“Well, things haven’t changed,” Nick said. “I didn’t think they would be changed, though. How do you always manage to laugh it off so, baby.”
“There’s no sense in crying about it, Nick. If you cried about what went on around here you’d be crying all the time.”
He studied her for a moment.
“Let’s go outside. I’d like to see the yard.”
“Mother wants to have a drink with you. Then we’ll go. All right.”
“Fine,” Nick said.
Nick had a drink with his mother and several small crustless little chicken sandwiches. He did not want the sandwiches, but she had insisted and so he ate them. She asked him several times what he would like for dinner. He said he really didn’t care. But she was persistent. Finally he settled for Chicken Pilaf, Greek style. Mary Stratton, though she didn’t have an ounce of Greek blood in her, was known as the very best, the finest of Greek style cooks in the city. Of this reputation she was as unaware and unconscious of as she was of her natural aristocratic poise. Consequently, lately, since she had taken to drinking heavily, she would occasionally try to outdo herself and the results were often gastronomically catastrophic.
After the drink Nick and Yvonne walked in the yard. It was a large yard, over an acre, with fine gardens and much lush foliage. In fact, you could barely see the street from the ivy-covered house when the trees were in full leaf. It was a big, old, well-constructed red brick house of fourteen rooms, with a pagoda-like roof of red Spanish tile. Nick had always loved this home, and his mind wandered pleasantly with the boyhood memories that the summer and the yard recalled. Then they went inside and Nick went upstairs to clean up.
While Nick was cleaning up, Old Pete returned from his trip. Mary had posted Yvonne on look-out and Yvonne had called to her that Daddy was coming up the walk. Mary met him on the screened-in front porch and they embraced. “How are you, Dolly,” Old Pete said, one arm around her, patting her shoulder with the other. With her high heels she was slightly taller than he.
“Take your father’s bag,” Mary said to Yvonne.
“You look tired, Pete,” Mary said. Most of the time she called him Pete except when they were having a disagreement. Then she called him Peter.
“I’ve a surprise,” she said. “Remember what your horoscope said about this being a good week for you. That you were going to see someone that was close to you. And you hadn’t seen in a long time.”
He stepped back looking at her with a slightly puzzled expression. There was no one that he could think of that he wanted to see.
“Nick’s home,” she said. “Here. Upstairs.”
There were seconds of silence.
“My son,” he said. “My son.” He stood there for a moment, stood there waiting for the vast reality of it to sink in. When it did lie burst into tears. “Nick?—Here?” He began to cross himself Orthodox fashion.
“He got in this afternoon,” Mary said. “He didn’t tell anyone because he wanted to surprise you. He really loves you, Pete.”
“My son,” Old Pete said and crossed himself again.
“I’d better warn you, Pete. He looks terrible. Thin. And has the most horrible scar on his face. And old. Please don’t say anything to him about how he looks. I don’t think you’d recognize him if you saw him on the street.”
“Thank-God he’s home, that’s all. Thank-God,” he said eyeing his daughter. “Yvonne, get down on your hands and knees and thank-God Nick’s home safe.”
“I already thanked-God,” Yvonne said.
“You get down on your knees this minute,” Old Pete said.
“Come, Yvonne,” Mary said. “We’ll thank-God together.” Mary led the way over to the porch swing and knelt down and crossed herself Catholic fashion, Yvonne next to her. Then Old Pete kneeled down in the center of the porch and crossed himself Orthodox fashion. For several moments it looked like it was going to become a contest to see who stayed down the longest, but then Mary gave in and got up. Old Pete wailed a moment until Yvonne got up, then he did. And they went inside.
Mary called Nick. Nick came down the stairs. Old Pete was waiting at the foot of the stairs crying hard. They embraced, kissed each other on the cheek, then Old Pete took Nick’s head in his hands and kissed him on the lips. They had always kissed when greeting, even in public, but it had been years since Nick could remember Old Pete having kissed him on the lips.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” Old Pete asked, stepping back and removing his glasses and wiping the still flowing tears from his eyes.
