Answer as a Man

by Taylor Caldwell

  When Jason had done and the ecstatic passion and joy and wonder had left him for a while, he felt that he had committed an unpardonable crime in taking this holy girl. He wanted to cry, to beg her forgiveness. She only lay rigid, sobbing quietly, and then turned from him. He thought that natural, too. Brides were always shocked on their bridal night.

  He told Bernard the next day. He was bewildered at Bernard’s horror, outraged by his oaths and condemnations. Didn’t Jason know that marriage was not entered into lightly, but was a sacrament? And, that girl … She wasn’t a one he would choose for Jason—had he been daft, then? There was that lovely girl Molly, always in the house, visiting Joan, though it was plain to see it was Jason she wanted. Jason swore. Molly!

  The estrangement began then, only to harden at the birth of the “seventh-month” baby.

  But Jason, standing diffidently by his wife’s bedside this May morning, could only think how unusually fortunate he was to have such an extraordinary wife and delightful children and a father-in-law who doted on him. He said to Patricia, “If you’re unwell today, Patricia, stay in bed and rest. Your health is not too good, you know.”

  “I think I’ll take your advice,” said Patricia, looking languid. But she had no intention of canceling her luncheon engagement with some young ladies of “the best families.” They had Bristol cream sherry, and Patricia, who would never indulge in “strong spirits,” drank vast quantities of that sherry, which lifted her pain for a few hours and made her laugh senselessly. That she was becoming the object of talk among her friends, who listened eagerly to the alcohol-released confidences, and that they gossiped among themselves when she was gone, she did not know. But never did she speak of Lionel except in passing and in cautious indifference. Of Joan, his wife, she said much, and all in malicious ridicule. “That cripple.” She was certain that Lionel had married Joan on “the rebound” after her own “renunciation” of him, and out of gentle pity or probably Jason’s pressure. So she consoled herself, but was not reconciled.

  After leaving his wife, Jason went to the nursery, where his children were finishing their breakfast. Nicole was rigidly supervising Nicholas’ manners, sitting upright like an infant Queen Victoria in her small chair at the table. Sebastian, who had a precocious mind, was reading a book. When Jason entered the room, Nicole was saying to her elder brother, “It’s not polite to read at the table, Bastie.” (It was a nickname to which Patricia objected, it having vague invidious suggestions.) “And, Nick, you use a fork with your omelet, not a spoon. You’re not a baby now.”

  Jason was amused. The children ran to him, Nicholas breathlessly babbling and flailing his arms, Nicole sedate as always, and Sebastian with a shining expression of love. Jason kissed them all. He lifted the heavy Nicole in his arms, where she immediately said, “Tsk,” and brushed off a minute thread of lint from his broad shoulder. She then devoted herself to correcting the placement of the tight black tie under his high, stiff white collar. This occupied her completely, it would seem, but she listened to every intonation of his voice and her stern little heart was sentimentally awash. She felt that her father and her brothers were children who would disintegrate except for her attentions.

  The nursery was filled with warm sunlight and pleasant cretonne furniture and blackboards and toys and braided rugs—all Patricia’s doing. The scent of new-cut grass floated in on the light breeze. Miss Flowers, their nursemaid and governess, looked severe. She was always disputing with Nicole, who had very definite opinions about the correctness of all things. “A damned little old woman,” Miss Flowers would confide to the other servants. “Obstinate. Always interfering.”

  Nicole gave Jason a very damp kiss just before he put her down and lifted Nicholas, who was clamoring for attention. Then, gravely, he shook hands with Sebastian in a manly fashion. “Be good, children,” he said as he prepared to leave.

  “They will,” said Nicole with strong emphasis and a quelling look at Nicholas, who was still clamoring. “Quiet, please, Nick.” The little boy immediately subsided. He obeyed his sister as he obeyed no other. She had a hard hand which was always in readiness, even for Sebastian, whom she dearly loved. All her feelings were adult and measured and astute. “The little colleen has a lot of common sense,” Bernard had said of her. “She’ll niver make a mistake, if she can help it. All rules and regulations. A proper tartar.” He would laugh and think again of his grandmother who had survived the Famine by sheer willpower, even though very old at the time. “Nickie’s a sergeant,” he would add. “Worse than my own,” and laughed when she had corrected him, respectfully but firmly. He once said to Jason, “It’s not reincarnation I believe in, though the Jesuits do, but if I did, I would say the little one is the reincarnation of my grandmother.”

