Sloan Wilson - Man in the Gray Flannel Suit

Edward said nothing.

“If you don’t sign, we’ll go ahead with our case,” Sims said. “I think I’ll start by impounding your bank account.”

“You’re cheating me!” Edward said.

“Then don’t sign and get out of here,” Sims shot out. “If you think you’re being cheated, call your lawyer, and we’ll get on with the case. In the long run I think we might get more out of you that way, anyhow. We might collect forty or fifty thousand dollars.”

Without a word, Edward walked to Bernstein’s desk and seized the papers lying there. Standing like a speaker about to deliver an address, he read them, his lips moving slowly. Then he reached for a pen.

“Wait a minute,” Bernstein said. “We want to call a witness.”

He picked up the telephone, and a moment later an elderly woman who served as a Notary Public and worked in an insurance office next door stepped in. With a trembling hand Edward signed his name to all five documents. When he had finished, he stood watching the Notary impress her seal on them. Then he suddenly turned and bolted out the door.

When the Notary Public had gone, Sims said, “That’s that.”

“I’m glad it’s over,” Bernstein said, and sighed.

“I’ll tell Tom Rath,” Sims said. “I’ll also tell him you deserve the credit for figuring this thing out.”

“Oh, no!” Bernstein said in real alarm. “Don’t do that — in conducting my own little investigation, I really exceeded the prerogatives of a judge. It wasn’t ethical at all!”

Sims laughed. “Now if you’ll help me down the stairs, I’ll go up and see the Raths,” he said. “I imagine they’ll be happy to hear about this.”

“Wait,” Bernstein said. “You might as well give them the bad news with the good. I’ve just been appointed a member of the Zoning Board, and although I can’t speak for the other members, I personally would not like to consider a housing project unless the town votes for a new school. If the people here won’t build schools, we can’t bring in a lot of new families. Ask Rath to hold up on his housing project, at least until the vote on the school next month.”

That same morning Tom finished a new, much shorter draft of the speech. For the first time he himself liked what he had written, and he was anxious to find if Hopkins approved. Only an hour after he had sent the speech up to Hopkins, the voice box on his desk buzzed, and when Tom flipped it on, Hopkins’ voice boomed, “Well, you’ve really done it, Tom! That’s just what I wanted. Let’s have lunch today by way of celebration.”

“Thanks!” Tom said. “I’m glad we finally got it right.”

“Come up in about ten minutes,” Hopkins said. “Bill Ogden will join us, and we can talk about plans for following up the speech.”

Only about five minutes after Tom had learned of this success, his telephone rang. It was Betsy, with the news that Edward had withdrawn his claim from the estate, and that in due time the house, land, and a small amount of money would be theirs. The two pieces of good news, arriving so close together, seemed extraordinary to Tom. “That’s wonderful!” he said several times to Besty, and to himself thought, Let this be a lesson to me. Sometimes things really do turn out all right. Grandmother was perfectly honest, and I never should have doubted her.

“There’s only one thing for us to worry about now,” Betsy said after he had told her that he had successfully completed the speech. “Bernstein says we shouldn’t do anything about our housing project unless they pass a bond issue for a new school. If they vote that down next month, it may be ages. To tell the truth, I don’t understand much about it — Bernstein says that in a few days there’s going to be a public hearing on the whole thing that we ought to go to. Anyway, don’t let’s worry about that now. Tonight we’re going to have a double celebration.”

“That will be swell,” Tom said. “I’ve got to see Hopkins now. Don’t cook anything tonight — let’s all go out somewhere.”

He started up to Hopkins’ office. As soon as he got in the elevator, he saw Caesar at the controls. “Going up,” Caesar said in his deep voice. “Going up. Face the front, please.”

The elevator was crowded. Tom edged toward Caesar. On this day of good luck, it seemed that anything could happen, and he half expected Caesar to tell him that he had just heard from Maria, that she was doing fine and didn’t need any help at all. Instead, Caesar, who had a strong sense of propriety, barely glanced at him, and all he said was, “Floor, please. Going up. Face the front.”

He couldn’t have heard anything about Maria, Tom thought. If he had, he would have nodded to me or something. He hurried to Hopkins’ office, feeling somewhat subdued.

Hopkins led the way to a taxi and told the driver to take them to the River Club, where they were going to meet Ogden. It was cold — the first cold day of autumn. Many of the women on the street were already wearing their fur coats. When they passed St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Tom saw on the wide stone steps a worn woman with a shawl around her head leading a thin child, a little boy wearing only a light summer coat, which the wind was whipping around his legs. The cathedral looked like one which was not far from Maria’s apartment in Rome. Tom remembered the first time Maria had taken him there, two days after he had met her, and before he had known her very well — he had been surprised that a girl he had picked up in a bar wanted to take him to church. She had been insistent about going, and he had agreed, feeling, if anything, indulgent. The moment he had stepped into the cathedral that had changed. Somewhere an organ had been playing softly. The ceiling had arched up so high that it disappeared in the shadows. The air had smoldered with incense. Along the walls had been life-sized statues of saints, their faces exalted and serene. In front of the saints had been racks holding tiers of many short thick candles — at first glance, the whole interior of the cathedral had seemed to be sparkling with innumerable small flames. He had never been in a Catholic church before and had watched, entranced, as one person after another stepped up to the statues of the saints, lit a candle, placed it carefully on the rack among all the others, then knelt in prayer. Taking him by the hand, Maria had led him to the statue of the Virgin and had made him kneel beside her. He had glanced from the simply carved but compassionate face of the statue to Maria, kneeling beside him with her lips moving silently, and he had felt no irony and no hypocrisy in kneeling before the Virgin with a girl he had picked up in a bar. After that he and Maria had gone to the cathedral often. He had said good-by to her there. After he had received his orders to go, and after she had told him she expected a child, she had insisted that they go to the cathedral one more time together. And she had not prayed for herself — she had prayed for him. Knowing how scared he was of death, she had knelt with him before the Virgin, and she had prayed for him. “After you have gone, I will come here often and light a candle for you,” she had said. And he had cried — for the first time in his adult life he had cried when he said good-by to her.

Now, riding past St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York on this day of his good luck, Tom wondered whether she had lit many candles for him. Now he was safe, and everything was turning out beautifully for him, but where was she? He had a sudden impulse to leap out of the moving taxicab, run into the cathedral, and light a candle for her.

At luncheon Hopkins was effusive in his praise of the speech, and Ogden gave even more satisfaction by seeming pained at the compliments Tom got, but the thoughts set in motion by the glimpse of the worn woman with a thin little boy in the cold wind on the steps of St. Patrick’s Cathedral robbed Tom of a feeling of victory. It is strange, he thought, that almost always there is so much irony in success.