After six weeks abroad, the newlyweds returned to take up residence in a twenty-thousand-dollar Tudor mansion facing Lake St. Clair, a joint wedding present from their parents, where from their windows they could watch the hog-nosed Kent ore carriers laboring their way south beneath their awesome burdens. An interview with Lucy Kent Crownover and photographic spread showing off the custom-built Singer treadle-operated machine in the sewing room and fifteenth-century refectory table in the dining salon ran in the Ladies’ Home Journal in February 1899. By the time it was published, the couple had been cohabiting for six months, more than long enough for Lucy to become convinced that her husband was mentally ill.
He was not violent, nor even hostile. His manner toward his wife was gentle and caring, and his respect for her opinions regarding the operation of their household bordered upon serious dependency; the man simply could not make a decision, no matter how trivial. Being of a somewhat forceful disposition herself—her father used the term headstrong and considered himself fortunate to have matched her with someone who was not put off by such a disagreeable trait in a helpmeet—she was pleased to accept full responsibility for the choice of wallpaper in the parlor and the dishes that appeared on the massive dining table from day to day, with the assurance that her instructions would not be contradicted, so long as they did not contradict themselves. (Mashed potatoes, she had been informed quite clearly, must not be served on Sunday, once rice had made its debut their first meal at home after church.) Nor did it alarm her when Abner sharply upbraided his valet for laying out Thursday’s collar on Monday, or nearly allowing Wednesday’s black suit to go to the cleaners Tuesday night. Variety, after all, was a woman’s pleasure, and served only to upset the smooth gray sameness of the masculine world, in which the mere appearance of a facetious straw boater on the head of the American president instead of a good solid black derby sent the stock market plummeting. No such explanation could be brought to bear on Abner’s habit of twisting and untwisting the latch to the front door twenty-three times each night before retiring, or the even more complicated business involving the wall switch in their bedroom, which had to be pressed in multiples of seven times, finishing with the light off. These maneuvers were emblematic of his day, a tissue of repetitive mathematical therapeutic exercises that were at first annoying and perplexing, then alarming, and finally unbearable. By the time they observed their first anniversary, the Young Court (as one historically minded and slightly cynical senior executive had christened the new Mr. and Mrs. Crownover) was sleeping in separate bedrooms and meeting only for meals, public appearances, and conjugal relations; however damp her ardor had become toward her mate, Lucy understood the expectations of both sides of the family, and the importance of producing an Abner IV. None, however, was forthcoming. At the end of four years, Lucy had concluded that her husband, in addition to being mad, was sterile. This was evidence, perhaps, that there was order in the universe, and a God who possessed the common sense not to repeat a mistake.
She felt no rancor toward Abner, a gentle man when not faced with the anxiety of a choice to be made or a change in the routine. She felt, in fact, a certain tenderness toward him, made poignant by the knowledge that so prominent a firstborn was barred from seeking the same help as an equally disturbed commoner. Word that Abner Crownover’s son was damaged in some fundamental way must inevitably threaten the company’s fortunes; and so, in the daily family intercourse, the damage did not exist. He was ill through no fault of his own, and through no fault of his own he had no hope of a cure. Lucy’s experience in charity work for the poor had not prepared her for the realization that the wealthy could be as badly treated as they, without the balm of an organized sisterhood to turn to in their despair. Where was the Ladies’ Christian Society for the Relief of the Privileged? She pitied her husband as intensely as she despised the symptoms of his affliction.
To distract herself she filled her days with good works. In addition to planning fund-raising events for the Orphans’ Asylum with her mother-in-law (a withdrawn, eerily calm woman in whose presence she found it impossible to feel at ease), she attended meetings of the Order of the Eastern Star, her membership having been assured when Abner III was inducted into the Freemasons under his father’s sponsorship, helped choose decorations and arrange an orchestra for the annual Shipmaster’s Ball, where as a debutante she had first made the acquaintance of her future husband, and chaired the Junior League committee that collected old clothes for mending and shipment to the families of patriots slain in or impoverished by the fighting in Cuba and the Philippines. This last duty kept her away from home Friday nights; and Abner, after recovering from his tantrum over this betrayal, had taken to dining with his parents in the Queen Anne on Jefferson every Friday. Harlan, who was aware of this, and who as the middle son had been familiar with young Abner’s peculiarities longer than anyone else, was no more surprised when his knock at the parental front door was answered by his brother than he would have been by evidence of the steady rotation of the earth.
They shook hands warmly. Harlan liked Ab, despite his shortcomings. Or perhaps because of them; intentional or not, they represented a kind of rebellion against what was expected of their generation of Crownovers, and he celebrated them as he never could Edward’s lockstep loyalty to their father’s credo. Ab, however, was shy in his brother’s presence. Harlan didn’t know whether it was because he envied Harlan’s relative independence or—what was more likely—pitied him because he had been passed over in favor of the youngest brother when the time came to replace the eldest at the company helm. His smile of welcome was tentative and he met Harlan’s gaze only intermittently.
