Ironic, Carter thought. He was encouraging his stepbrother to appreciate his own worth even when he felt worthless himself. He would never have let on to Will, but lately that feeling all but overwhelmed him. When he’d given his notice at the Northeast Fishery Company, no one had said they were sorry to see him go. And he’d thought it prudent to refrain from saying goodbye to Josie or Eben. He’d made a botch of everything in Boston.
That was one reason he wasn’t altogether sorry that note had fallen out of his pocket when he’d come reeling home one night. Despite his protests, he was secretly grateful to get away from Boston. Even now, he could smell the fishy odor of the knife with which Ortega had tormented him. Once, Carter had liked to eat fish. Since that night, he couldn’t bring himself to touch it. The mere smell brought cold sweat to his palms and forehead.
Yes, he was definitely glad to escape from Boston. He wanted no meeting with Ortega’s brother. But he didn’t know what he did want. He was determined not to let Will see his confusion, though. He resorted to a prop that always made him feel jaunty and self-assured—a cigar.
As he stopped to light up, he got disapproving stares from three men standing in a small tent beside the path. On a counter in the tent were two dozen glasses and six large pitchers of clear liquid. Above the tent’s front awning hung a neatly lettered sign.
FREE! FREE! FREE!
Greater Boston Businessmen’s Association
COLD WATER PAVILION
“It’s Never Too Late or Too Early
for Temperance”
Irked by the way the men eyed his cigar and his plaid jacket, Carter sauntered over and started to pour himself a glass of water. “Hope you gents don’t mind if I help myself—”
One of the businessmen snatched the glass from his hand. “This pavilion is for the encouragement of abstinence in slum children, not racetrack loafers.”
Carter smiled. “Then why don’t you set up shop in the slums? Don’t bother to answer. I know why. The slum boys would run your fat asses out of their neighborhood in thirty seconds.”
He plucked the glass from the fingers of the outraged man, tossed off half the contents, then threw the glass away. Another man jumped and caught it, but he soaked his expensive waistcoat in the process. By then Carter was laughing and hurrying down the path, Will right behind.
When they were safely out of sight of the cold-water soldiers, they slowed down. Will leaned against a tree, gasping with mirth. “Oh, Carter, you—you’ve got more nerve than any ten people.”
“That’s right, little brother. Because I’ve got confidence in myself,” he lied.
They crossed Charles Street to the gates of the twenty-four-acre Public Garden. On the garden’s four-acre pond, several of the swan boats designed and operated by the Paget family carried young couples in a leisurely fashion. The boats were barges with several rows of seats and a large wooden figure of a swan at the stern. From a seat inside this figure, a man operated pedals to propel the boat. In less than ten years, the swan boats had become an institution.
“Remember how I marched you over to Central Park?” Carter went on. “How I told those roughnecks I was the nephew of the Grand Duke Whoozis, and that we were going to join their baseball game? They didn’t fuss once, did they?”
“No.”
“I knew they wouldn’t.”
“I’ll never forget that. Before you came along, they always ran me off.”
“You didn’t have any confidence in yourself. They spotted it. No matter what you said, the look on your face talked louder. With confidence, little brother, you can do anything.”
“Even get around Dolores Wertman?”
Carter rested his foot on the rim of a wooden tub at the edge of the walk; palms would be set in the tubs for the summer months. Nearby were moist beds of black dirt in which pansies, dahlias, and cannas would soon grow to brighten the garden.
“Will, my boy—”
Carter puffed his cigar, and the smoke drifted away in the warm breeze. He had his stepbrother hanging on every word. Children chasing a cocker spaniel went noisily past on the path. Only when they were out of earshot did he continue.
“—with confidence, you can fuck Miss Wertman and as many others as your stamina permits. But you have to believe you can. You have to believe in yourself. That’s what I’ve been trying to pound into your head for years.”
