Authors: James Jones
But as for Dawnie, that was through. Finished. There would be no more damned Christmas parties at the Hirshes’ for him, where he and his mom were treated so sympathetically like poor relations. And there would be no more tricky damned “junior memberships” at the Country Club; no more damned expensive dinners; and no more damned charitable gifts; and no more damned being a “member” of Frank Hirsh’s family—and letting Frank pay for things for him he himself could not afford.
And if her damned father Frank didn’t like it, he could shove it, or do any other damned thing he wanted to do with it. And to hell with Dawnie and her smugly superior ways. Next thing you knew she would be believing she had been a Rich Girl all her life—instead of just the last two years.
And so, probably, would her damn old man.
I
F
F
RANK
H
IRSH
had any suspicions, even in his subconscious mind, of the maledictions Wally Dennis was hurling at him and at his daughter, none of them ever got as far up as his conscious mind. In truth, Frank had no idea at all of the really personal interest Wally had been taking in his family lately; nor of the extent to which that interest had been carried, either. Frank had watched little Dawnie very closely when she came home for Christmas, and after thoughtful deliberation, was convinced that his daughter had come home just as much of a virgin as when she went away. That satisfied him.
And as for Wally, there had been a time when Frank had looked on him rather fondly as possibly a prospective son-in-law. While the Dennises had no money anymore, they were still a fine old family. Wally, Frank had once thought, would make him a fine son, and an excellent boy to manage the store for him—after working his way up from the bottom—and perhaps even someday to take over his other business interests. But that had been before this adoption business; and also, before he had consummated this bypass deal. Now, Dawnie could have just about any young man in town she wanted; or for that matter, any young man outside of town. If Dawnie wanted to carry on her childhood friendship with Wally, that was all right as far as Frank was concerned. But he was glad to see that there appeared to be no signs of anything stronger. Let Wally continue to write novels for Gwen French.
It was not, as Wally had secretly accused him, that Frank was hastening to be rich and forget where he had started from. And if Frank had even guessed what Wally thought about him, he would have been shocked and hurt; and probably angry. Because Frank had no intention of ever forgetting where he came from. Or of ever letting his children or grandchildren forget it, either. He had come from nothing. He was a self-made man. He was the same man who, from his early teens on, had used to walk around the square and look up at the crowns of the buildings that read: Parker Block—1907 and McGee Block—1904 and Wernz Block—1900, and dream of the day when he would buy one of them and rebuild it and name it Hirsh Block—1940 or Hirsh Block—1950. He was the same man who only a year ago had told his brother (who had, incidentally, laughed at him) that he intended to acquire those things which made people admire you, and love you, and respect you: namely, money and property: all that love and respect and prestige that none of them in their family had ever had—thanks to the Old Man; but
he
would have them, and would use them to the good of humanity until everybody would love and respect him. He was all of that. And he wasn’t ashamed of it. Maybe he wouldn’t actually tear one of them down and rebuild it, but he would be having the next best thing—or perhaps a better one: When the Parkman Village Shopping Center was done, right up there on the very top would be the legend in yellow brick on black and four feet high: Hirsh Block—1950 or 1951. Dave would have been a lot wiser if he had stuck with him. And if Wally had asked him, he would have told him the same damned thing. But of course, Wally would not ask him. And anyway, Frank wasn’t thinking of Wally at all anymore. In the first place, he was far too busy—what with running his own affairs, and trying to handle this adoption thing, too. And in the second place, he was far too happy enjoying the new love affair that had developed with his wife.
Frank could not remember a time when Agnes had been as wonderful, and sweet, and loving, as she had been the past six or seven months. Even when they were first married, there had always been that tight reserve in Agnes. But that was all gone, now. Now, everything was fine. In October, after getting little Dawnie off to school, they had taken themselves a month’s vacation in Miami Beach. It had been wonderful, and had been practically a second honeymoon, and they spent money like water. And to hell with it, he’d thought proudly. He had never been happier in his life. In Florida, everything was set up for serving the visitor and they treated you like kings and he and Agnes had never been so close or happy. And from now on, they were going to do the same damned thing every year.
Before he left for Florida, Frank had, at long last, turned the management of the store officially over to Al Lowe. Al had been almost tearful in his pride and appreciation. (God, what an ass!) That meant that now, finally, he Frank was at last giving up personally running the store for his other “business interests;” and it also meant that now Al would move officially into the office in the back. But Frank was already prepared for that: He would, he told them all, still keep his own business office at the store; he had no other offices, and saw no reason for taking some. And so instead of moving out, he just had his own desk and personal files moved over into the corner and moved a new desk in for Al. That way he could be near Edith whenever he wanted; and he could also keep a check on Al and the store, too.
He was still seeing Edith once and sometimes twice a week, of course, when he left for Florida; and in some ways he half felt sorry for Edith. He wished there were some way that he could take her on a vacation, too, but, of course, that was impossible. But Edith understood. And anyway, she always asked very little of him. He was, in fact, happier than he had ever been in his life: a devoted wife and a devoted mistress, two women who both loved him deeply and unselfishly; a good solid-paying business in the store; and prospects just up ahead for a real killing. He might even wind up a millionaire. What the hell more could a man ask for?
