Philip Wylie - Tomorrow!

“Harvardese” which he had endeavored to learn at Princeton and to polish in Britain, was an unstable asset: it deteriorated under emotional pressure to the Bat, nasal intonation of his background.

He knew someday he would have to marry; he had long been indifferent to the female object of that necessity. He had put off the date, not to search for a mate he himself desired—that being plainly irrelevant to the question—but merely because his deepest wish was to avoid responsibility. He did not want now, any more than he had wanted at eighteen, to be tied down with a home, a woman, children, things he had to do. Life was “happy” for him only when he could, at will, jump into a Jaguar, or into a plane, or aboard a fast boat, and be gone. He knew he was mother-dominated and usually he thought that was for the best. But he also knew that within his mother was a tremendous “strength”—he never saw it as invidious, as selfish, as masochistic and sadistic—which (if he deliberately or even inadvertently offended her in some fashion she could not brook or would not) might cause her to renounce him, the apple of her eye. And that renouncement, he knew, would be absolute. He would be cut off without a penny—not in her will, but the day she renounced him. His next month’s allowance simply wouldn’t be deposited and that would be that.

Kit had two frequent fantasies related to such matters. He imagined himself the victim of his mother’s fury, and could only see as his way out taking up his plane for a last nose dive into the ground. If she managed to get the plane grounded before he could reach it, there were cars-even rental cars. He had often noted a buttonwood tree that stood on a sharp curve on Elk Drive, about halfway to the airport. He could hit that at a hundred or so. His other fantasy concerned the sudden, unexpected death of his mother and his inheritance of everything that bore the name of Sloan. It was his most frequent daydream.

Looking at his mother now, Kit realized that she had, as so often, mustered some fresh, intangible force to abet her will. Part of her strategy had appeared: he had never before thought that being married would serve a useful purpose in relation to his conduct with the whole world of women. He could see that point. And he could see farther: if he failed to acknowledge it, his mother might, that being her nature and her method, make certain some young lady in the future behaved in such a fashion as to make the point unforgettable. Minerva Sloan was not above ally-ing herself with another against her son, when the allegiance was designed to accomplish some ultimately “good” end.

She had said, “Suppose I add a mother’s urging?”

It might have been a warm suggestion, sentimental, kindly.

It was not, as he knew by her abrupt tenseness. “Mother…” he began.

The deliberations were interrupted by the butler, who came in carrying a telephone on a jack.

Jeffrey Fahlstead had served the Sloans for more than thirty years. For twenty, they had called him “Jeff.” An Irishman, he was, like Willis the chauffeur, unbent by age, stiffened, rather. “It’s Washington, D.C., ma’ am,” he said.

Minerva took the phone, spoke her name, and soon shot a quick annoyed glance at her son.

From the conversation which developed, Kit gathered guiltily that his afternoon Bight was dimly viewed by various persons who wanted him grounded, or relieved of his license, put in jail, or given a lunacy test. Complaints had already gone to high Federal authorities. Into this dilemma his mother barged serenely, however. She could have used the “friendly tip” from an important Washington official to have him grounded; and Minera didn’t like the risks her son took by flying. But she wanted, that evening, something else from Kit.

Listening to one side of the talk, Kit realized that his mother, coming forcefully to his aid, was going to fix, grease and appease everything and everybody. His mother, he reflected, was completely indispensable to him. The least he could do was to please her in this matter of marriage.

When she hung lip, she didn’t even make it a long lecture. “Take me weeks to get the thing straightened out,” she said, concluding it, “and don’t ever fly like that again! But, Kit, I want to go back to our previous talk.” She nodded the butler out of the room. “As I said, an odd thing has happened at the bank.”

“Really? What, Muzz?”

“You know John Jessup?”

He shook his head.

“You should remember him from childhood. An old horse thief—and one of the smartest men in Larkimer County! Made millions, in cattle mostly. He was one of your father’s cronies, years back. It’s not important. The thing that’s important is this: the bank takes care of his holdings. He doesn’t even look things over for long periods. Trusts us, of course, and leaves us free to make certain kinds of changes, so his holdings are open always and we have a limited power of attorney.”

“Somebody cleaned him out!” Kit guessed.

Minerva’s eyes acknowledged the guess. “Not cleaned him out. Just took six thousand, in bonds.”

“Who?” And, of course, he knew. “Beau Bailey! But he’s been with you forever! Muzz!”

Mrs. Sloan was looking at her china rail-seeing, now, the expensive plates it supported.

“There is no proof, as yet, and Beau denies it, of course. As a matter of fact, the theft of the bonds was a good thing for the bank, showed us an old-fashioned, inadequate method of keeping track that made it easy for certain people to purloin things. We’ve stopped that system. Jessup came in today, missed the certificates himself, reported. They could have been taken any time in the past several years. Though the ink on the receipt appears quite fresh. However, I suspected Beau instantly—”

“Why Beau, particularly?”

She smiled. “There shouldn’t be any little secrets between mother and son, should there?

I suspected him, Kit, because I almost hoped it would be Beau. I needed, for reasons I trust are now clear, a better hold on Beau even than the power to fire him. He could get a good job in several banks, not only because he’s adequate, but because he knows so much about the operations and activities of Sloan Trust. I must say, the moment I thought of Beau and checked to make sure he’d had the opportunity, I did realize that I knew—heaven knows how! Gossip, I suppose—that Beau had always stage-managed a forty-thousand-dollar-a-year way of life on a seventeen-thousand-five-hundred salary.”

“They do sort of put on dog, in a small, cheesy way. Like a modernized housefront and barbecue pits, and Netta Bailey—a harridan if I ever saw one—goes for clothes.”

“Of course,” Minerva went on, “I then really did some digging. I’ve spent the day at it, largely. Most absorbing. Beau’s run up bills just everywhere. He belongs to seven clubs that require stiff dues, stiff for him. They’ve sent that girl through college lavishly. But what I finally learned—after all, a bank has to have connections with all sorts of people—is that Beau’s been betting the horses for some time. And losing.”

“So? What’s it got to do with Lenore? She never struck me as lacking in guts. If her dad’s disgraced, I can imagine she’d bear it. Get a job. She’s had some dandy offers for everything from modeling in New York, and a Hollywood screen test, to working in labs at Hobart Metal.”

Minerva chuckled. “Be ironic, wouldn’t it? Beau took Hobart bonds.”

“I don’t see—”

“I’ve decided it’s past time for you to marry, Kit. I merely felt I should make sure, by a heart-to-heart talk with you, that you really liked Lenore Bailey. She’s quite suitable, and any suitable girl would satisfy me, as I’ve said a thousand times, if I’ve said it once.”