Will was humiliated by the emotion he felt then. He was supposed to be grown up. Almost a man. And yet he was ready to bawl. Carter noticed. “What the devil’s wrong now?”
“I hate to see you leave. You know everything.”
“Brace up. I’ll write you a letter now and then. When I’m not busy getting in the bloomers of the belles of the Barbary Coast. I’ve been reading about San Francisco. They say it’s the wickedest city on the face of the—hey! You’ve got to cut this out, little brother!”
Ashamed, Will turned away. He squeezed his eyes shut and hoped the tears didn’t show. He wanted to die on the spot.
“I’m sorry, Carter,” he said a moment later. “I just don’t know how I’ll get along without you.”
“Oh, you will. Very easily. You’ll be surprised.”
“I don’t think so.”
Carter’s jet-black eyes softened. There was an edge in his voice as he said, “I surely do wish I could get my hands on whoever whipped the starch out of you. It wasn’t Gideon, was it?”
Will shook his head. “Let’s not talk about it.”
Carter bucked him up with another punch on the shoulder. “Whatever you say. Just remember one thing. You’re important. Not because you’re Gideon Kent’s son. Because you’re you.”
Will didn’t believe it.
“And when you’re my age,” Carter went on, “you’ve got to do one more thing. You’ve got to let the world know you’re somebody. You can be the richest man in creation, but if no one realizes it, every dollar you’ve got is only worth fifty cents.”
All at once, from the lesson he was trying to impart to Will, Carter drew strength of his own. So far he’d failed to follow the advice he dispensed so freely. In San Francisco, he’d change that. Start over. Use his talent and become the kind of person he told Will to be—
Maybe he’d try politics, as Willie Hearst had suggested. Two nights ago, Carter had overcome his embarrassment and gone to Cambridge to bid his friend goodbye. Willie was the only person outside his family who might miss him. Of course he hadn’t said a word about his troubles at the Red Cod and the processing plant. It had been a grand evening, and Willie had written out a list of fine San Francisco restaurants and saloons he ought to visit. Carter was sure all of them would be well beyond his means, but he thanked Willie warmly and promised to go to every one.
Willie was doing splendidly at Harvard in everything but his studies. He’d taken over the post of Lampoon business manager, had thought up a number of stunts that had generated a lot of new advertising, and had put the publication in the black within a very few months. He’d been elected to Hasty Pudding and played a role in the club’s annual musical—another ambition fulfilled.
But Willie still liked class work too little and pranks too much. He admitted that his fondness for practical jokes would probably get him tossed out of Harvard as Carter had been. But Carter had faith in his friend. He knew Willie’s bent for the sensational would help him make a mark—
“Carter?”
“Oh.” He smiled at Will. “Guess my mind was wandering.”
“What were you thinking?”
“That it’s time I followed my own advice and amounted to something.”
“You will. I know it.”
“So will you, little brother. But to make sure, I want you to give me a promise.”
He faced Will and laid his hands on the younger boy’s shoulders. Brothers enjoyed a special relationship a mother could never participate in, or fully understand. No matter what the facts of their births, he and Will Kent were brothers. He felt t
hat as the two of them stood looking at one another in the spring sunshine.
“Promise me you’ll be somebody,” Carter said.
Will heard the voice then.
You’ll be a bungler all your life.
Only with great effort was he able to whisper, “I promise.”
“And promise me you’ll make sure everybody knows it. That’s every bit as important. Maybe more.”
You’ll never amount to anything. BUNGLER—
“Will?”
“I promise that too, Carter.”
Carter smiled. “Good enough.”
They started along the path again. Presently Carter had a last thought. “You’d better not break that promise, either, not if you want me to stay your friend.”
So lightly, even carelessly said, those words. Carter never knew the force with which they struck Will Kent. Struck him, and marked him for life.
ii
That night, Will lay in his darkened room and listened to the dying echo of a great steamer’s whistle from the harbor. It reminded him of the train Carter had boarded. The train would carry him to Cleveland, then Chicago. At Chicago he’d change to the westbound transcontinental cars. He was gone. The mournful sound reverberating over the midnight rooftops only emphasized that fact, that loss.
