Balance Wheel Page 6

  “I always said you were a ‘radical,’” said Jochen. “Why don’t you join Fred and sing the happy song of Socialism together?”

  The idea of being mentioned in the same breath with Friederich was so repulsive to Charles that he stood up. He was shorter than Jochen, and considerably smaller. But when he stood like this, braced on his sturdy legs, with his hands in his pockets, he exuded a curious force and formidableness. Even Jochen could feel it.

  Charles said, and he let every word fall strongly and slowly into the room: “Our father’s will made me president of this company. You can dislodge me, Joe, only if you can get Willie and Fred to help you, and only if you can get fifty-two percent of the company stock away from me. You can’t do it, Joe. And so, while I’m overlooking your insults, I’m not overlooking what is in your mind. You’re helpless, Joe. You aren’t going to badger me into getting rid of Tom Murphy. You aren’t going to get me to destroy the company union. You’re not going to prevent me from giving the men the little benefits we give them. And when the time comes—and it might come soon, considering the rise in the cost of living—we’ll raise the men’s wages. Let’s have that clear between us.”

  Jochen might have stood up. If he had done so, he would have towered some six inches above his brother. But he did not stand up. He contented himself with letting all his hatred glare from his face at his brother. He also tried to impress Charles with his contempt, a contempt he did not actually feel.

  “All right, all right!” he shouted. “We’re stuck with you, and you roll in that fact like a dog rolls in grass! I’m just your vice-president. I’m nothing. You rub that in all the time. No matter what comes up, I find later that you go behind my back and get Willie and Fred with you. They become mush in your hands.” His eyes narrowed cunningly. “There’s something sly about you, Charlie. But you’ll be sly once too often, one of these days.”

  Now Charles let himself laugh, and it was genuine laughter. “Don’t be an ass, Joe. Look at our company. Times haven’t been too good these last two years. But we not only hold our own, but we are making profits, too. I only want the company to prosper. I want it to maintain its reputation for the best precision machine tools in the country. What’s wrong with all that?”

  But Jochen did not answer. He was biting his lower lip. He’s thinking about the river property, and how he’s got Willie and Fred with him, thought Charles, with enjoyment.

  He knew he was right when Jochen suddenly grinned, and became all expansiveness. “Hell, Charlie, what are we fighting about? We’ve been over this hundreds of times. But I’ve been edgy today. No offense meant, even though I still think you’re wrong.” His grin became wider.

  Charles smiled in return. “Well, we all have our own opinions, don’t we?”

  Isabel had been listening smugly, but when Charles had stood up she had become alarmed. She knew Charles’ power; she knew he never forgot insults, and that he could become ruthless. She wanted a marriage between Geraldine and Jimmy. Jimmy was his father’s heir. She, knowing all about the coming controversy over the river property, wished Jochen had not antagonized his brother. She felt Charles’ hard antagonism, for all his mild words. So she gave Jochen a reproving glance, and said: “I’m really surprised at you, Jochen. Charles drops in for a moment and you begin to fight with him over company matters. It’s Sunday, my dear, and this is just a social call. Why don’t you reserve your arguments for your offices?”

  “I don’t mind, Isabel,” said Charles, giving her a tolerant smile.

  “Isabel’s right,” said Jochen, heartily. Now he could stand up. He stood beside his personable wife, and put his hand on her shoulder. Then he bent his big stout body and kissed her on the forehead. She looked up at him, fondly. “Not mad at me, are you, Isabel?”

  “I think you are a naughty, bad-mannered boy, Jochen,” she answered, with a murmuring sound of affection in her voice. “I do hope Charles forgives you.”

  “Nothing to forgive,” answered Charles briskly. “Our arguments mean nothing, do they, Joe?”

  “Of course not,” said Jochen, with even more heartiness. Now he was full of confidence and hidden triumph. He’d have his own little fun, on Thursday.

  Charles asked of Isabel: “Where are the girls? Where’s Geraldine?”

  Isabel’s beautiful breast swelled with pride. “They’re having supper with the Weaver girls. Such nice girls, you know, Charles. They are really the leaders of the younger set.” She was very pleased that Charles had asked about Geraldine. She knew his fondness for the girl.

