The Rebellion of Yale Marratt

by Robert H. Rimmer

  "I think she 'ties one on,'" Anne said before Yale could answer. "I don't think that she feels that copulation is nice or pretty or good at all. She thinks . . . to hell with that stuff . . . screw the world!"

  "Would you think that way?" Yale asked incredulously. "Would you, Cindar?"

  "I did once," Cynthia said quietly. "I knew in my heart that you loved me . . . yet I acted just as crazily as that."

  Yale frowned at both of them. "Ye gods, women are too much for me," he sighed. "How do I manage to get so involved? Whatever Barbara is doing is not my red wagon."

  He tried to tell himself that Barbara wasn't his problem, that his sister had never paid much attention to him one way or the other, that she would do what she wanted to do anyway. But he knew that in some strange way he was his sister's keeper, too. Was it some kind of curse to become so involved with people?

  He asked Anne. She recited a part of Edna St. Vincent Millay's poem for him. As she spoke her eyes twinkled at the amazed expression on his face.

  A man was starving in Capri. He moved his eyes and looked at me; I felt his gaze. I heard his moan, and knew his hunger as my own."

  Anne was sticking her tongue out at him, and wiggling her feet in the air when the telephone rang. Yale answered it, appreciating the long, clean view of Anne's legs and calves under her cotton dress. Neither Anne nor Cynthia wore panties. Sometimes Yale found it difficult to keep his mind on what he was doing.

  Yale had answered the phone abruptly. A polished male voice with a New York accent told him that he was speaking with Paul Downing.

  "Oh, yes . . . Paul Downing. . . ." Yale repeated in a loud voice so that Anne and Cynthia could hear him. They scurried across the room, picked up the extension phone and listened.

  "We haven't met, Mr. Marratt . . . but we have mutual acquaintances," Downing said. "Now I'm afraid that we must meet under circumstances somewhat less than happy. I think it is about time we straightened out our problems with the Latham stock."

  "My broker is announcing tomorrow that Challenge will sell forty or fifty thousand shares at $75.00 a share . . . first come first served," Yale replied. "You can appreciate that I can't offer sufficient stock to cover all the 'shorts' without making my own position too thin. If you would like to give me your certified cheek for three million dollars, I will have the stock transferred."

  Both Anne and Cynthia were surprised at the change in Yale's manner. His voice was brusque and his words sharp and clipped. He heard Anne whisper, "Hey, listen, Cindar! Aren't you proud of our big tycoon?" Cynthia started to giggle. She clasped her hand over the mouthpiece, and pretended mock fright at Yale's grim look and waving hand.

  "I'm afraid, young Marratt," Downing said softly, "that you are driving much too hard a bargain. Even if I weren't a bit strapped at the moment, I'd have to say that it was impossible."

  "That's up to you." Yale's voice was cold. "I'm not going to hold the offer open more than twenty-four hours. Maybe not that long. This Latham situation is beginning to jell pretty fast. Agatha Latham and I have other fish to fry."

  Yale heard Downing clear his throat. In the background he could hear the music of an orchestra. Downing was evidently calling from some road house, or night club. "I could force this out in the open," Downing said. "The New York Stock Exchange has rules in a situation like this."

  "Listen, Downing, you know as well as I do that the Latham stock is not traded on the big board. I'm offering you a damned good deal. I honestly believe that I can squeeze you and the other shorts a good deal harder . . . maybe twice as hard . . . so take it or leave it. . . ."

  Downing didn't answer for a moment, and then he said a surprising thing. "You know, fella, if I weren't certain, I'd have thought I was talking with your old man. You and he may have something in common after all. Your voice sounds strangely like his. . . ."

  Cynthia looked at Yale, startled. He saw her nod silent agreement to Anne. Suddenly, just as Downing was about to continue, they heard the phone being wrested away from him. They heard him protest to someone to get away.

  "Give me the phone!" a female voice demanded. "Let me talk to that brother of mine!" It was Barbara. They listened, startled. Barbara had been drinking. She sounded quite high. "You listen to me, Yale Marratt . . . I think you are acting like a big heel . . . why dontchu be nice to Paul? All day long I've been reading this very nice book that you and that man and your two wives all wrote together . . . shut up, Paul . . . I'm talking to my brother. He has, too! . . . two wives! . . . two . . . unnerstand? . . . How do I know? . . . Yale, are you listening?"

