“Where’re we going?” he asked her, trying to keep up as she sailed through the pantry.
“I am to deliver you to someone who wishes a word with you.”
The next thing he knew, he was sitting in Kitty’s tiny Sprite, his knees about his ears as they went roaring up and over the mountain and down into the city.
“What is this place?” he asked when they stopped in an acre or so of brand-new automobiles.
“The shop, crazy. Poppy wants to talk to you!”
He sat blinking around him, hands on his knees. The “shop” was Mr. Vaught’s Confederate Chevrolet agency, the second largest in the world. Dozens of salesmen in Reb-colonel hats and red walking canes threaded their way between handsome Biscaynes and sporty Corvettes. By contrast with their jaunty headgear and the automobiles, which were as bright as tropical birds, the faces of the salesmen seemed heavy and anxious.
“Come on,” cried Kitty, already on her way.
They found Mr. Vaught in a vast showroom holding another acre of Chevrolets. He was standing in a fenced-off desk area talking to Mr. Ciocchio, his sales manager. Kitty introduced him and vanished.
“You see this sapsucker,” said Mr. Vaught to Mr. Ciocchio, taking the engineer by the armpit.
“Yes sir,” said the other, responding with a cordial but wary look. The sales manager was a big Lombard of an Italian with a fine head of thick curly hair. In his Reb-colonel hat he looked like Garibaldi.
“Do you know what he can do?”
“No sir.”
“He can hit a golf ball over three hundred yards and he is studying a book by the name of The Theory of Large Numbers. What do you think of a fellow like that?”
“That’s all right.” Mr. Ciocchio smiled and nodded as cordially as ever. The engineer noticed that his eyes did not converge but looked at him, one past each ear.
“He is evermore smart.”
The engineer nodded grimly. This old fellow, his employer, he had long since learned, had a good working blade of malice. Was this not in fact his secret: that he had it in for everybody? “Sir,” he said, politely disengaging himself from Mr. Vaught’s master grip. “Kitty said you wished to see me. As a matter of fact, I wanted to see you earlier. Jamie said he wanted to take a trip out west. I told him I would take him if it met with your approval.”
Mr. Ciocchio, seeing his chance, vanished as quickly as Kitty had.
“But now, it seems, plans have been changed. Jamie tells me he wishes to postpone the trip. I might add too that I asked Kitty to marry me. This seems as good a time as any to inform you of my intentions and to ask your approval. I am here, however, at your request. At least, that is my understanding.”
“Well now,” said the old man, turning away and looking back, eyeing him with his sliest gleam. Aha! At least he knows I’m taking none of his guff, the engineer thought. “Billy boy,” he said in a different voice and hobbled over to the rail with a brand-new limp — oh, what a rogue he was. “Take a look at this place. Do you want to know what’s wrong with it?”
“Yes sir.”
“Do you see those fellows out there?” He nodded to a half dozen colonels weaving fretfully through the field of cars.
“Yes sir.”
“I’ll tell you a funny damn thing. Now there’s not a thing in the world wrong with those fellows except for one thing. They want to sell. They know everything in the book about selling. But there is one thing they can’t do. They can’t close.”
“Close?”
“Close out. They can’t get a man in here where those fellows are.” He pointed to more colonels sitting at desks in the fenced-off area. “That’s where we sign them up. But they can’t get them in here. They stand out there and talk and everybody is nice and agreeable as can be. And the man says all right, thanks a lot, I’ll be back. And he’s gone. Now you know, it’s a funny thing but that is something you can’t teach a fellow — when the time has come to close. We need a coordinator.”
“Sir?”
“We need a liaison man to cruise the floor, watch all the pots, see which one is coming to a boil. Do you understand me?”
“Yes sir,” said the engineer gloomily.
“I’m going to tell you the plain truth, Billy,” said the old man in a tone of absolute sincerity. “You can’t hire a good man for love or money. I’d pay twenty thousand a year for just an ordinary good man.”
“Yes sir.”
“I can’t understand it.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“What makes those fellows so mis’able? Look at them. They are the most mis’able bunch of folks I ever saw.”