Will kept seeing Carter’s grin. And his dark eyes shining as he extracted the promise.
“Promise me you’ll be somebody.”
I promise, Carter.
“And promise you’ll make sure everybody knows it.”
I PROMISE.
He’d meant it. He knew he’d never made a more important pledge to anyone.
The void created by Carter’s departure would hurt for a long time. But in leaving, he’d given Will a new determination to try to overcome the worthless feeling Margaret had whipped into him. Carter had literally created that determination by extracting a promise Will didn’t dare break.
Not if you want me to stay your friend.
iii
Although Will was restless, he soon drifted to sleep. He woke about an hour later. Moonlight was flooding through the window, and one part of his body was as stiff as a piece of steel.
He reached down by his hip. The bedclothes were damp. He’d had a dream. The kind of dream whose aftermath had frightened him until Carter assured him it was perfectly normal for young men.
Now, along with the lingering tumidity came shameful yet thoroughly enjoyable thoughts of Dolores Wertman. He imagined her in some featureless place where she could safely shed her clothes and romp naked without fear of observation or disapproval.
He was there, too. He put his head back and let his imagination carry him into incredibly wicked acts involving a Dolores who liked him, and showed it with every response she made with her mouth, her hands, her round breasts, her—
He awoke again, warmer than ever. He was humiliated to discover he’d had a second dream. Was he some kind of pervert?
No, no. Carter—far away in the darkness to the west— Carter had taught him not to fear the natural responses his body made during its passage to adulthood. Carter had taught him that, and so much more—
Now Carter expected him to put his knowledge to use. He would, no matter how timid or unsure he felt at first. He’d made a promise and he’d keep it.
A week later, he worked up nerve to ask Dolores Wertman to go walking on the Common at dusk. He nearly fainted when she said yes.
They strolled in the spring twilight, their conversation halting and inconsequential. After ten minutes of fear racked hesitation, he forced himself to grope for Dolores’ hand and squeeze it. The moment he did, he experienced an embarrassing physical reaction. He turned sideways to hide it.
Several minutes later they found themselves on a deserted portion of a path. He turned to face her. He saw her smiling at him in a strange, puzzling way. His heart was thundering in his chest. His ears rang. His palms were slick with sweat.
Without a word of preamble, he darted forward and planted a kiss on her cheek.
The instant his lips touched her soft skin, he was transfixed with terror. He was sure she’d shriek for her parents, or the police.
She did neither. She stepped closer to him, cocking her head and continuing to smile at him in that soft, strange way. The sinking sun struck fire from her red hair.
“I didn’t think you knew how to kiss a girl, Will Kent, or had the gumption.” Suddenly she brought her mouth to his. “I’m glad I was wrong.”
She flung one arm around his neck, closed her eyes and pressed against him, without embarrassment, for a wondrous moment.
“Oh, that was grand,” she whispered when they resumed their walk. Will was still so full of astonishment and joy, he was speechless. “I’ve watched you for days. I thought you’d never come near my house, or speak to me. Will you take me walking again?” She squeezed his hand in hers. “Please?”’
He managed to say in a strangled voice, “Whenever you want, Dolores.”
Margaret was all but forgotten. But she was still there in the darkness of his mind.
Watching.
Waiting.
Biding her time.
CHAPTER XVIII
CARTER’S CHOICE
i
ON THE TRIP WEST, Carter lacked neither spending money nor creature comforts. Gideon, perhaps conscience-stricken over sending his stepson into a kind of exile, had not only paid off the last few dollars of Carter’s debt, but had bought him a first-class ticket from Boston. That meant Carter was permitted in all the cars, including the parlor car with its rosewood paneling and deep, comfortable seats of turkey red plush.