  Yale shrugged, and said that he was.

  "Yale . . . Paul wants to know how in hell do you do 'it' with two women at once. Huh? Okay, don't answer! I read all your book and those Commandments you have printed in the cover, and I said to Paul . . . you see Paul is in pretty serious trouble . . . I said to Paul . . . look at this . . . read this Commandment Number Three. 'Challenge is not concerned with the immortality of man . . . man must be taught to seek his salvation on this earth and in this lifetime through Love and Understanding of all men.'" Barbara chuckled . . . "Anyone who writes somethin' as nice as that . . . just wouldn't be a big fat prick . . . like you think my brother is, Paul . . . would he, Yale? . . . you know. . . ."

  "Bobby!" Yale interrupted angrily, "where in hell are you? Liz has been looking everywhere for you . . . she's worried sick. You call her up . . . right now! Do you hear me? What are you doing with Downing, anyway?"

  "What do you think I'm doing?" Barbara snapped, "teaching him how to play marbles? Well, you're right! I am! In his bed. And I'm lousy because I am miserable . . . all because of your Challenge crap . . . and Paul is lousy, and no damned good because of this Latham business. . . . Oh, to hell with you and your stinking Challenge!" Yale heard the phone crack in his ear as Barbara slammed it down. He looked at Cynthia and Anne, bewildered.

  "I never thought you could be so cruel, Yale," Cynthia said worriedly. "It's strange, but you know . . . when you were talking to him you did sound just like your father."

  "Well, you know the cliché," Yale answered, "like father like son. Wouldn't you know that that dumb sister of mine would screw up the detail? Why does she want to get involved with Paul Downing?" Yale rubbed his face with his hand, and sighed. "My God, if happy bigamy is so bad . . . what do you call what Barbara is doing?"

  Yale wondered if he should call Liz. What could he say to her? Your daughter is sleeping with a man twice her age. She's all right. Stop worrying, Liz.

  "I can't call her," he told Anne and Cynthia. "I just haven't got the heart. Besides, it's pretty common knowledge that Liz has been fooling around with Frank Middleton for years. Bobby probably knows the whole story. Who is to pass judgment . . . ?"

  Yale flopped on the couch, his head on Cynthia's lap, his legs across Anne's. "You know something, kids . . . sometimes I find it pretty difficult not to say the hell with everyone except us . . . let them stew in their own problems."

  Anne took the telephone from the table near the sofa, and dropped it on Yale's stomach. "What's your father's telephone number?"

  Yale looked at her, surprised. "It's Midhaven 3467. What are you going to do?" he demanded as Anne gave the operator the number.

  "May I speak with Mrs. Marratt?" While Anne waited for the connection she smiled coolly at Yale and Cynthia. "Mrs. Marratt . . . yes . . . this is Anne, Mrs. Marratt. I'm married to your son. No, not Cynthia. No. We've never met. I hope we may meet one of these days. The reason that I'm calling you, Mrs. Marratt, is that Yale has found out that Barbara is all right. No she isn't here. She's with a friend of hers. If she doesn't call you, you're not to worry. No, honestly, Mrs. Marratt . . . I'm not sure. It's some girl friend of hers. Yes . . . I'm sorry about Yale and his father. It's really too bad. Well, I'm sorry about that, too, Mrs. Marratt. I'm sure that if you would just let little things stop bothering you we could all be friends. . . ." Anne held the phone out to Yale and Cynthia. They could h
ear Liz talking angrily about how disgusting it was for two women to live together with one man. Anne bit her knuckles. Finally she said very quietly, "Mrs. Marratt, I just called you to set your mind at ease about Barbara. I've got to hang up now. You see, Yale is sneaking off with his other wife . . . I've got to check up and see what is going on." Anne laughed gaily into the phone and said, "Goodbye, Mrs. Marratt." She slouched on the sofa. "Well, how did I handle it?" she asked. Yale shook his head and said, "Oh . . . boy . . ."

  Cynthia laughed. "What are you going to do with her?"

  "Well, I tried!" Anne said sleepily. She slouched on the sofa. "Come on, Cindar, since we got out of rotation, let's draw straws and see who gets our wonder boy tonight. . . ."

  Harry Cohen called Yale at eight o'clock in the morning. He told Yale that he had decided to advance the strike date one day. As of this moment the Marratt employees, all twenty-two hundred of them, were officially on strike.

