Farnham's Freehold (2 page)

“And munching food.”

“Come on, Barbara. Let’s buttle.”

Hubert Farnham watched them go, while thinking it was a shame that so nice a child as Mrs. Wells should have had a sour marriage. A sound game of bridge and a good disposition—Gangly and horse faced, perhaps—But a nice smile and a mind of her own. If Duke had any gumption—

But Duke didn’t have any. He went to where his wife was nodding by the television receiver, and said, “Grace? Grace darling, ready for bed?”—then helped her into her bedroom.

When he came back, he found his son alone. He sat down and said, “Duke, I’m sorry about that difference of opinion at dinner.”

“That? Oh, forget it.”

“I would rather have your respect than your tolerance. I know that you disapprove of my ‘panic hole.’ But we have never discussed why I built it.”

“What is there to discuss? You think the Soviet Union is going to attack. You think that hole in the ground will save your life. Both ideas are unhealthy. Sick. Especially unhealthy for Mother. You are driving her to drink. I don’t like it. I liked it still less to have you remind me—
me
, a lawyer!—that I must not interfere between husband and wife.” Duke started to get up. “I’ll be going.”

“Please, Son! Doesn’t the defense get a chance?”

“Uh—All right, all right!” Duke sat down.

“I respect your opinions. I don’t share them but many people do. Perhaps most people, since most Americans have made no effort to save themselves. But on the points you made, you are mistaken. I don’t expect the USSR to attack—and I doubt if our shelter is enough to save our lives.”

“Then why go around with that plug in your ear scaring Mother out of her wits?”

“I’ve never had an automobile accident. But I carry auto insurance. That shelter is my insurance policy.”

“But you just said it wouldn’t save your life!”

“No, I said I doubted that it would be enough. It could save our lives if we lived a hundred miles away. But Mountain Springs is a prime target…and no citizen can build anything strong enough to stop a direct hit.”

“Then why bother?”

“I told you. The best insurance I can afford. Our shelter won’t stop a direct hit. But it will stand up to a near miss—and Russians aren’t supermen and rockets are temperamental. I’ve minimized the risk. That’s the best I can do.”

Duke hesitated. “Dad, I can’t be diplomatic.”

“Then don’t try.”

“So I’ll be blunt. Do you have to ruin Mother’s life, turn her into a lush, just on the chance that a hole in the ground will let you live a few years longer? Will it be worth while to be alive—afterwards—with the country devastated and all your friends dead?”

“Probably not.”

“Then
why?
”

“Duke, you aren’t married.”

“Obviously.”

“Son, I must be blunt myself. It has been years since I’ve had any real interest in staying alive. You are grown and on your own, and your sister is a grown woman, even though she is still in school. As for myself—” He shrugged. “The most satisfying thing left is the fiddling pleasure of a game of bridge. As you are aware, there isn’t much companionship left in my marriage.”

“I am aware, all right. But it’s your fault. You’re crowding Mother into a nervous breakdown.”

“I wish it were that simple. In the first place—You were at law school when I built the shelter, during that Berlin crisis. Your mother perked up and stayed sober. She would take a martini and let it go at that—instead of four as she did tonight. Duke, Grace
wants
that shelter.”

“Well—maybe so. But you aren’t soothing her by trotting around with that plug in your ear.”

“Perhaps not. But I have no choice.”

“What do you mean?”

“Grace is my
wife
, Son. ‘To love and to cherish’ includes keeping her alive if I can. That shelter may keep her alive. But
only
if she is in it. How much warning today? Fifteen minutes, if we’re lucky. But three minutes could be time enough to get her into the shelter. But if I don’t hear the alert, I won’t have three minutes. So I listen. During any crisis.”

“Suppose it happens when you are asleep?”

His father smiled. “If the news is bad, I sleep with this button taped into my ear. When it’s really bad—as it is tonight—Grace and I sleep in the shelter. The girls will be urged to sleep there. And you are invited.”

“Not likely!”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Dad, stipulating that an attack is possible—merely stipulating, as the Russians aren’t crazy—why build a shelter smack on a target? Why don’t you pick a place far from any target, build there—again stipulating that Mother needs one for her nerves, which may be true—and get Mother off the sauce?”

Hubert Farnham sighed. “Son, she won’t have it. This is her home.”

“Make her!”

