weeks, under the
pressures he had created for himself, she detected a little weariness
and discouragement. She prayed that Anne and Cynthia would stick by
him. They would have to have courage, too. It wasn't easy for young
women to share their man.

 

 

And look at myself, Agatha thought. I worry about the lives they
will lead, and all my life I have been lonely and unloved. Why had
she lived so long, she wondered? Here she was approaching eighty-one
years and she couldn't remember a day of bad health. Was there a God
who had been exceptionally kind to her? Or was it just luck and a
strong constitution. If there was a God who was personally interested
in his creations, why had he picked her for such good fortune? She had
done nothing to merit the gift that had been bestowed on her. She had
lived her life selfishly . . . alone . . . for herself; dedicated to
making money for the Lord knew what reason. If I were God, she thought
wryly, I wouldn't be pleased with Agatha Latham. Maybe God had shown
his displeasure by withholding both love and wonder from her life until
her eightieth year. Now, by giving her a glimpse these past few months
of the love and happiness that Yale, Anne, and Cynthia had achieved
with each other and with their children; by dropping her into the magic
realm of living, thinking, probing minds bent on the wonderful search
and discovery of the essential humanity of man; by letting her find in
the last moments of her life, a purpose for living . . . if there was a
God, he had revealed how barren her life had been. If there was a God,
Agatha thought, then he must be pleased with Yale Marratt who perhaps
denied Him by saying that Man was God, but actually exalted Him if God
cared at all for the creature called man.

 

 

Watching the glow of the fire that night, feeling the ghosts of time
past that Cynthia and Anne had preserved in the old house . . . Agatha
made her decision. . . .

 

 

 

 

"I've spent the past two days having my head examined," she said,
smiling ironically at Pat, who made no comment but was tempted to say
that in view of her actions lately it was a good idea.