She spoke contemptuously in her loud, coarse voice, yet Charles knew there was no real coarseness in her, as there was in Isabel.
“Our ministers would be the honest and militant men most of them are at heart, if we’d just support them and encourage them to speak the truth,” said Charles. “Mrs. Holt, you’ll call Mr. Haas? Or you’ll write him? Or better still, you’ll send an open letter to the Clarion, expressing your approval?”
She laughed at him, cunningly. “I see,” she said. Her grin was wider. “Charlie, you never come to our house, do you?”
She laughed again, and again poked him with her parasol.
But Charles saw she was thinking, and that she was genuinely moved and enthusiastic.
“I’ll tell you what, Charlie, I’ll write to the Clarion about this sermon. Grimsley’s a friend of ours. And I’ll call your Mr. Haas, and I’ll send him a check for a fund, or something. Churches always have ‘funds,’ don’t they? Bottomless needs for funds?”
“Yes, they do,” said Charles. The crease of excitement was deepening in his forehead. “See here, Mrs. Holt, you don’t have to join our church if you don’t want to. But how about coming to services a few times a year?”
“You mean, show myself here?”
Charles wished she had not been quite so blunt. The eavesdroppers had dropped all pretense of being uninterested, and were listening with frank eagerness. Charles coughed. Phyllis said, gently: “Charles and I would love to have you with us, Minnie, whenever you’d care to come, as you came today. That’s what he means. We are so fond of you, you know.”
Mrs. Holt now became aware of her audience. She frowned at them, then suddenly said, more loudly than ever: “I’ll certainly come, and often, if your minister’s congregation shows its appreciation of him as a wise and courageous and decent man! A church like that would get all my support, whether or not I joined it. I don’t suppose there’s another church in this whole town that has a minister like yours!”
“We think so, too,” said Phyllis.
“Yes, indeed,” said Charles, happily.
He helped the two ladies into the carriage. Mrs. Holt leaned out: “I’ve giving a party week from next Wednesday, Charlie. You be there now, mind.”
“With pleasure,” said Charles.
Phyllis, smiling, spoke hurriedly: “I almost forgot, Charles. I had a telegram from Wilhelm this morning. Will you be home this evening, after eight? Wilhelm has a painting of Picasso’s and he is so excited over it that he wants to bring it to you at once, instead of waiting for your birthday.”
“What? What?” demanded Mrs. Holt, horrified. “Is Charlie going in for Impressionism? No!”
“Yes,” said Charles. He smiled. “In a way, I suppose you could call it.”
She stared at him with affront. Then all at once she began to smile. She finally chuckled. “Well, well. But Phyllis, you’d better call Charlie up ahead of time and give him a little information about Picasso, don’t you think?”
“I intend to do so,” said Phyllis, demurely. “In about an hour, Charles?”
He waved his hat to them as the carriage drove away. In high satisfaction, he walked on with Jimmy.
“Women are wonderful people, son,” he remarked. “Really wonderful. They’re so damned subtle. We’d still be in caves if it weren’t for them.”
Charles was hardly home when his telephone began to ring furiously. Jochen’s voice roared into his ear: “I still insist that man should resign, Charlie! Why, what the hell—”
“Why don’t you? asked Charles, calmly. “Willie and I would keep the pew. Then Mr. and Mrs. Holt could use it, with us, unless they want a pew of their own.”
“What’s that?” Jochen was staggered. “What’s this about the Holts?”
“Why don’t you wait and read the Clarion in a day or so? Mrs. Holt was at church, this morning.”
“You don’t mean she was actually there?” Jochen shouted. “This morning? Speak louder, Charlie, I can’t hear you when you mumble like that. I don’t believe it!”
“You don’t have to. You can just read the Clarion. But think it over about leaving the church. We’d like to have the Holts share our pew with us. Let me know tomorrow, will you?” And Charles gently replaced the receiver, leaving Jochen stunned at the other end.
“Yes, yes,” said Charles, as he went into the dining room with Jimmy. “All in all, this has been a most satisfactory day.”
In a happier state of mind than had been usual with him lately, Charles ate a fine dinner. Just as he was drinking his coffee, Mrs. Meyers announced that Mr. Friederich was on the telephone. Becoming tight-lipped again, Charles answered the call.