  “Well, I must be going,” said Charles. “It’s getting dark, and Jimmy’s waiting.”

  They went to the great white front doors with him, all friendliness and cordiality. Jochen even accompanied him to his carriage. “Where’s your automobile?” he asked. “Why run around in this old-fashioned thing, Charlie?”

  “I like leisure—sometimes,” said Charles.

  They parted with the utmost amiability. Jochen returned to his house, looking up for a moment or two at its proud façade complacently. Isabel was waiting for him in the hall, and she was frowning.

  “Really, Jochen,” she said, as he closed the door. “Why did you quarrel like that with Charles? You know it’s a very serious thing, about that river property. You may have Wilhelm and Friederich with you, but Charles can be obstinate, and get into one of his moods. You might have kept things pleasant today.”

  Jochen kissed her again. “Listen, my darling. You can be pleasant as all hell with old Charlie, all of the time, but when it comes to policy, or anything about the company, he doesn’t get into one of his ‘moods.’ He just steps down, hard. Moods never move Charlie.”

  He chuckled. “But this time he won’t step on anybody. I’ve got the whole thing, right here in the palm of my hand. I can’t wait for Thursday!”

  CHAPTER V

  All in all, it had been a very arduous day, but a day that had been extremely profitable, also. Nevertheless, Charles was exhausted as his carriage rolled down unpretentious if well-kept Bowbridge Avenue where he still lived in his father’s old house.

  Here the middle-class Quakers and Mennonites and German business men lived, industrious, sober, unimaginative. They had not built on Victorian lines, but their houses had a certain compact uniformity of brick and fieldstone or of wood painted brown or dark green, shuttered and quiet, with broad verandahs and large gardens. The lawns were tidy, the shrubbery excessively neat from diligent pruning. Hedges, like green walls, separated property with great preciseness. One or two more daring families had installed electricity, but in the main the houses were lighted with gas. A few even used oil lamps, and while this was criticized as old-fashioned, the practice was not unduly condemned. Here, as Wilhelm often said, could be found more bead portieres than anywhere else in Andersburg, the most ugly of tremendous mahogany furniture, the heaviest lace curtains, the most ponderous crimson velvet draperies, the darkest rooms and the dullest rugs. And, again quoting Wilhelm, the worst cooks, the most parsimonious of householders.

  But, as Charles would reply to Wilhelm, no one on this street had ever become bankrupt, had ever (noticeably) dallied outside his conjugal bed or had overdrawn his bank balance. Bankers highly respected the residents on Bowbridge Avenue, and, at the last, Charles said, this was the most important thing.

  Charles had the only automobile on the street. He knew he had excited disapproval with this. The disapproval did not displease him. If it had not been for Jimmy, he would not have bought the automobile. But Jimmy, like so many of the younger people here, to quote their parents, was “restless.”

  Charles’ house was almost exactly like the neighboring houses. It was built of dark-red brick; it had dull-green shutters; it had a big verandah, a garden of rich flowers, a stable. Jochen sometimes told Charles that the furniture in any Bowbridge Avenue house could be exchanged for that of any other, and the inhabitants would not be aware of the change. Charles agreed, tolerantly. It was his paren
ts’ house; he liked it. He knew it was ugly, but it was warm and comfortable. He even liked the whatnots in the corners of the living room, filled with paper weights, Dresden china figurines, little glass gimcracks, and sea shells. These had been his mother’s pride. He did not mind the small windows, the overpowering trees, the shutters, the long narrow halls, the steep staircases, the stained-glass window in the front door. To him, it was home, ugly or not. The oppressive mahogany everywhere, banisters, walls, overpowering furniture, did not make him melancholy as they did Wilhelm. The old bathroom, with its marble tiles, marble wash basin and enameled tub enclosed in a mahogany frame, suited him. He had been born here, as all his brothers had been born here. He now slept in his parents’ bed, in which he had been born

  The more Wilhelm and Jochen ridiculed the house, the more obstinate did Charles become about it. The more they derided its discomforts, its lack of beauty, the more desirable it became to him. He was fond of the dark green and red plush in his living room, and of the black marble mantelpieces, and the crowded dining room.

