Still downstairs with Sterling were Elizabeth’s two brothers, Albert and Edward Bloor, and their wives; Edward and Janet Lockridge; and about a dozen wives waiting for their husbands to be finished with family business.
Upstairs, in a sitting room with French provincial sofas, was the new widow, Patricia Chatham. With her were her parents, Harrison and Patricia Lockridge. Marie Holt, who seemed suddenly to be Patricia Chatham’s closest friend, was there at Patricia’s insistence, with her husband George. Meredith Fanshaw, the Senator, was there at Harrison’s insistence. And facing them were Joseph Holt, Eugene White and Wellington.
This had begun as a delicate task, handled jointly by Joe and Wellington: the informing of Patricia Chatham of her husband’s death. It had grown rapidly, had moved upstairs in the process of its growth, and was swiftly altering in tone and purpose. And the change had begun with the elder Patricia, when she had said to Wellington, “I hold you responsible for this.”
Wellington said nothing, it wasn’t the sort of remark to which he would respond, but Joe Holt immediately rose to the bait, saying, “How can you say such a thing? In the first place, the work Wellington did organizing things here today was nothing short of brilliant. And in the second place, every one of us knew there might be trouble. When those fellows jumped out of the car there, they might have been armed, they could have had knives or guns, there was no way for us to tell.”
“We shouldn’t have had to go through this,” the elder Patricia said. She stood behind her daughter, who was sitting on one of the sofas, her face gray with shock. The mother’s hands were on the daughter’s shoulders, the daughter had one hand up to hold her mother’s wrist; the usual cat fighting had ended at once, with the news of Earl’s death.
Eugene White said, “Of course we shouldn’t have had to go through this. Nobody wants to be involved in this situation. But it’s with us, and we—”
“Why?” She looked around, apparently hoping for someone else to join her at the barricades, but her husband Harrison was looking at the carpet between his feet, as were Meredith Fanshaw and George Holt. Marie Holt, sitting beside Patricia Chatham, was limiting her gaze to that Patricia’s face.
The elder Patricia went on at last by herself: “Why do we have to be in this? The man’s crazy, isn’t he? Why can’t we admit he’s crazy, just admit it, and lock him up, the way you would with any other man?”
“Because he isn’t any other man,” Joe said quickly. He sounded shocked by what Patricia was saying.
“Oh, of course not,” she said. “He’s Bradford Lockridge, isn’t he? That’s something special, isn’t it?”
“He’s done a lot for this family,” Joe said.
“He’s done a lot for you, maybe. Turned a third-rate doctor into a world authority, maybe. But what’s he done for us? I’ll tell you what he’s done for us. My brother is dead by his own hand, and Bradford Lockridge is responsible. He killed Herb as much as if he’d pulled a trigger and shot him in the head. And now my son-in-law is dead, and that’s Bradford Lockridge, too. Earl is dead, defending Bradford Lockridge. From whom? From Bradford Lockridge!”
Joe Holt, obviously stung by the third-rate doctor remark, said angrily, “Bradford Lockridge got you that son-in-law in the first place. He got you the dress on your back. If it weren’t for Bradford Lockridge, your husband would have starved to death forty years ago.”
“Bradford Lockridge didn’t get me my brother!”
“If it weren’t for Bradford, your brother would be a hardware store clerk in Eustace, Pennsylvania, right this minute.”
“That’s worse than dead?”
“You seemed to think so when you latched onto Harrison.”
“Latched on? He wasn’t pregnant, you foul-mouthed twerp!”
Eugene White, trying to calm things down a little, said, “Patricia, you and Joe are both getting excited. All he means is that Bradford made it possible for Herbert to have a lot better standard of living than he would—”
“Herbert’s standard of living is lousy right now, thank you.”
Joe said, angrily, “Bradford gave Herbert all the life he ever had!”
“Oh, yes? Bradford Lockridge gives, and Bradford Lockridge takes away? Now he’s God, is that it?”
“He’s been a god in this family!” Joe shouted. “Yes, he gave me a bigger career than I would have had on my own, and he did the same thing for your goddamn brother Herbert, and he did the same thing for Harrison, and he did the same thing for Sterling downstairs, and for George there, and for Howard and Edward and BJ and—”
“BJ, yes, there’s another one. Poor BJ’s in a mental hospital now, and whose fault is that? Is that what we can expect now, Bradford Lockridge gave us all everything we’ve got, and now he’s going to take it all back again?”
Eugene White said, “We hope not, Patricia. There’s no need to—”
“You hope not? Well, let me tell you something — and you, too, Wellington, you especially. This con job you worked on my husband yesterday at that meeting up in Boston—”
Eugene White said, “Con job?”
“Just you listen to me. You did a lot of talk there about how everything had to be decided right away at that meeting, it had to be yes or no, there wasn’t time to go home and think it over. Well, let me tell you something, we have community property in the state of California and Harrison’s agreement doesn’t mean one single thing without me! And I say no! I say I wouldn’t give one penny for that stupid idea, not this year, not every year, not any year! And do you think I’m the only one in the family feels that way? Let him go into a regular mental hospital just like anybody else. Let him go in with BJ!”
Eugene White said, “You’re upset, Patricia, naturally you’re upset. When you’re calmer—”
Marie Holt said, “I’m calm.” And from the sound of her voice, she was.
It got the effect she’d wanted; everyone shut up and looked at her. When she was sure she had everybody’s undivided attention, she said, “And I agree with Patricia. I think my husband was rushed into a decision he shouldn’t have made by himself. This is an annual expenditure from our household budget, and it isn’t going to be cheap, not from the numbers you people were apparently tossing around at that meeting. George and I have talked it over, and we think it was all done too hastily.” George was now absorbed in a study of the carpet between his feet.
“If you want to have another meeting—” Patricia started.
Wellington said, “The agreement has been made. The money is already being spent.”
“Make one of your famous phone calls,” Patricia told him. “Tell them to stop a minute, there’s been a hitch in the plans.”
Eugene White, still trying to be reasonable, said, “We can’t do that, Patricia. The family agreed—”
“Do you think so? What do you think we ladies talked about in the cars going out to the cemetery and back? Casserole recipes? This family is split right down the middle, and don’t you kid yourself about that.”