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“They gave me another raise. They think I’m executive material. Is that good?—at good old North Chemical and Photographic?”
“You’re good at your job—nothing wrong with that.”
“I’m trying to be modest.”
“You’re a closet rebel—that’s what you are. Do you still write poetry?”
“From time to time.”
“You’ll succeed at that, too, if you’re not careful.”
“Who knows?”
“Save that detached pose for your cronies—and your girlfriends.”
“Father—you see right through me.”
“Son—you can’t fool an old pro like me.”
The door opened and Mother appeared. “Terry,” was all she said, and I knew it was time to go.
By the end of the week, Father was free of tubes and wires. On Sunday, I found him sitting on the edge of the bed in his own pajamas with his feet just above the floor. Since my early teens, we had spent most of our time together joshing. But on this day, Father got serious very soon.
“Now look, Terry—we have a decision to make. We both know I’m in bad shape. Have you given any thought to joining W. W. Kilcourse?”
“What is it you want me to do?”
“Well—we own the business. I’ve got good people to run it. But—”
“But you’d prefer to have me here to keep an eye on it.”
“Yes, I would. The firm has its style—old hat to some, but it works.”
“I guess you want me to take over—eventually.”
“I want you to protect the family interests. Life can take some odd turns. The firm’s profitability gives us income—and that gives us protection and, yes, standing, influence. If the firm stays in shape, you might want to take it public—and make plenty on the deal.”
“I know the options.”
“You’ll have to come down and get your feet wet—while I’m still around.”
While he was still around? What could I do? He was dying, and we both knew it. I could hardly turn my back while he faded away.
“Of course I’ll come down here,” I said as firmly as I could.
“Good—not right away, necessarily, but—”
“I think the sooner the better. I’ll need time to dismantle things in Rochester. In any event, I’ll see you at Christmas.”
Father was cheered by my decision, and I tried to match his good humor as I took my leave. But as I drove away from Lennox Hill, toward the Queensboro Bridge, I was heavy with the knowledge that my life would soon become—well, some other thing.
I landed in Rochester that afternoon. The Valiant was parked at the airport, and I was relieved when it started after a week in the Upstate cold. That evening, after speaking to Anna on the phone, I prepared a letter of resignation from good old North Chemical and Photographic. My letter stunned the Vice-President for Marketing and the rest of the chain of command. But knowing my reasons, they accepted it with grace and gratitude. They were nice people. Good old North Chemical and Photographic was full of nice, happy people, few of whom ever left the company, except to retire, or to attend their own funeral.
Anna and I were at my apartment when I told her I was leaving. She wept for a long time, and I couldn’t comfort her. I was sick with guilt as well as sadness and uncertainty.
“Anna, Anna,” I said with my arms around her, “why don’t you come to New York?”
“And what would I be?—your steady date?—your mistress?—your wife?”
Those were all good questions. Living together without being married hadn’t yet come into vogue, and Father and Mother, good Catholics, wouldn’t have stood for it either way. Did I want to marry her?—maybe yes, but I preferred one change at a time.
“Let’s think about getting married,” I said. “That is, when I’ve settled into my new job.”
She wasn’t thrilled at the thought. “Hmm—I have my own ambitions.”
“We can think things over,” I said, noticing her graceful curves. “Meanwhile, come here.”
We sat down on the couch and I pulled her over my lap and kissed her breasts through the V in her blouse.
“Whatever we decide,” she whispered, “we still have this for now.”
“Yes—for now.”
I flew to New York a few days before Christmas, toting presents for Father and Mother. They lived in a brownstone in the east Seventies, and I could still claim my old bedroom. Christmas Eve was a pleasant time of gift giving, drinks, and reminiscence. Father held the floor much of the time, telling of his college days—he went to Notre Dame—his early years in the business, and, of course, the war. Father joined the Marines when he was forty, leaving Mother with two children. But she understood that he couldn’t stay behind. He made it through boot camp, saw his first action on Guadalcanal, and took a sniper’s bullet on Peleliu, though not before he won a Silver Star and a handshake from Chesty Puller. He was more proud of the handshake.
After fighting in the war, the risks of Madison Avenue must have appeared trivial. He started with a little money, a few contacts he had made before the war, and his self-confidence—this last being no small thing. His advertising agency was not only successful, but famous. And I couldn’t imagine any other outcome. Sitting in his easy chair, his slippered feet on the hassock, he was still the gray eminence, with a face of dignity and warrior toughness.
Christmas morning, we attended Mass at St. Patrick’s, and back home, we opened our gifts, had breakfast, and I dozed behind a book until noon. In the afternoon, family friends—a mother and daughter—came to visit. The elder woman, Edna Winnington, was a classmate of Mother’s at Goucher, and I had met her daughter, Pamela, when we were both at Cornell. Pamela was slender and blond, with a hauteur that matched her mother’s. But her smile was friendly, and her pale-blue eyes especially attractive. Father and Mother, along with Edna Winnington, sidled out of the room and settled in the den—a conscious maneuver. Pamela and I were left alone to talk about college days and mutual friends. She lived on Long Island, worked on a newspaper there, and was delighted that I was coming to New York City.
About Robert Watts Lamon