“Is he at home?” The question, Harlan realized, was unnecessary. Except in times of business emergency or when he felt absolutely compelled to make an appearance at one of the city’s centers of evening entertainment, Abner II could always be found at home after working hours. In his way he was as much a slave to his rails as was his namesake.
“He’s in his office. Would you like to see Mother?”
“Before I leave.”
Ab, whatever his problems, was not a fool, and could tell when his brother was upset. He said nothing more.
Abner II never referred to his private place at home as his study. It was an office, interchangeable in his mind with the room where he worked at the plant. Apart from a small Victorian fireplace with an arched iron surround and the absence of Abner I’s photographic portrait, it was at first glance identical to the office farther down the avenue: The plain desk and yellow-oak captain’s chair behind it might have shared the same workshop with their twins at the plant, the milk-white bowl fixture suspended by chains from the ceiling—scrupulously dusted and cleared of dead flies—shed the same frank light as the one at work, and even the blue unfigured wallpaper above the wainscoting looked as if it had been cut from the same bolt. The books in the built-in shelves were different. The volumes at the plant, where he received formal visitors, had been selected for display, and represented the preferred works by Homer, Virgil, Shakespeare, the two Johnsons, Emerson, and Horace Lorimer, whose Letters of a Self-Made Merchant to His Son attracted notice only when it failed to appear on a businessman’s shelves. Here in the private sanctum reposed Abner’s choice collection of books devoted to engineering and design, from the earliest known publication of da Vinci’s notebooks to a six-volume set bound in green leather of technical books devoted to the inventions of Thomas Edison. In truth, Abner II would have sneered to hear his private library referred to as a “collection,” although he had spent enough to acquire some of the items at auction to attract the attention of most of the collectors’ journals, whose requests to interview him had all been refused. With one exception, the books were thumb-blurred and tattered from heavy use and were plainly not intended for either decoration or pleasure, but to serve as tools related to the manufacturing trade. The only truly pristine work was the green volume entitled The Electric Car, detailing Edison’s expe
riments with alternative transportation. Clearly it had come as part of the set, and had just as clearly been ignored by its owner. Its continuing presence on the shelf had more to do with Abner’s love of closure than any reverence for literature; he could not abide owning anything incomplete.
When Harlan opened the door at his father’s invitation, Abner looked up from the ledger he had been reading, a broad, flat, buckram-bound book as large as a plat map, spread out and propped between his thighs and the edge of the desk. The old man still had no need for reading glasses, and his bright pupils shifted their focus from the closely written figures in the columns to his son’s silhouette in the doorway without apparent delay. The mummified-monkey features registered no change in expression.
“Harlan.” He offered no further greeting and made no move to close the book and rise.
“Father.”
The balding patriarchal head inclined an eighth of an inch in the direction of the door. Harlan pushed it shut behind him. In the silence that followed, he thought he could actually hear the house settling, one creaking micromillimeter closer to the setness of its builder’s mind.
“Your mother’s been asking about you. Have you seen her yet?”
“Before I leave,” he said again. “I wanted to talk to you first.”
Now the ledger’s cover tipped shut, expectorating a visible puff of paper fibers scratched loose by the pen of the clerk who had entered the totals. Abner pushed the book up and let it topple to the blotter, like a board being added to the top of a tall stack. Harlan was reminded of last spring’s altercation over how to dispose of the substandard mahogany from Nicaragua.
“Take a seat.” In the fading light sifting through the oaken slats that covered the room’s only window, a powder of dust showed clearly on the leather seat of the upright chair facing the desk. Abner received few visitors at home.
“I prefer to stand.”
“Napoleon.” It was barely a murmur.
“I’m sorry?”
“It was nothing. I forgot for a moment who I was talking to. You couldn’t know, but the Emperor Napoleon had some emphatic ideas about how to handle disgruntled guests. He persuaded them to sit down, on the theory that no one could make a convincing case for tragedy from his backside. People with grievances who have read or heard that always choose standing.”
“What makes you think I have a grievance?” Immediately he regretted asking the question. It had taken his father exactly two seconds to derail him. In this the Queen Anne itself was an accomplice. Harlan had, within the confines of that rabbit warren of narrow staircases, odd alcoves, and right-angled hallways, been considered the idiot of the family for so many years that he had only to reenter it to feel himself behaving as expected.
“You haven’t come to this house since Thanksgiving. Since you and I see each other every day at work, and since you didn’t stop to visit your mother, I assume it isn’t because you miss us. It’s interesting how far a person will walk to express his displeasure over some slight.”
“I rode a streetcar.” He felt rather than saw the exasperation this remark caused, and took petty satisfaction from it. Retreating into the family evaluation of his mental abilities had in the past provided Harlan with a weapon of retribution as well as a defense against stinging comments. The keenest barbs flattened against and slid harmlessly down the thick surface of his seeming incomprehension. His discovery of this advantage had given him his first taste of power, as well as the revelation that he could never take pride in his independent spirit. He was free from most of the conventions simply because no one thought he was worth the effort of forcing him to adhere to them.
His father changed directions, and uncannily—it could not have been accidental, however much it represented an almost supernatural understanding of Harlan’s mission—placed himself squarely in harm’s way. “I read of your friend Ford’s victory, a race of some kind. I suppose congratulations are in order.”
