6

Driving fast under the trees, Woody asked her, ‘What are you thinking about?’

Though she was not, she said, ‘I’m thinking about what will happen if there’s another war, how awful it will be.’

‘Ah …’ he said. ‘Why are you thinking about that on a beautiful summer night?’

Because the answer to his first question had been a lie, this one was more difficult. She dodged it. ‘I’m thinking about a lot of things,’ she said. She felt him look at her briefly, then fix his eyes on the road again. They sped along, in Woody’s raspberry-coloured car, toward Burketown. The night had grown cold and she hugged her elbows against her sides. The wind whipped around her, over the low windshield. Woody had turned up the turtle collar of his orange sweater and had put on a jaunty, black suêde snap-brim cap. She was very tired. She had not actually wanted to come with him. But after dinner he had started telling her about his apartment. He had redecorated it since she had seen it last, he told her, and it looked its best at night. He begged her to let him show it to her. Her opinion of it, he insisted, was essential, so she had said yes, though it was nearly midnight.

‘Cold?’ he asked her.

‘No, no,’ she lied again.

‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘What are you really thinking about?’

She hesitated. ‘Do you suppose they’re happy?’ she asked him.

‘Who?’

‘Peggy and Barney.’

‘Oh, I suppose so,’ he said.

‘Why do you suppose so?’

‘Because it seems to me that if Peggy happened to think that being happy was a necessary part of being married, she’d insist on it. She’s that kind of girl.’

‘You’re rather down on Peggy these days, aren’t you, Woody?’ she asked. ‘Don’t you like her?’

She looked at him and he was smiling slightly. ‘I never cared for militant women,’ he said. ‘Besides, of the Woodcock girls, you were always my favourite.’

They drove on in silence. She thought of Peggy’s small, brown, intense face—a round, snub face, framed in a circle of short, smooth, dark brown hair. Her eyes were wide and dark and earnest. They had been sitting at opposite ends of Peggy’s big bed one night that summer when Peggy had first told her that she was determined to marry Barney. ‘Of course they disapprove!’ Peggy had said. ‘Of course. I was prepared for it. But I’m twenty-three years old. I’m a free agent. They can disapprove all they want, but they can’t stop me! I’ll listen to all their arguments—let them lecture me on how unwise it is, how oil and water won’t mix! I’ll listen to them—but it won’t make any difference. I’ll go along with them—up to a point. Beyond that point, I draw the line.’ And, with her lacquered fingernail, she drew a swift, sharp line across the surface of the bedspread in demonstration. ‘Barney is a leader,’ she said, ‘a leader! A champion—that kind of leader. Everything he’s done, he’s done for himself. He can do anything he sets out to do. Whatever he begins, he’ll finish—and right at the top! Because that’s the kind of person Barney is. A leader.’

They were coming into Burketown now and Woody slowed the car.

Woody’s apartment was on Main Street, over the Burketown First National Bank. Woody loved to make jokes about his address, ‘I’m thinking of cutting a trap door through my floor down to the bank,’ he said once. ‘In fact, I told old Mr. Willard, the treasurer, about it and he was quite startled. Startled is hardly the word. For a minute I thought he was going to give up the ghost then and there, right at his desk. Then he cleared his throat and said, ‘I don’t think we could permit that, Woodcock!’ So I told him that my plan didn’t involve asking permission—that if I did it I’d do it in the dead of night with a trusted accomplice. The poor old soul got even more startled. Then he explained, very carefully, that my plan was ‘not feasible.’ It would set off, he told me, all sorts of burglar alarms. I told him I’d taken all that into consideration—I’d figured out a way to cut the wires. Poor Mr. Willard—he still gives me funny looks whenever I come into the bank.’

He drew the car up, now, in front of the bank and stopped. ‘Good old Burketown First National,’ he said. ‘It gives me a cosy feeling, going to sleep at night, thinking of all George P. Willard’s money down there, right underneath me.’

They got out of the car and entered the building by a side door that led up a flight of stairs. She followed him. At the top, he produced a key and unlocked his door. She waited while he groped for the light switch.

