Fortune's Hand (18 page)

Robb felt himself flinch. The dirt, the hopelessness, the vapid faces, the yawping cries—

“Don't,” he said.

“Well, then?”

“I can't think about it now.”

“What's the matter? Your father-in-law is so loving to you that you don't want to hurt his feelings?”

“Hardly. It's Ellen. I don't want to hurt her, and this would hurt her. Besides,” he said quickly before Eddy could reply, “I'm comfortable with my work here. We do a lot of pro bono stuff. You may not think that's important, but I can identify with the poor in a way
that—meaning no offense, Eddy—with your background, you can't.”

“Baloney. Are you saying the Fowler firm doesn't work pro bono?”

“No, of course not, but—”

“And as for background, Peter Harte in that firm didn't have a button more than you did. His parents had to mortgage themselves with big loans for his education. He was thirty-five before he got them all paid back. So it's pretty fair to say he's made his own way. Full partner in the Fowler firm. You should see his house out on Lambert Pike. Bought it all himself, too. Go look. Name's on the gatepost.”

Eddy, without ever meaning to, could be so offensive you wanted to throttle him. Still, he ought to be used to him by now.

And Robb asked dryly, “Private investigator? Your new sideline?”

“I get around, that's all. I notice things. Well, so long. Devlin expects me in a minute, and I'll be on the run till midnight. Think over what I'm telling you. I mean it, Robb.”

The telephone stared back at him when he laid down the receiver.
Bought it all himself
. Eddy can hit below the belt. Did I ask to live where we live? Did I have any choice?

Later, going home, Robb moved the car slowly up the driveway, stopped, and sat for a moment to examine the house. Correct and understated, it resembled Wilson Grant. It was Wilson Grant's house, filled with
his possessions, or more exactly, his ancestors' possessions.

When he opened the door, there before him stood the mahogany tall clock, the silver candlesticks (George the Third) on the hall chest (bow-front with rare satinwood marquetry). The only objects that belonged to him, Robb MacDaniel, were the living ones: the girl Julie, whose piano practice ceased as she heard him and came running to hug him, and in front of the television set, the boy Penn, unaware of him and uncaring, anyway.

“I hate practicing,” Julie said. “I only like playing after I've learned a piece. Then it's fun. I feel smart.”

She had the ability to laugh at herself! He wondered whether that was unusual for a child her age. Yes, it must be. For when you thought about it, how many adults were able to laugh at themselves?

“You're a wonder,” he said, hugging her back.

“You know something? Penn likes to hear me play. He likes it even when I make awful mistakes that hurt your ears. He sits on the floor and watches me. I feel sorry for him.”

A womanly kindness revealed itself in those few words. She was beginning to understand. Of course, Penn was becoming a little more manageable. And yet, and yet to look at them together was to imagine what might have been …

“You look especially tired,” Ellen observed. “Was it an awfully hard day?”

“Oh, I don't know. Just off and on.”

In a way, he would have liked to tell her. An offer
like that from Fowler, Harte and Fowler was certainly something to talk about. It was a feat, a coup, an achievement. But he talked about the coming election instead.

The next day, driving away from the courthouse, he made a totally unnecessary detour. It was not as if he had never seen the building in which Fowler, Harte and Fowler had their offices. Fairly new, it was the tallest structure in the city, and was thus already a landmark. Modern, but not dramatically so, it announced that success and authority dwelt within. Disputes such as the current one over the new highway bridge were argued here. The fee for defending or bringing a suit like that would mount to the heavens.

Back at the office, he was surprised to hear himself make a remark to Jasper about the fees for such a case. “Doesn't it boggle the mind?”

Apparently, Jasper was not “boggled.”

“I guess so” was his reply. But a few moments later, he raised his eyes from the paper that Robb had handed over for his opinion and slowly reflected. “I often wonder why any individual wants all that much. Most people today think they need more than they really do need. It's almost a disease.”

