“You know, Mr. Lockwood, as man to man,” he continued, “I work for you, and you always treated me decent, so I stick up for you. But this is a different matter.”
“Thank you for sticking up for me. What’s the different matter?”
“Well, it isn’t you I have to stick up for.” Andrew looked questioningly at George Lockwood, silently asking him to help him out with the next statement.
“Well, who else, if not me?”
“Your wife. Mrs. Lockwood. Some are blaming her. You lived in this house all your life, your parents lived here, and I understand your father was born here. Some are saying that the new house, and the wall, and the spikes on top, and ruining Oscar Dietrich’s farm— all that’s only since you married again.”
“The whole thing was my idea.”
“Sure, but some you can’t convince of that.”
“I haven’t tried to convince anyone of anything.”
“I know. I’m just telling you what some people say. You never mixed much with the people in town, but they’re used to you.”
“My first wife didn’t mix with them either, if they expected the present Mrs. Lockwood to get chummy.”
“Yes, but with your first wife there was a reason. She was sickly, and they all knew it. The present Mrs. Lockwood is a strong, healthy lady. I’m just telling you what they say.”
“Andrew, you came here from New York. Small-town life is still new to you.”
“I like it, though.”
“Yes, but you didn’t know, for instance, that when my mother married my father and came here to live, the women in the town thought she was a snob because she’d only speak English.”
“How do you mean, sir?”
“My mother came from Richterville, only ten miles away, and she spoke Pennsylvania Dutch and English, but my father didn’t speak much Pennsylvania Dutch, so my mother spoke only English. The people in the town didn’t like that. They’d speak to her in Dutch, and she’d answer in English. The point is, they’d have found some reason to criticize her, whatever she did or didn’t do. Do you know why?”
“Well, I guess there could be a lot of reasons.”
“One. She was the wife of Abraham Lockwood. My father. And he’d gone ten miles away to choose his wife. History is only repeating itself. But I’m very glad you stick up for me, and I assume you do for Mrs. Lockwood as well.”
“That you can assume,” said Andrew. “I had to hit one fellow a knock in the chin.”
“For what he said about Mrs. Lockwood?”
“He took it back.”
“I’m all for chivalry, Andrew, but don’t get hurt. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, sir.”
Geraldine Lockwood returned to the red brick box the next after-noon. “Good, a fire,” she said, on entering George Lockwood’s study.
“Is that all I get in the way of greeting?”
“If you mean, am I going to kiss you? No. I’m catching a cold. I’ve been sneezing all the way from Easton. I could have revenge by passing the cold on to you, but I’m too nice for that. And besides— what right have you got to expect a kiss from me? You’ve been behaving like a bastard, George, and I don’t like it at all.”
“I guess I do, sometimes.”
“Well, I don’t like it. Really, I don’t. I wish you’d at least say you’re sorry.”
“Would that cure your cold?”
“Don’t try to blame my cold for the way I’m feeling. My cold has nothing to do with it. Although it has. Why didn’t you send Andrew in the Lincoln?”
“Because I thought you’d be more likely to catch cold in the Pierce-Arrow.”
“I wouldn’t put it past you. I really wouldn’t, the last two or three days. I’m going to have a bath and go to bed, and don’t bother to come in to say goodnight.”
“All right, Geraldine. Whatever you say.”
“Where’s my mail? Did any of my packages come?”
“Ask May.”
TWO
ONE of the passengers on the evening train from Philadelphia on a day in late February 1921 was Bing Lockwood, George Bingham Lockwood Junior. He was a tall slender young man of twenty-two, wearing a light brown hat, a long raccoon coat that hung unbuttoned and revealed a very light grey Norfolk suit, plain-toed black shoes with a black saddle over the instep. He descended from the Pullman at Swedish Haven, and looked about him to right and left, raising himself on tiptoe to see above the crowd. He stood on the platform, a splendid English pigskin kitbag at one side, a no less splendid pigskin tennis bag at the other. His clothes and accouterments were high fashion among undergraduates, but his present manner was far from carefree.
“Hello, Georgie. Home over Saturday?” The speaker was Ike Wehner, the baggagemaster.
“Hello, Mr. Wehner. You didn’t see our Henry, did you?”
“No, I didn’t. But I wasn’t lookin’ for him. I don’t see your machine, neither. He may be along, you can’t tell.” Wehner moved on, and in a few minutes Bing Lockwood was alone on the platform. He waited five minutes, looked at his watch several times.
“Guess you’re going to have to stretch those long legs of yours, Georgie, unless you want me to phone the house,” said Wehner. “I’ll phone up if you want me to, and you can keep watch out here.”
“No thanks, Mr. Wehner. I guess I’ll walk.”
“Anything wrong, Georgie? At the house? Your mother—no worse, I hope.”
“No, nothing wrong, thanks. So long, Mr. Wehner.”
Bing Lockwood walked the two blocks east and three blocks south to the family home. He let himself in, left his luggage and coat and hat in the hall, and went back to his father’s den. “Hello, Father,” he said.
George Lockwood put down the evening paper. “Hello, son.”
“Well, here I am.”
“Here you are, all right. Sit down. Don’t stand there waiting for me to tell you what to do.”
The son took a chair and lit a cigarette.
“When did you give up wearing garters? Is that the thing at Princeton now?”
“Are you going to start by criticizing my clothes?” said Bing Lockwood.
“Almost anywhere I’d start I could criticize, couldn’t I?”
“Yes, I guess so. But Jesus Christ. Garters.”
“All right. Forget the garters. We could start with your language.”
“Well, I apologize for that,” said the son.
George Lockwood got up and took a cigarette out of a silver box on his desk. He was about to light the cigarette when he hesitated, picked up the silver box and examined it. He then handed it to his son. “I was very pleased when you gave me this. But now I’m returning it to you.”
“Why? I won it, and you admired it, so I was glad to give it to you.”
“Yes, but how did you win it?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Father. This was tennis.”
“You’ve been kicked out of college for cheating in exams. For all I know, you cheat in everything.”
“It would be pretty God damn hard to win a tennis tournament on cheating alone. Did you ever notice those men on the big high chair? If you don’t want the box, throw it in the wastebasket. I don’t want it now, either.”
“Why did you come home, I wonder? You didn’t have to. You have some money. It’s bad enough to bring disgrace on the family without being arrogant into the bargain.”