Answer as a Man

  The earth, Jason would sometimes think, was a temple, sacred and dedicated not by any priest but by … What? For an instant something flashed across his mind, as incandescent as the sun but more vivid—a wing of light, which also brushed his flesh. But it was gone at once; it left only a shadow of resplendence behind it. Then it also was gone.

  Halfway up, the mountain sloped to a wide undulating plateau, and Jason reached his acres, surrounded by other virgin acres, about eighteen of them. Here were green grass and clumps of trees and wildflowers, animal trails and outcroppings of warm sentient rocks gilded by sun. Here everything seemed ignited by light. Jason sat on a boulder and contemplated his surroundings. Slowly he pulled out his package of Bull Durham tobacco and his folder of rice paper and made a cigarette. He struck a wooden match on the boulder and lit the cigarette and tranquilly watched, for a moment, the rise of blue smoke in the unstained air. The climb had been long and warm; he was sweating lightly, though pleasurably. His young muscles throbbed with life. Happiness came to him, seeping into his flesh like soothing water.

  Below him the mountain drifted down to the valley. There was Belleville, far now, a cluster, a grouping, a crowding. But it was made golden and silvery by the sun and appeared to shift in an aureate haze, so its ugliness was transformed. There were three new factories in the little city, but today no smoke rose from their chimneys. Beyond them was the stream, too narrow to be called a river, a shining topaz, liquid and bending. And all about was the greening countryside. The mountains formed a crescent around the valley, tumbling with various shades of purple, mauve, heliotrope, lilac, and emerald, wavering under cloud shadows, then brightening into vivid glory.

  Contentment filled Jason like fragrant nectar. He folded his arms on his shabby knees. He listened to birdsong and the small laughter of the spring. No noise approached him from the town. A larger spur of the main railroad had now reached Belleville, and Jason saw the toy freight train on its glittering tracks, but he could hear nothing of its passing. He did not glance farther up the mountain, where a few summer houses had been built, though not many. To him they were an intrusion, a violation, even if they were prettily designed and white and red-roofed in the sunlight. He did not know, or care, who owned them. Here was his empire, on his own land. Here he could forget, for a while, his harassed life. His black curls shone, his dark round face became colored with an olive rose. His gray eyes were those of a happy child. The strong hands were as relaxed as if he were asleep.

  Suddenly, he became aware of voices, and all peace left him. He turned his head, and waited, frowning. He heard footsteps on the stones and grass. Then three heads rose up, followed by three masculine bodies, all strange to Jason.

  Now the men stood on the plateau and looked with umbrage at Jason, and he stared back in waiting silence. They were apparently prosperous city men, for their clothing was fine and tailored and their boots expensive, their white stiff collars glistening in the sunlight. They had rings on their fingers. One man was short, stout, and middle-aged; the other two were younger and alert. The oldest man carried an ebony cane with a gilt top. The ties of the men, though narrow and black, were pierced with costly pins. The three mopped their sweating faces with linen handkerchiefs, but they did not stop their outraged staring at Jason.

  “Who are you?” asked the oldest man in an ugly voice.

  Jason said, “Who are you?”

  The man was freshly angered. “Never mind. What are you doing here?”

  Jason said, “What are you doing here?”

  The man said, “Get the hell out.”

  Jason said, “Get the hell out.”

  One of the younger men said, “Throw him off, Elmer.”

  Jason smiled unpleasantly and flexed his arm muscles. “Try,” he said.

  The oldest man said, “Now, let’s not fight.” He lifted a fat hand. “You’ve got no right here, son. This is private property.”

  “Yes,” said Jason. “It’s mine. So, you’ve got no right here. Trespassing.”

  They gaped at him in a sudden uncomfortable silence. Then the oldest man took a few steps toward Jason. He smiled pleasantly, but his small brown eyes were not smiling. “You Jason Garrity?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve been looking for you, son.” He held out his hand, but Jason did not take it. “Why were you looking for me?”

  “Well, it’s this way, son. We’d like to buy your land. Fourteen acres, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Jason thought of the harsh poverty of his life. “What are you offering?”

  The oldest man, in his large-checked black-and-white trousers and black broadcloth coat and silk vest, considered Jason sharply: a laborer, in his overalls and blue cotton shirt with the open collar, and dirty boots. “Well, we found the land was bought by a Joseph Maggiotti, a long time ago. He paid three dollars an acre. But times have changed,” and he laughed throatily. “Things have gone up. We know it isn’t worth it, but I’m willing to give you twenty dollars an acre. That’s a lot of money for this worthless piece of land on the mountain.”