“Duke, have you ever tried to make a woman do anything she really didn’t want to do? Besides that, a weakness for the sauce—hell, growing alcoholism—is not that simple. I must cope with it as best I can. However—Duke, I told you that I did not have much reason to stay alive. But I do have one reason.”

“Such as?”

“If those lying, cheating bastards ever throw their murder weapons at the United States, I want to live long enough to go to hell in style—with eight Russian side-boys!”

Farnham twisted in his chair. “I mean it, Duke. America is the best thing in history,
I
think, and if those scoundrels kill our country, I want to kill a few of them. Eight side boys. Not less. I felt relieved when Grace refused to consider moving.”

“Why, Dad?”

“Because I don’t want that pig-faced peasant with the manners of a pig to run me out of my home! I’m a free man. I intend to stay free. I’ve made every preparation I can. But I wouldn’t relish running away. I—Here come the girls.”

Karen came in carrying drinks, followed by Barbara. “Hi! Barb got a look at our kitchen and decided to make crêpes Suzettes. Why are you two looking grim? More bad news?”

“No, but if you will snap the television on, we might get part of the ten o’clock roundup. Barbara, those glorified pancakes smell wonderful. Want a job as a cook?”

“What about Joseph?”

“We’ll keep Joseph as housekeeper.”

“I accept.”

Duke said, “Hey! You refused my offer of honorable matrimony and turn around and agree to live in sin with my old man. How come?”

“I didn’t hear ‘sin’ mentioned.”

“Don’t you
know
? Barbara… Dad is a notorious sex criminal.”

“Is this true, Mr. Farnham?”

“Well…”

“That’s why I studied law, Barbara. It was breaking us to bring Jerry Giesler all the way from Los Angeles every time Dad got into a jam.”

“Those were the good old days!” Duke’s father agreed. “But, Barbara, that was years ago. Contract is my weakness now.”

“In that case I would expect a higher salary—”

“Hush, children!” Karen said forcefully. She turned up the sound:

“
—agreed in principal to three out of four of the President’s major points and has agreed to meet again to discuss the fourth point, the presence of their nuclear submarines in our coastal waters. It may now be safely stated that the crisis, the most acute in post-World-War-Two years, does seem to be tapering off to a mutual accommodation that both countries can live with. We pause to bring you exciting news from General Motors followed by an analysis in depth—
”

Karen turned it down. Duke said, “Just as I said, Dad. You can take that cork out of your ear.”

“Later. I’m busy with crêpes Suzettes. Barbara, I’ll expect these for breakfast every morning.”

“Dad, quit trying to seduce her and cut the cards. I want to win back what I’ve lost.”

“That’ll be a long night.” Mr. Farnham finished eating, stood up to put his plate aside; the doorbell rang. “I’ll answer it.”

He went to the door, returned shortly. Karen said, “Who was it, Daddy? I cut for you. You and I are partners. Look pleased.”

“I’m delighted. But remember that a count of eleven is not an opening bid. Somebody lost, I guess. Possibly a nut.”

“My date. You scared him off.”

“Possibly. A baldheaded old coot, very weather-beaten and ragged.”

“My date,” Karen confirmed. “President of the Dekes. Go get him, Daddy.”

“Too late. He took one look at me and fled. Whose bid is it?”

Barbara continued to try to play like a machine. But it seemed to her that Duke was overbidding; she found herself thereby bidding timidly and had to force herself to overcome it. They went set several times in a long, dreary rubber which they “won” but lost on points.

It was a pleasure to lose the next rubber with Karen as her partner. They shifted and again she was Mr. Farnham’s partner. He smiled at her. “This time we clobber them!”

“I’ll try.”

“Just play as you did. By the book. Duke will supply the mistakes.”

“Put your money where your mouth is, Dad. Want a side bet of a hundred dollars on this rubber?”

“A hundred it is.”

Barbara thought about seventeen lonely dollars in her purse and got nervous. She was still more nervous when the first hand ended at five clubs, bid and made—by Duke—and realized that he had overbid and would have been down one had she covered his finesse.

Duke said, “Care to double that bet, Governor?”

“Okay. Deal.”

Her morale was bolstered by the second hand: her contract at four spades and made possible by voids; she was able to ruff before cleaning out trumps. Her partner’s smile was reward enough. But it left her shaky.

