“Now see here, Mrs. Ryan.” Charles Porter said angrily. “Mark and I have gotten on very well with each other for a long time.”
“Too well. You forget I’ve talked with the boy. I know what weapons you use. You tell him his mother would have wanted this and his mother would have wanted that. Mark is a sweet boy, and I suspect he is quite sound, basically. But there doesn’t seem to be much spirit left in him. I imagine you think you’ve been a ‘good pal’ to your son. You don’t seem to realize that such a relationship isn’t exactly healthy.”
“Are you quite certain, Mrs. Ryan,” Charles asked evenly, “that this critique of my son isn’t, in a way, an attempt to justify your own lack of control over your daughter?”
She stared at him. “Say, you can he pretty sneaky!”
“We aren’t getting anywhere. What do you suggest we do?”
“It’s simpler than I thought, Mr. Porter. Much simpler. I didn’t realize just how heavy a hand you have. I think you better get up on your hind legs and tell that sweet boy of yours to stay to hell away from Betty. That will solve it.”
“I’m quite certain it will, Mrs. Ryan.”
She raised her glass in a mocking toast. “Here’s to authority, my friend.”
“I can drink to that.”
The father and the son walked slowly hack to where they had left the car. The son hummed softly to himself. “Isn’t she wonderful, Father?”
“She’s very pretty.”
“Tomorrow I’m taking her to the frontón. Maybe you and Mrs. Ryan would like to come, too.”
“I want to have a talk with you when we get home, Mark.”
The son gave him a wary look. “Yes, Father.”
The son drove with casual skill through the frantic traffic of Reforma, back to the Chapultepec section.
They went up the stairs to their apartment. The father hung his hat in the closet and went on into the living room. The son was standing by the fireplace, hands in the side pockets of his tweed jacket.
“Is something wrong, Father?”
“Sit down, Mark. I don’t exactly know how to say this. I’m very anxious for you not to misunderstand. The girl is very pretty. Her mother is... almost spectacular. But you must see that they’re not... our sort.”
“How do you mean that? What is our sort?”
“Don’t speak so sharply to your father!”
Mark stood up. “What are you trying to say?”
“Dammit, listen to me! They’re cheap people. Noisy, loud people. Anyone could see that. Do you want your friends laughing behind your back because you’re snuffling after that girl?”
“Don’t talk that way, Father!”
“I have to talk that way to shock you out of this trance you’re in. Puppy love, they call it. Infatuation. Physical attraction. A thing like this isn’t going to upset our plans. I won’t permit it. You will not see that girl again.”
“But you can’t possibly mean that, Father. You can’t! Why, she’s the most... I’ve never met anyone like her.”
“You will not see her again. Is that quite clear?”
“You can’t stop me from seeing her!”
The father altered his tone. “Now, Mark. Listen to me. This defiance isn’t like you. It’s not you talking to me this way. If your mother were still alive, what would she think of the two of us? Bickering over that... that girl.”
“What makes you such an authority on what she’d think? Maybe she’d think it was a good thing, my knowing Betty.” The father shook his head sadly. “Your mother was a sensitive, wise and perceptive woman. She would see through that precious pair just as readily as I did. Believe me, Mark. After a few months you’ll come to me and you’ll thank me for putting my foot down this way.”
Mark stared at him. The father could see the shock, the disbelief in the boy’s eyes. Mark turned toward the windows, stumbling against a chair in the process.
The father said softly, going over and putting a hand on the son’s shoulder, “Come on now, Mark. This isn’t the end of the world. We’ve had good times. We’ll continue to have good times. I know you’re a little disappointed right at this moment. In a month you won’t be able to remember what she looked like.”
Mark didn’t speak.
“I know what’s best for you, Mark,” the father said insistently. “Answer me. Promise you won’t see her again.”
“I’ll have to explain to her.”
“No, you won’t. You just won’t show up. She’ll be a little annoyed. Her mother will be the angry one. Her mother is just the type to try to grab off someone like you for her daughter.”
“I’ll have to explain to her,” the boy said stubbornly.
The father thought for a minute. The son was agreeing on the basic point, so perhaps it would be best to make the minor concession.
“Perhaps it would be better manners at that, Mark.”
The boy walked from the room without a word. Charles Porter heard the door of the boy’s room shut gently. The liquor had given him a dull headache. He called Rosita and had her bring him the aspirin and a glass of water.
At breakfast, as Rosita brought in the coffee, Charles asked, “Marco ’sta dormiendo?”
“No, Señor,” she said quietly. “He is not here.”
“What do you mean? Where has he gone?”
“That I do not know, Señor. Much of his clothes are gone, also.”
Charles leaped to his feet, the napkin wadded in his hand, his heart thudding with a wild fear. He ran to Mark’s room. All his best clothes were gone. The note was pinned to the spread over the pillow. The bed had not been slept in. “I’m sorry, Father.” That was all it said.
Rosita came up behind him and said, with an expressive shrug, “All small birds must one day leave the nest, Señor.”
He doubled up his fist and came close to striking her. She guessed his intent and stepped back, unafraid, smiling...
Jenny Ryan opened the door after his loud knocking. “Oh, come in. I’ve been expecting you.”
“Where is my son, Mrs. Ryan?”
“Don’t snarl at me, my good man,” she said in a good-humored way. “He’s not hiding under my bed.”
“Where is he?”
“You better come in and sit down. You’re pale as death.”
“Please, Mrs. Ryan. Do you know where he is? I beg of you.”
“He’s in good hands, Charles. He’s with Betty.”
“But where are they? How soon will they be back?”
“That’s a bit hard to say. You see, they’ve got my car. They planned to drive all night. They might be as far as Victoria by now. That means that they’ll reach Brownsville late this afternoon.”
Charles Porter sat down and covered his face with his hands. He took a deep shuddering breath. “Oh, my God,” he said softly.
“The sun isn’t exactly over the yardarm, my friend, but this will help.” She thrust the glass into his hand.
He stared up accusingly at her. “Why are you acting so unconcerned?”
“It’s just an act. I’m trying to figure out what my life is going to be like without Betty under foot. From where I sit, things look a bit empty.”
“We can stop them, you know. I have a friend. He can wire customs at Matamoros.”
She shook her head sadly. “That won’t do a bit of good. Believe me, it won’t.”