Point of No Return

by John P. Marquand

  “Tom is very reasonable,” his father said as they drove off, “but I wish he wouldn’t call it a Caddy.”

  He leaned back on the red leather cushions and half closed his eyes. He had perfect confidence in Willie Stevens’s driving and looked with relaxed trust at Willie’s clean-shaven neck. Willie was wearing his best clothes but he refused to wear any sort of uniform and John Gray had sympathized with him. It was hard talking with the top down but also it was difficult for Willie to hear much of their conversation. His father had enjoyed his talk with Moulton Rush. He had always liked Moulton. He had a very human streak considering his type.

  “He’s a Puritan,” John Gray said, “and I have more catholic tastes, but then I’m glad I’m not a Catholic.”

  “You’re not really anything, are you?” Charles said.

  “I have religious prejudices,” John Gray said, “and I read a chapter from the Bible nearly every night.”

  “But you only read it for the English,” Charles said.

  “Charley”—his father pulled his hat down hard, because it was windy with the top down—“why do you imply that I’m a pagan?”

  “I don’t know what you are,” Charles said. “You’re too complicated, Father.”

  “I know. I have a lot of ideas, too many ideas.” John Gray took his cigar case from his pocket and put it back again. It was too windy to smoke in the rear seat of the Cadillac.

  They had reached the open road and Willie Stevens was driving faster. They did not speak for a while and his father closed his eyes.

  “Father,” Charles said, “haven’t you done enough about beating the system?”

  “Now, Charley.” John Gray looked hurt. “Let’s not spoil this drive.”

  “All right,” Charles said, “but what about that trust fund?”

  “I’ll attend to it next week,” his father said. “Now drop it. I really don’t know why I like you, Charley.”

  Charles did not drop it although he had to speak so loudly in the car that his voice became hoarse and dry. What was the earthly use in taking any risks, he was asking, when his father had everything, enough, too much of everything? The market was shaky. Anyone could see there would be a break. It was egotism, it was childish, it made no sense. If he had set up that trust fund and then he wanted to be a fool, he could go ahead and lose the rest of it. Charles said all that was on his mind for once. It was utterly selfish, he was saying. His father might for once grasp the idea that everyone was involved. It was not as though he had earned the money to start with. He was losing his head because of a streak of luck. He had said himself he was not sleeping well. What was the use in going on with it if he did not need any more? There would be only one end to it.

  His father folded his hands when Charles had finished and was silent for almost a minute before he answered.

  “You’ve always said all that, without saying it, Charley,” he said. “This must be unpleasant for you. I’m very sorry, but we can’t help how we’re made, can we? I suppose I’d better tell you the truth. I like what I’m doing, and what under the sun would I do if I stopped?”

  Then his whole face brightened. It was what Charles had said to Nancy later. His father could always shed things.

  “You’re quite right about the trust fund, too, Charley. I’ll attend to it right away. You remember that ten thousand dollars of your mother’s and that five of Dorothea’s? Well, they wanted me to do a little something with it. I thought perhaps I’d better not tell you, but I’ve done something, quite a lot, and it really is time I saw about that trust fund.”

  He undoubtedly was planning to attend to it. The papers were even drawn, as Charles found later, for a fund of a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The papers were all there upstairs in his room, but his father had never signed them. It was one of those details to be taken up when he had the time.

  The day when the market first broke in October must have started for everyone the way it did for Charles, as a part of the ordinary routine of living. He remembered reading later, in a brochure published by a banking house: “In years to come the 1929 crash will doubtless be remembered merely as a summer thundershower.” When this was written prosperity was still just around the corner and happy days like those old happy ones would be here again if you were not a bear on the United States. When the storm did break, in a cloudless sky, work went on that first day without much interruption in conservative offices like Rush & Company. It was only when the drop went on the next day and the next and when the tickers lagged further and further behind the trading that Charles began to observe that all the faces in the office were stamped with an expression that began to erase individuality.

  Jessica had come to Boston on the morning of the break and they were to have had lunch together but he had called her up at her aunt’s house to say that, although it had nothing to do with his own department, he felt he had better stay at the office on general principles. Yet at home for the first day or so he could not notice any change and there seemed to be no more connection between home and E. P. Rush & Company than there ever had been. Back in Clyde he could forget the crowd around the board and those sickly individual attempts at indifference and composure.

  That first evening before supper, his father said it would be nice if Axel were to mix some Martini cocktails because it had been quite a day in Boston and Dorothea and Elbridge were coming to dinner. Elbridge had something particular to tell them and he hoped that Elbridge had not been monkeying with the market. It was impossible to read anything on his father’s face but as soon as they had a moment alone together Charles asked him if everything was all right, and his father looked very cheerful.

  “I wish you wouldn’t try to look like a doctor,” he said, “and I wish you wouldn’t think of me as a widow or an orphan. Hasn’t everybody been expecting this? Of course I’m all right.”

  He was like all the rest of them. They were already beginning to say that they had seen it coming, but Charles felt deeply relieved. His father drank two Martinis, which was unusual for him, but he did not speak again about the market. Instead they talked about the announcement of the engagement in November and who would be coming to the tea. Miss Lovell had called that morning to go over plans for the tea.