Originally, the apartment had contained four small rooms. When he moved in, Woody had got permission to knock down the partitions and now the apartment consisted of one enormous room. He turned on the lights—two lamps that hung, suspended from the ceiling by thin wires, in plastic bubble shades, and two small spotlights, concealed in two corners of the room, that were arranged so that their beams merged, precisely, upon a Jackson Pollock print that hung against one wall. She immediately saw that, with the exception of the picture and the arrangement of lights, he had, indeed, changed everything. When she had last seen the apartment, its walls had been stark, flat white. Now they were covered in pale, golden burlap. Between the two tall windows at the end of the room hung an assortment of primitive African masks; in the mouth of one of these, Woody had whimsically placed an antique meerschaum pipe, that dangled from the mask’s lips at a rakish angle. Even much of the furniture was new. Gone were the low, delicate modern pieces on slender brass legs. Instead, in the centre of the room, set in a square, was an arrangement of three wide sofas covered in a heavy Harris tweed. In the centre of this square, facing her, its mouth opened wide in a savage snarl, was an immense polar bear rung.

‘Well, what do you think of it?’ Woody asked her.

‘Fantastic!’ she said.

He moved around the room, showing her the cabinets that opened with sliding doors, revealing bookcases, the components of his high-fidelity phonograph, and his collection of records. Closets, too, were concealed behind sliding doors and he opened these, showing her where his suits were neatly hung, row upon row, and the racks that held his shoes, the narrow drawers that contained his neatly folded shirts, arranged according to colour.

‘You’re a wonderful housekeeper, Woody,’ she said.

‘But do you like it?’ he asked, closing the doors and turning to the room again.

‘Oh, I do, I do!’

‘It’s a new me,’ he said half-seriously. ‘I expect a whole new personality to emerge. I’m through with all that effete, modern stuff. This is to be my explorer personality. See the shrunken head?’ He pointed to the shrivelled head that hung, from a knot of black hair, on a wooden peg.

‘Where in the world did you get that?’

‘Some taxidermist that sold me the polar bear. He assured me, however, that it was not his own handiwork.’

She shivered. ‘It’s ghastly,’ she said.

‘Do you think so? I think it’s rather charming.’

‘Oh, Woody!’ she said. ‘I approve of everything else. But not that head.’

‘Let me fix you a nightcap,’ he said cheerfully.

‘Oh, I really must get back. It’s terribly late.’

‘Just a short one.’

‘All right,’ she said. ‘Very short.’

He went to the corner of the room where his kitchen was, and removed an ice tray from the wall refrigerator. Barbara sat down in one of the deep, tweed sofas, burying her shoes in the polar bear’s white fur. ‘It’s a little like a movie set,’ she said.

‘Is that an insult or a compliment?’ he asked her. He crossed the room carrying two drinks in short glasses. He gave her one and sank down beside her on the sofa.

‘No, I like it very much,’ she said. ‘Except for that one detail.’

‘The head? Well, do you remember your grandmother went through that spiritualism business and was all mixed up with communicating with the other world?’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘years ago.’

‘Well, she used to have what she called a control. The guy she got her messages through, or something. And the control was some old Indian—he had a name, too, but I’ve forgotten what it was. Anyway, I’ve got a theory—’ he pointed, ‘that your grandmother’s Indian and my Indian are one and the same guy!’

She laughed. ‘Of course!’ she said.

He touched his glass to hers. ‘Cheers!’ he said. ‘And may fair fortune continue to smile upon your lovely face.’ He took a swallow of his drink and then sat back, pushing his shoulders deep into the sofa cushions. He sighed.

‘It was a nice evening tonight, didn’t you think?’ Barbara asked.

He stared straight ahead. ‘Yes,’ he said. And then, suddenly, ‘Do you think he’s a conniver?’

‘Who?’

‘Barney.’

‘Why do you ask that?’

‘I don’t understand it. I don’t quite know what’s going on. Did you watch them tonight?’

‘They seemed perfectly normal to me.’

‘Did you hear Peggy after dinner—talking to your father?’