  I’m really blessed, thought Jason as he got in his car in the converted stable and drove up the winding road to Ipswich House. A wife like no other, remarkable children, and money. If only Da had lived … He drove a very large Packard of a brilliant red, which Patricia thought vulgar. She preferred her dainty electric automobile, which did not smell or snort or backfire, and which had a polished black elegance like an expensive buggy.

  The morning was beautiful, but Jason’s spirits became darker as his car climbed the road. He had an unpleasant task to do this morning, and nothing would ease him unless he accomplished it. Like many of the Irish, he did not forgive, but bore great grudges when his sense of justice was outraged.

  He paused for a moment to contemplate Ipswich House and to remind himself that but for him it would not exist and he would still be impoverished. For only an instant he was gratified. The door was opened for him and he entered the great flagged hall, then proceeded to the offices at the rear of the left wing. Lionel, he had observed, was already present, for his Oldsmobile was outside, and so was Daniel Dugan’s Cadillac. It was to Daniel’s office that he went, and his face became more set as he proceeded.

  Daniel’s office was discreetly lavish, and expensive, with black lacquered furniture, cool white draperies, and a white rug. His secretary, a young man, was taking dictation. On seeing Jason, Daniel said good morning and dismissed his secretary. Jason sat down, looking formidable. “Well,” he said, “I got your message, and here I am. What do you want to say?”

  Daniel calmly lit a cigar and leaned back in his chair, studying Jason. “Let’s be reasonable,” he said. “Dennie Farrell has more than repaid Saul Weitzman. He thrashed his sons. Let’s look at the law—”

  “Damned to the law,” said Jason. “I want those bastards sent to prison.” His voice was rough, edged with emotion. “They’ve got to learn a lesson”—he thought of old Joe Maggiotti, who had been murdered—“or they’ll soon be trying to kill other people.”

  “They didn’t kill anybody; they didn’t even try,” said Daniel. He frowned at his cigar. “I know how you feel, Jason, and I don’t blame you. But let’s not get feelings mixed up with facts. They are young, still—”

  “They committed an adult crime,” said Jason, his face growing darker by the moment. “So they should be punished as adults. They killed my grandfather. Are you forgetting that?”

  “They didn’t set out to do that. It isn’t even manslaughter, according to the law. He was an old man and had high blood pressure. I talked to Dr. Conners, and he said he had told your grandfather a year ago not to get excited.”

  “Those bastards excited him. They caused his death.”

  Daniel said, “Mr. Garrity had a bad temper. His neighbors will testify to that if you go ahead with your plans. I’ve heard the boys are sick over what happened to him.”

  “I will make them sicker,” said Jason.

  “You’ll make yourself resented, or ridiculed. And it will be remembered that your grandda brutalized them before their father even arrived.” Daniel added, “People are becoming soft over children these days.”

  “Yes,” said Jason. “I know. They are going to be an example.”

  Daniel shrugged. “I
can only give you my advice. Let it drop, Jason.” He spread out his hands. “It’ll come to nothing.”

  Jason stood up. “Yes, it will. I’ll use everything I can. And Mr. Mulligan is with me. There are ways …”

  Daniel said, “With the law, or without it?”

  “What the hell does it matter!” Jason shouted. “One way or the other.”

  Daniel looked at him. He saw Jason’s flushed face, his enraged gray eyes, his clenched fists. He said, “Just be careful, Jason, be careful.”

  “Careful, shit,” said Jason, and stamped out of the office.

  We Irish never give up, thought Daniel. And perhaps that’s good, too.

  Jason went to his own office near Daniel’s. Though equally lavish, it was more somber than the other’s, all heavy polished furniture and dark rug and deep maroon draperies. He found Father Sweeney and Dennis Farrell and the latter’s wife, Kathleen, and Patrick awaiting him. Jason wasted no time. He looked at Dennis and said, “I am going ahead today and have your sons arrested.”

