Brother and Sister (10 page)

“Is he still mad at me? Did he talk you out of it?”

“Oh,” she said, suddenly vastly relieved. “No, nothing like that. Paul likes you, Bob. You know that. That day, after the funeral, he was just upset.”

“You’ve been colder to me since he came back,” he said.

“Since my mother and father died,” she corrected. “It made me see things differently. Being on my own, being independent all of a sudden. I had a chance to think about things. Bob, listen, I’m sorry I have to hurt you this way, but isn’t it better to find out now? I do like you, I’m very fond of you. But I
--
I know this is a cruel way to say it, but there isn’
t any other way--
I don’t think I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“It
is
Paul,” he said. He got to his feet in a sudden motion, as though all his muscles were bunched and tense. He paced across the living room and back again. “It
is
Paul,” he repeated. “I remember what he said that day he threw me out of here. He said you were too young to have to decide your future. He said you shouldn’t make up your mind about who to spend the rest of your l
ife with--
that you had plenty of time to decide that.”

But I know,
she thought.
I know now.

“He’s been telling you the same thing,” Bob continued. “Hasn’t he? Telling you over and over?”

“Don’t be silly, Bob. Paul hasn’t said a word about you, or tried to tell me what to think about you. He isn’t like that. He lets me make my own decisions. He always has.”

“Then why have you changed so suddenly?” he demanded. “Why, since he’s come home, don’t you want to marry me any more? There was a time when you said you wanted to marry me. There was even a time when you said you wanted to go to bed with me, right then, right away, and not even wait for marriage. But now ever since
he’s
come home, you’re a different person. And you don’t want me any more.”

“It’s my own decision,” she insisted. She didn’t like Bob talking about Paul this way. Not that he could ever guess the truth, of course, but she didn’t even like him to be thinking in that direction. She had to convince him that her decision had nothing to do with Paul.

“Even before Paul came home,” she said, “even before Mom and Dad were killed, I wasn’t sure any more. That’s why I’d never set a date. Because I’d agreed too young. I’d said yes when I didn’t really understand what I was saying yes to. I’m older now. I think I’ve grown up a lot since Mom and Dad died. I think that forced me to grow up. Now I know it would be a mistake. And I think we’re both lucky that I know and can tell you now. Otherwise we’
d discover it--at least, I would--a few
years from now.”

He shook his head. “
We had plans--
”

“They were kids’ plans, Bob,” she said. “I’m sorry. Can’t you believe that I am, sorry, and that I do really know my own mind, at last? Because it’s the truth, you know.”

He stood in the middle of the room, head bowed, studying the design in the living room carpet. He gnawed on his lower lip and she watched him, wondering what thoughts were going on behind his troubled eyes.

At last, he looked up at her. There was a new heaviness in his face and she realized she had hurt him badly. But she was right. It was better to know now, better to tell him now.

And there was Paul. .

“I guess you’re right,” he said, slowly and reluctantly. “I guess you really do know what you’re saying.”

“I’m sorry, Bob.”

“Yes,” he said. “Well
--
that’s it, I guess. There’s nothing more to say.”

“Try not to be angry with me,” she pleaded.

“No,” he said, distracted, as though thinking of something else. He glanced over at the door, back at her, shrugged. “I guess
--I guess
I ought to be going now.”

“I’m truly sorry, Bob,” she said, meaning it.

“Yes,” he said, with the same air of abstraction. He crossed the room and went out the front door, closing it carefully behind him.

She went to the window and watched him walk away down the sidewalk. It had been a painful interview, for her almost as much as for him, but it had been something that needed taking care of. She was grateful, at least, that it was over.

Now she was free. No more ties. Now there was only Paul and that was as it should be.

It had been a while since they’d heard from Uncle James. They had just about come to the conclusion that he had given up the whole idea when he appeared one evening, his desire for the house as strong as ever. He arrived about eight-thirty.

Paul met him at the door and grudgingly allowed him to come in. Uncle James sat in the leather chair in the living room, while Paul and Angie seated themselves across from him, on the sofa.

Before Uncle James had opened his mouth, Angie could tell that he hadn’t given up. The sullen, stolid determination was still plain in his face. She shivered involuntarily, wishing she could move closer to Paul, press herself against him for reassurance and protection.

A wife could do that, sit close to her husband, press herself close against him in public, but not Angie.

That was another thing that was denied Angie, like the back-yard talking. Like too many things. No one could ever know of their love. They could never express their love in public, with anyone in the world looking on. Neither of them could possibly try to defy the moral indignation of their combined relatives if the truth should come out.

That, Angie was beginning to realize, was the hardest part of all. The secrecy.

Uncle James began by saying, “I’ve been talking with Jake McDougall again. He advised me to come over here tonight. I didn’t want to. I know the way you always act, Paul. You’re surly and disrespectful, and it’s not an attitude I’m used to from young kids like yourself. It’s tough for me to keep my temper when you act that way.”

“It’s tough for me to keep
my
temper,” Paul told him, “when you keep trying to take my house away from me.”

“That’s what I mean,” said Uncle James. “Cracks like that. That’s the kind of thing I mean, exactly. That’s why I told Jake I didn’t want to come over here. But he said I should. He said I should try talking to you kids one last time before we go to court. Because it’s just going to be a bother and an expense for everybody, going to court, and I think you’d like to avoid that sort of thing just as much as I would.”

“I’m not worried about court,” Paul told him.