“He wanted to surprise you, Pete. I told you that,” Mary injected.
Then Old Pete spit on Nick a good luck spit. And Nick spit back a good luck spit on Old Pete.
“Get out the wine,” Old Pete said. “Get out the wine. My son’s home. The wine, Mary. We all have a drink for our happiness.”
Sitting in the living-room, they had several drinks of wine. Old Pete had attempted to bring up the war several times, but Mary had subtly, cleverly intervened and managed to change the subject. She wasn’t about to have her vast knowledge of The Care and Handling of the Returned Soldier go down the drain the very first night. Then Nick asked for a scotch.
“Wine, son. Drink a little wine. Eat a little. Then drink a little. Like we do in the Old Country. They know how to drink,” Old Pete said.
“I just came from the Old Country. And I’ve been drinking scotch. If you don’t mind, Dad.”
“Have whatever you want,” Old Pete said not very meaningfully. “Remember, son, what I told you. The only drunkards you ever see in Europe are Americans and Englishmen.”
“You don’t mean that, Dad,” Nick grinned that half-sardonic grin. “Why half the French army and half the Greek army, what there was of them, were drunk most of the time.”
“Aren’t you going to tell us about your trip, Pete?” Mary asked. “Aren’t you going to tell Nick about the business. How it’s grown.”
“Dad wrote me all about it,” Nick said. He had felt like saying, that’s all he wrote me about.
“How do you think you’ll like the theatre business, son?” Old Pete asked proudly.
“I haven’t thought much about it, Dad.”
“Well, you come down to the office tomorrow. We got nice new offices in the Field Building. I’ll show you around. You get to work next week, maybe. First of next week.”
“I don’t think I’ll come down tomorrow, Dad.”
“Nick needs a little rest, Pete,” Mary said. “He just got out of the hospital, you know.”
“How come you didn’t write lately, son?”
“I was on a boat three weeks, almost.”
“Yeah,” Old Pete said. “Your cousin Pierro got a letter from you. From Paris.”
“I’m glad he got it,” Nick said. He could feel Old Pete maneuvering now and it began to bother him.
“You’re tired, kid. Didn’t you get any rest on that boat?” he asked.
“You’ve never been on a troop ship, have you Dad?”
“I come over steerage. And went back first time steerage. Not that I didn’t have the money to go better the first time back. But I saved. It didn’t kill me either.”
“Those troop ships were terrible, Pete,” Mary said. “I read all about them.”
“I saw pictures of them,” Yvonne said, “at school. They were terribly overcrowded, Dad.”
“Couldn’t have been worse than steerage,” Old Pete said stubbornly.
“You were just tougher stock, that’s all, Dad. They don’t make them like your generation anymore,” Nick said with a slight edge of sarcasm which Pete ignored.
“Well, you look great to me, son. You stay home tomorrow and visit with your mother. Then I’ll take you down Saturday. By Monday you’ll be all set to go to work. It’s a good business, son. But you got to have experience,” Old Pete said. Nick saw Old Pete’s fists clenching. “Experience,” he almost shouted.
“I’m not going down Sat
urday,” Nick said eyeing Old Pete.
“Can I get you something, Nick,” Yvonne asked.
“See how you feel, Nickie,” his mother said.
“What do you mean you’re not going down Saturday?” Old Pete asked as if he hadn’t heard Nick correctly.
“I’m going to the races,” Nick said sipping his scotch.
“The races!” Old Pete shouted, astonished. “The races!”
“Don’t get excited now, Pete,” Mary said.
“Please, Daddy,” Yvonne said.
“That’s what I said. The races,” Nick repeated.
“You learned to gamble in the army, eh, Nick?” Old Pete asked with a sudden composure; a wired composure. A control that they all could feel.
