Man in the Gray Flannel Suit (27 page)

For two years Hopkins had submitted to psychoanalysis. Five
times a week he had lain on a couch in the psychoanalyst’s apartment on Sixty-ninth Street and recalled his childhood. His father had been a cheerful, rather ineffectual man who, each afternoon upon returning from his job as assistant manager of a small paper mill in an upstate New York village, had spent most of his time rocking on the front porch of their shabby but comfortable house. His mother had been disappointed by the modesty of her husband’s achievements and aspirations and had been bitterly condescending to him. Leaving her family to fend for itself most of the time, she had thrown all her energy into working for the local garden club and a bewildering variety of social and civic organizations. As she gained positions of leadership in these groups, her resentment at her serenely undistinguished husband had grown. Finally she had established herself in a separate room on the third floor of their house and, throughout most of Ralph’s boyhood, had conducted herself like a great lady temporarily forced to live with poor relatives.

Hopkins was not an introspective man, but in recounting all this to the psychoanalyst, he had said, “I always felt sorry for my father because my mother treated him so badly. She never gave me much time, either, except when I did something she thought was outstanding. Whenever I got a particularly good report card, or won anything, she’d take me up to her room to have tea alone with her. ‘We’re two of a kind,’ she used to say. ‘We get things done.’ I suppose I got the impression from her that achievement means everything.”

Hopkins had felt quite proud of his efforts at self-diagnosis and had been surprised when the psychoanalyst had disregarded his suggestions in favor of much more bizarre “explanations of neurosis.” He had said that Hopkins probably had a deep guilt complex, and that his constant work was simply an effort to punish and perhaps kill himself. The guilt complex was probably based on a fear of homosexuality, he had said. To Hopkins, who had never consciously worried about homosexuality, or guilt, this had seemed like so much rubbish, but he had tried to believe it, for the psychoanalyst had said it was necessary for him to believe to be cured, and Hopkins had wanted to be cured, in order to make his wife happy.

The trouble had been that every time he left the psychoanalyst’s office the temptation to return to his own office and bury himself in work had been irresistible. At the end of two years he had become the youngest vice-president of United Broadcasting and had told his
wife he simply wouldn’t have time for psychoanalysis any longer.

It had been shortly after this that he had rented an apartment to use for business meetings in New York and had drifted into the habit of staying away from his home, which had then been in Darien, for weeks at a time. His wife had not objected. She had gone in for horses for a while and, tiring of that, had become a relentless giver of parties. After Susan had been born in 1935, she had abruptly stopped the parties and had thrown herself into motherhood with abandon, firing the nursemaid who had taken care of her son and surrounding herself with
avant-garde
parents who discussed their children the way psychiatrists discuss their patients. Hopkins had never complained–he had been too grateful to her for letting him alone and, as he saw it, making up for his deficiencies as a parent.

Things had gone pretty well until 1943, when Robert, their son, had been killed in the war. Hopkins had hurried home when his wife telephoned to tell him and had tried to sympathize with her, but all she had said was, “You never knew him! You never knew him!” Hopkins had stayed with her for three days, at the end of which time he had returned to his office and thrown himself harder than ever into his work.

“Slow down!” the doctors had been saying regularly ever since. “You’ve got to slow down!” But Helen, his wife, had stopped saying that to him. After Robert had been killed, she had gone for a brief time to a sanitarium, leaving Susan, her daughter, with the servants. After returning from the sanitarium, Helen had started to give parties again, and had begun to plan the great show place in South Bay, and had bought the yawl, and had seemed happier than she ever had in her life.

“This traffic!” Hopkins said now, as he sat in his limousine and looked out the window at the pedestrians on the sidewalk, who were making better time. “This traffic is terrible!” He sat back and consciously tried to relax, but it was impossible. A policeman blew his whistle sharply, and a taxi driver ahead started to curse. Hopkins shut his eyes. It was ridiculous to worry, it was unproductive. It would be better to think of the future, of things to be done. There was, for instance, the mental-health speech to revise. Hopkins took a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. “Miss MacDonald,” he said, “it
looks as though we’re going to be stuck in this traffic for quite a while. Would you mind taking dictation?”

“T
HEY WANT TO USE
the top of the tower for sky watchers,” Betsy said to Tom when he returned from work Friday night.

“What?” he asked in astonishment.

“It’s Civilian Defense–they’re making a plan for Civilian Defense here. They want to use our tower for airplane spotters until they get a permanent place for themselves.”

“Oh, Lord,” Tom groaned.

“Don’t you approve?”

“I guess so,” he said. “I don’t know, it sounds so absurd. What do they want us to do?”

“Just let them use the tower for a few weeks. It’s the highest place in South Bay, they said, and has the best view. Why is it absurd?”

“It’s not,” he said. “I’m just tired, and I don’t like thinking about another war. I have a million other things to do.”

“Sit down and have a drink,” Betsy said. “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.”

That night Tom lay awake a long time worrying about Maria, about old Edward’s claim on the estate, about zoning laws, and about the meeting he was to have with Bernstein in the morning. When he awoke he felt exhausted and so irritable that the high-pitched voices of the children at the breakfast table annoyed him. “Be quiet!” he said sharply to Janey when she said, “Daddy, can I have the milk? Can I have the milk? Can I have the milk?” She looked so hurt that he hastily added, “I’m sorry,” gave her the milk, and himself kept quiet for the rest of the meal.

“I’ll drop you off at Judge Bernstein’s office,” Betsy said after he had finished his second cup of coffee. “I’ll take the kids with me and enroll the girls at school.”

“I don’t want to go to school,” Janey said. “I
never
want to go.”

“It’s not so bad,” Barbara said thoughtfully. “I only hate it a little.”

“Can I go?” Pete asked.

