Fortune's Hand

“Listen. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll call it a loan. You can pay me back when you’re a great success, because that’s what you’re going to be.”

  “Anytime you go out for a hamburger, something I can afford, I’ll go with you. I’d like that, Eddy.”

  “Okay. I won’t argue with the smartest guy in the class. Because that’s what you are, and everybody knows it. You know it, too.”

  Perhaps fate had its own way of apportioning good things, for although Eddy did have plenty of worldly goods, he was also at the bottom of his class. He would make it through, but without distinction. And he knew that, clearly. He was, however, not disturbed at all. He had all sorts of connections, “knew his way around,” and would possibly go into real estate law.

  “Building or politics,” he would say blithely. “Or maybe both. They’re usually connected, anyway.”

  He found Robb interesting and said so. “I don’t know many guys—none, come to think of it—who’ve kept on with one girl all this time and been satisfied. You’re never tempted?”

  “Not really. I look, of course I do. But then I think of Lily.”

  “She’s a cute thing, that I have to admit. Mighty cute.”

  “She’s a lot more than that,” Robb would answer, closing the subject.

  Now Eddy stood up. “I’m going in.”

  It was past twilight now, almost dark, and mosquitoes were singing. Robb got up, too.

  “Any classes for you tomorrow afternoon, Robb? It’s Friday.”

  “No. Why?”

  “Thought maybe you’d like to drive someplace for a swim, then stop off and eat.”

  “Thanks, no. I’ve got a pile of stuff to do.”

  He intended, though did not say so, to visit the federal court. The place lured him with its authority, the solemnity of its dark wood panels, its gilded moldings, and the flag with the eagle on the tip. The judge in his robe had an incomparable dignity. The lawyers who argued before him were often monotonous and verbose, but from others occasionally flowed words that were worthy of Dickens; it was then that Robb felt the marvelous power of language, and was stirred to the heart.

  “Don’t you ever do anything but work?” demanded Eddy with slight impatience.

  “You know I do. But give me a rain check, will you?”

  There was no use trying to explain.

  One warm evening in late August, Robb, opening the door to a peremptory knock, saw Eddy and the other occupants of the house standing in the hall.

  “I thought I heard you banging around down here,” Walt said. “Weren’t you supposed to be leaving town for the weekend?”

  “I was, but there’s flooding down home, and the buses are detouring via the North Pole, so I’ve been moving bookcases instead.”

  “The hell with that. Leave the books and come along to a party. Big house, great food, plenty to drink—and girls.”

  “Don’t talk girls to Robb,” somebody shouted from the rear. “He already has one, didn’t you know?”

  Of course they knew. Had he not been for the last two years the object of enough good-natured jokes and good-natured laughter, as now?

  “Never mind,” Eddy said. “You can drink and eat. God, all you live on is spaghetti.”

  That was true, or almost. All you had to add were cold cereal, milk, and canned vegetables. Recalling some of his rare dinners out with Eddy, the steaks, his first genuine Maine lobster, all five pounds of it, Robb’s mouth watered.

  “We’re all invited,” Walt said. “Won’t cost a cent. Honeyman knows the people, fifth cousins of his or something. They’ve got a bunch of girls staying for the weekend, and they’ve run short on guys for the party. Come on.”

  For no known reason—he would have to be an analyst to explain every slight shift in a person’s mood—Robb had been feeling dreary earlier this evening, too lethargic to go downtown for a drink with friends, or take in a movie, or do much of anything. So they had found him at the right moment.

  “Wait till I change my shirt,” he said.

  The house was in a luxurious suburb that he had passed through once and then never passed again; no homebound bus traveled along such roads, where bordering oaks touched each other overhead and long, graveled driveways led to houses hidden in their own tranquil, personal landscape.

  “Large enough for a public library,” Walt exclaimed.

  “Brand new,” another added. “Made a packet in the market, I heard, and built this with it.”

