The Rebellion of Yale Marratt Read online

  Under the influence of Clifford Odets, whose plays he greatly admired, Yale had started to write his own play. So far he had written one act which he had read to her. It was a symbolistic thing about labor leaders. Now that she had met him, Cynthia could recognize a characterization of Pat Marratt. "Does your father know about your play?" Cynthia asked.

  Yale wanted to know what his play had to do with anything at the moment; particularly the fact that he had just told her he loved her. "Oh, i don't know," Cynthia admitted, "it just seems to me, Yale, that you are playing with fire. You say you never realized how your parents felt about Jews, but I have a feeling you did know, and maybe you were just using me as a test or experiment. The play you are writing, maybe you are doing it just to aggravate your father. If he ever read it, he would have a fit. Why do you do it, Yale?" she asked, looking at him with tears in her eyes. "You seem to be always sailing against the tide. I heard what you said in the psych class the other day. it's all over the College. If it ever gets back to Doctor Tangle and your father and mother . . ." She looked at him in wonder.

  Yale laughed, "What did I say that was so terrible?"He knew what it was. Professor Ratnor who taught the introductory Psychology course used a portion of the course to introduce his classes to Freud. Using a tiptoe approach, the happy sexual adjustments of the students at Midhaven were explained. By happy sexual adjustment, of course, was meant as complete a sublimation of sex as possible for girls and boys in their late teens. After listening to Ratnor discuss Freud and the Id and Libido for several class hours, Yale was quite thoroughly disgusted. When Ratnor called on him to answer some question, Yale managed to use the opportunity to voice his own opinion. The trouble with Freud, Yale had said, and most of the psychologists following him, as well as most writers, and so far as Yale could see, religious leaders to boot, was that they failed completely to understand the love relationship between a man and woman. Instead of seeing it in its cosmic beauty they tended to reduce it to a machine-like rutting: a union of two sewerage systems.

  After Yale's speech, Professor Ratnor was scarcely able to continue the class for the balance of the hour. There was a hail of laughter from the men and embarrassed titters from the girls, followed by an instant buzz of conversation around the room.

  "You know, Yale," Cynthia said, "you just don't say things like that at Midhaven College. What's more, I don't know whether you know it or not, but because we have been going around together so steadily after the way you talked, my roommate and most of the girls in the freshman class are pretty convinced that we have been sleeping together." Yale knew that that was true. Sonny Thompson, his roommate, had intimated as much and tried more than once to draw Yale into a long, trying conversation about Cynthia's sexual ability.

  "Listen, Cindar," Yale said, "I don't care who knows I love you. You can be sure of one thing, that I'll never discuss our love with anyone. I don't care what anyone thinks. The students at Midhaven . . . Pat, Liz, Doctor Tangle, anyone . . . they all can jump in a lake." Yale looked at her, tears in his eyes. "I love you, that's all."

  "Oh, Yale, I guess I love you too," Cynthia said. She put her arms around him and kissed him fervently on the lips and eyes and nose. What does it matter, she thought. Maybe, somehow, by some miracle it could work out. But she was unable to picture herself on friendly terms with Pat and Liz Marratt. Was it wrong to be in love, she wondered? She had thought about it often. She guessed that most girls when they went out with a boy thought of what it would be like to be married. Several times she had written "Mrs. Yale Marratt" on the pages of a notebook and looked at her writing, trying to imagine herself with that name; then, blushing, scribbled it out. It was silly. She was only eighteen. She had to finish college. Daddy expected that. He was so proud of her. Three years and she would graduate and be twenty-one. There were girls at home that had graduated with her and were going to have babies. Three years. How many things could happen? She turned to Yale, shivering. "Oh, it's silly, Yale. We're only kids. We've got to finish college. Your parents hate me. My father would be horrified. But I do love you!" She buried her face in his coat and sobbed at the wonder and fear of being in love with a boy. A good-looking, wonderful, frightening, unpredictable boy who wasn't childish or smooth or a wolf like many of the boys at Midhaven, but in some strange way wilder and more dangerous than any boy or man she had ever known.

