And now George Lockwood was beginning to discover the cause of his forgetfulness. It was not forgetfulness at all. It was hatred, and it had been started with Preston Hibbard’s visit, his report on Bing and Bing’s wife and Bing’s children and Bing’s Rolls-Royce and Bing’s standing in the Far West. The boy was self-sufficient and had made himself so with no help from the father; and he had made his mark in a kind of existence in which the father could not have survived. George Lockwood had not forgotten his son, but had banished him from his mind, and the son had made him lie to himself. He had not been overcome with desire for Marian Stademyer but by the urgent need to dominate a human being who, being a woman, could give him pleasure in the process. Yet even that was a form of postponement. He now knew that even without the violent consequences of his rendezvous with Marian Strademyer, a meeting with his son was unavoidable—because he would not have avoided it. The Hibbard snapshots had made the meeting necessary. George Lockwood had been compelled to have one more try at dominating his son even though the attempt would end in disastrous failure.
The only thing left to save was his position. He had always been a sonofabitch in the eyes of his son. He would maintain that position. His son must be kept from knowing that his triumph in life was also a triumph over his father.
George Lockwood wondered why he had not heard from Ernestine.
Schissler was not going to make much money out of this one. The embalming had been performed in New York City and the casket purchased from the New York firm. The remains was coming by train, to be lifted off the baggage car and put in Schissler’s hearse, and then on to the cemetery. When George Lockwood said strictly private he meant strictly private. The hearse and two automobiles formed the entire cortege, and both automobiles belonged to Lockwood, so there would be nothing on the bill for cars. No pallbearers. No flowers. The fellows at the Legion had offered to supply a guard of honor, because Penrose Lockwood was a veteran, but George Lockwood had turned them down. The whole thing wouldn’t come to a thousand dollars; it was not going to be easy to get it up to five hundred.
Shortly before ten-thirty the Lockwood Pierce-Arrow and the Lockwood Lincoln drew up to the Reading station. The occupants remained in the cars. George Lockwood and his wife and another woman in the Lincoln, and the other people in the Pierce-Arrow, which was a touring car but had the side curtains up, so you could not see who was inside. Andrew was at the wheel of the Lincoln; Schissler did not recognize the driver of the Pierce-Arrow. He looked something like Deegan, the fellow from the detective agency who had once worked for Lockwood as night watchman. Yes, that’s who it was. He looked different in a chauffeur’s cap. That’s who it was; Deegan, from Gibbsville. Not even a Swedish Haven man.
Schissler went over to the Lincoln, took off his high silk hat, and opened the rear door. “Good morning, George. Mrs. Lockwood. Number 8 is on time. She was a little late leaving Reading, but she’ll make that up. You got about five or six minutes’ wait.”
“Thank you, Karl,” said George Lockwood.
“Will I tell the folks in the Pierce?” said Schissler.
“You might as well,” said George.
There were two middle-aged couples in the Pierce-Arrow. He opened the rear door and saw that they were all strangers. “I just thought you folks would wish to know, the train is on time. I’m the funeral director, Schissler’s my name.”
The men mumbled their thanks, and Schissler, after a momentary hesitation, slowly closed the door. They were a stuck-up bunch, especially considering Pen Lockwood and the disgrace he had brought on himself and the town. Swedish Haven had been mentioned in all the papers, New York and Philadelphia.
Schissler returned to the north end of the platform, where the baggage car on Number 8 always stopped. He was joined by Ike Wehner, the baggagemaster, wearing his uniform cap and striped overalls.
“She on time?” said Schissler.
“She had two minutes to make up leaving Port Clinton,” said Ike Wehner. “But that’s no trouble for Ed Duncan. Ed could make up two minutes between here and Gibbsville if he felt like it.”
“Be retired in another year,” said Schissler.
“Ed? No, Ed got closer to two years yet. Well, there he is, whistling for Schmeltzer’s Crossing.” Ike Wehner took out his watch. “He made it up. I wouldn’t like to be firing for Ed when he’s real late.”
The door of the baggage car was already open as Number 8 pulled in. The conductor and two members of his crew pushed the casket, which rested on a dolly, on to the station hand-truck. “Careful, now, careful,” said the conductor, his crew, Schissler, and Wehner. One of the trainmen, younger and fresh, said to Wehner, “I guess they left the woman back in New York, huh, Wehner?”
“Ah, shut your face,” said Ike Wehner.
The trainman laughed.
Wehner signed for the casket, handed the slip of paper to the conductor, and pulled the hand-truck down the platform to the hearse. Schissler, his assistant, and Wehner transferred the casket to the hearse. “Thanks, Ike,” said Schissler. “So long.”
“So long,” said Ike Wehner.
Schissler bowed deeply to Andrew, George Lockwood’s chauffeur, to signal him to follow, and the cortege was on its way.
Already waiting at the grave was young Faust, assistant pastor of the Lutheran Church, wearing an ordinary suit. He had got there under his own power—walked, more than likely. Schissler wondered whether to offer him a ride back to town. It was a small item, but it would bring the total closer to $500. The service took less than ten minutes, and there was no sign of emotion by any of the seven mourners. Schissler watched the widow particularly, but she showed nothing. Considering how Penrose Lockwood died she could not be expected to show much grief, but she showed nothing else, either. She might as well have been witnessing the burial of a dead cat.
Young Faust nodded to George Lockwood, indicating that the service was at an end. George and the widow thanked him, and they all headed for their cars. At that moment two strangers with cameras took flashlight photographs of the group. Where they had come from Schissler did not know. He had not seen them before, and they hurried away when they had taken their pictures. He wondered if he had got in the picture. He followed George Lockwood to his car.
“Everything satisfactory, George?” he said.
“Everything but those photographers, but I can’t blame you for that. I thought we were going to have a policeman here.”
“Well, we’re not in the Borough, George. We’re just outside the Borough limits here.”