Tuesday to Bed. Francis Sill Wickware

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      “It would mean a good deal of money, wouldn’t it?”

      “Oh, certainly. A new pop-top box for Popsies, probably worth five thousand. But——”

      “With your name, ten thousand. Think—designed by Stanton Wylie, winner of the 1947 award for the——”

      “Just a minute. If the award means anything at all, it means that maybe I’m capable of creating something worth while. At least, I hope that’s what it means. Anyway, I’m not going to pervert it for the benefit of breakfast-food manufacturers who may think that my name will help them sell more of their sawdust. Of course I turned down Smith’s job. I should think you would have wanted me to.”

      “Oh, Stan, you’re so silly about some things. You know I admire the idealistic approach, and all that, but is there anything wrong with money?”

      “No, but there’s a lot wrong with some ways of making it.”

      “I suppose that comes close to being an epigram, doesn’t it? Very neat, Stan. But just remember, you’re always taking on assignments that pay nothing. You wasted most of last week on those plans for the youth center.”

      “Was it wasted? I don’t think so. In view of the delinquency rates, it seemed to be important to design an attractive and usable place where boys and girls would like to go instead of hanging around dance halls and street corners.”

      “Stan, I’m not arguing about that. It was a wonderful thing to do, and you can do it again. But at the same time, here’s your chance to cash in, and why not? What harm is there in picking up five or ten thousand for a box top? You could do it in a day!”

      “Yes, and be pegged as the guy who accidentally won the big prize and sold it to anyone with cash to buy it. Like Shakespeare writing Sunday-supplement articles. Would you like that?”

      “Nobody would say that, Stan. You’re in business. You’re supposed to be making money.”

      “Maybe nobody else would say it, but I’d say it to myself, which amounts to the same thing.”

      “Well, you might think about my side of it.” Betsy sipped her coffee and sighed in a resigned way. “After all——”

      “Don’t say it, Betsy,” Stanton interrupted. “I’ve heard it before and I don’t want to hear it again. You’re spending your income and dipping into your capital to keep this place running the way you want it. You don’t need to. My income is enough to support any sensible family, and anytime you want to live on them, I’ll be delighted——”

      Supreme Love darkly reappeared in the doorway. “Jerry, yore school bus is outside, tootin’ the horn for you.”

      “Tell the driver to hold it a minute, will you please?” said Stanton. And to Jeremy he added: “Sorry, old boy, I didn’t mean to have all this bickering.”

      “It’s all right, Dad,” said Jeremy, finishing his cocoa.

      “No, it isn’t,” Stanton said. “I don’t know why we seem to—— Well, let’s have the Long Island jaunt next week, shall we? Let’s plan it for Saturday. Invite one of your friends, if you’d like to. How about that nice little girl you had at the birthday party—what’s her name?”

      “Anne,” said Jeremy. He stood up. “I b’lieve Mom has something planned for me Saturday. I better go now, Dad, or the bus will leave me.” He presented a fresh, cool cheek for Stanton’s kiss. “Hope the speech goes over with a bang. ’By, Mom.”

      After he had gone Stanton sat without speaking for a minute. Then he said, “So Saturday’s out, is it? What’s the reason this time?”

      “Why, Stan, I talked to you about the series of children’s matinee concerts at Carnegie Hall, didn’t I? Next Saturday is the first one.”

      “I don’t remember your mentioning it. And Sunday?”

      “Sunday the school is having its annual charity bazaar. For which particular worthy cause I can’t remember. Anyway Jeremy’s going to be in charge of the pies and cakes booth.”

      “I see. How often are these concerts?”

      “I told you—Saturdays.”

      “Every Saturday?”

      “Yes.”

      “And how long does the series last?”

      “Oh, I don’t know. Sometime in April I think. Now what’s the matter, Stan?”

      He looked at her and said, “I should think you could figure that out for yourself.”

      “Well, I can’t.” Betsy shrugged impatiently. “I suppose you’re annoyed about the concerts, is that it? It’s high time Jeremy started to learn something about musical appreciation. It’s just as important to his general education as arithmetic and grammar, and I should think——”

      “You don’t need to go on,” Stanton interrupted. “It isn’t the concerts themselves. I have no objection to your taking him to concerts—I suppose you will be taking him, won’t you?”

      “Of course. I can’t very well send him to Carnegie Hall with Supreme Love, can I?”

      “No, I suppose not.” Stanton stared at his coffee. As he often did when he was preoccupied, he tapped on the table top with the heavy gold seal ring which he wore on his left hand.

      “Please don’t do that, Stan. It’s nerve-wracking.”

      “What? Oh—sorry. I didn’t realize.” She often had chided him about his unconscious habit.

      “And I wish you wouldn’t look so moody,” Betsy said. “Why do we have to start the day this way?”

      “I don’t know,” Stanton replied. “I certainly don’t enjoy it.”

      “Well, then, let’s be cheerful.”

      “I was very cheerful when we started breakfast,” he said. “Don’t you see, Betsy? I’m worried about Jerry. I never have any time with him. When he was a little boy, I kept looking forward to when we could do things together—the three of us, or Jerry and I by ourselves. The things that families are supposed to like to do together, but never seem to get around to doing. Before the war he was too young for much of that. Then during the war I was away so much there was no opportunity. And since I came home—well, it’s the same. Either Jerry’s always busy, or you are. We never have a chance to do things together.”

      Betsy said nothing, and Stanton continued: “He’s enrolled in camp for the summer, and next fall he goes away to prep school. Between these concerts and his social engagements the week ends are knocked out all winter and spring. I . . . all I’m saying is that I’d like to be able to get to know my own son. And apparently that isn’t going to be possible. When he goes away to school it will be a break with home. I’ll see him an hour or so, now and then, between parties during his vacations. There’s nothing in that sort of relationship. No, it’s a strange situation for me, Betsy, and I don’t like it.”

      “Oh, СКАЧАТЬ