“He established a record for the mile. Again. No horse in creation could touch it.”
“No horse would be expected to. There are a good many more things to admire in this world than mere speed. The telegraph did not dismantle the United States Post Office.”
Harlan shook his head. He felt an ineffable sadness, the source of which he could not precisely identify, but which he suspected had something to do with the bleak gulf that separated fathers and sons. It did nothing to dampen his determination to go through with what he had started. “Neither of us is going to change his opinion. I didn’t come here to revive that old argument.”
“Why did you come?”
“I’m sure you’re aware of the trouble Mr. Ford is having with an organization that calls itself the Association of Licensed Automobile Manufacturers.”
“I know something of it. I read the papers.”
“It’s a sham, of course. This man Selden, who claims he owns the patent, has never built an automobile. Mr. Ford insists that no working motorcar could be built from the plans Selden submitted to the U.S. Patent Office.”
“I wouldn’t know that.”
“Mr. Ford also says no one would ever have heard of George Selden or his patent unless someone powerful offered to back him with the finances and influence necessary to pursue the case in the courts.”
“That would be former secretary of the navy William C. Whitney.”
“You remembered that name quickly for someone who has only a casual interest in the story,” Harlan said.
“I have a good memory. Name a successful man who has not.”
“Mr. Ford says Selden is a wooden owl.”
“And what is that?”
“A decoy to frighten away squirrels. In this case customers. Whitney is using him, and you are using Whitney. Mr. Ford asked me to give you a message.”
“I see. So now it seems he has you running errands for him.”
“He asked me to tell you to call off your dogs.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“He said if you won’t do it, then go ahead and set them loose. It didn’t appear to make any difference to him which you did. He’s prepared to fight you all the way.”
“Aside from an unhealthy obsession with animals, I have no idea what any of that means.”
“Don’t insult me, Father. Henry Ford asked to join the A.L.A.M. soon after it was organized. He was turned down, the only automobile manufacturer who was not allowed to join. It’s clear he’s the target of this whole advertising campaign to frighten away his customers. Why should he be singled out among the hundreds of people who are making automobiles?”
“I suppose they thought someone had to be made an example of. Your man Ford is the fellow who’s getting all the headlines, buzzing about in races and giving interviews to the press. If they can smack down someone who’s that visible, all the other holdouts will fall into line. Any captain of industry knows that.”
Harlan saw the flicker in the old man’s eyes as soon as the last words had been said; the outside embodiment of the wish to turn back time and edit them out of the conversation. His son drew no warmth from the triumph.
He felt his face stiffening as in the cold on frozen Lake St. Clair. “William C. Whitney is no captain of industry. You are. You’re the A.L.A.M.”
His father, whose hands had been resting on the big ledger, drew them back and folded them on the near edge of the desk. No damp spots showed on the green buckram, although the room was overheated and Harlan’s own palms were sweating heavily. The old man was as dry as corn shocks tented in the sun. It was a wonder he didn’t rustle when he moved. “You’re overestimating my vision,” he said. “The association was up and running before I was invited to participate.”
“Then you admit you’re financing it.”
“I’m a contributor, just as I am to dozens of other funds and causes. The day of the robber barons is past. In this century, the wealthy and successful are expected to make certain gestures.”
“If that we
re true in this case, your name would appear in the advertisements.”
“I will not be induced to defend my actions.” Dim spots of color appeared on Abner’s sallow cheeks.
“Ford’s celebrity has nothing to do with why he was targeted,” Harlan said. “You only want to destroy him because I’m involved with his company.”
“The world doesn’t revolve around you. I blame your mother for giving you that impression. She has always doted on you.”
“You can’t stand having a son of Abner Crownover in the automobile business.”
“This interview is over.” Abner drew himself up against the desk and opened the ledger across it.
“It won’t work, Father. Even if you succeed and Ford collapses, I’ll raise the money again and invest it in another automobile company.”
“What makes you think you’ll be able to raise the money again?”
“This city is filled with people who would be honored to invest in the Crownover name.”
“That’s because I made it what it is.” A long dry finger followed a row of figures down a column. “You have the Crownover name because I gave it to you. And I can take it away just as easily.”
“If you’re threatening to disinherit me, I wish you’d make it clear.”
He shut the ledger. With a little shudder of effort—Harlan suspected the action was far more cataclysmic below the surface—he forced a flat calm into his tone. “You’re my son. That isn’t something to waste on the first shiny property to come along. Automobiles are loud, flashy things, tempting to a young man. When you’re older, you’ll realize the things that stay the course aren’t always exciting to look at the first time you see them. The foreman I worked under when I drew up my suspension idea couldn’t see the improvement even when I pointed it out; he told me to get back to work or he’d dock me for my time and his both. And he was a mechanical man, who should have understood what he was looking at. What makes you think the gasoline car is any better than the steamer or the electric? How do you know Ford is the man to back among all the rabble who are out there, chugging away and fouling the air with their stinking smoke? He’s failed twice before.”
Thunder City Page 17