Sloan Wilson - Man in the Gray Flannel Suit

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Tom said. “I don’t want you to worry. I don’t have much to give, but as long as we have this house, you’ll at least have a place to stay, and in time I hope to work something out for you.”

“I don’t need your charity!” the old man said. “I’ve saved my money — I’ve probably got a lot more than you have! I only want my just due!”

“I won’t be able to tell you how much I can give you until the estate is settled,” Tom said.

“Never mind that! I want to see the will! I don’t believe she didn’t mention me. She promised she’d leave me the house.”

“The house ?”

“That’s right — I’ve got proof!”

“You must be mistaken,” Tom said. “She spoke to me often about leaving me the house. Are you sure you aren’t imagining all this?”

“Of course I’m sure! Why do you think I’ve stayed here all these years? Why do you think I took her orders, and cooked her food, and did her laundry, and cleaned up her dirt? Do you think I loved the old woman?”

Tom stood up. He didn’t mean to, but he suddenly rose out of his chair and stood towering over Edward. There was an instant of complete silence. When Tom spoke his voice was soft. “Don’t talk like that about Mrs. Rath again,” he said.

Edward stared up at him and said nothing. His face was white, perhaps with anger, perhaps with fear. Tom hadn’t meant to lunge out of his chair so fast. Slowly Tom sat down. “Now listen,” he continued quietly. “I frankly don’t believe Mrs. Rath ever promised you anything. She didn’t make promises like that, and if she had, she would have told me. But I’m willing to admit that you had a right to expect something, and that perhaps she said things which encouraged you. It’s quite possible that as she grew older she grew confused and thought she had more than she did. Now get one thing straight: she didn’t have much to leave anyone. By the time the estate is settled, and the mortgage on this house is paid, there probably won’t be much more than the house and land. I intend to sell them if I can, and I intend to see you’re as well cared for as possible, but I’m not going to promise you anything now. You worked here of your own free will for a salary, and you’ll take what I can give you. Until I can get things organized and sell the land, you can keep your room and have your meals here if you want, and if you mind your tongue. You will not be required to do any work.”

“I’ll get a lawyer!” Edward said. “I’ll sue! I’ve got proof she meant the house for me!”

“The will leaves it to me,” Tom said. “The only question now is whether you’re going to be reasonable and take what you can get, or whether you’re going to keep on like this and get thrown out of here tonight.”

“I’ll leave, but you’ll hear from me!”

I mustn’t get angry, Tom thought. He’s an old man. He had a right to expect something. Maybe she did make him promises, or at least, maybe he thought she did. I mustn’t get angry. “Calm down,” he said. “It’s not going to do either of us any good to get excited.”

“You’re cheating me!” the old man said. “Either you are or she did! She was crazy! She was filthy! She never took a bath. She was. ”

“Stop!” Tom said. His voice was like the report of a gun. The old man drew in his breath sharply.

“Now get out of here,” Tom said. “Go down and pack your bags and call a taxi, and get out of here. If you’re not gone in an hour I’ll throw you out.”

“I’ll get a lawyer,” Edward said. “You think I can’t afford one. I can get the best. The house is mine, and I’ve got proof.”

“Get all the lawyers you want, but right now, get out of that chair,” Tom said. “And stay in the servant quarters until the taxi comes.”

Edward got up. Tom waited until he had left the room before going upstairs.

“What happened?” Betsy said. “You look upset.”

Tom lay down on the big double bed and stared up at the crocheted canopy stretching like a net overhead. “I got angry,” he said.

“At Edward?”

“Yes — I threw him out. He’s leaving in an hour.”

He told her about it then, and as he talked, her indignation grew. “Of course you got mad!” she said. “I would have hit him.”

Tom didn’t move. He felt limp and utterly exhausted. “I get angry too easily,” he said. “Tonight I had a real impulse to kill Edward. Often I feel as though I’d like to kill Ogden, at the office. It’s strange that I am permitted to kill only strangers and friends.”

“What?”

“Nothing. I’m awfully tired.”

“That was such a funny thing you said about killing strangers and friends.”

“I meant the war,” he said.

“Did you ever kill anyone?”

“Of course.”

“I mean, did you personally ever kill anyone? You’ve never talked to me about it at all.”

“Right now I’m too tired. I want to go to sleep.”

He stirred restlessly and shut his eyes. In the dim light from the window, Betsy lay looking at his big hands lying quietly folded on top of the covers. “I cannot imagine your killing anyone,” she said.

There was no answer. Betsy lay looking at him for several minutes before trying to go to sleep. How strange, she thought, to know so little about one’s husband. I wish he would talk to me about the war, but I should know better than try to make him. After all, a good wife isn’t supposed to ask her husband questions he obviously doesn’t want to answer.

IT TOOK both Tom and Betsy a long while to get to sleep that night. They lay in the dark, separate and silent. Neither of them commented when they heard a taxi drive up to the house and the front door slam. For some reason, each felt a necessity to feign sleep. Downstairs the old grandfather’s clock which had marked the passage of Tom’s boyhood continued to mourn the loss of each hour.

Only a few minutes after Tom had finally got to sleep, he was awakened by a piercing scream from the next room. He leaped out of bed and, followed by Betsy, ran to the room where the two girls were sleeping, and snapped on the light. Janey was sitting bolt upright in her bed, crying. Tears were running down her face. Betsy ran to her and picked her up. “What’s the matter, baby?” she said. “Did you have a nightmare?”

Janey said nothing. She hugged her mother tightly with both arms, and gradually her cries subsided into sobs. In the bed on the other side of the room, Barbara slept peacefully, oblivious to any disturbance. Betsy took Janey into the room she and Tom were using and put her down on the big bed. Tom put the lights out, and he and Betsy lay there in the dark, with the child between them. Janey’s sobs stopped. She gave a long, shuddering sigh and, still clinging tightly to her mother, went to sleep.

I wonder what she dreamed, Tom thought. What does a child have nightmares about? Did she dream that wild beasts were chasing her, or about drowning, or falling through space? What does a child fear most?

“Betsy, are you still awake?” he whispered. The steady, mingled breathing of mother and child was the only answer.

When Tom awoke in the morning, he felt drugged, as though he had been drinking heavily. No one else was in the big bed. Glancing at the familiar face of his wrist watch, he saw it was almost nine-thirty. He jumped to his feet. “Betsy!” he called. “I’ve missed my train!”

She was nowhere in the room. In his pajamas, Tom ran downstairs, through the living room and the dining room to the big old-fashioned kitchen, where Betsy was washing dishes. “I’ll be late to work!” he said. “I’ve got to get another draft of the speech done!”