  When Dorothea and Elbridge arrived, John Gray was describing the next paper he was going to write for the Confessional Club. It would be about the South Sea Bubble, starting with Charles Lamb, and he was going to put it in one-syllable words so that it would not be over the heads of his audience.

  “And, Elbridge,” he said, “please don’t ask me what the South Sea Bubble was, because it’s nearly time for supper.”

  “Elbridge doesn’t care anything about a bubble,” Dorothea said. “He wants to tell you our news.”

  Elbridge fidgeted in his chair and asked for another cocktail.

  “I don’t know how you’ll take it,” he began, “but Dorothea thinks we ought to do it.”

  He liked Clyde, Elbridge said. He had always thought he was going to stay on in Clyde in Wright-Sherwin.

  “But Charley knows how things are there,” he said. “You get in a rut at Wright-Sherwin.” Maybe he had been getting into a rut. Maybe he was more ambitious now that he was a married man. You had to think about the future. Perhaps they might have children.

  “Oh, Dorothea,” Esther Gray said, “I really think you might have told me.”

  “Axel,” John Gray called. “I think we might have some more cocktails, Axel. Well, well. This is quite a day.”

  “Mother,” Dorothea said, “I wish you wouldn’t jump at things. Elbridge only said that we might have children.”

  Confidentially, Elbridge said, he had received an offer, quite a big offer, from a concern in Kansas City to be the head of their research department. It did not mean that he did not like Clyde.

  “Well,” John Gray said, “I’m sorry we can’t start knitting garments, but maybe you’re right, Elbridge. I never got very far here myself.”

/>   They discussed Elbridge and Dorothea and Kansas City all through supper and just before they left the table John Gray said that he had always wanted to go down the Mississippi—ever since he had read Huckleberry Finn. There was that musical play Show Boat. He wished that showboats were still running. There was no reason at all why they should not all charter a yacht next summer and go down the Mississippi. When Charles left to call on Jessica, his father was still talking about the Mississippi.

  No one at the Lovell’s discussed the break in the market for a moment. If the engagement was to be announced in November, Mr. Lovell could not put off certain mechanics and formalities. As long as they were going through with it, and it seemed as though they must, it was a time for everyone to stand together. Jessica would have to have a new photograph taken. Also, an announcement must appear in the Saturday edition of the Boston Evening Transcript, and Mr. Lovell had been engaged all day in preparing it.

  “Mr. Laurence Lovell,” the announcement began, “of Clyde, Massachusetts, announces the engagement of his daughter Jessica to Mr. Charles Gray, also of Clyde, Massachusetts.” Mr. Lovell’s face had a set, determined expression as he read on and he sighed resignedly when he finished.

  “I wish I could think of more to say about you, Charles,” he said, “but I did mention your grandfather and I did say that you come of an old Clyde family. And now, Jessie, I hope you and Charles will go over this carefully. I’ve given my day to it. At least you can give half an hour.”

  The next afternoon Charles left Rush & Company for an hour to go with Jessica to look at engagement rings and whenever he saw a diamond in a platinum setting from then on he thought of the faces and the tickers. You could no longer tell what you might get for a common stock when you sold it. Quotations had no meaning because the ticker was so far behind. Yet there was not a flurry at home that evening. His father’s one interest seemed to be Jessica’s engagement ring. Charles did not want too large a stone, but John Gray wanted it large enough. All through supper he discussed the theory of diamond cutting, and after supper he suggested that they all read aloud. He was reading from The Three Musketeers about the Duke of Buckingham and Richelieu when Charles left to call on Jessica.

  The third day was terrible but it was reassuring that his father had not bothered to go to town. He said there was no use going until things cleared up, and of course he was quite right. He did not want to answer any questions, he said. He would be glad to go over details with Charles when everything was brushed up and in order again. Short covering would cause an automatic rise—no matter what happened later. He was more interested in his new velvet smoking jacket of a deep Burgundy color which had come by mail that morning than in the news, and he wore his jacket to supper.

  “Why, John,” his mother said when she saw it, “you never told me about it.”

  “I still like to surprise you, dear,” John Gray told her. “You always look so pretty when you’re surprised. I hope you won’t mind if I ask Axel for cocktails, and I’ve asked for champagne at supper.”

  “I don’t see why it should be a party,” his mother said. “It’s just an ordinary supper.”

  “Charley looks tired,” John Gray said. “You don’t want to take these things too hard, Charley. Everything goes up and down.” Charles felt deathly tired that night but his father did not seem tired at all.

  “John, dear,” his mother said, “I’m so glad you got all through with everything before this happened. Do you know what he’s been doing all day, Charley? He’s been at the library reading about the South Sea Bubble.

  “You know, Esther,” John Gray said, “I think perhaps we made a mistake not going abroad this summer instead of chartering the schooner. It’s funny neither you nor I have been abroad, but there’s always next summer. We can stay at Claridge’s in London and I really don’t see why we shouldn’t take the Cadillac with us, and perhaps Charley and Jessica can meet us over there and we can go over to France. That reminds me—I haven’t bought Jessica an engagement present, Charley.… Do you think she would like pearls?”