Ordinarily, Robb would have agreed with Jasper, but something was making him contrary in the same way he had felt contrary toward Eddy. Maybe “contrary” was not the word as much as “conflicted.” And he said nothing.

In the parking area behind the office, Wilson Grant was getting into his car. He had not seen Grant in several
days; as a matter of fact, he thought now, when I do see him here at work it is usually just as we pass in the corridors; we never have lunch together; a stranger would not guess that we are in any way related.

Grant said now, “I think you and Ellen should do something about Harold Bancroft's retirement from the Red Cross board. They are moving to Florida and deserve recognition for all his work. People are giving little dinners. I would give one if I still had the house, but obviously, in my apartment, I can't.”

“That's a nice idea. I'll tell Ellen as soon as I get home.”

“I hesitated to ask. You have so much on your hands with the boy.”

He never said “Penn,” but only “the boy,” as one might speak of a domestic animal.

“Penn will not make any trouble,” Robb replied. “And anyway, we do not hide him. We are not ashamed of him.”

He had kept his tone mild and respectful, yet the import of his words must be clear to the other man, who would never betray his reaction to those words.

“Good.” Grant was cool and courteous. “Fine, then.” He nodded. “Well, good night.”

Both cars moved away. Robb was angry, and annoyed with himself for being so. That cold, unjust, hard man! Even his generosity was cold, inspired by pride of family. I wish we could go away someplace, he thought, just Ellen and I and the children, go to some place where I wouldn't have to feel that all our goods are Grant's, all of them, even my affiliation with the Red
Cross. And yet, would I let myself be driven out because of a cranky old man? Have I not earned my place? The people at Fowler, Harte and Fowler must think I have.

His chest was heavy with indignation, a large, hot lump of it which he must get rid of before going home. It wasn't healthy to let it lie where it was, and it certainly was not healthy for the family to be aware of it. So when he came to the turnoff at his street, he kept going. It was better to be late than to go home like this, he was thinking, and kept on until after a minute or so he came to the sign:
LAMBERT PIKE
.

Harte lives there, Eddy said. Very well, let's see where this self-made son of poverty lives. Mere curiosity, of course.

The houses were far apart with two acres, probably, around each. They were refined houses, “gentlemen's dwellings,” Wilson Grant would say, like the one that Robb now occupied, except that these were twice the size of that one. Before Harte's house, he slowed the car enough to glimpse whitewashed brick and pine-green shutters at the end of the long gravel driveway. A child ran around the corner of the house, a boy. People like these would have three or four children, all smart and tall and sunny. He turned the car around and went home.

That night he slept poorly. His thoughts were running around in his head. Like frightened rabbits they circled, as the animals had long ago when dogs found them in his mother's vegetable patch. Yes, long ago on another continent, in another age. And he thought of the enormous steps he had taken away from that vegetable
patch, the enormous distance he had covered. Why not take yet another step? Perhaps Eddy was right. What am I afraid of? In the bed, careful about waking Ellen, he cautiously turned, and turned again.

“What is it?” she whispered. “What's wrong?”

And so he told her. The words came out more easily there in the darkness, where he could not see her reaction to them. When he was finished, she was still for a moment before she cried out, “You can't be serious.”

“I don't know.… It's possible that I am.”

“But you've always seemed to be, you've always said that you were happy in your work. It's been almost ten years! And you're bound to be a full senior partner this year. Grant, Taylor, Jasper and MacDaniel. How does that sound? You'll be earning as much as Dad.”

“It's not enough,” Robb said. And was sorry to speak what sounded like a disparagement of her father.

“Not enough! I can't believe what I'm hearing.”

“It isn't, Ellen. Think of what faces us. We'll need to provide lifetime care for Penn in a decent place.”

“You're looking too far ahead. We don't know anything for sure.”

“Ellen, we know.”

“We can always hope.”

“Don't fantasize. Ask your friend Phil Lawson. He's told you already—how many times?”