Friederich spoke quietly enough, but it was in such a tense voice that Charles guessed that his brother was deeply hysterical with rage. He also spoke in German.
“Karl, I am writing a letter to the Clarion. I saw one of their reporters there. I am denouncing Haas, and upholding the information in those pamphlets he had the audacity and impudence to stamp upon. I am giving further information.”
Charles gripped the telephone stand, but he answered calmly, in English: “I wouldn’t, Fred. I really wouldn’t. We have Catholic workmen; only a few, but they are among our best. The company union doesn’t believe in religious intolerance. There might be a strike. But even more important is that the Pfeifer Company of Pittsburgh is one of our best customers, and Mr. Pfeifer is a Catholic.” Charles had no such information as to the religious persuasion of Mr. Pfeifer, but he knew that Friederich would not doubt his word. “Mr. Pfeifer also has influence among others of our customers, too.”
Friederich was silent. Charles could feel his rage, however.
“Of course,” said Charles, “I never want to interfere with a man’s profound convictions.” He paused. “Especially not when the trifling matter of money is concerned.”
Charles withdrew his ear quickly when he heard the crash of Friederich’s receiver being replaced. His ear hummed. But he smiled again.
CHAPTER XXI
Phyllis called a short time later, just as Charles was preparing for his Sunday afternoon nap. She said, softly: “Oh, Charles. Good. Good. So many people have called me, very approvingly, and just very slightly interested in the ‘rumor’ that Mrs. Holt was at our church today, and is going to send Mr. Haas a check, and a letter to the Clarion!”
The sound of her voice struck him to the heart with a sensation of warmth and tenderness. They laughed a little together, with a mixture of kindness and tolerant malice.
Then Phyllis said: “I’ll give you the information about Picasso, now. Do you know anything at all about Picasso?”
“Nothing, except that I remember seeing one or two small canvases which Wilhelm has. A lot of cubes, and color, I think. Confusing. Well, tell me.”
“He’s still alive. He was born in 1881, in Malaga, Spain. He is interested in painting images, rather than ‘appearances,’ in contrast with the Impressionist school.”
“My God, Phyllis, what does that mean?” Charles was alarmed.
“You just need to remember ‘images’ as opposed to ‘appearances,’ Charles.” Phyllis laughed.
“What’s the difference?”
“That, my dear Charles, would require quite a lecture. You might mention ‘music’ with regard to Picasso’s work. Wilhelm is always saying that Picasso produces visible music.” She went on, almost pleadingly: “Wilhelm’s telegram sounded so excited.”
“But, Phyllis. All those images and appearances, and music!”
“Just quote back what he’s already said to you about Picasso. Tonight, then, after eight?”
What I do for the damned company! thought Charles, getting into bed. Smoothing down idiots like Joe, threatening idealists like Fred with loss of revenue, learning infernal terms like “images” and “appearances” and “music,” for the benefit of Willie.
Then he remembered that he ought to call Mr. Haas. He tramped downstairs again in his worn brown bat
hrobe and slippers. But Mr. Haas’ telephone was constantly busy. Charles called and called for at least fifteen minutes before he was able to get a clear line. Mr. Haas sounded exhausted, almost feverish.
“Charles, you have no idea! The calls that I have been getting for two hours. Everyone has been so kind, so approving, so laudatory. I’d never have believed it. And Mrs. Holt called me. She said she was also writing me, and writing the Clarion, and that she was sending me a check to express her approval.”
Charles, though pleased, was also intensely ashamed. It was a terrible commentary upon mankind that when a man does his duty it always creates a furor, and that if a minister performs his function as a minister, in its widest sense, all sorts of chicanery and cheapness have to be resorted to to save him from the wrath of his own flock.
He congratulated Mr. Haas, and recommended that the minister rest. Tomorrow, he reminded Mr. Haas, the Haas family was to go to Philadelphia for a long-delayed holiday. Mr. Haas sighed. “And I’m glad that Mr. Zimmermann is taking over the services tonight,” he said. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t have the strength for it. By the way, Charles, Mr. George Hadden is here with me. He came personally, to give me his congratulation, though, of course, he isn’t a member of our congregation.”