  Two hundred and eighty dollars! That would ensure great comfort for his mother, thought Jason, and better medicine. Then he looked about him, down to the valley, up to the mountains. He had thought of something a year or two ago. He became quietly excited, but he showed no evidence of this.

  “Why do you want to buy this?”

  The man gave him his card, a thick ivory-tinted smooth oblong. “Elmer Schultz.” He said, “I own three hotels, two in Pittsburgh, one in Philadelphia. We had the idea of building a … little family-resort hotel here. Inexpensive. For the folks around here. Just an idea. May come to nothing. Who would come from the big cities here in the summer? Nobody. Just for the local people.”

  Jason smiled. “Now, that’s very kind of you, Mr. Schultz, building for us yokels here. We’re not a very rich town, you know.”

  Mr. Schultz changed his opinion of Jason. This was no “yokel.” His accent and his words were not rural. Mr. Schultz became wary. He put his foot on the boulder on which Jason was sitting. He assumed a “folksy” attitude.

  “Well, sir, I was raised in a little city like Belleville. No one gave a damn for building a resort for the people there. I’ve got different ideas.”

  “Magnanimous, eh?” said Jason. The other two men glanced at each other.

  “Well, sir,” said Mr. Schultz, falsely beaming, “you can say that. We’ve got to think of the common folks these days. Ain’t that what the president says, himself?”

  “Good old Teddy, rich Oyster Bay Teddy,” said Jason. “I get awfully suspicious of rich people sobbing their hearts out over the ‘suffering working class.’ I wonder what they’re up to. Nothing good, and you can bet on that. So, you’re sobbing, too, over us poor yokels with our miserable lives?”

  Mr. Schultz pulled out a heavy huge gold repeater watch from his vest pocket. “Got to make the four-o’clock train. All right, son. Twenty-five dollars an acre. Take it or leave it.”

  “I left it five minutes ago, Mr. Schultz.”

  “Why?” The rich voice had become bellicose. “You need the money, don’t you?”

  “No,” said Jason. “I’m thinking of building a hotel here myself.”

  “You?”

  “That’s right. I … I’ve got good backing, too.”

  Mr. Schultz glared at him. Why, the dirty Irish mick! “Who the hell would back you?”

  Jason shrugged elaborately. “Perhaps I don’t need the backing.” He yawned. “Good day, Mr. Schultz. You’d better run or you’ll miss your train.”

  Mr. Schultz drew a deep, very audible breath. “Let’s talk this over … Mr. Garrity.”

  Jason studied the card. “Tell you what, Mr. Schultz. I’ll think about it. That’s all I can tell you.”

  Mr. Schultz said in an ominous voice, “I give you one week. Here. I’ll write my address on the card.” He drew out a gold fountain pen and scribbled on it. “One week.”

 
“Thank you,” said Jason, and Mr. Schultz heard the mocking note in his voice. Mr. Schultz held out his sweating hand, and this time Jason took it and shook it with such strength that the other man winced.

  They went away, muttering to each other. At the edge of the plateau they paused and looked slowly all about them. Then they were gone.

  Jason stood up. His excitement almost choked him. He waited; then, when he knew the men had left, he ran down the mountain, fleet as one of the mountain deer.

  7

  Lionel was eating an early dinner in the big bright kitchen of the Inn-Tavern. He was not one to savor food or good wine. They were of no interest to him personally, though he realized the deep importance of them to the guests, and so had made himself an acute judge of liquors, wines, and viands. He could taste a dish and decide on its excellence or mediocrity, and a wine for its fragrance and body, but he craved none for his own enjoyment. He ate merely to satisfy hunger. His teeming mind was centered on other matters, and his eyes would move from side to side restlessly as he ate his own meals. His quick face turned everywhere, his fork moving very fast, and he was mostly unaware of taste. The two chefs eyed him, as usual, with no particular favor, offended as they were by his lack of appreciation. From time to time he would take his watch out of his vest pocket and study it sharply. It was Sunday, and the diners would soon be entering. He must be ready to greet them. The chefs did not like the Sunday crowds, for usually they had drunk too much in the back rooms so that their taste was numbed.

