The Rebellion of Yale Marratt (23 page)

 

 

Tomorrow was going to be a mess. He would have to go to the wedding
and Pat would have to come to his graduation. After almost a year
there was going to be a strained, awkward moment and then some kind
of reconciliation. It would come after the graduation ceremonies. Pat
would have to congratulate him. He wondered if Pat knew that he had
been accepted to Harvard Business School. Probably. Doctor Tangle could
have found out easily enough. Yale made up his mind, there would be no
discussion. No matter what Pat said he would refuse to get in an argument.

 

 

Walking up the steps to Cynthia's dormitory, carrying a bag with beer
and guinea grinders, he remembered he hadn't sent a wedding present
to Barbara. Well, how the hell could he, he wondered? He had about
seventy-five cents left of his four dollars. Liz had offered to give
him money several times in the year but he had refused it. He would
have to ask her for at least twenty dollars tomorrow to pay for the
dance tickets. Should he ask to borrow her car? No, that would simply
precipitate an argument with Liz that he owed it to Barbara to be at
the reception and party after the wedding ceremony. If he went to the
reception, he couldn't bring Cynthia. She wouldn't want to go anyway.
What a cock-eyed world, he thought, bitterly.

 

 

In the dormitory, he passed Mrs. Wicker.

 

 

"Cynthia isn't here, Yale. I saw her go out about ten o'clock."

 

 

He sat down in the heavily furnished reception room, smelling the dust
embedded in the over-stuffed furniture. He looked at his watch. It was
quarter of one. Where did she go, he wondered? He wiped his face with
a handkerchief. It was really a hot day. . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

12

 

 

Cynthia awoke to her name being yelled in the hall of the dormitory.
"Hey, Cynthia Carnell . . . Cynthia you've got a phone call!" As she
walked sleepily in pajamas down to the wall phone, a happy feeling surged
through her. It was Friday -- no more classes! Tomorrow was graduation day
-- and today, oh, today -- a wonderful, wonderful day. She hurried toward
the phone. It must be Yale. Anxious to get started on the picnic; anxious,
too, to be with her, to make love. Oh, my hungry darling. I want to love
you, too! It had been February since they had really loved. February
since they had really been alone. In a way it was good that the year was
over. Once you started to love -- to have intercourse -- and you cared
for each other the way she and Yale did -- there was no going back.
It was like eating peanuts. She smiled at the thought. She wanted more.
She wanted the warm, good feeling of Yale in her arms -- Yale inside her --
always. She prayed that somehow they would be married in September.

 

 

She picked up the phone. The voice that answered her "Hello" was strange
and abrupt. She gasped when she recognized it.

 

 

"Miss Carnell. This is Yale's father, Patrick Marratt. I wonder jf I could
meet you for lunch. Say twelve o'clock at the Weathersham Hotel. I'll send
a car for you. I think we should have a little talk."

 

 

Cynthia looked at the phone unbelievingly. Why did he want to talk with
her? It had been more than three years since she had seen him. Had Yale
talked with Pat? Oh, my God, she thought, what shall I say to him?

 

 

"Mr. Marratt, I can't have lunch with you. I have another engagement."
Would he know that it was with Yale?

 

 

There was a pause. She could hear Pat talking with someone else. "Look,
Miss Carnell, I must talk with you. It's nine thirty, I'll have a company
car in front of your dormitory in half an hour. Would you come to my office?
It won't take very long. It concerns your father."

 

 

"What's the matter with my father?" Cynthia asked nervously.

 

 

"Nothing is the matter. As you know, we buy heavily from him. I want
to talk with you about it. I'd think you would be wise to say nothing
about this to Yale until we have talked."

 

 

She told him she would come. A feeling of something-terrible-about-to-
happen engulfed her. It was no longer a sunny May day. It was hot and
humid and she could feel the flush in her face and nervous perspiration
gathering on her forehead and under her arms. What could he want? Had
Yale told him that they were going to be married? Was he going to give
her his blessing? Not likely. She could remember that evening long ago
in March; Pat questioning her, and she, cringing under his penetrating
voice and glaring eyes. She had tried to be cool. She remembered her legs
and arms throbbing with tension and fear. Then . . . Yale was just a friend.
How would she act now? Would Pat be able to tell that she loved his son
desperately? Would she dare tell him?