  Mrs. Farrell, a little plump woman with fair hair and sober clothing, began to cry. Her face was blotched with earlier tears and her eyes swollen. Her husband stood beside her, his hand on her shoulder.

  “Yes!” shouted Patrick, his small eyes dancing with blue fire. “I’m with you, my boy!”

  Father Sweeney said, “Jason, please listen to Dennis a moment.”

  Jason swung on the parents. Dennis’ narrow dark face was twisted in an expression of pain. He patted his weeping wife’s shoulder.

  “I’m not listening to anybody,” said Jason. “Justice is justice. My grandfather is dead, Farrell, because of your sons. They’re going to prison, no matter what I have to do.”

  “Yes!” said Patrick. “It’s about time, with the spalpeens the way they are these days.”

  “You’re going to have them arrested, Mr. Garrity?” said Dennis. He sighed. “You’ve got to catch them first.”

  “What the hell do you mean by that?”

  Dennis said, “I’d give everything I have to know where they are, my sons. They didn’t come home Monday night. The next day I went to where they work.” He paused. “They hadn’t reported for work for a whole month. A whole month. Not one day. But they brought home their usual … wages.”

  Jason frowned and was silent for a few moments. Then he said in a changed voice, “Where did they get their money?”

  Dennis turned aside. “They stole it. There’s been robberies in the neighborhood. I think that’s where they got it, but the police don’t know yet.” He drew a deep breath, almost a moan. “I don’t want to get the police yet. I want them found. I’m their dada.” He took his hand from his wife’s shoulder.

  “Mr. Garrity. I wanted my lads to go to the nuns’ school. But Kathleen here said they were too strict—corporal punishment. So, off they were sent to the public schools, where the teachers can’t whip the kids anymore. Can’t force them to behave. No discipline. When Mike was in school, he complained to the school nurse—yes, they’ve got them now—that I beat him when he was bad. Only, he told the stupid bitch that I beat him when I was drunk, and I took the pledge twenty years ago! She came to the house flourishing papers in her fist, threatened me with the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children. God damn. Never whipped my lads unless they needed it, and Kathleen pleading for them even then. ‘Only children,’ she said. A man isn’t a child after he’s twelve. The Jews say that—only, it’s thirteen with them. So do we, when a kid’s confirmed. But tell the mothers that, these days!”

  He turned on the priest. “Father Sweeney! What are you telling the kids? Why aren’t you giving them hell?”

  The priest said, “Dennis, we do our best. But the secular school boards are interfering, and we’re afraid. They’re trying to put parochial schools out of business, destroy our authority. A godless society. That’s what they want. If I were more emotional, I’d say it is a plot.”

  “It is,” said Patrick. “Old Bernard told me. He gave me books to read.” He snorted. “Separation of church and state. That’s what they’re muttering. And where in the blessed Constitution is it said that God should be outlawed from education? Doesn’t Congress open with prayer to Almighty God? Wasn’t all our colleges, and all public schools, opened under religious auspices.” He turned to Dennis. “You should have sent them to the sisters’ school.”

  “Yes,” said Dennis. “Kathleen, stop crying. It’s too late now.”

  “The nuns are so strict!” Kathleen sobbed. “Whipping the children. I remember, meself.”

  “It did them no harm,” said her husband, and now his voice was harsh.

  “Where are my lads?” Kathleen cried suddenly, her swollen face dripping with tears. But her husband turned to Jason, who had been listening with a strange expression, and not with belligerence.

  Dennis said, “Don’t think it was you who made them run away, Mr. Garrity. They just knew I’d find out about them.” Again his face twisted and his hard realistic black eyes filled with sudden tears. “My lads. I tried to teach them. Wan’t any use. What’s got into the children these days?”

  Jason said, and it was involuntarily, “What ever gets into men? It’s always there. Da told me. It just needs to be set loose, and it’s being set loose now.”

  “Deliberately,” said the priest. “I hear reports from the sisters.”

  Jason went to his large window and looked out at the glowing early-summer gardens, filled with a tumult of flowers and swaying trees and green grass spreading everywhere. How long has it been since I noticed it? thought Jason, shaken by what he had just heard. It came to him that he really had no peace in himself, and he did not know why. I have everything—and perhaps I have nothing, he thought.