  They had entered an enormous circular hall, two stories high, with a great circular skylight. The floor and the staircase were of white marble. Spaced on the perimeter were many doors to many jewel-colored rooms. Robb, standing at the center of all this, had a sense of whirling glitter.

  “Never saw anything like it, did you?” asked Honeyman with awe. “There’s an indoor pool and also an outdoor pool, Olympic size. Come look.”

  Robb had seen a few fine homes, such as the president’s house at the college downstate. These had been typical white clapboard plantation houses, or copies of one; spacious, serene and rather formal, they had been impressive, but nothing at all like this. And he was not sure whether he was supposed to admire this place or not. He knew only that he did not like it. Was that perhaps because of his ignorance about such things?

  The little group from Mill Street accepted introductions, gave introductions, meandered through the dazzling rooms, and finally made its way out to the terrace, where the buffet was set. Long tables were covered with delectables. At the far end of the terrace near the pool, three men in white jackets stood behind the bar, where it appeared that some of the guests had already been having more from that bar than they could hold.

  Robb filled his plate, got his drink, and sat down at a table with Eddy, Walt, and a student whom he had never met. Walt and Eddy had found girls at the bar, while the other man was with his wife. Although she was a pretty, young woman, it was only the diamond wedding band on her finger that caught Robb’s eye, bringing wistful thoughts. But for the lack of dollars, Lily would be at this table with him today.

  A lone girl, overweight and homely, took the empty seat beside Robb. He saw at once that she was miserable, an outsider in this place. And feeling the cruelty of her situation, he began a friendly conversation. Eagerly, she responded, and with such a detailed account of herself that no one could possibly be interested in it. One by one, the others left the table and drifted away.

  “I think people want our table,” Robb said after a while. He stood up. “Well, it was nice—” he began before realizing that she was not about to let him go.

  They walked toward the pool. Patiently, as if lost, he stood with the girl’s noisy voice droning in his ear. His friends had disappeared, his hunger had been satisfied, and he would gladly have gone home, when abruptly, at the far end of the pool, there burst a wild commotion.

  Girls squealed and shrieked. Men wrestled, shouted, and howled with laughter. And suddenly one, who was probably more drunk than the rest, picked up a girl and flung her, flowered dress, kicking white shoes and all, into the water.

  “What are you doing? You’re disgusting, Jed,” someone standing near Robb cried out.

  “Who, me?” retorted Jed. “Me, disgusting?” And he came galloping toward his critic.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Jed? There’s nothing funny about—”

  “I’ll show you funny.” And with that, grabbing Robb’s innocent companion, Jed tossed her, too, into the water.

  A tumult followed. The two furious, weeping victims were promptly rescued. People ran to the house to soothe the outrage of some, but by no means all, of the spectators. As much as anyone, Robb enjoyed some horseplay, but this was not his idea of horseplay. It was contemptible and mean. Especially did he feel sorry for his late companion. Something told him that her unbecoming dress was probably her best one, and most likely it was ruined. He watched for a moment as women were comforting her, then shook his head and walked away.
>
  A balustrade divided the terrace from a long view of lawn and a garden whose strict geometry gave him an alien, cold feeling. The only good thing about this afternoon, he thought, was the food.

  “Isn’t this awful? A bad imitation of Versailles.”

  He turned to see a young woman coming toward him.

  “What, the garden?” he replied.

  “That, and the house. It’s all so fake. And then those monsters just now. Or don’t you agree?”

  “I wasn’t so sure about the house at first, but I certainly agree about the creeps who did that to the girls.”

  “One of the creeps was my date. It’s my first time out with him and let me tell you, it’s my last.”

  Her large green eyes protested. Indignation had almost taken her breath away. He could see, as she stood with her hands clasped on the railing, the rise and fall of her chest under thin silk.

  “I never like these huge bashes anyway,” she said. “If it weren’t for my high heels, I’d walk right home now.”

  “I drove here with friends, two cars full. I’m sure they’d give you a lift. And I guarantee that they’ll be sober.”

