The Proud Shall Stumble

by Gerald N. Lund

  “Good for you,” Edie said.

  Adelia turned to look at Tina. “So, Christina, tell us a little more about your plans with this young man of yours. Most importantly, will the two of you be able to go to Oberammergau with us?”

  “Absolutely,” Tina said. “There’s no way we’re going to miss that. Not after putting money into that pickle jar all these years.”

  “Yeah,” said Jacob. “I saw it there in the kitchen. Looks like it’s half full. How much have you collected by now, Mitch?”

  “Oh, we’ve emptied it twice already, and I haven’t counted what’s in there now, but we have put over three thousand dollars in our Oberammergau bank account so far.”

  Jacob gave a low whistle. “Wunderbar! That’s marvelous.”

  Tina went on. “I’ll be teaching by then, hopefully, but not in the summer. Monte finishes medical school that spring, and we’ll leave for his residency in the fall. We’ll not be taking a honeymoon when we get married because we’ll both be in school, so this will be our honeymoon.”

  “What a great idea,” Adelia cried.

  “Hans asked me in his last letter if we are still planning on coming,” Jacob said. “I told him that we are and that we’re hoping to be able to take Liesel and young Jacob with us.”

  Tina’s laugh tinkled in the silence. “Oh, Benji will be pleased to hear that.”

  Adelia just smiled. “We told him that you are still planning on going too.”

  “Absolutely,” Mitch said.

  The talk turned to what time they thought they would be back to Monticello in the morning and what they wanted to do for supper that evening. A touch of sadness settled in as they realized that tomorrow would be their last night together.

  Then suddenly, Jacob straightened. “Oh, dear,” he said. “I totally forgot, Mitch. They’re talking about having another German Mission reunion in connection with October general conference. I was hoping to bring an invitation down with us, but they’re still trying to pin down a place for the final banquet. But plan on it. It will be the fourth and fifth of October.”

  “And plan to stay with us,” Adelia added.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Tina said. “If they’re coming up, they’ll be staying with me in Provo.” She gave her father a piercing look. “Right, Dad?”

  Mitch turned to Edie. “My goodness, dear. We just learned thirty seconds ago that we will be going to Salt Lake, and already they’re fighting over us.”

  “Wherever you stay,” Adelia came in, “you bring Benji and Abby up for sure. Our two oldest will never forgive you if you don’t.”

  “Heck,” Jacob laughed, “I think we should take your twins to the reunion with us. With their German, they’ll fit right in.”

  “Benji will for sure,” Adelia said. “He’ll be hobnobbing with the best of them. I couldn’t get over him in Germany. We’d turn around and there he was, conversing with the bus driver, or the waitresses at a restaurant, or even businessmen on the train.”

  “Abby will want to stay and play with Jacob and Liesel. She’s really quite shy around strangers,” Edie said.

  “Yeah,” Mitch said. “She gets that from me.”

  “Right,” Edie drawled. Then she sobered. “Part of that will depend on what happens with Reggie. Mitch and I are going to try to talk them into letting us keep him for another year instead of putting him in a boarding school.”

  “That’s not going to work, Edie,” Mitch said. “Celeste is adamant.”

  “I know that, but Frank agrees with us. I’m sure of that.”

  “In this battle, Celeste is going to win,” Mitch said quietly. “So don’t get your hopes too high.”

  Tina was staring at her hands. “Dad’s right, Mom. Celeste isn’t going to bend on this one.” Her voice caught. “As much as it pains me to say it.”

  December 12, 1928, 1:15 p.m.—Westland Residence,

  981 Aspen Avenue, Newton, Massachusetts

  As Frank Westland let off the gas pedal, he chuckled sardonically to himself. To his left were the rolling, snow-­covered fairways of the Brae Burn Country Club. Here was one of the premier golf courses in America, site of the 1919 U.S. Open, and earlier this year, host to the U.S. Amateur National Championship.

  He braked and turned right onto Aspen Avenue and then looked to his left. And there, a short distance away, were the rolling, snow-covered fairways of the Woodland Golf Club, another prestigious venue that catered to Boston’s moneyed elite. Frank laughed again. Not a bad neighborhood for a cowboy from San Juan County.