  Lionel had never seen Jason in a disheveled or emotional state since old Joe Maggiotti’s death. So when Jason, in soiled overalls and patched blue shirt, exploded into the kitchen by way of the employees’ entrance, Lionel was astonished. Jason’s face was actually afire with excitement, and sweat ran down his cheeks. His body emanated frenzy and disarray. He was panting, breathless. As the others in the kitchen also stared, he shouted, “Where’s Mr. Mulligan?”

  “Hey!” exclaimed Lionel, putting down his fork and half-rising in his chair. “What’s the matter with you? It’s your Sunday off. You can’t come in here … in those clothes.”

  Jason waved his arms. “The hell with my day off, with my clothes! Mr. Mulligan—where is he?”

  Lionel, studying him for an intense moment, felt a strange excitement. His yellow eyes became alert. Intuitive, he had an odd premonition. Jason would never get into this state over a minor matter. “Put down that damned fork!” Jason yelled. “I’ve got to talk with Mr. Mulligan, and you come with me!”

  The chefs gaped from the stoves. Lionel put down his fork and stood up. “Mr. Mulligan’s in one of the upstairs private dining rooms with Mrs. Lindon and a couple of her … young relatives and two banker friends. You can’t go up looking like that … Can’t it wait?”

  “No! It can’t.” Jason took his friend by the arm and began pulling him toward the staircase in the kitchen, which led up to the three private dining rooms on the second floor. “Lionel. I can’t tell you here. No time. You can hear me tell it.” He then laughed, a loud, almost hysterical shout. “If things go right … we’ll be rich, rich!”

  Lionel stared even closer at Jason. Jason was never extravagant or enthusiastic in speech, but he was today. The air seemed to vibrate about him. Never hopeful or expectant, but always judicious and thoughtful, he was not one to catch at rainbows or to believe mica was made of precious metal. All his judgments were sound. So Lionel followed him. At the top of the stairs, Jason turned and said, “Which dining room?”

  “Here,” said Lionel, and knocked on the shut door, forgetting to be wary. Mr. Mulligan said from behind the door, “All right. Come in. Who’s there?” Lionel pushed the door open on a pleasant scene. The room was large and nicely decorated, with white-painted walls, gilt moldings near the ceiling, a bright chandelier gaslit even this early on a spring evening. It was a circular room, for it was in the base of the building’s tower and so was called the Tower Room. The round rug was blue and gold, the furniture excellent, the big table covered with linen with a lace overlay, the sofa and chairs upholstered in yellow velvet. There was a fine rich odor of roasted beef and onions and potatoes floating tantalizingly in the air, mingled with the scent of wines and brandies and broiled new mushrooms and hot cream and fresh warm bread. The weighty silver gleamed in the gaslight. The guests put down their wineglasses and stared with amazement at the sight of Jason in his workman’s cheap clothing. Mr. Mulligan stood up, frowning. “What the hell,” he said. “Jase, what’s this? Lionel, what’s he doing here today, dressed like a farmhand?”

  Mr. Mulligan strove for umbrage, but he did not feel it. He simply wanted his distinguished guests to believe he was angry. His bald head shone with perspiration induced by the warmth of the day, good food, and copious drafts of wine. His black broadcloth suit, very sober and proper, his subdued cravat with its pearl pin, his embroidered vest, all very expensive, could not conceal the fact that here was a hearty, even gross man who loved life and knew how to make it enjoyable, and that, in spite of grim experience, he also loved people.

  “What the hell?” he repeated, then bowed to the three ladies present. “Pardon me,” he said. The ladies nodded graciously. The two middle-aged gentlemen with them inclined their august heads. The rings on their thick fingers glittered under the chandelier. Lionel recognized them, of course, as Mr. Gordon Rumpell of the First National Bank and Mr. Edward Sunderland of the Belleville Sayings Association. They were both presidents of their organizations, and were very distinguished indeed. They could have been brothers in their mutual rotundity, their florid coloring, their disillusioned and watchful brown eyes, their black eyebrows and their carefully waved white hair, their discreet cologne, their fat avid hands, their polished boots. Sons of prosperous farmers, they had done well for themselves and had gone to college. They were despairingly hated by those who owed them money, for they were men completely ruthless even when they smiled and were most agreeable.