  "Cindar," Yale whispered, "do you remember the Kramer picnic? I thought your breasts were beautiful." He touched her breasts through her dress. "That day I wanted so much to kiss your breasts. Could I now?" He pushed up her sweater. Unhooking her brassiere, he smelled the warm fragrance of her skin. He kissed her nipples. She held his face close to her, caressing his cheek as if she were holding a child. She marvelled at the warm, good feeling of happiness that flowed through her. It was nice to have this boy, with his curly hair and warm face cuddled against her breasts. I do love you, Yale, she thought.

  4

  Small co-ed colleges like Midhaven College have certain well-established traditions regarding dating, and boy and girl relationships. You won't find them described in the college catalogue, nor is there any written protocol that says you must pick out a member of the opposite sex, and pretty much "go steady" for a college year. It just happens that if you are a boy, by the time you have become a sophomore you have either picked a girl whom you can count on for college dances or Saturday night dating, or you find that the "preferred" girls are already committed. A girl who goes steady for any length of time in the cloistered college environment soon learns that no other boy will try to break in. Then, too, if a girl shifts dates too often, she becomes the intriguing subject of male "bull-sessions." For the sophomore males as with the juniors and seniors, it becomes pretty much common knowledge what girls "have done it," what girls "might come across," and those who you "wouldn't be caught dead with, or take to a dog show." The only imponderable in the situation is the incoming freshman class. By midyears, the freshman girls have been classified and committed, usually by upper classmen who have avoided earlier entanglements.

  Meeting Cynthia so early in his freshman year, being constantly seen with her between classes, Yale established his priority. Refusing to discuss her in "bull-sessions" alienated Yale from male companionship; being with Cynthia so often identified him in male eyes as a bit of a "twerp," a current expression to indicate anyone who lacked group approval. By the end of their sophomore year, it was generally accepted on the campus that almost any time of the day in their free time, look for Yale and you would find Cynthia, look for Cynthia and you would find Yale.

  This state of affairs went just far enough beyond unwritten traditions as to represent a defiance of them. It was all right to have Saturday night dates with the same girl, or walk between classes with the same girl, but to give up all other college activities for the exclusive enjoyment of each other's company was a Daphnis and Chloe, Romeo and Juliet state of affairs that was generally frowned upon. From the faculty standpoint it could only result in an unforeseen marriage, or worse, an unwanted pregnancy. It was difficult to cope with.

  While word of these "going-ons" had reached Doctor Tangle, and he had considered having Dean Shaw discuss it with Yale, by the middle of Yale's junior year Doctor Tangle had taken no action. Looking over the scholastic records of Yale and Cynthia, trying to decide what to do, Doctor Tangle was puzzled. Both Yale and Cynthia were on the Dean's list. It was quite possible that they would both graduate Phi Beta Kappa. From Yale's standpoint, considering that he had been accepted on a trial basis, this was surprising enough; but worse was the knowledge that despite Yale's wide interests in learning he refused to listen when his faculty advisor suggested that he take a few courses in such subjects as Accounting, Advertising or Business Management.

  It wasn't that Doctor Tangle thought much of these courses. They had been made available at Midhaven College in keeping with demand; but it would have been simpler if he could have told Pat that Yale was taking a few business
courses. Certainly, he couldn't tell Pat that Yale had written a brilliant study of Judaistic influences on Christianity. There were certain times when it was the better part of valor to watch and wait. Doctor Tangle sighed, wondering how Cynthia and Yale could study so successfully in the confusion of the college hangout, "Mama Pepperelli's," a combination soda fountain and delicatessen, or in the reception room of Cynthia's dormitory. It defied all common sense, yet, he reflected, they probably had no other place they could be together. Doctor Tangle rubbed his bald head. He tossed Yale and Cynthia's records into his file basket. Running a college entailed a great many more problems than Patrick Marratt realized. Times had changed. Now, the girl-boy problem on campus had become a problem for the college president. Yet, in this case, it wasn't a problem, really. He rather admired Yale's consistent rejection of Pat's way of life. While he carried no banner for Jews, Doctor Tangle thought it might be interesting if Pat's Irish blood were tempered with a mixture of Jewish corpuscles. Pat's consternation would be worth watching.