“Hadden, of the sheet metal works?” Charles was interested.
“Yes. He is a Quaker, you know.”
Charles remembered George Hadden, who was also one of his minor customers, a young man who had only recently inherited his father’s business. He was a tall and slender and dignified man of about thirty, quiet and reserved, seldom seen about at any social events. “I didn’t know he was a Quaker,” said Charles. Something was stirring vaguely in his mind.
“He is, indeed. And everyone knows what splendid people the Friends are, Charles. I am very happy.”
It was strange that Charles, though content, was unable to rest when he was in his bed in his darkened bedroom. The room was hot, for all the heavy pattern of leaves on the drawn blind. From time to time there was a dull rumble of distant thunder in the air, even if the sun was still bright outside. This was the only sound, however, except for the shrill of the cicadas in the trees. Charles tried to keep his eyes shut, and tried to relax, but he found himself staring at the dark and enormous shapes of his mahogany furniture. They seemed to lurk in the room, ominously, no longer friendly as usual.
Now his contentment was gone. The oppressiveness of the atmosphere began to smother him. His disquiet returned, though without form. It’s the thunder, just over the mountain, he thought. The cicadas shrilled louder. The leaf-patterns hardly stirred on the blinds. Then Charles heard the voices of his son and Geraldine Wittmann in the breathless air.
Charles began to speculate upon the children. Their voices soothed him. What did they talk about, these eager and earnest young people? Charles got up, in his nightshirt, left his room, tiptoed into the back bedroom, which was Jimmy’s. The room blazed with light, and the window was open. Jimmy and Geraldine were below, under the trees. Jimmy was stretched in the hammock, and Geraldine sat in the grass beside him.
“There never was anybody like Dad,” Jimmy was saying, with pride. He was eating a peach, and his words were a little muffled.
“My father’s really a darling, too,” said Geraldine, slowly.
Charles, peering cautiously from behind the curtain, saw Jimmy give her a tolerant glance. “Oh, yes, naturally.”
The two were silent for a few moments. Geraldine did not look particularly happy. Her young, dark face was somewhat grave. Her hands were locked together on her thin knees; her white lawn dress was somewhat rumpled, and her black hair streamed down her back.
“I don’t think people differ very much,” she said, thought-fully. “They just have different opinions. At the bottom, they are the same.”
Jimmy was annoyed. “I don’t know about that,” he said. “How do people get different opinions? By being different, that’s why.”
“But difference comes from wants. Your father wants something, Jimmy, and mine wants something else. They both want, however.”
“You think if people all wanted the same thing, at the same time, they’d be the same people?”
“Of course, Jimmy.”
He fished a peach from some recess behind him, and Geraldine accepted it. They munched together. Jimmy rocked slowly in his hammock. Peach juice ran down the girl’s chin. She sighed, “It’s so hot,” he said. “It feels as if something is threatening, doesn’t it?”
Jimmy nodded. Now he was frowning. “Something in the air,” he said.
Charles withdrew. He went back to his sweltering bedroom, but not to his bed. He sat in a plush chair and lit a cigar, but did not roll up the blind. Threatening. It was not only the August heat. The smoke curled sluggishly in the gloom. Charles sat very still, listening to the thunder which never retreated, never came nearer. Perhaps it’ll stay that way, thought Charles.
Mrs. Meyers did not remain for Sunday supper, though she always laid it out on the dining-room table: slices of roast pork, beef, ham, sausage, and potato salad and rolls wrapped in a white cloth, and a covered cake. Jimmy made coffee for himself and Geraldine. Waiting at the table, Charles could hear their young laughter in the kitchen. Jimmy brought in a glass of very cold beer for his father. He gave Charles a quick and unobtrusive look.
“Couldn’t sleep very well today, eh, Dad?”
“I slept very well,” said Charles. He stretched out his hand to Geraldine, who sat beside him, and he stroked her long hair affectionately. “You are a sweet child,” he said.
“She’s terrible,” said Jimmy, comfortably. He glanced at his cousin with superior fondness. “She never combs her hair.”
