“Well, you certainly didn’t learn it here. As far as I know, God is supposed to be so big, so powerful that it’s no problem for Him to invent, I mean create, the moon and you and me.”
“My friend, that’s another argument, but it doesn’t argue anything. That’s just a statement of faith. I’d rather put one theory up against another instead of making one theory into a great universal truth. You’ll never get any fun out of your intellect if you don’t argue with yourself. And you’ll never argue with yourself if you take what the theologians give you, all wrapped up in ribbons. Red for the Sacred College of Cardinals. Orange and Black for Princeton. Blue for the moon and Yale.”
“You never saw a Yale-blue moon.”
“And please God, I never want to. I like this God damn place. After four years of throwing horse turds at it I find that I’m getting reluctant to leave. I feel the same way about Ireland, except that I know I’ll go back there.”
“You’ll come back here.”
“No. And even if I do? Ireland is forever. Princeton is only four years of my life, and Princeton means nothing to me but four years of my life. Princeton without the four years of my life doesn’t mean anything to me. Ireland does mean something, would if I’d never been there. Ireland is instead of the church that I gave up, my mother that bores me, the songs I never wrote but had going in my head.”
“I wish I had something like that.”
“Maybe you have, and don’t know it.”
“No. My father may have it, a little. But I haven’t.”
“Well, you can live without it—although I wouldn’t want to. You have something else, I guess, to take its place.”
“You don’t really believe I have, do you, Ned?”
“You cried for Chat. That much I know. Poor old Bender, he’ll never get over seeing you cry. His eyes well up when he thinks about it.”
“O’Byrne?”
“What, Lockwood?”
“My grandfather killed two men. He was tried for manslaughter for the one.”
“Now I never knew that.”
“I know you didn’t. But I’m not what you think I am.”
“Not the true gentry?”
“No.”
“That explains a few things.”
“What things, for instance?”
“Well—certain hesitancies.”
“Like what?”
“I’d be hard put to give you examples, but since you’ve told me this, I’ll confess that I noticed you’re not always as sure of yourself as you ought to be. Most of the time, yes. But not always. Much as I dislike Harbord, he’s always sure that what he’s doing is the right thing. He’s doing it, therefore it’s the right thing. If you have a son, he’ll probably be as sure of himself as Harbord is. You’re more sure of yourself than your father is, aren’t you?”
“Oh, yes. Much more.”
“What about your grandfather, the killer?”
“Very sure of himself, I think.”
“Yes. No doubt he didn’t care.”
“Not a bit.”
“Virile stock, and you’re used to having money. Your son will be an aristocrat. Then you ought to have him marry an Italian or a Spaniard before the inbreeding starts.”
“Maybe I ought to marry an Italian.”
“Time to turn around, George.”
“Yes, I guess so.”
Now they could laugh, and they did.
Harvey Fenstermacher—Harvey Stonebraker Fenstermacher, to give him his full name—prided himself on two things : he was a man of his word, and he was not a hypocrite. He also prided himself on being a good Christian, a good Mason, a good Sigma Chi, a member of an old Lebanon Valley family, an honest judge, a Godfearing member of the Reformed Church, a better than average shot, a prudent banker, a knowing farmer, a fancier of fine Holstein stock, a good judge of trotters, a pleasing baritone, and a real family man. Now, however, he was disturbed by his deviations from excellence in the matter of keeping his word, in his sincerity, and in his role as family man.
He did not feel right about the way things were turning out with regard to his daughter Lalie and George Lockwood. There were often times when he found it hard to believe that Lalie was made the same way as her mother; that she was a female woman. Bessie Fenstermacher was a female woman, all right, and not only did they have the children to prove it, but Bessie, in the long years of their marriage, had been quite surprising in her demands on his masculinity. That had not been the Bessie he married; she was just like all the other girls of good family—at first—but she certainly had learned quickly. Harvey Fenstermacher supposed that that was the same thing that would happen to Lalie; that she was a female woman and, once married, would probably behave the way her mother behaved. But Harvey Fenstermacher did not like to think about that, and so he didn’t very much. He preferred to think of Lalie as she looked at, say, fifteen, with her hair plaited and hanging down her back and wearing a girl’s version of a sailor suit, and not bothering about or bothered by boys. No, not fifteen. Twelve. At fifteen, Bess Fenstermacher had reported, Lalie had already started mensing, had been mensing for over a year. Why did they have to grow up and all? Well, they did, and it was nature.
Harvey Fenstermacher put up no serious objections when Bessie favored an understanding between Lalie and George Lockwood. As far as he was concerned, an understanding could go on forever— though he knew better—or it could end in a few weeks. Understandings were harmless if the parents exercised a little extra vigilance, and he could count on Bess to take care of that. But then after Christmas Harvey Fenstermacher was unexpectedly reminded of the other, permanent and final possibilities that an understanding could imply. In his professional life he could have managed postponements and given his law clerk some investigative work to do; but now Bess was prevailing upon him to give his quick consent to an engagement. She wanted Lalie to marry this Lockwood boy, and she wanted no interference from Harvey Fenstermacher. “We don’t know so much about him,” said Harvey.
“Maybe we don’t, but I do. I made inquiries, and you can bet your boots he’s as good as there is in Lebanon, or better. The father is worth up in the millions, the mother was one of those Hoffners from Richterville. You stay out of this, Harvey, and don’t ruin Lalie’s chances.”
“I don’t have anything against the boy, but what’s the hurry yet?”
“The hurry is there is no hurry,” said Bess. “The hurry was last summer when I made them have an understanding. Now the understanding time is over and the engagement time starts. You don’t go out in the yard and shake a George Lockwood out of the pear tree. You should hear David on how lucky Lalie is. David considers himself honored if George Lockwood gives him the time of day, that’s what David thinks of him.”
“Is he that friendly with David? Maybe he’d do something for the boy.”