“You don’t understand me. So I’m going to spell it out to you like I would to a child. First of all, don’t ever interrupt me when I’m talking to a member or guest of this club. Got that? Second, my name is Mr. Ward. I’m not ‘pal’ or ‘Jack’ or ’buddy’ or any damn thing else. I’m Mr. Ward to you and make damn sure you remember that. Do you understand?”
Mac’s expression had been changing slowly during this coldly administered rebuke; at first his Hushed features had registered surprise, then embarrassment, and finally a sullenness which was slowly hardening into stubborn anger. “Look, if you’ve got complaints...” He hesitated deliberately before adding, “Mr. Ward. If you got any complaints I’m willing to listen. But I don’t expect to be talked to like some five-year-old kid.”
“Do you want this job?” Ward said sharply. “Well? Speak up.”
“Sure, I want it — Mr. Ward.” This time the pause was not defiant; it was only a thoughtless lapse.
“Okay, if you want the job remember what I’ve just told you. When I come in here for a drink I don’t want it spoiled with a lot of bad jokes and loud interruptions. Got that?”
“Yes sir, Mr. Ward.” Mac was staring stonily over Ward’s head, his big hands hanging straight at his sides.
“Fine. I’m glad you do. Now let me hear you say you’re sorry and that it won’t happen again.”
“I think you’ve made your point,” Farrell said.
“Confession is good for the soul,” Ward said. “All right, Mac. I want an apology, and I want your assurance that this sort of thing won’t happen again.”
The evidence of an eternal and hopeless conflict was evident on Mac’s painfully flushed face; he was (Farrell felt certain) weighing the advisability of telling Ward to go to hell against the cost of flu shots and vitamin tablets, of clothes and food for five children, and his own occasional two-dollar bets and rounds of beer with the boys in his local saloon. The struggle was unequal, and defeat was inevitable. In a tired voice he said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Ward. I didn’t mean to get out of line. It won’t happen again.”
“Fine,” Ward said. “Now how about freshening up these drinks?”
“Right away, Mr. Ward.”
“Well, what did that prove?” Farrell said, as Mac picked up their glasses and went to the end of the bar.
“It proves to him I’m not going to be pushed around,” Ward said.
“It may also prove to him you’re a first-class son of a bitch,” Farrell said.
“So what?” Ward poked a blunt finger against Farrell’s shirt front. “Listen to me. How many characters called Eisenhower a son of a bitch during the war? Three or four million maybe. And right now those guys would get down on their knees and crawl to Washington for the chance to play a round of golf with him. What the hell do I care what Mac thinks about me? That isn’t important. But what I think about him is. Do you get the distinction?”
“Yes, but through a glass darkly,” Farrell said, after taking a sip from his drink. He was irritated with Ward but he couldn’t discover the source of his rancor. In a way Ward had been justified in ticking off Mac, but witnessing it had made Farrell disgusted with himself. So what does that make me, he wondered. A nice guy or a hypocrite? You couldn’t say Ward was right, and then flatter yourself with a lot of noble thoughts about poor old Mac’s feelings. You couldn’t have it both ways.
Wayne Norton drifted into the bar then and to Farrell’s relief the conversation became general. “Looking for the library, eh?” Ward called to him. “Next door to the right, my friend.”
Norton smiled easily. “I might have known where to find you guys. Hi, John, how’re tilings?”
“Fine,” Farrell said. They shook hands and Ward ordered Norton a drink.
“How’s Janey?” Farrell asked Norton. Jane Norton was five months pregnant and Wayne did not take her condition lightly; he discussed her impending travail with an old-fashioned and rather touching gravity, as if he felt the baby was to be delivered by a midwife in a snow-bound chicken coop. “She was a little upset this morning. A little gas, I imagine,” he said with a clinical frown. “I got Junior off to school and let her get a little more shut-eye. I called her at eleven, eleven-thirty actually...” He smiled as Ward gave him a drink. “And she was feeling better. And she felt fine all afternoon.”
“That’s great,” Farrell said, somewhat too heartily.
“She’s been a damn good sport about it, I must say,” Norton said. Wayne Norton was a devoted husband and energetic father; he shopped with Janey on Saturdays, and spent his spare time assisting his son at various healthful projects, or else repairing or building something for the house in his basement workshop. In addition to all this, he was slender and handsome, with thick dark hair, an athlete’s sure grace of movement and the well-sculptured, carefully undistinguished features of a photographer’s model. But in spite of his good looks and the rather sensual curve of his mouth, his eyes never strayed very far away from his wife, Janey, and he usually managed to sit beside her at parties, holding one of her hands in a casually affectionate manner.
Ward finished his drink and glanced at his watch. “Well, we’d better get going. I hope Barbara’s got the table figured out.”
“Don’t worry, everything will be fine,” Farrell said.
“If the Detweillers behave,” Ward said. He sighed as he signed for the drinks. “Damn it, I’ve got a sense of humor like anyone else, but a lot of things just aren’t amusing.”
The dinner was successful. There were no incidents and the Farrells were home by eleven-thirty.
The following morning Farrell was knotting his tie at the mirror in his bedroom when Jimmy came to the doorway and said, “Dad, I was thinking about what you said yesterday — you know, about my birthday. Can I show you something?”
“Of course.” He smiled at his son’s reflection in the mirror. Jimmy was dressed for school in jeans, a sweater and leather jacket, and he was obviously excited; there were spots of color in his cheeks and his eyes were bright and expressive. “Well, what is it?” he said.
Jimmy took the folded page of a magazine from his pocket. “It’s pretty expensive,” he said.
“Let’s see,” Farrell said. He sat down on the bed and put an arm around Jimmy’s thin shoulders. “What have we got here?”
“Look!” Jimmy spread out the page on his father’s knee. It was an advertisement for a course in physical development. A grinning muscular young giant held a pair of immense dumbbells over his head, and the copy promised everyone from eight to eighty the prospect of prodigious strength and vigorous health for an investment of less than ten cents a day.
“So you want to be a weight-lifter, eh?”
“The whole set costs forty dollars,” Jimmy said. “And there’s a book that shows you just what exercises to do. Is that too much money?”
“I think we might swing it,” Farrell said. “The only thing is, this equipment is too heavy for you right now. But I’ll tell you what. Next Saturday we’ll go downtown and look through the sports store. We’ll find some weights that will fit you. Okay?”
“Yes — that’s fine.”
Farrell looked down at him. “When did you get this bug for weight-lifting?”
“I don’t know. I’d like to be strong.”
“Well, that’s normal enough. But if I were you I’d save some time for baseball and football.” Farrell returned to the mirror to brush his hair. “It’s a date for Saturday then, okay?”
Jimmy didn’t answer and Farrell glanced at him in the mirror. He saw that Jimmy was staring at the personal effects which he customarily heaped on his chest of drawers when he undressed for the night — cigarette case and lighter, car keys, wallet, loose change and bills. Jimmy seemed unaware of the silence in the room. He sat tensely on the edge of the bed, as if mesmerized by the silver coins gleaming under a yellow ray of sunlight.