She said, ‘I saw Peggy talking to Daddy, yes. I didn’t hear what they talked about.’

He laughed, then frowned quickly and stared into his glass. ‘Stock,’ he said. ‘They were talking about paper company stock. From the way she talked, I got the idea she wants to buy some more.’

Barbara hesitated. ‘Well,’ she said slowly, ‘of course Peggy and I both own a little stock. And, I suppose, if Peggy wants some more—well, why shouldn’t she buy some more?’

He turned and looked at her intently. ‘But why?’ he asked. ‘Why does she want more stock? Unless it’s for the reason I mentioned before. And whose idea is it—hers or Barney’s. Do you think he’s put her up to it—because the stock isn’t available to him? Who is running that little ménage, I wonder?’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘it really doesn’t sound so—mysterious or sinister to me. Perhaps they’re planning on having a baby or something and they’re sort of trying to set things up.’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I just don’t know. She’s certainly been different since she married him. And he—well, he’s a complete enigma. At the mill everybody loves him. He’s very polite, co-operative—works hard. And yet there’s something about him—I don’t know. It’s as though, when you talk to him, he pulls a little curtain down between you—like a scrim. You can see part of him through the scrim, but not all. Have you noticed that?’

She glanced quickly at her wrist watch. It was twenty minutes to one. ‘Not really, no,’ she said.

He was still looking at her. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if you knew Barney better than anybody else in the family. With the exception of Peggy. He always liked you. He still does.’

She smiled at him. ‘Woody,’ she said, ‘I think you’re making mountains of molehills, I really do. I’m sure there’s nothing—’

‘But you did, didn’t you? Get to know him quite well, I mean? That summer you were both here—before he and Peggy got married?’

‘Well, we talked, of course and—’

‘And he does like you. I can tell. Tonight, for instance, I noticed that whenever he had anything to say—even if he was saying it to somebody else—he seemed to be saying it to you.’

‘It’s just my fatal charm,’ she said.

‘I’m quite serious. I think—I thought tonight—that probably if you hadn’t been married already, he would have wanted to marry you—not Peggy.’

‘Really, Woody,’ she said, ‘that’s pretty silly.’ She put down her glass. ‘It’s getting terribly late. I really must get home.’

He didn’t move. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘we’ve never met any of his family? There’s a brother he talks about sometimes—but he’s never shown up around here. His father and mother didn’t come to the wedding. They’ve never come down. Don’t you think that’s a little strange?’

She remembered, once, asking him whether his mother and father would be at the wedding. He had said no, and when she asked him why not, he had answered, simply, ‘Because I’m ashamed of them.’ But now, to Woody, she said. ‘Don’t forget, Woody, that Barney made a very big decision once—to leave the Church. There was undoubtedly family feeling there—there probably still is. I don’t think there’s anything particularly wrong with a young man who wants to build his own life, break away from his parents. I understand his childhood wasn’t particularly happy—and I frankly admire that quality in Barney. He wants to carve his own niche. I think he’s a very honest, straightforward and sincere person. I don’t think he has any ulterior motives—or guile—or whatever you want to call it. I think he’s—well, just what he seems to be. A nice, normal, sensible person. And as far as Peggy goes—perhaps she is ambitious for him. It’s natural for a wife to be ambitious for her husband.’

He took a swallow of his drink, then slowly began to smile at her. ‘Then why,’ he said, ‘a few minutes ago, in the car, did you ask me if I thought they were happy?’

Suddenly she was a little angry. ‘Peggy happens to be my sister,’ she said, ‘and I don’t think it’s strange for me to hope that my sister’s happy!’

‘Hope. Yes, hope, you hope so. You’re not sure.’

‘Woody, it’s very late and we’re talking in circles. Please take me home. I’m very tired.’

‘I’m sorry, Cousin,’ he said softly. ‘I didn’t mean to make you mad. It’s just that I think you and I are both worried about them. Perhaps we both ought to admit that we’re worried.’

She stood up. ‘I’m worried about getting some sleep,’ she said.

He still sat, looking up at her from the sofa. ‘I’m sorry, Barb. I really am. Let’s not squabble. You and I don’t like it when we squabble.’