  "I want to thank you for your confidence, Yale. I think I've really got Pat Marratt off base. I hope we can settle the wages and get a contract in a few days. I thought you might be interested to know, in case you happen to see your father."

  "Harry . . . if you think that I'm in any position to conciliate your union problems with Pat, you are quite mistaken." Yale leaned back on his pillow. He looked at Cynthia, who still was asleep beside him. She opened one eye and looked at him queruously. "Is that so, Harry?" Yale said into the telephone. "No . . . we didn't hear the news broadcast. No kidding . . . well, it's all publicity good or bad. Challenge isn't afraid. Yeah, I'd stay away from here, if I were you."

  Yale hung up the phone. He flung the sheet off Cynthia and snuggled against her for a moment.

  "What'd Harry want?" Cynthia asked. She tried to ignore his fingers tracing the contours of her body, and his lips nibbling lightly on her nipple. "Hey, stop it! Any milk I have . . . and it's slowly drying up . . . is for Adar!" Cynthia sat up on the bed. She grinned at him. "What does it taste like, anyway," she asked curiously.

  "Chalky . . . warm . . . nice way to eat.' Yale jumped out of bed. "Come on, we've got problems." They ran into the big bedroom, and jumped into the canopied bed beside Anne, shrieking "good morning" to her. Anne groaned, "Oh, my God, such energy so early in the morning." She tried to hide under her pillow.

  Yale didn't give them details about Harry's telephone call until they were eating breakfast. "Today things are popping," he said to Sam and Clara.

  Aunt Agatha had already eaten. She was sitting in a large rocker in the kitchen, reading the morning newspaper. She looked at Yale, amused.

  "If you are going to tell us that the Marratt employees are on strike . . . don't bother . . . we've alread read the details on the front page of the Midhaven Herald . There is also a story on the Latham Shipyards." Agatha read it to him with pursed lips. "A new stockholder grouping led by the son of Patrick Marratt and the termagant Agatha Latham are forcing a stockholders' meeting in the offices of the Latham Shipyards tomorrow morning. The new group claim control of sufficient shares to oust the present management. Local feeling is that the present management has not made sufficient effort to bring new government contracts to the Yards." Agatha stopped reading. "It just goes to show that you can't trust these oily characters. I might have known that Peoples McGroaty was too good to be true. The other day he was being nice as pie to me . . . and now he has the nerve to call me the 'termagant Agatha Latham' . . . even worse, there's a long eulogy here in praise of Alfred Latham, and his long successful career . . . the article ends up trying to guess how the shadowy Yale Marratt, who is practically an unknown in the investment field, figures in the picture. . . ." Agatha scowled. "Imagine . . . after being so nice to me and then to call me 'termagant.' Clara, get me a dictionary out of the library, will you? I want to find out what it means. . . ."

  "This story has a New York date line," Sam said, laughing. "Peoples couldn't have written it. You probably got in the hair of some New York financial reporter once, Agatha. Gave him a wrong tip on the market or something." Sam picked up the paper that Agatha had put down and handed it to Yale. "Agatha is saving the best until last. . . . Read it and weep. Challenge is in hot water."

  Yale recognized the story that Harry Cohen had tried to tell him over the telephone. He read the article aloud. A Boston minister had demanded that Spoken in My Manner be banned from sale in the United States. "It's a filthy, blasphemous book. Using the guise of religion, this book promulgates the vilest kind of sexual filth. It exalts man above God. It has the nerve to state that its infamous beliefs are Commandments for all who accept its credo. The first terrible Commandment of this religion exhorts you to believe that there is no God but Man. That this book is being promoted as supposedly written by a now-deceased minister of the gospel is simply perpetrating a fraud."

  "He's really wound up." Yale read the news report with interest. "Listen to this! Spoken in My Manner is supposed to be the avant-garde of a new secular religion called Challenge. It has supposedly been published in the interest of good-will among all men. Don't be misled. This book is obviously the work of Communists. It is not only an attempt to destroy organized religion in the United States, but it is striking at the roots of our democratic government itself. I call upon all religions, Catholic, Jew, and Protestant, to unite against the terrible evil of this thing called 'Challenge.' It is a dirty, rotten creed . . . dreamed up by a modern Beelzebub."

