"I heard what you said, Jonas. That's what I'm talking about. I— "
I cut him off. "I don't think you did, Jake," I said softly. "My first words were 'Mi padre ha muerto.' My father is dead."
"Yes, but— "
"That means exactly what it says, Jake. He's dead. But I'm not. I'm here and the only thing you better remember is that I'm exactly like him in just one way. I’ll take no crap from anyone who works for me, and anyone who doesn't like what I do can get the hell out!"
Jake learned fast. He was at the car door, holding it open for me. "I didn't mean anything, Jonas. I only— "
There was no use explaining to him that if you pay more, you get more. Ford had proved that when he gave his workers raises the year before. He more than tripled production. I got into the car and looked back at the factory. The black, sticky tar on the roof caught my eye. I remembered it from the plane.
"Jake," I said. "See that roof?"
He turned toward it and peered at it. His voice was puzzled. "Yes, sir?"
Suddenly I was very tired. I leaned back against the cushions and closed my eyes. "Paint it white," I said.
5
I DOZED AS THE BIG PIERCE ATE UP THE TWENTY MILES between my father's new house and the factory. Every once in a while, I would open my eyes and catch a glimpse of Nevada watching me in the rear-view mirror, then my eyes would close again as if weighted down by lead.
I hate my father and I hate my mother and if I had had sisters and brothers, I would hate them, too. No, I didn't hate my father. Not any more. He was dead. You don't hate the dead. You only remember them. And I didn't hate my mother. She wasn't my mother, anyway. I had a stepmother. And I didn't hate her. I loved her.
That was why I had brought her home. I wanted to marry her. Only, my father said I was too young. Nineteen was too young, he had said. But he wasn't too young. He married her a week after I had gone back to college.
I met Rina at the country club two weeks before vacation was over. She came from back East, someplace in Massachusetts called Brookline, and she was like no one I had ever met before. All the girls out here are dark and tanned from the sun, they walk like men, talk like men, even ride like men. The only time you can be sure they are something else is in the evenings, when they wear skirts instead of Levi's, for even at the swimming pool, according to the fashion, they look like boys. Flat-chested and slim-hipped.
But Rina was a girl. You couldn't miss that. Especially in a bathing suit, the way she was the first time I saw her. She was slim, all right and her shoulders were broad, maybe too broad for a woman. But her breasts were strong and full, jutting rocks against the silk-jersey suit that gave the lie to the fashion. You could not look at them without tasting the milk and honey of their sweetness in your mouth. They rested easy on a high rib cage that melted down into a narrow waist that in turn flared out into slim but rounded hips and buttocks.
Her hair was a pale blond that she wore long, tied back behind her head, again contrary to fashion. Her brow was high, her eyes wide apart and slightly slanted, the blue of them reflecting a glow beneath their ice. Her nose was straight and not too thin, reflecting her Finnish ancestry. Perhaps her only flaw was her mouth. It was wide — not generous-wide, because her lips were not full enough. It was a controlled mouth that set firmly on a tapered, determined chin.
She had gone to Swiss finishing schools, was slow to laughter and reserved in her manner. In two days, she had me swinging from the chandeliers. Her voice was soft and low and had a faintly foreign sound that bubbled in your ear.
It was about ten days later, at the Saturday-night dance at the club, that I first knew how much I wanted her. It was a slow, tight waltz and the lights were down low and blue. Suddenly she missed half a step. She looked up at me and smiled that slow smile.
"You're very strong," she said and pressed herself back against me.
I could feel the heat from her loins pouring into me as we began to dance again. At last, I couldn't stand it any more. I took her arm and started from the dance floor.
She followed me silently out to the car. We climbed into the big Duesenberg roadster and I threw it into gear and we raced down the highway. The night air on the desert was warm. I looked at her out of the corner of my eyes. Her head was back against the seat, her eyes closed to the wind.
I turned off into a date grove and cut the motor. She was still leaning back against the seat. I bent over and kissed her mouth.