Mr. Pullman, builder and operator of the cars, did things in style. At least for first-class passengers. Carter slept in one of Pullman’s convertible berths, and ordered his meals from a menu rivaling that of a fine restaurant. On his first full day of traveling, he started with a breakfast of shirred eggs and champagne. Shortly after noon he sat down to a heavy full-course dinner, which included oxtail soup, mutton with a caper sauce, fresh fruit, and coconut pudding in wine. The main dish of his light supper was a tasty rabbit pie.
On a first-class ticket, Carter was allowed in the second-class cars, where he could gawk at the poorer passengers crowded on hard, narrow wooden seats. Those traveling second class weren’t permitted in the first-class cars, of course. Porters rigidly enforced the rule.
Carter rather enjoyed strolling through second class, a book under his arm and a cigar in his hand. The farmers, the immigrants—all the drab, weary-looking men and women packed on the benches—gazed at him with sullen envy. They knew he had money. To be on top—recognized as important and special—that was a wonderful feeling.
The apple orchards of upstate New York slipped by, and the lake shore of Ohio, then the rich farmlands of Indiana. Gideon had provided Carter with a number of current books, including an advance copy of the ailing President Grant’s Memoirs; a dull novel about a businessman named Lapham; and the only volume Carter really enjoyed dipping into, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. The Mark Twain novel had been sold on subscription, before publication. It was already being damned as trash. In Concord, where old Philip had stood and fought at the bridge, the Library Committee had banned the book, terming it “suitable only for the slums.”
The man behind the Mark Twain pseudonym liked to think of himself as a businessman as well as a famous writer, Gideon often said. Twain was heavily involved in financing the publication of his own books on a subscription basis. But he’d licensed Kent and Son to print inexpensive reprint editions of some of his earlier work. Hence Gideon had gone out to Concord to protest the ban on Twain’s behalf—unsuccessfully, as it turned out. The author wasn’t upset. The last time he’d come to dinner at the Kent house, he’d said to Gideon, “Don’t push too hard to get the ban lifted. I calculate it’ll sell at least twenty-five thousand extra copies for me.”
At major station stops every hundred miles or so, a new conductor would te
ar off a perforated section of Carter’s long ticket. Just before he reached Chicago, he found himself studying the ticket with resentment he couldn’t explain.
In Chicago, he had half a day to himself. He used it to shop for a plaid traveling jacket at Marshall Field’s. Then the Union Pacific bore him west out of Illinois.
At Council Bluffs, he saw two old men with seamed brown faces dozing in the sun on the depot platform. He stood studying the men while second-class passengers dashed for seats at the counter in the flyblown dining room. Curious decorations hung from rope belts the old men wore. Long hanks of dark hair, intertwined with what appeared to be bleached animal skin. While the Indians dozed, they fondled the decorations occasionally.
Carter asked a trainman about the objects. “Scalps,” the old man said. “I see those same two red bastards hanging around this station ‘most every trip. I think they’re Sioux. I dunno why the local citizens permit ’em in public places— ’specially since they sit there flaunting the fact that they killed white people. They ought to be put on a reservation, them and the rest of their murdering kin. Ought to put ninety-nine percent of the niggers in with ’em.”
Cynically, Carter wondered just how gullible the man’s bigoted views made him. He decided to find out. On the spot, he made up a story about a vast conspiracy involving French and German anarchists. In a hushed voice, he told the trainman the anarchists were slipping into America to gather recruits among the disgruntled Indians.
“By God I can believe it!” the trainman declared. “This country’s being taken over by Jew radicals. Every one of them who criticizes our government ought to be put in front of a firing squad.”
“Mmmm,” Carter murmured, meaning to be noncommittal. He didn’t agree, but the trainman thought he did. That was the purpose of the murmur. If he ever ran for public office, he’d know how to lock up the trainman’s vote. Just scream that nigras, Jews, Indians, and anarchists were making plans to run amok and desecrate the flag. Interesting how even the stupidest people could teach you something.