  When the real estate agent had showed them the two-story brownstone house on Aspen Avenue, a quiet, tree-lined street in Newton, he and Celeste had immediately liked it. But Reginald Dickerson, Celeste’s father, had been absolutely ecstatic about the fact that not only was it roughly centered between the campuses of Harvard, M.I.T., and Wellesley College, but it also was within five minutes of two of the premier golf facilities in Massachusetts. Reginald was a member at Brae Burn and had playing privileges at Woodland.

  Frank, who had never lifted a golf club before and who was completely burned out from three years of nose-to-the-grindstone studies in Berlin, decided that golf would be a good thing to add to his new, more sophisticated lifestyle. He took four lessons from the golf pro at Brae Burn and then played a couple of early-morning rounds with some colleagues from M.I.T. He had enjoyed it more than he had thought he would, but the time it took to play even nine holes was a frustration to him. One Saturday, he had played eighteen holes with his father-in-law and some of his banking associates. It had not been a pleasant experience. On the fifth fairway, it took Frank four strokes to get the ball halfway to the hole. Their two partners, who were not trying very hard to hide their impatience, were already down at the pin. Reginald had looked around carefully to make sure no one was watching him and then leaned in and whispered, “Frank, just pretend to hit the ball this time, then pick it up and carry it for a while. When no one’s looking, you can drop it on the grass again.” He did as instructed, but on that day he decided that the only way to really enjoy golf was to get reasonably good at the game, and that was going to take much more time than he was willing to give. He hadn’t played since, nor had his father-in-law asked him to.

  A moment later Frank braked again as he turned the Pontiac into their driveway. As he shut off the engine, he was watching the door, expecting Reggie to come busting out of it at any minute whooping and hollering now that his dad was home. But when nothing happened, Frank grabbed his briefcase and went in the house.

  “I’m home,” he called, removing his coat and hat and hanging them on the coatrack.

  “Daddy’s home!” Reggie’s voice came from the direction of the kitchen. There was the scrape of a chair on linoleum.

  “No, Reginald!” Celeste’s voice was sharp and irritated. “You will stay right there, young man! You can’t get down until they’re all gone.”

  “Aw, Mommy! Please.”

  “No!” A moment later, Celeste appeared in the hallway. She came quickly to Frank, went up on tiptoes and kissed him lightly, and took his briefcase from him. “Thanks for coming home early, Frank. You’re a dear.”

  “No problem. I can correct final exams as easily here as I can at the office.”

  “This afternoon is my last exam,” Celeste said. “And I’m ready to be done.” She set his briefcase on the hall table and started back toward the kitchen. “Can I take the car? I’m not sure the bus will get me there on time.”

  “Of course.” Frank retrieved the keys from his pocket and handed them to her. Then he moved into the kitchen with her following.

  “Hey, Reginald,” Frank called. “Come and see Daddy!”

  “No, Frank!” Celeste cried. “He can’t get out of his chair until he finishes his eggs.”

  “Not again.” Frank sighed. Reginald was seated at the tab
le, a napkin on his lap and a plate with two poached eggs on it placed in front of him. There was also a glass that had obviously once held orange juice but was empty now.

  “Hi, son,” Frank said, and he went over and gave Reginald a hug. But he stopped his son as Reggie tried to stand up. Frank turned to Celeste. “How long this time?”

  She glanced at the clock over the stove. “Since nine o’clock. Four and a half hours! Can you believe that? He is so stubborn!” she cried.

  “Am not,” Reginald cried. “But I hate these eggs. They’re awful, Daddy.”

  “They’re good for you, Reginald,” Celeste said before Frank could answer. “Now stop being so obstinate. Eat them and then you can get down and play.”

  “No!” He folded his arms and turned his back on his mother.

  Frank put his arm around her waist. “Why does Mrs. Cotter insist on poaching them?”

  “How would I know?” Celeste snapped, pulling away from him. “She’s British. That’s what the British do, I guess. But don’t you be sticking up for him, Frank. He’s got to learn to mind.”

