Philip Wylie - The Other Horseman

“Heiffler. I’ll—take over—that family.”

“Heiffler? Who the hell is Heiffler?”

“That intern. Came to the bank. He told me a lot of things.” Mr. Bailey sighed heavily. “Explained all about the psychology of Biff’s accident. I must say, I had to admit that I’d thought of it. Remember that evening at dinner? When Sarah accused us both?”

He took out a cigar. “I can see you do. Well, that night I didn’t want to be branded for having such an idea—before the whole family. Made me mad. But Heiffler explained it.

Maybe he’s right. And he told me that you had kept him from sending in a report to the army that Biff was—er—”

“Psychotic. Yeah. I did. He isn’t—any more.”

Mr. Bailey felt for matches and found he had none. He picked a board from the fire and used the hot end. “You know, if I’d discovered, at the time, that you’d done something to spoil Biff’s chances of honorably staying out of the service—I’d have been wild!”

“Wouldn’t have been honorable.”

Mr. Bailey nodded. “I can see the point. You’re a terrific stickler for basic facts.

But you were right. Biff’s put in for training, and if he got blackballed now I don’t know what he’d do.”

“‘Put in’? What do you mean?”

“Oh, volunteered. Enlisted. In another month he’ll be in shape again. Maybe less.

He was dawdling around the house there, just the fool with that nurse. That—what’s-her-name.”

“Genevieve. What happened to her?” Mr. Bailey looked at his son with an air of remote amusement that surprised Jimmie. “What always happens—to those girls. Some other man. A new case, professionally—and romantically. She got sick of Biff when Biff got well.”

Jimmie frowned. “It’s a pity, Dad, you never talked like that around home.”

“I act like a prig? All right. I believe in it—when you have growing kids. Trouble is, I learned just recently you three were grown up. Sarah getting married. Biff going around corrupting morals, and enlisting to fight. Jimmie, it seems to me that you’ve done a whole lot for Biff and your sister.” He spoke wistfully.

“Nothing much. Played older brother. I am one, after all. They are nice kids—in their ways. Needed schooling, like animals.”

“Why don’t you ask me what Biff enlisted in? Seems as if you would.” Jimmie cleaned slush from the runner of a skate. “Oh, I knew. Air Force.”

“You knew! Did he tell you?”

“No. I haven’t seen him, as I said. But I know Biff. Even in his most extreme mood of heroism Biff would do his best to maintain a glamorous background. Something the ladies would like.”

“Is there anything wrong with that?”

Jimmie turned toward his father. “Well, it’s flashy. Still, he’d make a peach of a flier.”

“You’re just a damned puritan,” Mr. Bailey said. Jimmie looked at him and suddenly laughed. His laugh was almost merry. “Gee! That I should live to see the day you called me a puritan! Maybe I am, though.”

The older man grunted. “You damn’ well are. Say, Jimmie. What really happened—the night of the fire? That was the thing that changed Biff. He won’t ever be the same again. But he wouldn’t tell me. I asked him, and he said never to ask him again. He said you had more insides than a herd of elephants. But that’s all. I—I’m your father, Jimmie—sort of, after all.”

Jimmie felt the touch of compassion. Mercy, in Jimmie’s present state of mind, was cheap enough. He wanted only to avoid all signs of drama. “I’ll tell you—if you’ll never repeat it. Somehow I think you won’t. And I think you’ll understand too. Other people would fail to. You know, I loved old Willie Corinth like a father.” His eyes lifted gravely. “Sorry. Willie was the greatest man Muskogewan ever had—maybe ever will have. Biff and I were scouting around behind the fire and we saw the old boy trapped in there. He could have jumped out the window, and we could have run fast and grabbed him—and I was set to try that. But he spent a lot of time burning the stuff in his safe. Took him forever to open it. I suppose—it was hot in there.” Jimmie halted. “Never thought about that!”

He was grimmer when he went on. “There was a chance of hauling him out—a ladder on a vat, a short jump to the roof, a flock of skylights. Biff saw that chance—and tried to get me to go. He was too rocky or he’d have tried. I realized that. I wouldn’t.

“I knew that if I tried Willie and I might both be lost. I knew what was in the papers that Willie was burning. It was the beginning of a very great idea. A new idea.

Something that would go a long way toward winning the war. I knew that Willie was scared the fire might not cook the stuff in the safe; scared that the idea—the principle—might become public. It was one of those things that, once conceived, any good chemist can develop.”

Jimmie spat. “It’s a beastly business, Dad, to let a good man die to keep a secret that may kill thousands of other men. Or—not even to try to save him. That’s what I did.

You see, since Willie was in there I had to stay out. He was burning the papers. And I’m the only other one who knew the idea. Not now, though. It’s gone to Washington. We were crazy to take on so much responsibility—even for a few weeks.”

“In other words,” his father said softly, “you refused to try to save him—in order to save an idea.”

Jimmie didn’t answer. He did not even look at his father.

Mr. Bailey coughed several times. He blew his nose. “So that’s what Biff meant by ‘insides’! Good God!”

Jimmie’s voice was as cold as the gray afternoon. “I think there is no need saying I would rather have gone up on the roof. I have been in a lot of fires. I’m not—too—afraid of them. As it turned out—and I’ve thought this over a thousand times—I’d never have made it. And I know, if I had, Willie would never have forgiven me for risking it.”

“He was a tough old duck,” Mr. Bailey agreed. “I presume you know he made me the head of his plant?”

Jimmie turned incredulously. “You!”

His father grinned over his chewed cigar. “Does it shock you? I’m a darned good business man, Jimmie! His will puts me in full charge of the business end. A committee of his chemist friends is to pick the technical head—unless you’ll be it. The part about you is a codicil.”

“You got another cigar?” Jimmie asked. Mr. Bailey produced one and offered it as if it were an important gift—solemnly, silently.

“I’m going back to England,” Jimmie said, after a while. “This chapter is washed up. There won’t be a lab for me to work in—here—for a long while—”

“You could help in redesigning the plant, Jimmie! I’ve already started jamming through the priorities. We’ll get material—and right now!”

“Lots of men can do that. The redesigning. Nope. I’m going back.”

“Mmmm. I don’t need to say—we’ll miss you.”

“Thanks.”

After a pause his father said, “What is it, Jimmie? What have they got—we haven’t? The British?”

“I couldn’t tell you, Dad. Not—with you feeling the way you do.”

“You might try.”

Jimmie smiled. “I couldn’t even begin to try!” But he did. “They were stuffy—class-conscious, contemptuous of other people. All that has been boiled out of them.

They’ve got the beginnings of some new kind of living. Being there exhilarates you without making you feel fatuous, if you can understand that. You know you’re with a bunch of people who are in the groove, and you don’t care about anything else. Whether you die doesn’t matter at all. They’ve got the high symbol of living for all the people everywhere—right in their laps! At the moment the demand of that symbol is to kill Germans. That’s simple; that’s essential; and everything else has to wait. You just realize all the time—that there is ‘ everything else.’ It’s enough to realize. Leaving them is like leaving a sacred place.”