spoke mysteriously of “important contacts.” Cindy sulked. She would have enjoyed driving the Lincoln, but Fletcher did not care to be left without a car. He did not go out a lot, but did not want to be kept at home if he felt the sudden impulse.
“Daddy, just this once,” she begged on a blistering Thursday morning. “I wouldn’t take your car away from you if it weren’t just too vital. I’ve got to do some shopping before Saturday—”
“Your father’s going to the barber this afternoon. He’ll need the car.”
They were in the kitchen, Elaine preparing lunch, Cindy pressing a dress. Fletcher answered, but no one heard. Even a normal voice could not compete with the clamor of household machines. Water splashed over rinds and peels of fruit, which were being sucked into the clashing maws of the garbage disposal, the refrigerator grumbled like an upset stomach, the stove’s exhaust roared as if in an airplane engine had been set into the wall.
“What did you say, Daddy?”
“He’s using the car this afternoon,” Elaine said for the second time.
Fletcher’s throat tightened. Elaine was always too swift and ready to answer for him. Even here at home with only his own daughter to hear his efforts at clear speech. Dependence upon his wife had become for him an abominable need, and for Elaine an important habit, damn her. Of late when she answered for him with her smug tact, he suffered the sense of strangulation.
Elaine looked at the clock nervously. “Do you think Don will be on time for lunch?”
“Don’s always on time. Unless people keep him waiting.”
People in California were always keeping Don waiting. He had gone to see another friend of Nan’s father, a person whose importance made it unimportant to be prompt with a man in Don’s situation. This made Don very late for lunch. As a result the broccoli was overcooked, the hollandaise sauce lumpy. Elaine apologized too extravagantly. Fletcher merely tasted the food and pushed away his plate.
Don praised every mouthful. “You’re a lucky man, sir, to have a wife who cooks so magnificently as well as having a great many other feminine talents.” He offered Elaine a compassionate smile.
She thanked him coolly. Fletcher’s scowl warned her that she must not show pleasure in the young man’s compliments. She tried to turn their attention to Don’s business. “You haven’t told us what happened at your meeting this morning. How did it go?”
“It didn’t.”
“Didn’t you see Mr. Heatherington?” wailed Cindy.
“For five minutes. After he’d kept me waiting all that time, he shook hands with me and said we’d have to arrange another date.”
“People out here are impossible. No manners at all,” Cindy said.
“He had a board meeting. But he made another appointment.”
“How soon?”
“A week from Tuesday.”
“Not till then? He’s impossible.”
“He’s flying to Hawaii tonight. For a week.”
Cindy looked toward heaven. Fletcher rumbled out a question. This time they all understood and wished they hadn’t. The attack was direct. Didn’t Don’s bosses in New York expect him back on the job?
Cindy answered quickly, “They’ve given Don a leave of absence. They don’t want to let him go permanently, but if he finds something better out here, they won’t hold him back.” She tossed an arch smile at her husband, tilted a shoulder, let out a crescendo of laughter.
Fletcher looked grim. At the time of the engagement both Cindy and her mother had assured him that Donald Hustings had brilliant prospects and was considered indispensable by his employers.
“Well, sir,” Don said glibly, “they’ve been decent enough people to work for, but a man has to consider his future. And, frankly, they’ve got too much family in the firm. All the important cases go to nephews and grandsons, and if you’re not related you get nothing but minor cases. So I decided to look around out here.”
Cindy removed from her mouth the stalk of celery she had been sucking like a stick of candy. “After all, Los Angeles is supposed to be the coming land of opportunity, and with all of Don’s connections out here, we thought . . .” Confused by her father’s frown she giggled again.
“What connections?” croaked Fletcher.
“Nan’s father,” Cindy began. Don cut her off with the statement that he had excellent contacts of his own. Cindy interrupted with stubborn authority. “Nan’s father couldn’t have tried harder to help us if Don were his own son-in-law.”
The fact could be questioned. His own son-in-law had been made executive assistant while the only help the banker had given Don was introductions to certain friends. Before this could be stated, Don told his father-in-law, apologetically, “We know you’re not active now, sir. We didn’t expect anything.” Expectancy shone out of his clear, bright, undergraduate face. At twenty-nine, Don Hustings had the docility and easy charm of a boy who has gone to the correct prep school and college. Spiritually he had never got out of either. He continued to wear the deferential garments of the schoolboy who knows his place in the company of older, wealthier men. Good breeding and background were as obvious as his Maryland accent and fresh complexion. He had many notable ancestors but the family had been impoverished by a series of historical events that had begun with the Civil War and continued through a century of panics and depressions. Don could recite these misfortunes like a catechism.
He had dark, deep-set eyes and the prominent curling lips of a classical statue. Adoring him, Cindy could never forget that other girls’ fathers poured benefits upon less worthy sons-in-law. Vehemently she declared, “Don isn’t the type to depend on relations. And he’s had a couple of very good offers in case you’re interested.”
Fletcher rumbled out another question.
Don understood well enough to answer, “I couldn’t accept that sort of money, sir.”
The money people offered was never satisfactory to Don and Cindy. The ten thousand dollars that Fletcher had sent his daughter as a wedding present had simply gone with the wind. Don had been deeply in debt when they married, and was now in danger of being engulfed. Both he and Cindy felt it important to keep up appearances.
“Couldn’t accept that sort of money!” The voice in Fletcher’s mind was clear and scornful. The young man’s lack of humility irritated him. He would have liked to remind the complacent fellow that he had made his money without asking favors of anyone. Aloud, “What the hell do you think you’re worth?” he bellowed. Caught up in anger he forgot the therapist’s instructions for producing sound and controlling breath.
“What did you say, Daddy?”
Elaine had understood but did not try to interpret Fletcher’s wrath. She felt sorry for Don and did not wish to see him humiliated again. Her mouth closed stubbornly, and she pressed herself back as if her body were part of the chair. Don caught her eye. A swift glance flashed between them. Fletcher, watching warily, saw these two in the familiar vision, unclothed, embracing. On the table his big hands lay curled in frustration. His skin itched with impotent rage.
Elaine