She smiled. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, too.’ She held out her hand to him. ‘Come. Drive me back to the farm like a good boy.’

He took her outstretched hand and held it. ‘Beautiful Barbara Woodcock,’ he said. He gazed at her admiringly for a moment, then let her pull him slowly to his feet. ‘I always thought,’ he said, standing in front of her, ‘that it was shame that a beautiful girl like you should have a name like Barbara Woodcock—all those hard vowels and consonants! It should be something like—what was that name we used to pretend when we were little? Do you remember? I was Count Alfredo Francisco, remember? And you were—’

‘Oh yes!’ she said. ‘Yes, I remember! You were Count Alfredo and I was Lilias de Falange!’

‘Ah!’ he said. ‘Lilias! Yes, Lilias de Falange. We did a play, once, remember? We wrote it ourselves. My favourite line was, “Lilias, come with me and brighten my gloomy castle with your shining eyes!” Do you remember that, Barb? Do you?’

‘Yes, yes.’

He held both her hands in his. ‘I used to think,’ he said, ‘I used to wonder: can cousins marry cousins? We both used to wonder that, didn’t we? Do you remember when we used to talk like that?’

She had, suddenly, a soft and inward curiosity, wondering: is he going to kiss me? But he released her hands. ‘Your eyes still shine,’ he said a little sadly, ‘but not for me.’ He turned and slowly started toward the door. ‘You do like it, then? The apartment?’

‘Oh yes,’ she said. Her voice was almost a whisper. ‘Yes, I do, Woody.’

‘My explorer personality. You know,’ he said, ‘the trouble with me is—the trouble with me is, I don’t have any personality at all. But you’re right. The shrunken head must go.’

She followed him across the room. He opened the door, then stood back and bowed from the waist. ‘Thank you, madame, for brightening my gloomy castle for a little time.’

She stepped out into the hall, and when he closed the door behind them, she turned to him in the darkened hallway and kissed his cheek. ‘Thank you, Count Alfredo,’ she said. And then, ‘One of the nicest things about coming home, Woody, is you.’

‘Just for that,’ he said. ‘I’ll put the top up for the drive back.’

They went down the stairs and out on to the street where he had parked the car. In the car, she put her head against his shoulder, the rough texture of his orange sweater, and closed her eyes.

When she woke they were at the farm. Woody climbed out of the car, crossed in front of the headlights, and opened the door for her. She slid across the leather seat. ‘Good night, Woody,’ she said sleepily. ‘Thank you. I’ll see you soon.’

‘Good night, Barb.’

She went up the steps and unlocked the front door with her key. Behind her, the little car started up, roared around the circle and sped away, down the road.

She stepped into the hall and closed the door behind her. The house was very quiet. A few lamps had been left lighted for her in the hall and on the stairs.

She did not immediately go up. For some reason—perhaps it was the little nap she had had in the car—she no longer felt as sleepy as she had. She turned and started walking slowly through the half-lit, empty rooms, under the four identical archways of the four strung-together living rooms, noticing the way the receding light from the hall managed to travel with her, catching certain gleaming surfaces—polished tops of tables, mirrors, bowls of lamps, silver ash trays, candlesticks—reflecting them, lighting her way. Moving across the soft, hushed carpets, trailing her finger across the backs of chairs, guided by these little glimmers as well as by a sense of deep familiarity, of knowing, really, that she could traverse most of the house in total darkness and feel, instinctively, the doorways and the places where chairs and tables had always been, guided by the tickings of familiar clocks, she went like a sleepwalker, with her hands raised slightly, reluctant to turn on any lights. She realised that she was also guided by scents, that the fruitwood chest had an odour of its own, as did the silk drapes in the second room, a dusty perfume, and the Oriental rugs in the third—and, all at once, smelling the unmistakable perfume of roses, she saw, from the gleam of a silver bowl, that there was, indeed, a vase of roses on her mother’s writing desk. At night, she thought, when everyone else is asleep, is the best time to get to know a house again.