  Pat's own problems with the Marratt Corporation during Yale's sophomore and junior years, precluded any great interest in Yale's activities. Liz assured him that the affair with Cynthia was "first love." If Pat would keep hands off, it would fade into a normal perspective. Pat, who never had a date with a girl until he was twenty-six, and married Liz when he was twenty-seven, couldn't withhold a certain disdain toward any boy who could devote so many hours to a girl.

  While the Marratt employees had unanimously joined the union, and the years since had been punctuated with endless bargaining conferences, there had been no strike. The threat of a "sit-down" strike persisted, however, and a feeling of tension continually existed in the plant. Pat knew he no longer held the parental control that he exercised for so many years over his employees. It was as if, unasked, a new management had moved in and taken charge; undermining and countermanding his authority. Some days it gave him the feeling that he was sitting on a time bomb waiting for the fuse to go off. The only thing that seemed to prevent a strike was the uncertainty on the part of the union as to the future of the Marratt Corporation. While general business conditions had improved, it was common knowledge that the company was facing fierce competition from private brand products. Pat had reluctantly taken several huge contracts from one of the country's largest grocery chains and the company was packing jams, soup, piccalillis and ketchup under the chain's own label. It wasn't only that he had taken the contract through necessity at prices he considered impossible, but these chain brands that sold well below the level of the Marratt line were hurting the sale of his own brands. If the union called a strike, Pat was prepared to dump the chain contract, and automatically lay off half the employees. Among the remaining employees, he was certain there were sufficient who would cross the picket line. Harry Cohen was well aware of the situation; so it had become a cat and mouse game that kept Pat constantly studying his operating costs.

  Yale, living in his own world, trying to find a way of reconciling his family with his love for Cynthia, and caught up with the wonder of learning and knowledge, paid little attention to the mundane problems of running a business. During his sophomore and junior years, he saw Pat and Liz only occasionally. During school holidays he came home and lived as a shadowy part of the family. His awkward attempts to discuss Cynthia usually ended in an angry discussion of Jews. Had either Pat or Liz listened to him silently and sympathetically, they would have found that Yale had changed considerably from his Buxton Academy days. Then, he studied what interested him and simply ignored everything that didn't. Now, almost every area of knowledge entranced him. He found that Cynthia had a penetrating mind, and to his delight challenged his ideas. He was charmed with her female outlook on life. Not that he became feminine in his concepts, but he appreciated Cynthia's warm practicality. He told her that she was the balance wheel for him. One day he stumbled on a book of Chinese philosophy; the idea of the Yang and the Yin. This male and female principle permeating all living became a wonderful substantiation of his own feeling.

  He found a symbol that expressed it, and went to a jeweler in Midhaven. The design was a divided circle. "That's the trademark of the Northern Pacific Railroad," the jeweler laughed. Yale found out later that the jeweler was correct. Some former president of the railroad had seen the symbol in his oriental travels and adopted it.

  Yale told Cynthia the story the night he gave her the ring. It was an expert job. The jeweler had made it using ivory and jade mounted in a platinum setting.

  "With this ring I thee wed," Yale said. "It is a symbol of us -- always."

  Cynthia smiled through her tears. "Yale, I love you so very much. I'll wear it always." She thought, now, I'll have to tell Daddy and Aunt Adar. Would Yale tell his family? Why did their love have to be sordid, and depend so much on the approval of others? How could either Yale's family or her father know the deep abiding love that she and Yale experienced? She knew without asking that she was not accepted by Pat or Liz . . . never would be probably. She knew that her father would accept Yale, reluctantly at first, but eventually in his own way. But he would never be happy if he knew that Yale's father and mother hated Jews. That kind of marriage would never work.