  "Good heavens," Anne said, a worried expression on her face. "I'd be afraid of him, Yale. He's the kind of rabble rouser that starts book burnings."

  "Yale," Cynthia whispered, "I'm scared. This is only the beginning. The country is filled with people who will find Challenge a wonderful whipping-boy. Anything to get notoriety for themselves. It's easier to condemn than to understand. Oh, go ahead . . . smile . . . you have such confidence, Yale." She sighed but was unable to keep from returning Yale's smile. Yale was so clean-cut . . . such an honest person, but so naive. She wanted to hug him. "How did I ever get mixed up with you? When the world says, J'accuse . . . Yale Marratt! . . . Coupez sa tête! . . .' and the guillotine falls . . . Anne and I will gather up your head, with tears in our eyes, and take it home and preserve it in formaldehyde!"

  "Ugh!" Clara said. "I'm glad that I married a simple man."

  The telephone rang. Anne answered it. "It's New York, Yale; the publishers. . . . Yes, Mr. Greene. No! Honestly, I can't believe it. I don't know. Here, you better talk with Yale." She handed the phone to Yale. "They are swamped." She yelled excitedly, and started to dance around the kitchen. "Greene says that they have sold out that first crazy edition of one hundred thousand copies. Remember, Cindar . . . Greene said that it would never sell. He said in six months it would be remaindered and selling for fifty-nine cents a copy. They would never have run such an edition if it hadn't been for Yale's insistence. Now it's sold! What do you think of that, Sam Higgins? A million dollars' worth of Spoken in My Manner sweeping the country." She clapped Sam on the back. "Cindar . . . don't you wish that Mat Chilling could be here?"

  Cynthia nodded. "Oh, dear God . . . I really do, because Yale is going to need all the help he can get."

  Yale hung up the phone. "I never expected such a fast reaction. So far, according to Greene, we seem to have deeply disturbed three or four Congressmen, and a half dozen ministers. No comment as yet in the press from Catholic or Jewish opinion." Yale sat down. He continued to eat his breakfast. "The book is selling at a good clip . . . I told Greene to run another hundred thousand copies. He's got to move fast, I want plenty of copies available. Right after Labor Day the advertising campaign will really break."

  As they were discussing the amazing sale of the book, it occurred to Yale that he would now have to find an office staff for Challenge and get them ready to handle the avalanche of membership cards that would soon be pouring in.

  "Do you realize what you are up against?" Sam asked. "Everyone who pays ten smackers for that book is sure as hell going to claim
his Gadfly Pin. I don't know why or how . . . but you've unleashed some kind of craze that's likely to sweep the country. Do you know what a job it's going to be to handle all those membership cards . . . send out those pins . . . and handle God knows how much correspondence?"

  Yale and the girls looked at Sam, bewildered. "Yale!" Cynthia was dismayed. "You never actually placed the order for those pins. You told the manufacturer you were going to wait. Now what are you going to do . . . ?"

  Yale didn't answer. He grabbed the telephone and placed a long distance call to Pennsylvania. While the call was going through he cracked out rapid-fire instructions to Anne and Cynthia. They would have to develop a training plan for employees before the day was over . . . Anne could write an advertisement for office help. Call Peoples and get it in this afternoon's edition of the Midhaven Herald . They could interview the applicants tomorrow. They should check with the post office on the trucking of mail. They would need postage meter machines. How had he forgotten that? They would have to play the whole operation by ear . . . develop systems as they went along. He guessed that there would be a tremendous amount of personal correspondence. Cranks would write them . . . people would write them seeking information . . . maybe they would even become a clearing house for all kinds of personal problems.

  "Remember," Yale said, listening for his connection with Philadelphia, "this book is only the beginning. Challenge is going to have enough money and enough enthusiastic members some day to become a strong influence on public opinion. We will challenge hypocrisy on every front!"

  "Hear! Hear!" Anne cheered. "The King has spoken. . . ."

  "Yes . . . this is Yale Marratt." Yale winked appreciatively at his interested audience. "Mr. Healey. You've got your order. Yes, the Gadfly Pins . . . go ahead with two hundred thousand of them. Yes . . . I know . . . Challenge will send you an advance payment of fifty thousand dollars today . . . balance on delivery. I want delivery of the first hundred thousand within three weeks, boxed, ready to ship . . . no excuses. . . ."