In the doorway just ahead of her, shining from her father’s study, she saw a new source of light. Wondering if her father could be still awake, she walked toward it. But the little study, when she entered it, was empty. One lamp was lighted on his desk, apparently left by accident. She crossed the room to turn it off.

As she reached for the switch, she saw several sheets of yellow foolscap, secured with a paper clip, lying on the desk. At the head of the top sheet, written in her father’s small, precise hand, were the words,

PRESTON LITTELL WOODCOCK, II

The Biography of a Connecticut Industrialist

by his son

Preston Littell Woodcock, III

It was the manuscript Woody had told her about. He had evidently been working on it tonight, for his black fountain pen lay across it.

Her first impulse was to turn off the light and leave it there. Then she hesitated, hovering between reading it and not reading it. Then she sat down in her father’s chair, picked up the sheaf of papers and read:

My father, Preston Littell Woodcock, II, was born November 21, 1865, in Burketown, Connecticut, the son of Dobie Woodcock and the former Miss Barbara Louise Dalton. Father was born in the family home in which he died, an imposing residence at 1045 Prospect Avenue, built of local stone, a house that for many years has been a landmark in this community.

Father himself, in many ways, was built of local stone. Privately educated until he was seventeen, when he entered Yale University, he was a member of Zeta Psi fraternity and Skull & Bones. He was graduated from Yale in the class of 1887 with a B.A. degree and special Honours in History.

Upon graduation, Father embarked upon a year’s tour of Europe. From the letters he wrote to his parents at the time, it is clear that he found the world on the other side of the Atlantic not to his liking. An acute observer of social mores, as well as economics, he found Europe degenerate, morally impoverished, and ‘behind the times’ economically. In a letter to a Yale classmate, Father described Europe as ‘a continent that has seen its better days.’ (In view of current events in Europe at this writing, Father’s remark of seventy years ago indicates that he was able to size up trends and even to prophesy them; this ability was to serve him well in his business career which was then yet to come.) He was never happier than at the moment when he set foot once more on his native soil and during his long lifetime he was never tempted to venture abroad again.

In 1889, he entered the employ of the Woodcock Paper Company, a paper-products manufacturing concern in Burketown. This company was founded by his grandfather (my great-grandfather), who bore the same name, in 1838. At the time of my father’s entrance into the company, my grandfather was president, the company’s founder having died in 1870. But in 1900, my father was handed the managerial reins, and he is most to be credited for having built the company to its present prominence as one of the largest in this section of the state. In this, he was aided for a time by his brother, the late William Dobie Woodcock.

Father’s philosophy, often stated, was ‘Waste Not, Want Not,’ and it is to this staunch philosophy that is credited the fact that, during the 1930’s, a period which saw the failure of many similar companies in the area, the Woodcock Paper Company was able to keep its flag aloft and its doors open. During the hostilities of World War II, the company turned its efforts, patriotically, to the Nation’s defence, filling major government paper contracts. In 1943, the company was awarded the Government ‘E’ for Efficiency.

In 1890, Father married Miss Mary Owens of Burketown who bore him one son (myself), although this did not occur until eleven years after their union, when Father was approaching middle life.

Father was a public-spirited man. He was a Republican and was active throughout his lifetime in civic affairs in Burketown, twice a candidate for Councilman. A stalwart opponent of withholding, he strongly supported Mrs. Vivian Kellems, another Connecticut manufacturer, in her refusal to deduct federal taxes from the wages of her employees. While his health permitted, he enjoyed golf and was a member of the Burketown Country Club. He was a Mason and a member of various clubs and societies, including the University Club of New York City. He was at one time a nominee for Alumni Trustee of Yale and once served as President of the Yale Alumni Association of Burketown. Throughout his life he served his alma mater well as a benefactor and was among the ‘regulars’ who returned to Yale for class reunions. In 1924, he set aside funds for the establishment of a public library in Burketown, which was named in memory of his father.

Father died July 14, 1953, in the summer of his eighty-eighth year, ‘in the autumn of life.’ His end was swift and peaceful.

I have heard it said that Father placed an incredible imprint upon all with whom he associated, in business as well as in private life. It is beyond the shadow of a doubt that my father placed an indelible imprint upon myself, his son.