  Yale kissed the tears on her cheeks. "Don't be sad, Cindar. No one will come between us -- ever." They were parked on Strawberry Hill a few miles from the college. Across Midhaven Bay the lights of an amusement park and roller-coaster seemed like stationary ships far at sea. Cynthia, stretched on the seat, lay in Yale's arms.

  "We have never really made love, have we, Yale?" she asked, whispering in his ear. "Do you ever think about it?"

  "Yes, I think about it, and when it happens it will be good and the nicest thing that ever happened to either of us."

  Cynthia was silent for a moment. "I wonder . . ." she said. She didn't finish the thought.

  "Wonder what, honey?"

  "No, it's not a nice thing to ask."

  Yale held her away from him. He looked into her shadowed eyes. "Come on, what's troubling you?"

  "Have you ever loved another girl?"

  Yale laughed, delighted at the frightened way she said it. "No, I haven't, Cindar. I'm not sure I even know how to go about it."

  "Me either, but I won't be afraid with you.

  They were engaged, but they told no one. They had long wonderful talks about marriage and timidly discussed intercourse. Yale knew when she had her monthly periods. They bought and read together books about reproduction and marital relations. And, in their love, they held secure the knowledge that soon, somehow, they would really "make love" . . . not in an automobile, not on a blanket in the woods, but on a bed, tenderly embraced through a long wonderful night.

  Because of his love for Cynthia, Yale studied his courses with more energy than he had ever thought possible. A book was always under his arm. Now as he read he was able to integrate his reading into mature thinking. Driving himself, night after night, long after Sonny Thompson had gone to bed, Yale covered the contents of most of the English courses offered at Midhaven College before the end of his sophomore year.

  He read Philosophy on a historical basis from the early Greeks through the latest thinkers like Josiah Royce. His continuing search for the ultimate meanings in life seemed to grow out of his love for Cynthia. Somehow, someway, he would find answers to all the mystery of life, and he would share his discovery with her.

  Having Yale in a class was a challenge the Midhaven College professors did not appreciate. By the end of his junior year he had changed direction so rapidly that Professor Heatherly, his English professor, told him he was bewildered as to what might come out of him next. Yale had renounced as a waste of time the essay he had written previously on sociological conditions in Shakespeare's time. He had come to the conclusion that digging into literature and analyzing all the nuances of meaning that long dead authors probably didn't intend anyway was a waste of time.

  To the amusement of the class he started a long argume
nt with Heatherly, whose book A Study of Pre-Elizabethan Drama had been just published by one of the University presses. To Yale the book represented a colossal waste of time. A few days before the end of the year, in answer to a question that Heatherly had asked him, he managed to say so.

  Yale enjoyed the sensation his remark had produced. He was sorry that Cynthia wasn't taking this course so that she could hear him. Most of the students in the class were largely sponges absorbing, or letting pass through their minds onto notebook paper, the rehashed wisdom of their instructors. Seldom did the sponges repel the knowledge. Seldom did they react to it. The stuff that oozed into their minds never became a part of their life. It was there as dead weight only. They could squeeze it out if necessary in about the same form in which it had been originally assimilated.

  When Yale stated, so bluntly, his criticism of Heatherly's book, a nervous giggle ran through the classroom. Heatherly, a slight man with thin black hair brushed across his bald head, did not cringe.

  "Just what do you think is a better use of time, Marratt?"

  Yale, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair, answered. He was the inquisitor. He let himself go. "It's like digging in cemeteries. That's what I think. What use is it to know where Christopher Marlowe bought his cigars, or what he did on the night of August sixteenth, fifteen hundred eighty-five? It's infinitely more use for me to know what manner of environment produced a man who could think writing such stuff was important."

  Yale liked the sound of his voice. The class which had been dozing was now at rapt attention. Yale went on. Picking up Heatherly's book from his chair, he murmured sarcastically, "The ecclesiastical beginning of drama." He dropped the book disdainfully. "What good is it going to do me to go into all the ramifications of early Christian drama which, no matter how you slice it, and how you try to convince yourself, is completely boring and has nothing to say for present-day problems."