 

 

Should she call Yale? It was ten thirty. She looked out the dormitory
window. There was a beach wagon in front of the dormitory with gold and
blue lettering on the door "Marratt Corporation, Midhaven." There wasn't
time to call Yale. She'd just go.

 

 

She ran down the stairs to the car. The driver, an elderly man, got
out and opened the door. "Miss Carnell?" She nodded and got in. The
ride to the plant was torture. The driver was talkative. He introduced
himself as Johnny Mitchell. He talked about the unusually hot weather,
told her he had been driving the company car for ten years and had
known Pat Marratt since he was a young man. A good man, Mr. Marratt,
firm but good to his workers. Johnny Mitchell liked him no matter what
anyone said. Johnny Mitchell talked and talked and Cynthia confused,
nervous, ready to cry from the tension and fear building up in her tried
to answer. Oh, dear God, she prayed, please let Mr. Marratt be nice to me.

 

 

If Pat Marratt could have really seen Cynthia when she walked into his
office, he would have seen more than just a girl dressed in a white,
princess style dress that shaped her hips and clung to her uplifted
breasts. He would have seen more than her soft dark hair framing her
round face, and large questioning brown eyes. He would have seen the
youthfulness of her and recognized the fear and despair of a child
entering an adult world. But, to Pat, she was just a problem. Perhaps,
a little more personal, but a problem similar to many he encountered
daily. Something, or someone stood in the way of his plans. You could
side-step a problem, but that meant it was still there. Pat's way was
more realistic. Simply cut the problem down to size, and stamp it out.

 

 

"Sit down, Miss Carnell," he said pointing at a leather chair next to
his desk. "I understand from his mother that you and Yale are seriously
intending to get married!"

 

 

"We love each other, Mr. Marratt. I want you to know that I would do
anything to have Yale happy with you and his mother, and have your
blessing."

 

 

Pat looked at her searchingly for a moment. This technique of delaying
a reply and studying his "man" always worked effectively. It created an
uneasy feeling and gave Pat an advantage. "I am going to ask you to do
something. You know, of course, that Yale has been accepted at Harvard
Business School?"

 

 

Cynthia didn't answer. She hoped Pat couldn't see the surprise in her
face. She knew Yale had signed the application. Yale had told her the
day Doctor Tangle had called him into his office. He hadn't told her he
had been accepted. Why, she wondered?

 

 

"I'm going to ask that you wait until Yale is finished at Harvard before
you get married."

 

 

"If Yale wants to go to Harvard, I would certainly encourage him."

 

 

"That's not an answer, Miss Carnell," Pat said coldly.

 

 

"I don't think Yale and I should wait another two years," Cynthia said,
blinking through her tears. How could they wait, she thought? They needed
each other too much. She had a vision of months without Yale and furtive
meetings in hotels. Could their love survive that?

 

 

"You're not pregnant, are you?" Pat demanded.

 

 

"No, I am not, Mr. Marratt." Cynthia's voice reflected a tiny bit of anger.
How crass could Pat Marratt be? "If Yale wants to go to Harvard, we could
be married, Mr. Marratt. Many graduate students get married, I could get
a job in Boston. I could help him with his studies."

 

 

He was going to have to go all the way, Pat thought. Too bad. The girl
should have been a little more pliable. Tell him she would wait for Yale.
If she had, Pat would have been friendly. Shook hands with her. Give it
another two years and he was sure this love affair would fall apart. But
this girl was too adamant.

 

 

"The point, Miss Carnell, is that I think Yale is too young to get married.
Furthermore there are problems here that Yale's mother and I agree would
not make for a good marriage." Pat picked a paper off his desk. "Here's
our annual contract with the Carnell Farms. Did you ever see this, Miss
Carnell?" He handed the paper to Cynthia. "We place several of these
with New Jersey farmers. We buy on the open market, of course, but these
are placed to protect ourselves. There's been a contract like this with
your father every year for the past twelve years. I've been wondering
whether to renew for next year?" He paused and stared at Cynthia.