The above is intended to sketch in, roughly, the chronology of his life. It shall not be necessary, as a result, in the pages to follow, to refer to this chronology again. For the story that follows will concern itself mainly with those years during which I knew Father best, the years during which I was associated with him in business, or the last twenty-nine years of his long life.

I went to work for the Woodcock Paper Company in the late spring of 1923, following the footsteps of my forebears.

On this note, which sounded curiously like an ending as well as a beginning, the manuscript stopped.

Feeling sad, Barbara put the pages down. She reassembled them carefully and fastened them with the paper clip. She placed the fountain pen across the top page, as she had found it.

There was a fading photograph of her grandfather on her father’s desk. It showed a man she had never known, a stiff, stern-faced and formal little man who stood on the front doorsteps of his house holding a gold-tipped walking stick in which, Woody had once told her, her grandfather was rumoured to have kept a sword. She had known a later man than that—a gaunt old man whose eyes were as pale as ice and whose face, when she reached up to kiss it, had felt cold and whiskery, smelling of pipe smoke and cough syrup; and, later, she had known the invalid whose dark silences had been even more terrible to hear than his gasping spells of coughing.

She remembered, clearly, the July afternoon five years ago when Grandfather Woodcock had died. She had been in New York with her mother. The two of them had met for a few days’ shopping together; her mother was to help pick out things for the new house in Locustville. They had returned to the St. Regis after spending an afternoon sitting with bolts of fabrics rolled out in front of them, and there had been a message advising Edith to call the farm.

Edith talked to her husband quietly for a few minutes. Then she hung up and told Barbara the news.

That night, Barbara and her mother had dinner at a small Italian restaurant in East Fiftieth Street. ‘I need a drink,’ her mother had said when they were seated, which was, for Edith Woodcock, an untypical remark. She ordered a double Scotch.

The drink had seemed to release her. She did not become mournful. She did not cry. Her speech, if anything, became clearer. She became quite animated, quite gay. She laughed. ‘Oh my God, Barbara!’ she had said, her eyes shining brightly. ‘Do you know what this means? Do you know! I’ve had twenty-six years of him. He hated us. Ruled our lives. Oh, thank God he’s dead! Oh, if there’s a Hell, he’ll go there! Do you see what this means for your father and me? It means we’re free! We’re free!’ The next day they had taken the train to Burketown together.

Barbara stood up now and turned off the light. She started back slowly through the darkened house, moving cautiously since her eyes were now unaccustomed to the dark, walking on tiptoe. Then, through the archways, standing in the lighted hallway, she saw a figure. She stopped, almost screamed. Then she saw that it was Barney. He wore a light raincoat and evidently he had seen her, or heard her, for he stood, facing her, his hands deep in his coat pockets. ‘Who is it?’ he said quietly.

‘Barbara,’ she said. She came toward him. ‘What are you doing up?’ she asked.

‘I couldn’t sleep,’ he said. ‘I went for a walk. A few minutes ago I thought I heard a car drive in.’

‘Woody drove me downtown to see his apartment,’ she said. ‘He just drove me back.’

‘Oh, I see,’ he said.

‘Well,’ she said, with a nervous laugh, ‘It’s awfully late. We’d both better get some sleep.’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘It was a nice evening tonight, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, very nice,’ he said.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘Goodnight, Barney.’

‘Good night.’

He stood, courteously waiting, and when she realised what he was waiting for she said ‘Good night’ again, turned and started up the stairs. She went down the upstairs hall to her room, let herself in, and closed the door. Then she heard him slowly mount the stairs, walk down the hall to his own room, open the door and close it. Then the house was still again. She turned on the light.

There was a note on her pillow. She unfolded it. On a piece of her mother’s pale blue monogrammed stationery, she read:

Darling—

While you were out, your Flora telephoned to say that a cablegram had arrived at your house from Carson. He says simply, ‘Arrived safely London. Smooth flight. Love to you and the boys. Carson.’

Sleep well, darling. It is so lovely to have you home again.

Mother