“I never gambled much.”
“Peter. Are you accusing Nick?” Mary interrupted.
“You keep out of this,” Old Pete said. “You gambling, Nick?”
“I just got done telling you I don’t gamble much. I’m going to the races with some friends. That’s all.”
“Now, Pete, don’t get excited,” Mary said. “You remember what I read about our returned vets.”
“Goddamn it, Mary, can’t I ask my own son a question without you interrupting.”
“Pete, watch your heart.”
“Please Daddy,” Yvonne said.
“What kind of a goddamn family I got? Is everybody against me?” He looked around with his very best slightly bewildered look. “I work like a dog. For years. Like a dirty dog. For what? You think I want it for myself? For my son. My family. That’s what I worked like a dog for. And my son don’t even want to see his own business. Our business.”
“He didn’t say he didn’t want to see it,” Yvonne said.
“He’s going to the races. That’s how much brains he’s got. He’s going to the races. He hasn’t got a pot to pee in and he’s going to the races.”
“Peter,” Mary said as if shocked. “Don’t you talk like that in front of your daughter. I didn’t raise my daughter to have to listen to such language.”
“What kind of a son you raise. Tell me that.”
“Come off it,” Nick said suddenly, angrily. “Goddamn it, can’t we stop fighting around this house for a few minutes. Do we always have to fight, fight, fight!”
“You watch how you talk in front of your mother,” Old Pete said. “How dare you. You disrespectful punk.”
“You go to hell,” Nick said to his father for the second time in his life.
Old Pete sat there looking as if he had been suddenly, unexpectedly hit full across the face with a fraternity paddle. Then twice quickly shook his head like a fighter tossing off a punch.
“I don’t want to ever hear you talk like that to your father again,” Mary Stratton said indignantly. “War or no war, you’ve no right to talk to your father like that.”
Old Pete sat back in his wingback chair and put his hand up to his heart. At once Mary got up and went over to him and put her hand on his forehead, stroking it soothingly.
“Your father’s too old to get this excited,” she spoke softly, soothingly.
“I’ll be all right in a minute,” Old Pete said dramatically. “Get my pills, Yvonne. They’re in my coat pocket,” he said in a weak voice.
“You apologize to your father,” Mary told Nick.
Nick, his mouth still twisted slightly angrily, was staring at his father.
“Daddy hasn’t been too well at times lately,” Yvonne said to Nick softly.
Nick looked over at her. She nodded her head and smiled a hurt little half-pleading smile.
He breathed deeply: “I’m sorry, Dad,” he said. “I guess I’m a little touchy.”
“All the boys are when they come home,” Mary said, still stroking Pete’s forehead from behind his chair.
“Nick’s bound to be nervous,” Yvonne said, “his first day home.”
“I understand,” Old Pete said tiredly. “I know he’s not right. I know you wouldn’t talk like that if you felt right.”
“Get your father a little cognac, Nick,” Mary said.
“Sure—sure, Mother,” Nick said.
The telephone rang. Yvonne noticed Nick’s eyes twitch suddenly, frightenedly. She got up to answer it.
Nick came back with the cognac and handed it to his father.
“Happy-days, son,” his father said. “God Bless You,” he said with his eyes moistening. “God Bless You.”
“God Bless You, Dad,” Nick said, feeling suddenly almost heart-breaking sorrow for Old Pete.
“That was Pierro,” Yvonne said, coming back from the phone. “He said he’d stop by in a little while. I didn’t tell him you were here, Nick. Will he ever be surprised,” she smiled.
He sure will, Nick thought, then looked again at his father. Old Pete did look old. Suddenly so very old, and sad, and afraid. He was so afraid, Nick knew. So terribly, terribly afraid to die. Not even in the war had Nick known anyone that clung to life as desperately as Old Pete.
Suddenly Nick wanted to put his arms around him, to tell him that everything would be all right, to tell him not to be afraid—but he just stood there staring for a moment.