 

 

"You mean that if Yale and I get married you won't buy from my father?"

 

 

"That sums it up exactly."

 

 

"My father could sell to other companies," she said defiantly.

 

 

"Look, Miss Carnell. If you wish I'll pick up this phone and get your
father on the line. I'll put it to him bluntly that I don't want my son
marrying a Jew. I'll suggest to him that under the circumstances he,
himself, wouldn't want a 'goy' in his family. How do you suppose he
will react?"

 

 

Cynthia couldn't hold back a sob. "He would be sick at heart." She could
see her father. Not cold and remote like Pat. Her father would have tears
in his eyes and there would be sorrow on his face. "I'd like to leave,
Mr. Marratt." Cynthia stood up. For a second the expression of utter
hopelessness on her face pierced Pat's frigid manner. He almost felt
sorry. It was a rotten thing to do, he thought. He recovered quickly. She
would get over it. She must know that it was for the best. "Wait, I'll
call Jimmy. He'll drive you back to college."

 

 

Cynthia had reached the door. Her cheeks were wet with tears. "Thank you,
no, Mr. Marratt. I'd prefer to take a bus. I'm sorry that you hate so much."

 

 

Walking down the long corridor, she passed several office girls who turned
to look at her. "Oh, God, let me get out of here without going to pieces."

 

 

She got to the bus stop and leaned, faintly, against a telegraph pole.
"I am going to cry. I'm going to cry and cry, and the tears won't stop."
But somehow she held her tears back. Finally, a bus came headed toward
the College. She boarded it and slumped into a seat. Dazed, she watched
the traffic sweep by.

 

 

What should she do? She felt numb. Yet, uncontrollably, the nerves in
her legs and chest and arms shuddered and leaped spasmodically, as if
she were somehow being wrenched apart. The clock on the Midhaven Herald
building caught her eyes. It was twelve thirty. Yale would be waiting for
her at the dormitory. She couldn't see him now! She had to think. What
should she do? The bus stopped. She jumped up and got off. She watched
it disappear along Midhaven Avenue, breathing the acrid fumes from its
exhaust. She felt the enervating heat of the day. Almost stumbling she
walked in the direction of the college. Then suddenly it was no longer
possible to hold it back. She retched, miserably vomiting against the
side of a building. A woman passing by turned back and offered to help
her. "I'm sick," she gasped. "It must be the heat." The woman led her
into a small dress shop and another woman, evidently the owner of the
store, guided her into a back room.

 

 

"I'm so sorry to bother you," Cynthia murmured.

 

 

"Don't you worry a bit," the woman said. She patted Cynthia's face with
a damp cloth. "It's probably the heat. It's a terribly hot day for May.
Lie down here for a moment. You'll feel better. Are you getting your
monthly, dear?" Cynthia nodded. It was a convenient explanation to cover
the inexplicable.

 

 

 

 

It was one thirty. Yale sat on the front steps of the dormitory greeting
various senior girls who went in and out, answering their pleasantries
about graduation. And agreeing with them: "Yes, he was waiting for Cynthia."

 

 

Where could she be? He tried to assure himself that she could be any of
a dozen places. A professor wanted to see her? Unlikely. She had gone
shopping for a dress? Maybe. No. She already had her graduation gown. He
hadn't seen it, but she had told him that it was "extra-specially" nice,
so she would look pretty for him. Would Sue Wallace, her roommate, know
where she was? He was about to go back in the dormitory and ring for Sue,
when a Chevrolet stopped in front of the dormitory. Cynthia got out.

 

 

"Gosh," he breathed his relief. "Where have you been?" As Cynthia walked
toward him, he noticed her blanched face. He sensed something wrong.
"What's the matter, Cindar? Don't you feel well?"

 

 

"I'll be all right." She forced a smile. "Are we going on our picnic?"

 

 

Yale nodded. "I've got the sandwiches and the beer."

 

 

"Okay," she said, trying to force a gay sound into her voice. "I just
want to change and wash up. I'll be down in a minute."