Chapter Twelve #2
At the time, Fred had tried to downplay it, knowing as he did that he had chosen to move to the East Coast as a way to distance himself from his father, and here he was, praising him to the high heavens.
It wasn’t that he hadn’t loved his father—he had!
But he didn’t have his father’s boisterous personality and ability to talk to anyone from any walk of life.
Fred was more reserved, and though he tried at times to imitate his father, he could never quite pull it off without feeling like an embarrassed fool.
Therefore, when August finally rolled around, Fred was excited to board the train east, hoping to make his own way in life.
And he had been successful in his quest. Granted, he was not one of the popular men on campus, throwing wild parties or creating havoc after football games, but he had crafted his own small circle of friends, a quiet, studious bunch who enjoyed heated debates about the law, tracking baseball scores, and frequenting the local pubs.
It had cut him to the quick when his three best friends had traveled across country to attend his father’s funeral, but it had been worse to endure their reactions when he told them that he wouldn’t be returning with them, at least not right away.
They were stunned, of course, but didn’t wish to argue with him so soon after his father had been laid in the ground.
They encouraged him to take some time off to grieve and settle his father’s affairs, but they had not been so accepting when he had later written to say that he was giving up Harvard altogether to run his father’s business.
It was at that point that they had decided to speak and had all of them—Rufus, Alan, and James—written him separately, outlining the foolishness of such a decision and imploring him to return.
Couldn’t his sister continue on? they suggested. It made the most sense.
Fred, old boy, wrote his very best friend, James, I know you must be cut up completely and your brain addled by grief, but surely you must see this for what it is.
You are quite obviously suffering from some sort of neurosis brought on by masochistic feelings of guilt.
In short, you are suffering from what Freud calls a “guilt complex.”
Yes, Fred agreed, as he crumpled his friend’s letter, he was aware of that, but it couldn’t be helped.
He did feel immense guilt. Guilt that he had cost his father so much money to attend Harvard, for one thing.
Had he known the family was in such dire financial straits, he would never have even entertained attending an Ivy League school.
But more so, he felt guilt that he had not come home to visit as his father lay ill.
Guilt that he had wasted so much time. Guilt that he had even gone away in the first place.
He could have easily gone to law school in Madison or Milwaukee.
But no, he had insisted on getting as far away as possible.
If only he could have those years back, even just one day, with his father.
But how was he to know his father would die so young?
he always countered. It was his father’s fault that they hadn’t had more time together, not his!
Or maybe it was God’s fault. Round and round his anger flew, first at himself, then his father, then God, and then back to himself again. In short, he was miserable.
He slumped into the chair behind his father’s desk and stared at the picture on the opposite wall.
It was an old sepia photo of his grandfather and Pops in front of the Merc.
They both looked so proud, and he felt guilty (again) that he wasn’t proud, too.
He rubbed his brow. Not only could he not see himself being happy running a general store for the rest of his life, he mourned the fact that he was giving up a career in the law.
He was genuinely interested and thought he might even be relatively good at it.
He leaned back in the old swivel chair, still staring at the photo.
Was there a way to do both? Could he set up a law practice here in Merriweather?
The idea sparked his interest for a moment or two before it fizzled out.
His dream had been to go into corporate law, and stuck here, he’d be forced to do general law.
Property disputes, wills, the odd divorce.
And would he be able to run the Merc at the same time?
Maybe . . . if he could get someone to help manage it for him.
Not Harriet, of course. Perhaps Cal? Cal seemed a decent enough fellow, but he was bent on leaving.
Fred didn’t blame him. Mrs. Haufbrau? He thought about it for a few extra minutes before shaking his head.
Of course he couldn’t turn the Merc over to Mrs. H.
Granted, she was a dedicated, dutiful employee whom his father had greatly admired for some reason, but he didn’t think his father would approve of him abandoning ship to her.
She was good with the customers—or, he should say, a certain circle of customers who met her approval—but she was otherwise rather severe in her opinions and freely shared them.
In truth, she bullied customers some of the time, which was certainly not good for business. She was a mystery for sure.
There was a brief knock, then, and Cal’s head poked in. “Taking off now, Fred. Anything else needs doing?”
Fred glanced at the black clock on the wall. Was it already closing time? How long had he been sitting here? “No, I don’t think so. Thanks, Cal.”
Cal hesitated. “How’s . . . how’s Melody doing?”
“Melody? Oh, fine, I suppose. She barely writes.”
“She still with that Douglas guy?” Cal brushed his hair back.
“She says she’s not, but you know girls . . . wouldn’t surprise me if she’s back with him. He proposed, you know.”
Cal didn’t immediately respond and instead examined his thumb. “What did she say?”
“Turned him down, if you can believe it. Well, there’s no accounting for taste, as they say. She’ll come round, I imagine. She’s probably just playing hard to get.”
Cal looked as if he were about to say something else but instead just gave a curt nod and a little one-finger salute. “Yeah, probably. Goodnight, then,” he said and walked out.
Fred stood up wearily, knowing that Mrs. Haufbrau and Harriet were waiting up front.
He was loath to go home to the Willows, as it offered no comfort.
Mums hardly came down to dinner anymore, and Bunny was forever banging away at the piano.
It might not be so bad if she played something light and lively, like cheerful showtunes, but she was instead constantly playing horrible dirges.
It was enough to drive a man to drink had he not already arrived there anyway.
Pops had left a sizable wine cellar, which Fred was currently working his way through at a pretty steady pace.
He reached for his coat where he had tossed it on the burnished stand in the corner. Perhaps he had been too hasty in packing Melody off . . .
But, no, he thought, glancing at the sepia picture again as he shrugged into his coat. The Merc was his responsibility now. He owed this much to his father and grandfather. Somehow, he decided wearily, he’d have to find a way to make a go of it.