He and Geraldine cleared the table, while Charles went into the parlor. He could hear the voices of his neighbors, low and decorous, from adjoining verandahs. He was not in the mood for exchanging any comments with them. A little later, his son and Geraldine entered.
“Do you mind if we close the windows and play the gramophone?” asked Jimmy. “So our neighbors won’t be horrified by hearing music on Sunday?”
Charles smiled his assent. The presence of the young people comforted him. Jimmy was fond of classical music; Charles thought it would be a small price to pay for being with his son and niece. But Jimmy put on some very lively and noisy records, and the sound seemed to jump wildly all over the room. Jimmy held out his arms to Geraldine, and the two began to skip convulsively up and down over the carpet, giving a small leap from time to time. Charles watched, much amazed. He thought the dancing very irregular; the boy and girl were clutched together, Jimmy’s face in Geraldine’s floating hair. He also thought it very ugly and very funny and touchingly innocent. They were so grave and so absorbed of face, while their young legs performed the most amazing and rapid feats.
“What on earth,” Charles murmured, when they stopped in the midst of one convulsion to change the record.
“It’s the bunny hug,” Jimmy informed him. “I’m teaching it to Gerry. She’s doing very well,” he added, patronizingly. “Of course, it looks awful to you, Dad. You’re of the old waltz school.”
“You make me sound doddering,” said Charles. He stood up. “I think I can do as well as you, Jimmy.” And he held out his hand to Geraldine. The boy and girl flashed an amused smile at each other. The music, if it could be called that, screamed out shrilly and with a maddening rhythm. “I’ve heard ragtime before,” said Charles. “Come on, Gerry.”
Geraldine tried to dance slowly, with deference for her uncle’s great age, but Charles, as if possessed, pulled and pushed her madly up and down the room. Jimmy watched, aghast. Once he called out, feebly: “Your blood pressure, Dad—” But Charles leapt about and Geraldine, breathless, could hardly keep up with him.
The music crashed to a violent stop. Charles, laughing, stood and mopped his wet and scarlet face. Geraldine was quite disheveled, her white dress twisted on her slight body, her black silk stockings
wrinkled. Her hair had partially fallen over her face, and she put up her hands to tuck it back under her blue ribbon.
Jimmy began to wind up the gramophone. But he was very anxious. “Uncle Charlie’s wonderful,” said Geraldine, catching her breath. “He did it better than you, Jimmy.”
Charles’ heart was pounding, but he felt exhilarated. “I ought to get about and do more of this,” he said, trying not to gasp. “You aren’t the only young man in the family, Jim.”
They were now both looking at him with apprehension. But he laughed, and sat down. He gathered that Jimmy was not only anxious about him, but that he had thought his father’s dancing a trifle unseemly. Conservative, remarked Charles to himself, amused. Why do older people always think the young are empty-headed and irresponsible?
“Do you want some more nice, cold beer, or lemonade?” asked Jimmy, tentatively. “Cool you off?”
“I want some nice Scotch,” said Charles. “Bring me my bottle, Jim, and a glass of water, too.”
Together, the two went out, trying to hide their disapproval of this extraordinary conduct. They came back into the room with Charles’ bottle of Scotch and a glass of water. They were more disapproving than ever, and suspicious. Charles loved them. He filled his glass once; then, when it was half empty, he poured more whiskey into it. They still stood there, reproachful, and remote, and watched him.
Geraldine was about to leave when Wilhelm’s carriage drove up, and Wilhelm and Phyllis came up the stairs of the verandah. Jimmy ran to open the door for them. He liked his uncle, and had much affection for Phyllis.
Wilhelm, elegant in his black, his air of reserve hardly hiding his excitement, came in carrying a small canvas wrapped in paper. Charles was struck again by the resemblance between Geraldine and Wilhelm. In order to relieve the girl of her shyness in Wilhelm’s presence, he said: “Wilhelm, have you ever noticed how much Gerry looks like you? Extraordinary.”
“No, I never did,” Wilhelm tried for impatience. But he looked with interest at Geraldine, who was flushing. Phyllis said, kindly: “But the darling really does, Wilhelm.” She put her arm about the girl. “Look at those eyes, the shape of her face, her nose, her mouth. You might be her father.”
The Balance Wheel Page 23