  Charles was always up by seven in the morning in order to be in time for the eight-three train and the family usually had breakfast together at twenty minutes past seven. His father always said that he never could sleep late, because of those years at the mill. His mother was already at the table and the coffee was there too, in the new silver coffeepot, when Charles came down next morning.

  “Charles, dear,” his mother said, “I wonder whether you would mind going up and knocking on your father’s door. He always likes to be with us at breakfast.”

  “If he’s asleep,” Charles said, “perhaps he’d like to sleep.”

  “No,” his mother said. “You know he always likes to be down for breakfast.”

  There was no sort of warning or premonition. The sunlight had begun to creep through the fanlight above the front door. As Charles walked upstairs he heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs and the rattle of wheels on Spruce Street. It would be the ice company. The ice company still used horses.

  For years his father had slept in the small room to the right of the stairs, because he liked to go to bed when he pleased without disturbing anyone. Charles remembered the freshly painted panels and the brass latch of the old thin door. The latch was brightly polished, because Axel liked to polish brass. When he knocked, the ice wagon was still rumbling down Spruce Street.

  “Father,” he said, “are you awake?”

  There was no sound on the other side of the door and he opened it instead of knocking again. The window was open and a cool breeze was blowing the new chintz curtains. His father was lying on his narrow spool bed. The bed had come from Gow Street and he had especially liked its hard mattress. His Bible was on the bedside table and beside the Bible was the bottle of sleeping pills which his brother-in-law had given him. There was nothing to explain the spasm of fear which shook Charles except his father’s utter stillness. He was out in the hall again, closing the bedroom door very softly, before he faced the full realization that his father was dead.

  A moment later he was in his father’s study and he had closed the door behind him before he had consciously thought what to do next. His actions were automatic but at least they were correct. He could never admire himself for anything he did that day or the days following. He was only conscious of certain things he had to do and when he saw his father’s private telephone he must have given the operator his Uncle Gerald Marchby’s number from instinct rather than reason. It was still early and his uncle would be at home. He told him to come to Spruce Street as soon as he could, to open the door without ringing, and that he would be waiting in the hall.

  Instinct again rather than reason told him that his mother had better not be in the house when Dr. Marchby called, that it was better for him and his uncle to be alone for a few minutes. There was that dreamlike feeling of hurrying without being able to hurry, but he called up the Masons’ house and asked for Mrs. Mason. He wanted her to call up his mother and to think of some reason to ask her to come over and to please keep her there for a while. He must have said that something serious had happened and that he would tell her later. He may have said that his father had died suddenly, or that his father was very unwell. He was never sure. Then he walked downstairs to the dining room.

  “Here’s your coffee, dear,” his mother said, “and Axel will bring you your eggs right away. Was he asleep?”

  Yes, he must have answered, he was asleep.

  He remembered the taste of the coffee. He wanted to drink it in a gulp but instead he drank it slowly. He must have said something else, but he could not remember what. He had not finished the coffee when the telephone rang, and his mother said not to bother, that she would answer it.

  “It’s Margaret Mason,” she said. “I’m sure I don’t know what she wants so early in the morning.”

  “She probably wants to talk,” he heard himself saying, “but it is early, isn’t it?”

  He was waiti
ng in the hall when his Uncle Gerald came. He was not aware of any lapse of time. He remembered his uncle’s heavy, stooping figure and his baggy trousers.

  “Father’s dead,” he said.

  “All right,” his uncle answered, “let’s go up.”

  Charles followed his uncle up the stairs but not into the room. He waited on the landing until his uncle called to him. Again he was aware of no lapse of time. He only knew that he had done the best he could and that the rest of it was up to his uncle.

  “Charley, you can come in now,” his uncle said. His uncle was standing by the bed holding his black bag and the pill bottle on the table was gone.

  “He died in his sleep,” his uncle said. “It was a heart attack. The Gray heart, Charley.”

  “Yes, sir,” Charles said.

  “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Yes, sir,” Charles said.

  “Where’s your mother?”

  “She’s over at the Masons’.”

  “Does she know?”

  “Not yet,” Charles said.

  “How did she get over there?”

  His voice was hoarse when he answered.

  “I asked Mrs. Mason to ask her.”

  Their glances met and neither of them spoke for a moment.

  “I’m glad you thought of that,” his uncle said. “I’ll go and tell her. I guess you’d better call up Hugh Blashfield, Charley.”

  “Yes,” Charles said. “I guess I’d better, Uncle Gerald.”

  A time like that was a period of inevitable selflessness. Certain things which had to be done were cropping up successively and he was the only one who could possibly have done them. There was no time for deep subjective feeling. In all the rest of his days in Clyde, there was no time to think of himself and Jessica Lovell until the very end, no time to analyze his feelings about his father. It was only when he left Clyde that all the things he repressed and controlled came over him in dark, disorderly waves, and he could handle those moods by then, because he was away from Clyde. He was like someone who stood on the stem of a ship—by then—watching a vanishing cloudy shore line. Dreadful, half-believable things had occurred ashore. Those things had marked him, but now he was moving on, leaving the ruins of them behind.