  Mrs. Clementine Lindon was at her imperial best today, clad in a very costly dress of black silk with many ruffles and much lace. A long string of pearls lay on her big and handsome bosom, and there were diamonds in her ears near her vast pompadour of redly tinted hair. A white velvet hat, broad and very chic and swaying with many-colored ostrich plumes, perched on that fraudulent but tidy mass of polished strands and curls. Mrs. Lindon was extremely dainty and fastidious, and her voice was refined, her airs ladylike to parody, her scent advertising Paris, her shoes handmade, and her rings and bracelets testifying to wealth. But all of this could not overcome the coarse complexion, the hard if smiling eyes of an indeterminate hazel, and her thick and sensual mouth coated with shining red paint. Here was a woman, it was evident, even more ruthless than the bankers, and far less kind and sympathetic than Mr. Mulligan. She gave out an aura of corruption and exigency which her splendid apparel could not hide. However, she had moments of tolerance and even generosity. She had cultivated an aspect of gentility and graciousness which would have done credit to the late Queen Victoria—whom she had greatly admired—though she was at least a foot taller than the deceased monarch. She could even appear brutal in a nice way, and was very intelligent, and was known not to endure nonsense. No one had ever been known to successfully cheat Mrs. Lindon. Attempts were greeted with implacable vengeance. Foolishness was not to be tolerated. She was a lady of immense common sense. She had invented a genteel background and a well-bred family in Philadelphia, but her remarks on this subject were pleasantly vague and dismissing, as if she were too modest to boast. No one persisted in any questioning. Mrs. Lindon was too rich and her eyes too threatening when confronted by inquisitiveness which she proclaimed was vulgar anyway. Vulgarity was her favorite epithet, and condemnation. Mrs. Lindon could be very formidable when the occasion required it, and her corsets would creak in subdued agreement.

  Her young “cousins,” seventeen and eighteen, respectively, were like fresh daisies beside her; Mrs. Lindon was fifty-three, or so she claimed.
The girls were her prettiest, and were the dear friends of the two bankers, who had exclusive rights to them by careful negotiations with Mrs. Lindon. Mr. Sunderland, a widower with two adult sons in their thirties, was much enamored of little Loraine, with her innocent blues eyes and thick flaxen hair, the latter overpowering in its high rolled pompadour above her delicately tinted little face with its fine bones, its soft babyish mouth, and its fragile skin. She exuded an air of tender virginity, though she had been a whore since she was fourteen. Mrs. Lindon was very fond of Loraine, and had hopes that Mr. Sunderland would marry the girl.

  The other girl, Elsa, was a sprightly and lively brunette, as pretty in her way as Loraine, for she was all dark sparkle and vivacity, with a dark rose complexion, a lovely figure approaching womanly opulence, and a lot of perfumed black hair. She had a merry smile, very charming, and her teeth were sound and white, and she was known for her wit and quick laughter. She was eighteen, at the height of her beauty.

  Both girls were demurely clad, if one did not look at them too closely, for their white silk blouses, with the boned high necks and the ruffled tops to the chin, were of an extraordinary seduction and lewdness, composed of exquisitely frail handmade lace, almost imperceptible over nude flesh. At fleet moments one could glimpse rosy nipples, coy and rapidly disappearing. Their waists, however, were tightly corseted and seemed like the stems of flowers. Their skirts were of black velvet, their belts of silver leather. Each wore only a jeweled watch pinned precariously on the lace blouses, and each had a feather boa, as white as the blouses, dexterously used to reveal and conceal.

  Mr. Rumpell was enchanted by Elsa. He was very generous to her—and to Mrs. Lindon. He had a short, lumpish wife, extremely sullen and unamenable, and three dowdy daughters, all much older than his young paramour, who, like Loraine, had been an experienced whore from the age of fourteen.

  Mrs. Lindon felt it incumbent now to lift her regal lorgnette—only plain glass—to survey the young men who had so precipitately burst into the dining room. She knew them well. She especially favored Lionel, whom she had designated, not without admiration, as a scoundrel, but she respected Jason and had often told Mr. Mulligan he could be “absolutely trusted,” a trait that did not always appeal to her. Trustworthy men could often get in the way of clever negotiations, if these negotiations required a certain fleetness of foot and manipulation. However, she preferred, as lawyers, trustworthy men, and searched diligently for them, well understanding that law and trustworthiness were frequently mutually exclusive. But a lawyer one could trust personally was one the law could trust too, which led to difficulties. Semantics, too, often were inconvenient, and trustworthy lawyers were apt to keep doggedly to the plain wording of the law. Well, she would say, one cannot have everything in this world, though she did, herself, do rather well.