Sloan Wilson - Man in the Gray Flannel Suit

“No! She would have told me! Just before she died she told me she was leaving everything to me, and that’s the way the will is written.”

“Mr. Schultz claims that he asked Mrs. Rath for a salary increase about a year before she died, and that she said she couldn’t afford to give him one, but that if he’d stay as long as she lived, she’d leave everything to him.”

“I want to try to be fair about this,” Tom said. “We can’t prove whether she said that or not. She was old and confused, and I suppose it’s possible she said that and forgot it. All I know is she used to talk all the time about saving the house for me, and that’s the way the will is written.”

“Mr. Schultz seems to feel an attempt is being made to cheat him.”

“I can’t help the way the old man feels!” Tom said. “I can’t afford to have the settling of the estate delayed indefinitely! How can he hold things up? He hasn’t got any proof!”

“He says he has,” Bernstein said.

“What kind?”

“He told me he has everything in writing from her, postdating the will Mr. Sims sent me.”

“I don’t believe it!”

“That’s what he says. I have asked him to have a photostat of his document sent to me, and he agreed to.”

“Have you received it yet?”

“No — there hasn’t been time.”

“I can’t understand it!” Tom said. “She wasn’t like that. She never would have done a thing like that without telling me!”

“The court will have to examine both documents and make a decision.”

“How long will it take?”

“That depends on a lot of things. It may be necessary to get a lot of information together. It could be a matter of months, or even more.”

“Meanwhile, I’m living in my grandmother’s place. What would happen if the court awarded it to him?”

“He could dispossess you and perhaps charge you rent retroactively, I suppose.”

“Is it legal for me to be there now?”

“When a property is in dispute, it’s hard to tell what to do with it. I don’t think Mr. Schultz is trying to dispossess you before the court makes a decision.”

“That’s nice of him,” Tom said bitterly. There was a moment of silence before he added, “I guess I should ask Mr. Sims to represent me — I’ll need a lawyer, won’t I?”

“That would be advisable.”

“You wouldn’t take the case for me?”

“Hardly. I’m the judge.”

“Has Edward, I mean Mr. Schultz, got a lawyer?”

“Yes. A big outfit in New York is representing him. Frankly, I don’t think he could have got them to take the case if he didn’t have a legitimate claim in their opinion.”

“That’s fine,” Tom said.

“All you can do is put the case in the hands of your lawyer and wait,” Bernstein said.

Tom looked at him helplessly for an instant before getting to his feet abruptly. “I guess there’s nothing more I can do,” he said. “There doesn’t seem to be much point in asking about zoning laws now.”

“You’re in a ten-acre zone,” Bernstein said. “If you wanted to put a housing development there, you’d have quite a fight on your hands. I wouldn’t go into it until the estate is settled.”

“Thanks,” Tom said, feeling a rush of unreasonable resentment against Bernstein. “Anyway, thanks.” He left the room.

As soon as he had gone, Bernstein walked to the window of his office and stood looking down at the street, where Betsy and the children were waiting in the parked car. His stomach was beginning to ache.

“Why, that school is terrible! ” Betsy said as soon as Tom got into the car, before he could say anything. “It’s dingy and overcrowded, and I don’t think it’s safe. I hate to send the kids there! When we get going, I’m going to send them to a private school!”

“Betsy,” Tom said, “I’ve got some news that isn’t very good.”

“What?”

“Edward has put in a claim for the whole estate, and he says he has a will Grandmother signed after she wrote the one we have. He’s got a big firm of lawyers working on it.”

“Oh, no! She told you. ”

“I know.”

“What’s going to happen?”

“We just have to put Sims to work on it and let the court decide.”

Betsy said nothing. “What’s the matter?” Janey asked.

“Everything’s all right, baby,” Betsy said.

“What did Daddy say?”

“Nothing important,” Tom said. “We’re going home now.”

He started the car. On the way up the hill to the old house they were all silent. When they came to the rock ledge against which his father had slammed the old Packard, Tom stared at it deliberately — it was ridiculous to look away. The rocks were massive and craggy, some of them tinged with a dull red hue, which was probably iron ore.

“Either Edward or your grandmother lied!” Betsy said suddenly, as Tom stopped the car in front of the house. “I know it was Edward! Everything’s going to turn out all right!”

“Don’t count on it, baby,” he said.

For some reason he didn’t want to go into the dim old house. Instead, he walked alone into the tall grass toward the distant row of pines. In the distance the smooth surface of the Sound glittered. The children bounded after him until Betsy called them back. “Leave your father alone,” she said.

It’s funny, he thought. I’m always sure things are going to turn out badly, and, damn it, they usually do.

“Everything’s going to turn out all right!” Betsy always said.

Sure, he thought, we’ll live here a year or so while this case is being decided, and then Edward will get the house and slap a bill for back rent on us. And we’ll have lawyers’ bills and court costs to pay. And the only job I’ve got now is sitting all day behind a desk doing nothing.

What will happen if we lose this place, and run up a lot of bills, and I get fired? he thought. What will we do? And what will happen if Maria makes trouble?

I can always get a job, he thought. Dick Haver would give me a job again. I can always get a job somewhere.

Maybe, he thought. If Hopkins fired me six months after I was hired, people would want to know why. And if there were any publicity about Maria — if she made any charges — none of the foundations would touch me. And what the hell other kind of work am I trained for?

I could go back in the Army, he thought. They’d make me a major. Good pay, travel, education, and security. Grandmother could look down from heaven and be real proud of me — she could talk to the angels about the family major and be honest.

Grandmother, he thought — by God, what kind of woman was she? Did she promise Edward her estate just to make sure she would have service the rest of her life? And was she afraid to tell me, unwilling to suffer the slightest unpleasantness? Did she play it both ways, getting the fun of telling me she was leaving me everything and at the same time wringing the last drop of ease out of life? Was she, when you come right down to it, only an evil, pretentious, lying old woman who could be expected to beget nothing but evil, a suicide, and a.

This is ridiculous, he thought — that’s one thing I won’t do. Money isn’t that important. I’m tough. I can always get a job. I can go back to the Army. Travel, education, security. Times like these are made for me — a tough bastard who knows how to handle a gun. And I wouldn’t even have to do that. If worse came to worst, I could dig a ditch, I could operate an elevator like Caesar, and in heaven Grandmother could say, “My grandson is in the transportation business.”

It’s absurd to think of these things, he thought. I could get a job in an advertising agency. I’ll write copy telling people to eat more corn flakes and smoke more and more cigarettes and buy more refrigerators and automobiles, until they explode with happiness.