  His housekeeper would be at her church now, but Charles knew that a cold and nourishing supper had been left for him and Jimmy on the dining-room table. His beer would be waiting in the icebox for him, good refreshing German beer. He let himself into the house, whistling thoughtfully, still thinking of what he had accomplished today.

  Young James Wittmann was reading in the parlor as his father came in. Jimmy was not overly given to reading, until lately, Charles thought. Now he read almost all the time. If Jochen had not spoken of the boy that evening, Charles would not have remembered this. He did not know whether to be pleased or displeased at this new studiousness.

  The big gas chandelier flared down on the curved mahogany and velvet and Brussels carpeting of the room. Jimmy was huddled on a sofa, with a big book on his knees. As his father entered, he put the book hastily aside. Charles observed that the boy closed the book, almost guiltily. Charles ignored the book, and smiled at his son, who stood up. “Hello, Dad,” said the boy. “I thought someone had kept you for supper. But I waited.” His smile was boyish and affectionate.

  “You know I always come back for supper, Jimmy,” said Charles. He sat down, wearily. “I’ll rest a minute, and then we’ll go into the dining room.” Jimmy sat down, slowly, and studied his father.

  “How’s Uncle Will, and Uncle Fred, and Uncle Joe?” he asked, politely.

  “You know how they are,” answered Charles, laughing a little.

  Jimmy nodded, seriously. “I know. But Uncle Will’s not too bad. I’m beginning to like him. I even like some of his pictures.” He paused, then he asked: “And how is Aunt Phyllis?” He was much attached to Phyllis, and he looked at his father.

  “I thought she seemed a little tired,” replied Charles. He shifted uneasily in his chair. “I didn’t see Geraldine,” he added.

  Jimmy smiled. “Gerry,” he said. “Gerry’s a wonderful girl, even if she’s only sixteen.”

  “Well, you’re only seventeen,” Charles remarked. “Why, you won’t be eighteen until February. Don’t try to grow up too fast, Jim.” He smiled as he said this, but he looked at Jimmy. There was no holding back growth. His son would soon be a young man. Though still so young, he appeared older than he was. He sometimes forced Charles to admit that he could “pass” for nineteen or twenty. Certainly, he was tall and broad, with excellent shoulders, long arms and legs. He had never been a good student at school, until this last year. Now he excelled. Charles supposed, vaguely, that all boys were like this. Then he recalled that Jimmy had been pressing him lately to write to Harvard. Next year, he would be ready for a university. But Charles had not as yet written. To write would be to admit that his son was preparing to leave him.

  He often told himself that possibly all fathers thought their sons the finest creatures in the world, but he was certain that no other boy could approach Jimmy for good temper, intelligence, kindness and maturity of personality. He was like his dead mother, in all this. He also had Mary’s curly black hair and her clear, dark complexion, and her sudden bright smile. Everything about Jimmy was alive and vital, without clumsiness or coarseness. A few years later Charles was to say over and over to himself: No one was ever more alive than Jimmy. Jimmy was life, itself.

  “What’ve you been doing while I’ve been making my rounds, son?”

  “Nothing very much, Dad. Just reading.” The boy put his big, well-formed hand over his book, as if to protect it. Protect it from whom? From me? thought Charles, dismayed.

  “You look tired, Dad,” said the boy suddenly. For some reason or other, he colored. He got up, quickly, and moved to a chair closer to his father. He had a very handsome and masculine young face, and now it was grave. “You’ve got no one to take care of you, but me,” the boy went on, awkwardly. “You ought to have had more kids, Dad.”

  “You’re enough for me,” said Charles, smiling with deep affection.

  But Jimmy was looking aside. “You ought to have gotten married again, Dad, and had other children, too. Why didn’t you marry? Mother’s been dead for years.”

  Charles stopped smiling. “I didn’t want to, Jimmy,” he said, and his voice was a trifle stern. He waited. “What’s wrong, Jimmy? You never talked like this before.”

  Jimmy tried to laugh, but the attempt was a failure. “I’ve just been thinking about you, Dad. I—I’m all you have. I’m the only boy in the Wittmann family. Aunt Phyllis won’t have any children. Uncle Fred’s a bachelor. Uncle Joe has three girls. So I just thought it would be—good—for you to have other sons.” He looked down at his hands. “The business needs other sons—your sons, Dad.”