From the time that the actual grading work on the bypass had started, Frank had—during the good weather before it turned off bad in December—he had driven out there almost every day to watch the progress. It was probably the highest point of every single day for him. Before the weather turned off bad, he would drive out every afternoon after lunch, and sit and watch them work. Already, by the end of September—little more than a month after they had started—they had changed the whole face of the landscape. What had before been just fields with scattered trees across them, was now one long, sweeping, graded right of way, flowing in an easy curve around the town, rising imperceptibly from where it met the end of the new road east of Parkman to where it met and joined the Route 1 junction and then flowed on to the west, its wide, shallow drainage ditches clean and untreed, making a long vista view both ways that the old fields themselves never could have provided. Right now, it was all raw yellow clay dirt, but in his mind Frank could already see it finished: the long wide white ribbon of the highway with its line of black bisecting it and the long green expanse of the shallow drainage after it was grassed. And right there at the Route 1 junction, where he understood there was to be a four-way stoplight, would be the massive ultramodern expanse of the Parkman Village Shopping Center, and on its raised crown its legend: Hirsh Block—1950 or 1951. It made his stomach squinch up so with excitement that sometimes he was afraid he would get half sick.
He had already been up to Springfield twice now to see the architects. Clark’s father-in-law was apparently obscurely associated with a firm in Chicago whom he wanted to give a break to; and since they were a good high-class firm Frank had agreed to them immediately. Their man met with him, and with the Greek and Clark’s father-in-law, in Springfield. Already, with two visits, most of the plans were drawn and approved. All that remained was to wait until the bypass itself was done and open.
Already, by the time the weather broke the first week in December, the huge cats and earth movers had finished most all of the really heavy work; and all that remained was the final grading before the concrete could be laid. And in late January and early February, when the weather turned good for several weeks, they were right back at work on the final grading. By March or April, or as soon as the weather turned good in the spring, they would be ready to lay the road itself. And then it would only be a matter of picking their own time, to begin the Parkman Village Shopping Center, Hirsh Block—1950. Or 1951. It all depended on how the contracting and the work went, which year it would be.
Happy! Hell yes, he was happy. There were times when, remembering the various anguishes with both his women and his businesses, Frank felt almost like pinching himself hard, just to make damned sure he was dreaming all of this. That Judge Deacon—the old devil—he knew there was something in the wind, but he was lying low because he couldn’t figure out what it was. And when he did find out, it would be too damned late to do him any good. Happy? Yes, he was happy, all right! And then, just when it seemed that no further happinesses could be given him, he was given two more: The adoption papers were approved; and he consummated the sexual education of his mistress, Edith Barclay, which he had been hungering for so long. Hell, everything seemed to be going his way.
It was, Frank thought in his happiness, almost as if God Himself was personally intent upon seeing that for his unselfish service to Humanity every blessing he asked for was to be heaped upon him. “Ask and it shall be given unto you,” his mother had so often used to quote to him. And, by God, it looked like she was right.
They were being given the child this month, in February. They had begun the thing back in September, shortly before they left for Florida. Of course, there would be another six months of “probation” before the legal adoption could go through—at least, that was what the law said. But Frank had already looked into that and found that there were cases in which the county judge, if he had good reports from the welfare people, could go ahead and make it a fully legal adoption before that time. There wouldn’t be any trouble there: The county judge, like Clark Hibbard, was a good Republican and a good friend of Frank’s. He would be more than willing to do that for one of his committeemen.
When they had decided, back in September, to go ahead with it, he and Agnes had decided to just do it all right through the state welfare people. They didn’t want to get involved with any tacky, fly-by-night outfit, like some of the orphanages were, and the welfare people were all of them highly trained operators. And all the medical and family histories of each child were thoroughly looked into by a careful staff. You could always be sure of the validity and suitability of any adoption that came from them. And when you were getting a child—and an heir!—you were going to live with the rest of your life, you wanted to be
damned
sure.
The chubby, pleasant little welfare man who visited them in their home was obviously impressed with it, and with both of them. It was customary to check their people very carefully, he explained; consequently if he asked them some rather personal questions, they would understand, wouldn’t they? Then he went on to ask the questions: their ages? their home life? their compatibility? their drinking habits? their religious affiliations? their financial status, of course; no police records or anything of that sort, of course; no extramarital affairs on either side? They both smiled at him benignly and let their attitudes answer for themselves. Their religious affiliation was Methodist, of course; and as for their drinking habits, Frank said, they both drank a little, a cocktail before dinner now and then; perhaps they might even just get a little bit tipsy, on holidays, once in a while. And as for the financial status, he waved his arm around the room and commenced to go into intricate details; but the man smiled and shoo-shooed him off of that apologetically and made some notes; it was really their compatibility, and their drinking habits, and the depth of their religious beliefs, that welfare was most interested in. It was easy to see that they were the kind of people who assumed responsibilities well, though. Of course, he would check all this with their friends and neighbors and business associates anyhow, also. Now, why did they want to adopt a child? Frank and Agnes smiled at each other tenderly. After all, they already had a child, a daughter, of almost eighteen, the welfare man smiled. And they were both of an age at which adopting a child was rather unusual and—in the majority of cases—was rather frowned upon. What did the eighteen-year-old daughter think of the adoption?
Agnes turned to look at Frank as the spokesman, and Frank had patted her gently on the hand. Well, his wife loved children; that was one thing. And—this was rather difficult to talk about—they had always hoped there would be others, after the first child came. For a moment, tears threatened to come in his eyes. Of course, as the welfare man knew, none ever had. Frank himself had always wanted a son; that was another thing. Someone to whom he could leave his businesses and investments to be carried on for the family name. And, he spread his hands again, now that they had reached the place where they were, they had decided that the best thing they could do would be to adopt a boy who otherwise might never have an opportunity at these advantages. As far as their daughter, Dawnie, went, she was away at her first year in Western Reserve now, but if the welfare man wanted her address to write to her, he Frank would gladly give it to him. She was all for the adoption. They had discussed it with her openly at some length, before arriving at their decision. She had told them herself that she would not want the business and other interests; and she herself told them in so many words that she thought they ought to adopt a boy. And naturally, of course, she would be well provided for in any future wills that might be made—she knew that, of course.