“You mean they’re unhappy?”
“Look at them.”
They were. “What makes them miserable?”
“You figure that out and I’ll pay you twenty-five.”
“Yes sir,” said the engineer absently; he had caught sight of Kitty waiting for him in her Sprite.
“Listen son,” said the old man, drawing him close again. “I’m going to tell you the truth. I don’t know what the hell is going on out there with those women and Jamie and all. Whatever yall want to do is all right with me. And I’m tickled to death to hear about you and Kitty. More than delighted. I know that you and I understand each other and that I’m more than happy to have you with us here any time you feel like it.”
“Yes sir,” said the engineer glumly.
By evening the engineer felt as uncommonly bad as he had felt good when he had set out for the university early in the morning of the same day. His knee leapt. Once he thought he heard the horrid ravening particles which used to sing in the pale sky over New York and Jersey. To make matters worse, everyone else in the pantry felt better than ever. It was the night before the Tennessee game. There was a grace and a dispensation in the air, an excitement and hope about the game on the morrow and a putting away of the old sad unaccomplished past. Tomorrow our own lads, the good smiling easy youths one met on the campus paths, but on the gridiron a ferocious black-helmeted wrecking crew, collide with the noble old single-wing of Tennessee. A big game is more than a game. It allows the kindling of hope and the expectation of great deeds. One liked to drink his drink the night before and muse over it: what will happen?
Ordinarily he too, the engineer, liked nothing better than the penultimate joys of a football weekend. But tonight he was badly unsettled. The two brothers, Jamie and Sutter, had been deep in talk at the blue bar for a good half hour. And Rita had Kitty off in the bay, Rita speaking earnestly with her new level-browed legal expression, Kitty blossoming by the minute: a lovely flushed bride. Every few seconds her eyes sought him out and sent him secret shy Mary Nestor signals. Now it was she who was sending the signals and he who was stove up and cranky. Only once had she spoken to him and then to whisper: “It may be possible to swing a sweetheart ceremony with the Chi O’s as maids. I’m working on it.” “Eh? What’s that?” cocking his good ear and holding down his knee. But she was off again before he had a chance to discover what she meant. It left him uneasy.
Something else disturbed him. Son Thigpen had brought over a carload of classmates from the university. Son, as morose as he was, and devoted exclusively to his Thunderbird and the fraternity (not the brothers themselves but the idea, Hellenism, as he called it), had nevertheless the knack of attracting large numbers of friends, lively youths and maids who liked him despite his sallowness and glumness. Now, having delivered this goodly company, he stood apart and fiddled with his Thunderbird keys. His guests were Deltans, from the engineer’s country, though he did not know them. But he knew their sort and it made him uneasy to see how little he was like them, how easy they were in their ways and how solitary and Yankeefied he was — though they seemed to take him immediately as one of them and easy too. The young men were Sewanee Episcopal types, good soft-spoken hard-drinking graceful youths, gentle with women and very much themselves with themselves, set, that is, for the next fifty years in the actuality of themselves and their own good names. They knew what they were, how things were and how things should be. As for the engineer, he didn’t know. I’m from the Delta too, thought he, sticking his hand down through his pocket, and I’m Episcopal; why ain’t I like them, easy and actual? Oh, to be like Rooney Lee. The girls were just as familiar to him, though he’d never met them either. Lovely little golden partridges they were, in fall field colors, green-feathered and pollen-dusted. Their voices were like low music and their upturned faces were like flowers. They were no different at all from the lovely little bitty steel-hearted women who sat at the end of the cotton rows and held the South together when their men came staggering home from Virginia all beaten up and knocked out of the war, who sat in their rocking chairs and made everybody do right; they were enough to scare you to death. But he for his Kitty, a little heavy-footed, yes, and with a tendency to shoulder a bit like a Wellesley girl and not absolutely certain of her own sex, a changeling (she was flushed and high-colored now just because she had found out what she was — a bride). For example, Kitty, who had worked at it for ten years, was still a bad dancer, where every last one of these Delta partridges was certain to be light and air in your arms.