  Charles was silent. His dismay was growing. He waited for Jimmy to speak again, but the boy sat there, utterly quiet.

  Then Charles said: “Well. I still have you, for the company. And Joe’s girls will marry, and Joe will doubtless get their husbands into the company.”

  “But their husbands won’t be Wittmanns,” muttered Jimmy. “I suppose, some day, I’ll marry Gerry.”

  “Then there’ll be Wittmanns, possibly half a dozen of them, in the company,” said Charles, heavily trying for lightness.

  Jimmy stood up. He looked about him. Then, restlessly, he began to walk up and down the room, his hands in his pockets. Charles watched him, perturbed. The boy’s steps quickened. He was frowning, and it was not a boyish frown. His head was bent. An unruly black curl fell over his forehead. He shook it away. Then he stopped directly before his father. His face was greatly distressed.

  “Dad, I’ve got to tell you,” he burst out.

  Charles said: “Yes, Jimmy. I’ve known you had something to say. But I thought I’d better wait until you were ready to tell me, yourself.”

  Jimmy regarded him somberly. “You see, Dad, it’s Mother. I was only twelve when she died. And I’ve been thinking.”

  Charles sat up in his chair. Mary. This was the second time today that his dead wife had been mentioned. He did not know why he felt so wretched, and so sad. He had believed he had overcome his grief, that he had begun to forget. But the wound had not healed, after all. He said again, very gently: “Yes, Jimmy?”

  “It was so senseless, Mother’s dying,” Jimmy said, rapidly. Anger was fierce in his eyes. “I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. And the baby died, too. It was carelessness. I know it was. And lots of women, like Mother, die like that It—it ought to be stopped.” He looked at his father, and his anger was more intense. “Dad, have you written to Harvard yet? I didn’t tell you, but I must tell you now. I want to be a doctor. I want to specialize in gynecology. I want it more than—more than anything. I don’t want to go into the company, Dad. I know this is terrible for you, but I just can’t go into the company, not feeling as I feel now. You see, I haven’t talked to you very much about Mother. I wanted to help you forget. But I never forgot. I want to save women like Mother.”

  Charles put his hand slowly to his forehead, and rubbed it He felt dazed
. Dully, he watched his son run to the couch, and snatch up a book. Jimmy presented it to him, thrusting it towards his father with kind of desperation. “This is what I’ve been reading all summer, Dad. Osler.”

  Charles took the book, but he did not open it or look at it Instead he looked at Jimmy’s hands, clean and strong and slender.

  “I know you are thinking: ‘He’s young. He’s restless. He just has a sudden idea, like all kids. He’ll get over it.’ Dad—”

  “I wasn’t thinking that, Jimmy.”

  Jimmy sat down again, suddenly, on the edge of his chair. He leaned towards his father. He wound his fingers together. “I ought to have told you before, Dad. I ought to have told you, two years ago. You see, I’ve been wanting this almost since Mother died. I know it’s right for me to want to be a doctor. It’s the only thing I do want.”

  Charles did not know what to do or say, so he opened the book. But he could not see a single word. The book lay on his knees.

  “You’re terribly disappointed, aren’t you, Dad?” asked Jimmy, wretchedly. “And you think I’m just being sentimental, because of Mother.”

  “No,” said Charles. “No, I’m not thinking that.” He went on after a moment: “I’m not going to pretend I’m not disappointed. I am. I thought you liked the shops.”

  “I tried to, for your sake, Dad.”

  Charles was deeply touched. He leaned towards his son, and laid his hand on the boy’s knee. “Jimmy,” he said. Then he could not continue for a few minutes. He coughed. He could finally speak again: “Jimmy, I’m glad you told me. I wouldn’t want you to go into the company if you don’t want to. That would hurt me more than anything else.” He tried to smile. “You would be unhappy, and I couldn’t stand that. Jimmy, when a man really wants something, he owes it to himself, and others, to get what he wants. And what you want is—good.”

  He rubbed his hands over the book. “Good,” he repeated. “I’m proud of you, Jimmy. I’m more proud of you than ever. But I wish—”