  “I accept with pleasure. It won’t be more than three miles out of your way, whichever way you’re going. Let me guess. You’re all Honeyman’s friends. School of Law.”

  “That’s right. Third year. Robb MacDaniel,” he said, with his barely visible fraction of a bow.

  “Ellen Grant. No year. I’ve just graduated from Wellesley.”

  They observed each other. And just as he had previously made an instant judgment of his table companion, he made one now: She’s an artist, or anyway, has something to do with the arts. Her dark, curly hair was fashionably cut, as was her dress. Her face, except for the eyes, was unexceptional. Yet it was the kind of face that is called “fine.” She had poise. She’s not afraid of anything, he thought, and was at the same time aware that it was a queer thought to be having about a stranger.

  “Are those your friends waving at you back there?”

  Eddy and Walt were making gestures meaning that they were ready to leave. “Okay with you, Robb?”

  “I’m ready. This is Ellen Grant. She needs a ride home.”

  The Grant house was nowhere near the size of a public library. Family-sized, it looked like any conventional, tasteful house built before the last war. Unlike the place they had just left, it made no attempt to flaunt prosperity. Yet prosperity was evident in its old furnishings and gilt-framed landscapes. Over the mantel in the library hung a portrait of a man in the uniform of a Confederate officer.

  “That’s her great-grandfather,” somebody whispered.

  On the way here it had been decided that they would all go on to a jazz club downtown, but since it was still too early, they would sit around for a while at Ellen’s house. Almost never did Robb refuse a chance to hear jazz, especially when he was to be with his Mill Street friends, and most especially when Eddy was to be there. Eddy brought, as everyone who knew him would agree, a spirit of “let the good times roll.” If you had problems, he made you forget them.

  Yet now Robb wished he did not have to go along. He counted: between the two cars there were ten people, including himself. There was no possible way he could decently refuse.

  Was he turning into some kind of a spoiler? And he sat uncomfortably watching the scene as if he were merely a spectator at the theater. It was a lively scene in a charming room, complete with a handsome auburn setter lying at Ellen’s feet. He was feeling that he did not belong there.

  The new wife, who was sitting next to him, observed his glance. “How long have you known Ellen?” she asked.

  “I don’t know her,” Robb replied.

  “Oh, really? Well you should get to know her. She’s extraordinary. You should see her work. Watercolors. She’s just illustrated a children’s book, and I’ve heard that somebody’s bought it. I’m very fond of her. Isn’t she the prettiest thing?”

  He did not really think she was “the prettiest thing,” but he answered as expected, “Very,” and added, “You’re a generous woman. Most women don’t praise each other so generously.”

  She laughed. “I’m not in competition anymore, you see.”

  He liked her. He liked her honesty and humor. Later, at the jazz club, he managed to seat himself between her and the aisle. He had no intention of “getting to know” Ellen Grant.

  The hospital where Ellen volunteered was on the same avenue as the university, a short distance away. Leaving the hospital a few weeks later, she came face-to-face with Robb MacDaniel. She had a poor memory for names, so it surprised her that she remembered his, although she very definitely remembered him: he had not liked her. He had quite obviously avoided her that night. Naturally, it piqued her vanity, but also aroused her curiosity.

  She greeted him gaily. “What can you be thinking of, walking on a day like this? It must be ninety-nine degrees in the shade.”

  “I have no car, the bus doesn’t run along here, so since I need to go downtown, I need to walk.”

  The reply, which was almost brusque, was a challenge. “I have a car, and I’m going downtown. This will be in return for the lift you gave me.”

  “Well, thanks. Thanks very much.”

  Enigmatic, she thought. Dead serious. All locked up. It would be interesting to unlock him.

  “Where you headed?” she inquired when they were in the car.

  “The bank. The National. Straight ahead. I’ll show you.”