“I’ll get another cognac, Dad,” he said. “Then we’ll have a drink together. A good luck drink. All right, Dad?”
“That’s my boy,” Old Pete said kind of sorrowfully. “Soon Pierro will be here. Then we’ll all have a drink. Like old times. All the Strattons. Together.”
Nick turned abruptly and walked toward the kitchen.
CHAPTER XI
OLD Pete and Nick had their brandy together. Mary had taken Yvonne off to the kitchen—so that the men could be together, she said. An expression that had undeniably pleased Pete even more than she had anticipated.
Taking advantage of his sudden pleasure, she had quietly, before they (the men) actually began having their brandy together, called Pete aside and out of Nick’s earshot to the combination sun porch and library. There she had taken out her latest issue of Stars Are My Guide and read to Pete from Capricorn, which was not his month. He was a Gemini, obviously, unmistakably, anyone could tell that. She had read to him from Capricorn that today was a day in which he must be patient and considerate of loved ones. And a day in which, also, he must not attempt to exert his will upon others. Then, to make sure, she had read to him from Taurus regarding Nick, although Nick was obviously, unmistakably a Leo; anyone could tell that. Nick’s horoscope read that in the p.m. he was inclined to be irritable and not too diplomatic. And to avoid family arguments.
So, armed with this new knowledge, and feeling slightly crafty from it, Old Pete returned to the living-room honestly prepared to have a peaceful drink with his son, which he did.
Of course Nick was thrown slightly, to say the least, off balance again by his father’s change of pace; having one moment been sitting before a rather pitiful, sorrowful old man and seconds later, seemingly, sitting and talking with a quiet amenable gentleman in apparent excellent health about the Cubs and their chances for the pennant.
It had always left Nick slightly bewildered and before he knew it he had agreed to go to the game on Sunday, and before he knew it again had agreed to go to the Old Timers’ Luncheon at the Hotel Sherman on Monday after they had left the office. It was going to be quite an affair, as they were presenting Old Mordici Brown, Three Finger Brown as he was known, with a plaque commemorating his services not only as a baseball player but as a citizen of his community and his country. Old Pete himself had been asked to say a few words on behalf of the charter members of the Old Timers, he told Nick humbly. Adding slightly plaintively that there were only twenty-two charter members left. And then craftily quickly adding to that how short life was, how you had to take advantage of every opportunity or you would be left hopelessly by the wayside: There were two gods—Theos in Heaven; the dollar on earth. And then craftily sure that he had implanted his thought, he asked Nick about conditions in Greece.
As it turned out (Nick hadn�
�t been in Greece in over a year) Old Pete seemed to know not only more about present conditions in Greece but more accurately about conditions in Greece during that time when Nick had been an agent there, much to Nick’s astonishment and consternation. Undoubtedly half the information that Old Pete knew would have to be classified as top secret.
During this part of the conversation Mary had made a very timely interruption with a tray of her hors d’ oeuvres, reminding them that they weren’t to discuss the war.
Everything went fine until dinner. In fact Nick could not ever remember it having gone so well. Of course he realized that Old Pete had tricked him into coming down to the office on Monday. And knew that Old Pete realized that Nick himself realized he had been out-foxed tentatively, merely by having seen the smile on Old Pete’s face the moment that Nick had unconsciously, almost hypnotically, consented to the Old Timers’ luncheon.
It was really a beautiful end run Pete had pulled, Nick realized admiringly. Or would you call it a double reverse. In any event, he told himself, it wouldn’t hurt him to go down to the office. It would be interesting to see what they were like after the run-down old offices on Clark. Too, it would give Old Pete considerable pleasure. After all, he meant well. He had always meant well. Was always a good provider. And he was getting up in years. The percentages of his living much longer were not really good, as he himself had pointed out when he had referred to the charter members of the Old Timers. Only twenty-two out of the original fifty being still alive.
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