Her mouth neither gave nor took. It was like a well on an oasis in the desert. It was there for when you needed it. I reached for her breast. Her hand caught mine and held it.
I lifted my head and looked at her. Her eyes were open and yet they were guarded. I could not see into them. "I want you," I said.
Her eyes did not change expression. I could hardly hear her voice. "I know."
I moved toward her again. This time, her hand against my chest, stopped me.
"Lend me your handkerchief," she said, taking it from my breast pocket.
It fluttered whitely in the night, then dropped from sight with her hands. She didn't raise her head from the back of the seat, she didn't speak, she just watched me with those guarded eyes.
I felt her searching fingers and I leaned toward her but somehow she kept me from getting any closer to her. Then suddenly, I felt an exquisite pain rushing from the base of my spine and I almost climbed halfway out of the seat.
I took out a cigarette and lit it with trembling fingers as she crumpled the handkerchief into a small ball and threw it over the side of the car. Then she took the cigarette from my mouth and placed it between her lips.
"I still want you," I said.
She gave the cigarette back to me and shook her head.
"Why?" I asked.
She turned her face toward me. It shone palely in the dark. "Because in two days I'm going home. Because in the stock-market crash of twenty-three, my father lost everything. Because I must find and marry a rich husband. I must do nothing to endanger that."
I stared at her for a moment, then started the engine. I backed the car out of the date grove and set it on the road for home. I didn't say anything but I had all the answers for her. I was rich. Or I would be someday.
I left Rina in the parlor and went into my father's study. As usual, he was working at his desk, the single lamp throwing its light down on the papers. He looked up as I came in.
"Yes?" he asked, as if I were someone in his office who had intruded in the midst of a problem.
I hit the wall switch and flooded the room with light. "I want to get married," I said.
He looked at me for a moment as if he was far away. He had been, but he came back fast. "You're crazy," he said unemotionally. He looked down at his desk again. "Go to bed and don't bother me."
I stood there. "I mean it, Dad," I said. It was the first time I had called him that since I was a kid.
He got to his feet slowly. "No," he said. "You're too young."
That was all he said. It would never occur to him to ask who, what, why. No, only I was too young. "All right, Father," I said, turning toward the door. "Remember I asked you."
"Wait a minute," he said. I stopped, my hand on the doorknob. "Where is she?"
"Waiting in the parlor," I answered.
He looked at me shrewdly. "When did you decide?"
"Tonight," I answered. "Just tonight."
"I suppose she's one of those silly little girls who show up at the club dance and she's waiting on pins and needles to meet the old man?" he asked.
I rose to her defense. "She's not like that at all. As a matter of fact, she doesn't even know that I'm in here asking you."
"You mean you haven't even asked her yet?"
"I don't have to," I answered, with the supreme confidence of my years. "I know her answer."
My father shook his head. "Just for the record, don't you think you had better ask her?"
I went out and brought Rina back into the room. "Rina, this is
my father; Father, this is Rina Marlowe."
Rina nodded politely. For all you could tell from her manner, it could have been high noon instead of two o'clock in the morning.
Father looked at her thoughtfully. There was a curious expression on his face I had never seen before. He came around his desk and held out his hand to her. "How do you do, Miss Marlowe?" he said in a soft voice. I stared at him. I had never seen him do that with any of my friends before.
She took his hand. "How do you do?"
Still holding her hand, he let his voice fall into a semi-amused tone. "My son thinks he wants to marry you, Miss Marlowe, but I think he's too young. Don't you?"
Rina looked at me. For a moment, I could see into her eyes. They were bright and shining, then they were guarded again.
She turned to Father. "This is very embarrassing, Mr. Cord. Would you please take me home?"
Stunned, unable to speak, I watched my father take her arm and walk out of the room with her. A moment later, I heard the roar of the Duesenberg and angrily I looked around for something to vent my spleen on. The only thing available was the lamp on the table. I smashed it against the wall.