  Frank nudged her with his elbow. “Seems to me if he’s held out four and a half hours, maybe it’s the poached eggs that should be punished.”

  Reginald snorted at that. “Yeah!” he cried.

  Celeste whirled in a huff. “That’s not funny, Frank! And don’t you take his side in this. He has got to learn to be obedient.”

  Frank sighed, not wanting another confrontation. He looked at his son. “Okay, Reginald. Three bites, then you can get down.”

  “No!” Celeste exploded. “Don’t you do that. Don’t you come home and be the doting father and make me the bad guy here. He has to learn that he doesn’t get his way. Ever since he came back from living with your parents, he’s become such a willful child.”

  “Hey!” Frank barked, more sharply than he intended. “That’s not the problem here.” Then, seeing that their son was staring at them, his eyes wide, Frank snapped at him. “Reginald, you either eat the eggs or you go up to your room. But if you do that, there’ll be nothing to eat until supper time.”

  “Fine,” the boy said triumphantly. He threw down his napkin, jumped down, and was gone like a shot. A moment later they heard his footsteps running up the stairs.

  “Thank you, Frank,” Celeste said icily. “Thanks for standing by me.”

  “My parents love our son, and he was happy when he was with them. You know that. So don’t badmouth them in front of him.”

  “They spoiled him rotten, Frank. You can’t deny that. And now look at him. Willful. Stubborn. Rebellious.”

  “Unhappy,” he added quietly.

  “Oh, stop it!”

  “If you’re looking for someone to blame, tell Mrs. Cotter to stop poaching his eggs, for crying out loud. I know she’s British, but surely she could scramble them once in a while. I notice you never touch them.”

  Celeste flinched. “That’s neither here nor there. I don’t like eggs of any kind.” She was suddenly pleading. “If I tell Mrs. Cotter that, she’ll quit. You know how she is. And remember how long it took for us to find her?”

  “Fine, but then stop blaming Reginald for not eating them. He’s already miserable enough, Celeste. Can’t you see that?”

  “Oh,” she said, stiffening. “Don’t start on that again.”

  “Why not? That damnable boarding school we’ve got him in is the real problem. Look at the staff. From the principal down, they’re a bunch of pickle suckers.”

  Celeste reared back slightly. “What?”

  “Well, they are. They look like they’ve been sucking on pickles since the day they were born. When was the last time you saw any of them smile?”

  Celeste smiled in spite of herself. “In the case of Mr. Beecherman, it’s maybe been even longer than since he was born.” Then she sobered. “All right, Frank. I know Reginald’s not happy. But do we have to solve that right now? I have fifty students waiting for me to give them a final exam. We have that meeting at the bank tonight, and—”

  Frank groaned. “I totally forgot about that. Do we have to go? I’ve got a ton of tests to grade. What’s it all about anyway?”

  “I don’t know, but yes, we have to go. Daddy says it’s very important, and I promised him we’d come.”

  “Tell you what,” Frank said, a tiny grin stealing across his face. “I’ll go to the meeting if I can take a cheese sandwich up to Reginald.”

  Celeste stiffened. “No, Frank! You have to stop spoiling him.” She turned and started for the door.

  “His problem is not being spoiled, Celeste.”

  She waved a hand in the air angrily. “Not now, Frank. I’ll be back before five.”

  1:47 p.m.

  Frank opened the door to the kitchen and peeked in. “Mrs. Cotter?”

  There was the sound of footsteps, but it was Mrs. O’Bannion who stepped into view. She was the housekeeper, not the cook. “Mrs. Cotter went to the market to buy groceries, Mr. Westland. Can I help you?”

  “Oh, good,” Frank said, and he moved over to join her. He lowered his voice. “Do you think you could make some kind of sandwich? Maybe ham and cheese. Or even just cheese.”

  A smile lit up her eyes. “For Master Reginald, Mr. Westland?”

  “Yes.”

  The smile spread across her face. Mrs. O’Bannion was first-­generation Irish. She had come to America with her parents as a teenage girl and had now raised five children of her own. Unlike Mrs. Cotter, whom Celeste’s mother had found for them, she had a sunny disposition and adored their son. “It will take only a wee minute or two. Would ye like me to take it up to him, or would ye like to do that?”