  “Well, I’m heading for a cold drink across the street from your bank. It’s dim and quiet, and I need to relax. I help a couple of paraplegics and it takes all the strength out of me, right out of my heart. Come on, keep me company for fifteen minutes.”

  “I haven’t much time,” he said.

  “Fifteen minutes? Come on. The bank will still be there.”

  Their small table faced the street, on which sparse traffic moved through a glare of light. The shop was quiet, as if the heat had muted sound and diminished motion. For a minute or two neither of them spoke.

  “I hope you’re not disappointed,” she said. “Did you think I meant a real drink? Because I only meant iced coffee, or something like that.”

  “I had no idea what you meant.”

  “No liquor at two in the afternoon for me.”

  “Nor for me.”

  She saw that he was uneasy, and suddenly she was sorry for him. Something about him told her that he came from a farm, so she asked him whether he had always lived here in the city.

  “No, I’m from downstate, a little place near Marchfield. You’ve probably never heard of it.”

  He even looked like a country boy, very mannerly, church-going, no doubt, brought up to be obedient and respectful. She wondered whether he knew what a picture he made in a stern, straight way that brought to mind Lincoln, or maybe Pickett, or Lee. At the jazz club that night someone had told her he was at the top of his class. At any rate, he was very, very interesting.

  “We must know so many of the same people,” she began, since he had not begun anything. “My brother was in high school with half the people in this university, I’ll bet.”

  “He didn’t go here?”

  “No, he was at the University of Chicago. He’s in aircraft engineering now, in Seattle. He always wanted to get away.”

  “But you did, too? Going to Wellesley?”

  “Oh, I did want to, and it was wonderful. But I’m back to stay now. Mother died last year, and I won’t leave my father all alone. He’s very busy, he’s a lawyer, but work isn’t enough to fill the loneliness.”

  “A lawyer? Not Wilson Grant?”

  “Yes. Do you know him?”

  “No, but I’ve seen him in court. One case was that trial last year, the seventeen-year-old girl who was charged with murdering her baby. I was so glad he won for her against the death penalty.” Now Robb leaned forward and addressed her; his attention had been caught. “He had compassion for that terrifie
d kid, seventeen going on twelve. I marveled. He was persistent and clear, empathic, and still gentle. The kid had a rich family, but they were cold people, and she was afraid of them. It was a tragedy. She deserved to be punished badly, but not to die.”

  Ellen was moved by this portrayal of her father. Robb had read him well.

  “A good lawyer,” he said, “has to be a psychologist, too.”

  “That comes out of one’s own childhood, doesn’t it?” Now that the conversation was in motion, she would not let it pause. “The way you understand that case tells me that you have good parents, at least I think you must.”

  “Had,” he said briefly. “They were killed in a car accident almost three years ago. I was driving.”

  “How awful for you!” She frowned in sympathy. “I suppose you keep asking yourself whether you could have prevented it.”

  “I’m fairly over that. I’m ninety-nine percent sure I couldn’t have. But I still can’t bear having to pass the place where it happened.”

  His glance traveled over her head to the window. She had an immediate sense that he was closing the conversation, as if he felt he had talked too long, said too much, and was prepared to leave her.

  And then, abruptly, he returned to her. “You haven’t said anything about yourself. They tell me you’re an artist and have had a book accepted.”

  “How news is distorted in the telling! All I have is a little talent for sketching and watercolors. One of the instructors at college had written a children’s book and asked me to do some illustrations, which I’ve done, and now we are hoping some publisher will buy it. Hoping.”

  “You wouldn’t have been asked to illustrate a book if you hadn’t a great deal more than merely a little talent.”

  “I don’t know. I love art, that’s all. I have had thoughts of a museum job in New York or some place, but here I am at home. I told you why. So I’ll just keep looking for somebody who wants illustrations. Meanwhile, I fill in the time at the hospital, doing a bit of good.”

  “Speaking of time,” Robb said, “the bank’s going to close in half an hour.”

  She stood up at once. “Of course. It’s been so nice talking to you.”