“Nobody has to go for another month,” Betsy said.

They got in the car and drove slowly to the main street of South Bay.

“Now don’t take any nonsense from him,” Betsy said as Tom got out of the car in front of the building in which Bernstein had his office. “We ought to have our first ten houses for sale next spring, and if we’re going to do that, we should start right away.”

Bernstein was sitting behind his scarred pine desk when Tom came in. He glanced up at Tom sharply–somehow he hadn’t expected Mrs. Rath’s grandson to be so tall. “Sit down, Mr. Rath,” he said cordially. “What can I do for you?”

“I want to get some idea of how long it will take for Mrs. Rath’s estate to go through the Probate Court,” Tom said, “and I want to learn about zoning laws around here. We’ve got an idea we may want to put up some kind of a housing development.”

“I see,” Bernstein said, and waited.

“How long does it generally take for an estate to be settled?”

“Not long, if there are no complications. A man by the name of Schultz was in here to see me a few days ago. Edward Schultz. Name mean anything to you?”

“He used to work for my grandmother. I want to do what I can for him, but I have to wait until the estate is settled.”

“Mr. Schultz tells me he believes Mrs. Rath meant the entire estate to go to him,” Bernstein said quietly.

“That’s absurd! My grandmother talked to me about him shortly before she died.”

“Apparently he believes he’s entitled to the house,” Bernstein said dryly.

“That’s ridiculous!”

“Why do you suppose he thinks he has a claim?”

“I think he must be a little crazy,” Tom said. “I don’t know–I feel pretty badly about this. Mrs. Rath was ninety-three years old when she died, and possibly she gave him some reason for hoping she would leave him everything.”

“Do you think she could have promised him the estate in return for his services for the rest of her life?” Bernstein asked mildly.

“No! She would have told me! Just before she died she told me she
was leaving everything to me, and that’s the way the will is written.”

“Mr. Schultz claims that he asked Mrs. Rath for a salary increase about a year before she died, and that she said she couldn’t afford to give him one, but that if he’d stay as long as she lived, she’d leave everything to him.”

“I want to try to be fair about this,” Tom said. “We can’t prove whether she said that or not. She was old and confused, and I suppose it’s possible she said that and forgot it. All I know is she used to talk all the time about saving the house for me, and that’s the way the will is written.”

“Mr. Schultz seems to feel an attempt is being made to cheat him.”

“I can’t help the way the old man feels!” Tom said. “I can’t afford to have the settling of the estate delayed indefinitely! How can he hold things up? He hasn’t got any proof!”

“He says he has,” Bernstein said.

“What kind?”

“He told me he has everything in writing from her, postdating the will Mr. Sims sent me.”

“I don’t believe it!”

“That’s what he says. I have asked him to have a photostat of his document sent to me, and he agreed to.”

“Have you received it yet?”

“No–there hasn’t been time.”

“I can’t understand it!” Tom said. “She wasn’t like that. She never would have done a thing like that without telling me!”

“The court will have to examine both documents and make a decision.”

“How long will it take?”

“That depends on a lot of things. It may be necessary to get a lot of information together. It could be a matter of months, or even more.”

“Meanwhile, I’m living in my grandmother’s place. What would happen if the court awarded it to him?”

“He could dispossess you and perhaps charge you rent retroactively, I suppose.”

“Is it legal for me to be there now?”

“When a property is in dispute, it’s hard to tell what to do with it. I don’t think Mr. Schultz is trying to dispossess you before the court makes a decision.”

“That’s nice of him,” Tom said bitterly. There was a moment of silence before he added, “I guess I should ask Mr. Sims to represent me–I’ll need a lawyer, won’t I?”

“That would be advisable.”

“You wouldn’t take the case for me?”

“Hardly. I’m the judge.”

“Has Edward, I mean Mr. Schultz, got a lawyer?”

“Yes. A big outfit in New York is representing him. Frankly, I don’t think he could have got them to take the case if he didn’t have a legitimate claim in their opinion.”

“That’s fine,” Tom said.

“All you can do is put the case in the hands of your lawyer and wait,” Bernstein said.

Tom looked at him helplessly for an instant before getting to his feet abruptly. “I guess there’s nothing more I can do,” he said. “There doesn’t seem to be much point in asking about zoning laws now.”

“You’re in a ten-acre zone,” Bernstein said. “If you wanted to put a housing development there, you’d have quite a fight on your hands. I wouldn’t go into it until the estate is settled.”

“Thanks,” Tom said, feeling a rush of unreasonable resentment against Bernstein. “Anyway, thanks.” He left the room.

As soon as he had gone, Bernstein walked to the window of his office and stood looking down at the street, where Betsy and the children were waiting in the parked car. His stomach was beginning to ache.

“Why, that school is
terrible!
” Betsy said as soon as Tom got into the car, before he could say anything. “It’s dingy and overcrowded, and I don’t think it’s safe. I
hate
to send the kids there! When we get going, I’m going to send them to a private school!”

“Betsy,” Tom said, “I’ve got some news that isn’t very good.”

“What?”

“Edward has put in a claim for the whole estate, and he says he has a will Grandmother signed after she wrote the one we have. He’s got a big firm of lawyers working on it.”

“Oh, no! She
told
you . . .”

“I know.”

“What’s going to happen?”

“We just have to put Sims to work on it and let the court decide.”

Betsy said nothing. “What’s the matter?” Janey asked.

“Everything’s all right, baby,” Betsy said.

“What did Daddy say?”

“Nothing important,” Tom said. “We’re going home now.”

He started the car. On the way up the hill to the old house they were all silent. When they came to the rock ledge against which his father had slammed the old Packard, Tom stared at it deliberately–it was ridiculous to look away. The rocks were massive and craggy, some of them tinged with a dull red hue, which was probably iron ore.