Two weeks later, at college, I got a telegram from my father.
RINA AND I WERE MARRIED THIS MORNING. WE ARE AT THE WALDORF-ASTORIA, NEW YORK. LEAVING TOMORROW ON LEVIATHAN FOR EUROPEAN HONEYMOON.
I picked up the telephone and called him.
"There's no fool like an old fool!" I shouted across the three thousand miles of wire between us. "Don't you know the only reason she married you was for your money?"
Father didn't even get angry. He even chuckled. "You're the fool. All she wanted was a man, not a boy. She even insisted that we sign a premarital property agreement before she would marry me."
"Oh, yeah?" I asked. "Who drew the agreement? Her lawyer?"
Father chuckled again. "No. Mine." His voice changed abruptly. It grew heavy and coarse with meaning. "Now get back to your studies, son, and don't meddle in things that don't concern you. It's midnight here and I'm just about to go to bed."
The telephone went dead in my hands. I stared at it for a moment, then slowly put it down. I couldn't sleep that night. Across my mind's eye unreeled pornographic pictures of Rina and my father in wild sexual embrace. Several times, I woke up in a cold sweat.
* * *
A hand was shaking me gently. Slowly I opened my eyes. The first thing I saw was Nevada's face. "Wake up, Jonas," he said. "We're home."
I blinked my eyes to clear the sleep from them.
The last piece of sun was going down behind the big house. I shook my head and stepped out of the car. I looked up at the house. Strange house. I don't think I'd spent more than two weeks in it since my father had it built and now it was mine. Like everything else my father had done.
I started for the steps. Rina had thought of everything. Except this. My father was dead. And I was going to tell her.
6
THE FRONT DOOR OPENED AS I CROSSED THE VERANDA. My father had built a traditional Southern plantation house, and to run it, he had brought Robair up from New Orleans. Robair was a Creole butler in the full tradition.
He was a giant of a man, towering a full head over me, and as gentle and efficient as he was big. His father and grandfather had been butlers before him and even though they had been slaves, they had instilled in him a pride in his work. He had a sixth sense for his duties. Somehow, he was always there when he was wanted.
He stepped aside to let me enter. "Hello, Master Cord." He greeted me in his soft Creole English.
"Hello, Robair," I said, turning to him as he closed the door. "Come with me."
He followed me silently into my father's study. His face impassive, he closed the door behind him. "Yes, Mr. Cord?"
It was the first time he had called me Mister, instead of Master. I looked at him. "My father is dead," I said.
"I know," he said. "Mr. Denby called."
"Do the others know?" I asked.
He shook his head. "I told Mr. Denby that Mrs. Cord was out and I haven't said anything to the other servants."
There was a faint sound outside the closed door. Robair continued speaking as he moved swiftly toward it. "I figured you would want to break the sad news yourself." He threw the door open.
There was no one there. He stepped quickly out the door. I followed him. A figure was hurrying up the long staircase that curved around the entrance hall to the upper floor.
Robair's voice was low but held the whip of authority. "Louise!"
The figure stopped. It was Rina's personal maid.
"Come down here," he commanded.
Louise came down the steps hesitantly. I could see the terrified look on her face as she approached. "Yes, Mr. Robair?" Her voice was frightened, too.
For the first time, Robair let me see how he kept the servants in line. He moved almost lazily but his hand met her face with the impact of a pistol shot. His voice was filled with contempt. "How many times do I tell you not to listen at doors?"
She stood holding her hand to her face. The tears began to run down her cheeks.
"Now you get back to the kitchen. I’ll deal with you later."
She ran toward the kitchen, still holding her face. Robair turned back to me. "I apologize for her, Mr. Cord," he said, his voice once more deep and soft. "Ordinarily, my servants don't do such a thing, but that one is pretty hard to keep in her place."
I took out a cigarette and almost before I had it in my mouth, Robair struck a match and held it for me. I dragged deep. "That's all right, Robair. I don't think she'll be with us much longer."