“You would worry,” Uncle James snapped, “if you had an ounce of brains in your head.”

“Who’s
making the dirty cracks?” Paul asked him.

“Please,” said Angie in a small and frightened voice. She knew they were on the verge of open antagonism again, of shouting and threatening one another, and she desperately did not want anything like that to happen.

Uncle James looked at her and settled back in his chair. “You’re right, Angie,” he said. “I’ve got to remember what Jake told me. He told me not to get riled up, no matter what, to just come in here and state my position and let it go at that.”

“Then state your position,” Paul told him brusquely.

Uncle James frowned sourly, taking a minute to regain his control over himself. Then he said, “I’ll tell you the way I feel and then I’ll tell you what Jake says. I feel that this is my house and there’s no question of it. That’s the way I feel. Jake says you’ve got a pretty good claim, though not as good as mine. But he says it’s a good enough claim so that any court fight could be a long, dragged-out proposition, with everybody hating everybody else by the time it’s finished, and the whole family split up, taking sides. It would be a real mess all around.

“So I go along with what Jake suggests. And this is it. He says I ought to make a settlement with you. Give you some money, half the assessed value of the house. And I ought to give you time to get straightened away, find yourselves apartments and so on. He also says I should pay for the furniture that’s in the house if you want to sell it to me, or wait for you to sell it to somebody else if you’d rather not sell it to me, or pay for moving it to wherever you want to go. That’s what Jake advises and he says it’s fair. I personally think it’s a hell of a lot more than fair, but he’s the lawyer and he’s supposed to know what he’s talking about.

“Now, before you say anything, I want you to think over the proposition I know you don’
t like me. I guess you got that from your father--but never mind that. It
isn’t important. Don’t answer me on the basis of whether or not you like me. Answer me on the basis of the situation as it stands. You’ve got your claim and I’ve got mine, and the court is going to pay more attention to a responsible businessman than to a young kid. If it hurts your feelings to be called a young kid, I’m sorry, but it’s the truth, and that’s the way the court is going to regard you.”

The silence stretched out after Uncle James had finished. Angie looked over at Paul and saw that his face was tight and hard, his lips drawn to a thin line. She sensed that he was on the edge of blowing up for real, and she put her hand out to take his and squeeze it gently, saying, her voice low, “Paul, don’t get mad. Uncle James talked to you without getting mad. You do the same thing.”

“That’s being sensible,” observed Uncle James.

Angie turned her head quickly to glare at him. “Now, hush!” she said. Don’t go out of your way to antagonize him.”

Surprisingly, Uncle James kept quiet.

Angie squeezed Paul’s hand again. Gradually she saw some of the tightness leave his face, saw his shoulders start to relax, and when he opened his mouth, his voice was low and controlled. “You’ve had your say,” he said. “You’ve stated your position. Now I’ll state mine. It’s pretty simple and straightforward. You’ve heard it all before, but I want to make it just as clear as I can.

“In the first place, I want this house. If you’ve got the idea that I want it purely and simply because I don’t like you and I’m trying to spite you, you’re dead wrong. I want it because it’s my home, because it has always been my home. That’s the first thing.

“The second thing is the deed. I have it. It shows that I’m the legal owner of this house. There isn’t another claim in the world that can come close to that for legality.

“And the third thing is the family. You mentioned the family a minute ago and that got me thinking. I know you, Uncle James, and I know the way your mind works. I’ll make a bet that one of the first things you ever did, even before you went to see that lawyer, McDougall, was to go around and talk to other members of the family. You wanted to get them on your side. You wanted them to come here and try to talk us out of the house. I know you did that, just as surely as I know anything, because that’s the way you are.

“
But nobody has come here--
not one single relative. And that means that none of them sided with you. If anybody had, I’d already have heard from them. You said a court fight would split the family in two and you’re right. Except for one thing. You’d be the only one on your side.

“Now, you’re a responsible businessman, and I’m just a young kid. But if every single goddamn relative of mine goes before the judge and tells him that I’m a responsible young kid and they know me and they think I ought to be allowed to keep my house, I think that ought to cancel out your responsible-businessman claim pretty completely, don’t you?”

During this speech, Paul had gradually leaned forward in the seat, toward Uncle James, though his voice had never raised nor had his expression ever changed from its hard, blank, controlled aspect. Now, finished, he sat back, taking a second glance at Angie and squeezing her hand.

Uncle James was looking grimmer and grimmer.

“Very pretty,” he said. “I see the whole thing now. You’re going to try the sympathy routine, is that it? The poor goddamn orphans out in the storm, is that it? And get all your bleeding-heart aunts and uncles and cousins to come into court and tell everybody what a heartless bastard your Uncle James is.” He got to his feet, glowering. “Is that the story?” he shouted, his voice raising with every word.

Paul got to his feet, too, though Angie tried to hold him back. “The story,” he snapped, “is whatever the hell you want it to be. You stated your position and I stated mine. Now you can get the hell out of here. If you want to bring suit I’ll see you in court. If you don’t want to bring suit, quit coming around here to badger me or I’ll call the cops.”

“Listen, you young squirt,” roared Uncle James, extending a threatening finger at Paul, “I’ve had just about all I’
m going to take--
”

“Me, too,” said Paul

He reached out and grabbed Uncle James’ extended arm and swung him around with it, pointing him at the front door. Then he grabbed Uncle James by the back of his collar and the seat of his pants, and ran him to the door.