Duke said, “Both teams vulnerable, no part score. How’s your blood pressure, Daddy-o? Double again?”

“Planning on firing your secretary?”

“Speak up, or accept a white feather.”

“Four hundred. You can sell your car.”

Mr. Farnham dealt. Barbara picked up her hand and frowned. The count was not bad—two queens, a couple of jacks, an ace, a king—but no biddable suit and the king was unguarded. It was a strength and distribution which she had long tagged as “just good enough to go set on.” She hoped that it would be one of those sigh-of-relief hands in which everyone passes.

Her partner picked up his hand and glanced at it. “Three no trump.”

Barbara repressed a gasp, Karen did gasp. “Daddy, are you feverish?”

“Bid.”

“Pass!”

Barbara said to herself, “‘God oh god, what I do now?’”

Her partner’s bid promised twenty-five points—and invited slam. She held thirteen points. Thirty-eight points in the two hands—grand slam.

That’s what the book said! Barbara girl, “three no trump” is twenty-five, twenty-six, or twenty-seven points—add thirteen and it reads “Grand Slam.”

But was Mr. Farnham playing by the book? Or was he bidding a shut-out to grab the rubber and nail down that preposterous bet?

If she passed, then game and rubber—and four hundred dollars—was certain. But grand slam (if they made it) was, uh, around fifteen dollars at the stakes Duke and his father were playing. Risk four hundred dollars of her partner’s money against a chance of fifteen? Ridiculous!

Could she sneak up on it with the Blackwood Convention? No, no!—there hadn’t been background bidding.

Was this one of those bids Duke had warned her about?

(But her partner had said, “Play by the book.”)

“Seven no trump,” she said firmly.

Duke whistled. “Thanks, Barbara. We’re ganging up on you, Dad. Double.”

“Pass.”

“Pass,” Karen echoed.

Barbara again counted her hand. That singleton king looked awfully naked. But…either the home team had thirty-eight points—or it didn’t. “Redouble.”

Duke grinned. “Thanks, sweetie pie. Your lead, Karen.”

Mr. Farnham put down his hand and abruptly left the table. His son said, “Hey! Come back and take your medicine!”

Mr. Farnham snapped on the television, moved on and switched on the radio, changed its setting. “Red alert!” he snapped. “Somebody tell Joseph!” He ran out of the room.

“Come back! You can’t duck this with that kind of stunt!”

“Shut up, Duke!” Karen snapped.

The television screen flickered into life: “
—closing down. Tune at once to your emergency station. Good luck, good-bye, and God bless you all!
”

As the screen went blank the radio cut in: “
—not a drill. This is not a drill. Take shelter. Emergency personnel report to their stations. Do not go out on the street. If you have no shelter, stay in the best protected room of your home. This is not a drill. Unidentified ballistic objects have been radar sighted by our early-warning screens and it must be assumed that they are missiles. Take shelter. Emergency personnel report to their—
”

“He means it,” Karen said in an awed voice. “Duke, show Barb where to go. I’ll wake Joseph.” She ran out of the room.

Duke said, “I don’t believe it.”

“Duke, how do we get into the shelter?”

“I’ll show you.” He stood up unhurriedly, picked up the hands, put each in a separate pocket. “Mine and Sis’s in my trousers, yours and Dad’s in my coat. Come on. Want your suitcase?”

“No!”

Duke led her through the kitchen to the basement stairs. Mr. Farnham was halfway down, his wife in his arms. She seemed asleep. Duke snapped out of his attitude. “Hold it, Dad! I’ll take her.”

“Get on down and open the door!”

The door was steel set into the wall of the basement. Seconds were lost because Duke did not know how to handle its latch. At last Mr. Farnham passed his wife over to his son, opened it himself. Beyond, stairs led farther down. They managed it by carrying Mrs. Farnham, hands and feet, a limp doll, and took her through a second door into a room beyond. Its floor was six feet lower than the basement and under, Barbara decided, their back garden. She hung back while Mrs. Farnham was carried inside.

Mr. Farnham reappeared. “Barbara! Get in here! Where’s Joseph? Where’s Karen?”

Those two came rushing down the basement stairs as he spoke. Karen was flushed and seemed excited and happy. Joseph was looking wild-eyed and was dressed in undershirt and trousers, his feet bare.

He stopped short. “Mr. Farnham! Are they going to hit us?”