Robair put out the match and carefully deposited it in an ash tray. "Yes, sir."
I looked at the staircase speculatively. Oddly enough, I hesitated.
Robair's voice came over my shoulder. "Mrs. Cord is in her room."
I looked at him. His face was an impenetrable butler's mask. "Thank you, Robair. I’ll go up and tell her."
I started up the staircase. His voice held me. "Mr. Cord?" I turned and looked down at him.
His black face gleamed. "What time shall I serve dinner, sir?"
I thought for a moment. "About eight o'clock," I answered.
"Thank you, sir," he said and started for the kitchen.
* * *
I knocked softly at Rina's door. There was no answer. I opened it and walked in. Her voice came from the bathroom.
"Louise, bring me a bath towel."
I walked into the bathroom and took a large towel from the stack on the shelf over her dressing table. I started for the enclosed bathtub just as she slid back the glass door.
She was gold and white and gleaming with the water running down her body. She stood there for a moment surprised. Most women would have tried to cover themselves. But not Rina. She held out a hand for the towel.
She wrapped it around her expertly and stepped from the tub. "Where's Louise?" she asked, sitting down at the dressing table.
"Downstairs," I answered.
She began to dry her face with another towel. "Your father wouldn't like this."
"He'll never know," I answered.
"How do you know I won't tell him?"
"You won't," I said definitely.
It was then that she began to sense something was wrong. She looked up at me in the mirror. Her face was suddenly serious. "Did something happen between you and your father, Jonas?"
She watched me for a moment; there was still a puzzled look in her eyes. She gave me a small towel. "Be a good boy, will you, Jonas, and dry my back? I can't reach it." She smiled up into the mirror. "You see, I really do need Louise."
I took the towel and moved closer to her. She let the big bath towel slide down from her shoulders. I patted the beads of moisture from her flawless skin. The scent of her perfume came up to me, pungent from her bath warmth.
I pressed my lips to her neck. She turned toward me in surprise. "Stop that, Jonas! Your father said this morning you were a sex
maniac but you don't have to try to prove it!"
I stared into her eyes. There was no fear in them. She was very sure of herself. I smiled slowly. "Maybe he was right," I said. "Or maybe he just forgot what it was like to be young."
I pulled her off the seat toward me. The towel fell still further until it hung only by the press of our bodies. I covered her mouth with mine and reached for her breast. It was hard and firm and strong and I could feel her heart beating wildly beneath it.
Maybe I was wrong but for a moment, I thought I could feel the fires in her reaching toward me. Then, angrily, she tore herself from me. The towel lay unheeded on the floor now. "Have you gone crazy?" she spit at me, her breast heaving. "You know at any minute now he could come walking through that door."
I stood very still for a second, then let the built-up pressure in my lungs escape in a slow sigh. "He'll never come through that door again," I said.
The color began to drain from her face slowly. "What— what do you mean?" she stammered.
My eyes went right into hers. For the first time, I could see into them. She was afraid. Just like everyone else that had to look into an unknown future. "Mrs. Cord," I said slowly, "your husband is dead."
Her pupils dilated wildly for a moment and she sank slowly back onto the seat. By reflex, she picked up the towel and placed it around her again. "I can't believe it," she said dully.
"What is it that you can't believe, Rina?" I asked cruelly. "That he's dead or that you were wrong when you married him instead of me?"
I don't think she even heard me. She looked up at me, her eyes dry, but there was a gentle sorrow in them — a compassion I never knew she was capable of. "Was there any pain?" she asked.
"No," I answered. "It was quick. A stroke. One minute he was as big as life and roaring like a lion, and the next— " I snapped my fingers. "It was like that."
Her eyes were still on mine. "I'm glad for his sake," she said softly. "I wouldn't have wanted him to suffer."
She got to her feet slowly. The veil came down over her eyes again. "I think you'd better go now," she said.
JC1 The Carpetbaggers Page 3