  Frank chuckled. “You’d better do it. I have to maintain plausible deniability, because I’m sure the first thing Mrs. Westland is going to ask when she gets home is, ‘Frank, did you give any food to our son who is being punished like a hardened criminal up in his room?’”

  Mrs. O’Bannion laughed merrily. “Oh, Mr. Westland, you are such a wee rogue. But your secret be safe with me. And I’ll tell Master Reggie to not give us away, either.”

  Frank looked at her in mock horror. “Mrs. O’Bannion! Did you just call our son ‘Master Reggie’?”

  “I did, sir,” she said with a giggle.

  “Good for you. But don’t ever let Mrs. Westland hear you say it.”

  “Oh, heavens and begorra, Mr. Westland,” Mrs. O’Bannion said gravely, “I value me wee life far too much to make a grand and terrible mistake such as that.”

  December 12, 1928, 7:12 p.m.—New England Colonial Bank and Trust, 12 Franklin Street, Financial District, Boston

  It struck Frank as peculiar that he had lived in Boston for several years now and had never been inside his father-in-law’s bank. He had driven past it many times, but that was it. Not that it bothers me, he thought as he pulled his car into the parking lot. But he did wonder what that said about his relationship with Reginald Dickerson. It was friendly, cordial, and mutually respectful, but not what you’d call a “drop-in-at-the-office-anytime” kind of association.

  Frank got out and walked around the car to open Celeste’s door. There was a frigid breeze blowing in off the harbor, and Celeste pulled her full-length coat in more tightly around her as she straightened. “Brrr!” she said, shivering noticeably.

  Frank took her arm, leaning in close. “You look stunning tonight, dear.”

  Celeste turned and gave him a warm smile. “Why, thank you, darling. You look very nice yourself.”

  “I’m just glad that the university doesn’t require faculty members to wear one of these monkey suits when they teach.”

  Celeste’s laugh floated lightly on the air. “I probably wouldn’t use that expression once we get inside. Most people call them tuxedos.”

  7:16 p.m.

  There were fo
ur or five luxuriously furnished office suites on the top floor of the five-story building, and on the door of the largest one, stenciled in gold letters, it read, Reginald W. Dickerson, President and Chairman of the Board. That he held both offices wasn’t a big surprise to Frank. Celeste had told him that her father had founded the bank and held a significant majority of the shares in it. But it reminded Frank that even if he was the son-in-law of the president and chairman of the board, he was way out of his league here.

  The conference room was already about half full, and Frank saw that he and Celeste were the youngest of the crowd by probably fifteen or twenty years, at least. The room had a long, mahogany table near the front with three matching armchairs behind it. In front of it there were several rows of expensive-looking upholstered chairs that filled about half of the room. People were mingling in the back half of the room as three uniformed waiters moved among them with glasses of champagne and very elegant hors d’oeuvres.

  Reginald was at the head of the room, behind the table, talking with two other men. Celeste told Frank their names, which he guessed he should have recognized, and said they were the presidents of two of Boston’s other biggest investment banks. Reginald saw them and waved for them to come forward. At the same time, he called to his wife, who was a few feet away from him, and pointed. When she turned and saw Frank and Celeste, she immediately came over to greet them.

  “Ooh la la, Celeste,” she said, stepping back to give her daughter the once over. “You look divine in that dress.”

  “Merci beaucoup, Mama,” Celeste said. “And you look absolutely fabulous too.” They kissed each other on both cheeks in the French way. As Frank watched them, he agreed. They did look fabulous. Babette Dickerson was a remarkably beautiful woman. Her dark hair was cut in a bob, like Celeste’s, and like Celeste, she was only about five feet, two inches tall. She had deep brown eyes and flawless, pale skin. Her dress was a wine-colored, floor-length gown with long sleeves and a lightly scooped neckline. It was tight fitting and showed off her shapeliness to perfection. She wore three gold bracelets on one wrist and a delicate gold chain around her neck. She turned to Frank and looked him up and down slowly. “And who is this handsome man, Celeste? Wherever did you find him?”