“We can use my mother's trust. It's not large, but we haven't touched it. It probably would be enough.”

“Probably it wouldn't be. And anyway, it's
your
trust. I want to use my own money for the child I brought into the world. My own.”

“You sound so bitter. And I hear there's something else you're not saying. What is it?”

“Perhaps I'm a little surprised that you haven't said a word about the Fowler offer. Most people would give their eyeteeth for an offer like that.”

“I'm sorry. Don't think I'm not terribly impressed. Of course I am, very. It's just that—well, I'm afraid my first thought was about my father. He isn't well, and this will break his heart.”

Hardly. It would be an embarrassment, a source of speculation, and so a humbling before his peers.

“I don't want to hurt him, Ellen. I really don't. But things happen. The thing you never thought of emerges from where it's been hidden. You never knew it was there. I meet Fowler in the sandwich shop—and something changes.”

“Like the day we met, and suddenly you forgot Lily.”

It was the second time in less than a week, and after years, that Lily's name had been spoken.

“Things happen,” he said again.

“I see. So what else is going to ‘happen'? Another woman someday, in another sandwich shop?”

“Oh Ellen, please. We're talking about a job and a house and money. Not about you and me. You're my love, my children's mother.”

Drawing her to him, he felt her stiffening, her resistance, and tightened his hold.

“What did you mean by ‘house'? I don't want to move out of here. I don't, Robb. I love this house. Everything in it speaks to me, the beech trees, the frieze of
yellow ducks that I painted in the children's rooms, first Julie's and now Penn's. He loves the ducks—” Her voice choked in her throat.

What am I doing to her? he demanded of himself. He couldn't bear her tears. Haven't I brought enough trouble into her life?

“We'll keep the house. Forget I said it. I wasn't thinking.”

But he had been thinking, although he hadn't meant to reveal the thought so soon or so abruptly.

“Everything's whirling,” she wept. “All this, out of the blue. It's just—it's too much at once. Will you promise we'll never leave this house? Will you? Do you? Can you see what it means to me?”

“Yes, yes, I promise.”

“And the job? You'll say no?”

“Probably. I'll think. I'm not sure.” And in all this uncertainty, this pain, he stumbled. “I'll see. I'm not sure. Don't pin me down right now. Not tonight.”

“You're talking in circles.”

And so he had been. He had been thinking in circles, too, ever since that afternoon in the sandwich shop.

“I can only say that I'm shocked,” Jasper said.

Robb had had no intention, when he brought a document into Jasper's room, of telling him about the Fowler proposal. He was himself too baffled to present a clear picture to anyone. Will Fowler's glowing descriptions, Eddy's pragmatic encouragement, and Ellen's distress all thrashed about in his head. But each one of these people was influenced by his own particular
temperament and life experience. Each had his own reason for leading Robb MacDaniel in one direction or the other. By contrast, Jim Jasper, decent, rational, and not linked to Robb MacDaniel by any personal interest, financial or emotional, almost invited confession.

Jasper's eyebrows rose toward his receding hairline. He laid down his pen and took off his glasses, as if without them he could see more clearly.

“An offer?” he repeated.

“Yes, it was a few days ago.” And Robb succinctly went ahead with the facts.

“Well, congratulations are certainly in order, although surely you are not going to accept.”

“I'm not certain, Jim. That's my trouble. I hadn't intended to mention it to you, and I'm assuming you will keep this confidential.”

Jasper failing to answer, he continued, “I don't know what I should do. One minute I think one way, and the next minute I think the other. There are so many factors to consider, chiefly my wife. I haven't slept for the last few nights.”

“In my opinion, you would be making a horrendous mistake to leave here. How can you even contemplate it?”

“The money. I need the money.”

In astonishment, Jasper replied, “I should say, if I were asked, that you were living very well.”

“It's the future I'm talking about. My son.”

“Surely there are ways to deal with that. Insurance, annuities—”

“Expensive. And to some extent, problematical. This money is here, available, right now.”