  Then something mysteriously changed before his eyes. The gardens became more intense in color, and seemed to possess a meaning, something he had once known but could not remember. He only knew that the scene before him moved closer, surrounded him, and it was filled with love and passion and grandeur and the authority of a Law beyond the law of man. A tremendous light appeared to have fallen on the gardens, dazzling, overpowering, trembling with portent. Then he, too, felt small and affrighted, but exultant.

  But the adversary remained. However, Jason was stirred with compassion. God had no pity on men. It was man’s duty then, to have pity on his fellows. He turned back to those in his office. He said to Dennis, “And you don’t know where your sons are?”

  “No, Mr. Garrity.”

  “My lads!” wept Kathleen, and now her husband turned to her. “Don’t worry, Kathleen. They’ll come back when they’re hungry.”

  “They’ll go to jail for stealing!” she wailed.

  “And they’ll be punished. It may save them.”

  Jason doubted it. He said to Dennis, “Let’s hope so. I … won’t do anything against them. Perhaps I’m wrong. The thing is to get them back. I’ll offer a reward …”

  Would old Bernard have done that? Jason asked himself. Then he remembered what Bernard had once said: “We’ve got to stop men from corrupting men. Break the bloody chain.” With surly reluctance he had added, “And return them to God—if he’ll have them. Better still, to the Blessed Mother. She understands. Her Son, I’m thinking, has too much on his mind.”

  17

  Patricia dressed with her usual fastidious care to go to her luncheon engagement. She put on a brown silk dress with a hobble skirt bordered with a wide band of brown satin at the hem and at the waist. The neck was bordered in the same fabric. Her slippers were of the finest French kid, also brown, with simulated spats of light tan with brown buttons. She looked at herself closely in her long pier mirror, and was satisfied. She had been told often by her father that she was a beauty, called enchanting by fortune hunters, and was adored by Jason. Aided by her own self-love and the flattery of the local tradespeople, she could find few flaws in her appearance. She saw, not a very ordinary young woman in her mirror, but an apparition of t
aste and seductiveness. If she had one regret it was that she was still too slender, for while Lillian Russell’s vast breast and large hips were not so stylish now, plumpness was still fashionable in women.

  Patricia opened a locked drawer, to which only she possessed the key, and contemplated her trays of jewels. On her last birthday Jason had given her a long string of gold beads which reached to her knees, and to match, her father had given her a bracelet of the same beads, three rows of them, and a pair of yellow-gold earrings set with big topazes. She put them all on. She then finished her costume by setting her wide brown hat, with the yellow silk roses, down over her brow and putting on brown silk gloves and a brown silk cape.

  After a final satisfied glance in the mirror, she went dutifully to the nursery, which was on the third floor, where she found her children in the brightness of their playroom with the scent of new grass blowing through the windows. Miss Flowers sat at a table with Sebastian and Nicole; she was teaching the boy in an irritable voice as shrill as Patricia’s own. Nicole sat quietly, listening, sometimes turning the pages of her picture book. She already knew many words in it. Miss Flowers disliked both children for different reasons—Sebastian had a way of looking at her with an enigmatic directness which disconcerted her, and Nicole, never a hypocrite, was frank in her critical stare. If Miss Flowers had a favorite, it was Nicholas, who was restlessly pushing a red toy train over the polished floor, making puffing noises like a small engine. Disheveled as usual, he darted his restless eyes everywhere, but without interest. Seeing his mother, he jumped up, shouting, throwing his arms wide, his Buster Brown rompers slipping down to his hips under the long belted tunic with the sailor collar.

  “Careful, dear,” said Patricia as the child embraced her thighs. But she was pleased by his noisy greeting, and she preferred him over his twin, whom she lovingly called “my old lady.” Nicole stood politely, tidy as always, in a tight maroon frock with a starched pinafore. Her brown hair was curled by a hot iron every day—duty of Miss Flowers—but the curls did not shine. They were topped by a flaring butterfly bow of white silk ribbon. Patricia thought the child looked beautiful, but it was strange that she never saw the real beauty of the magnificent gray eyes, clear and shining as pond water, depthless in their expression, lucent and thoughtful and perceptive.