Second Generation Read Free Page B

himself, a small, dry man in his middle sixties with a small, pudgy wife, had long entertained his own fantasies about Jean Whittier; it was a totally frustrated, totally concealed love, lust, hate fixation, nourished on the one hand by her cold, distant beauty, and on the other by his resentment at the manner in which, after her father's death, she had taken over control of the bank. The fact that the bank had flourished during the first five bitter years of the Depression, when so many banks were in crisis or closing their doors, only increased his resentment. Now that time had come to an end, but he was still not certain that his own temporary ascendancy to the presidency would be made permanent, and he was thus more deferential than ever, more effusive in his greeting.
"My dear Jean," he said to her, "I've never seen you look so radiant. But what will we do now? We'll become a drab and colorless place."
"You will manage, Alvin. In fact, you will manage very well indeed. By the way, I told Martin"—Martin Clancy was the second vice president—"that I shall empty my office. You'll be moving in, I presume, and I hardly think you'll be comfortable with an Aubusson carpet of pale blue, or with the Picassos and Monet's Water Lilies, which you and Martin have always regarded as being a slur on the entire tradition of banking."
"No, indeed. You have a beautiful office."
He had to quicken his pace to keep up with her as she swept through the bank into the main lobby of the Seldon Building.
"Alvin, how old are you?"
"Sixty-five," he answered, thinking, What an outrageous question, and the way she asked it, like making a remark about the weather. But no comment followed it, and his inner debate on whether to follow her into the elevator like an obedient puppy dog was decided by her own motion. They were alone with the operator in the elevator reserved for the top three floors, where the bank's offices were.
"We set the board meeting for three o'clock," he told her. "Tentatively, that is. If you are free then?"
"No, I'm not. I'm meeting Barbara at the station, and that's at two-thirty, I think. But you don't need me, Alvin. I've drawn up the agenda. Martin will propose you and the board will vote it that way. You do know that, don't you?"
"I had hoped so. Thank you, Jean."
Since she didn't invite him out, he remained in the elevator. Jean admitted to herself that she couldn't tolerate him. That was a plus for her decision; she would not have to face Alvin Sommers every time she came to the bank. Yes, there was a whole list of positive things. Six years was enough. She had taken the step originally because it was a challenge. Or was it because her life was coming apart at the seams? Or was it because she loathed everything about the bank and everyone connected with it? That, indeed, was an odd thought, and a new one, and it might very well be so.
Miss Pritchard, her secretary, regarded her sadly. "I was not sure of your-time today—everything is so upset. Will you see anyone?"
"I don't think so. I have a luncheon engagement, and it's ten o'clock already. I won't be in at all this afternoon."
"And tomorrow?"
"No tomorrow, Lorna. You know that. Finis." She patted Miss Pritchard's thin shoulder. "It's all right, and you must not worry about your job. Just take your two weeks' vacation and enjoy yourself," she said, wondering just how skinny, spinsterish, fortyish Miss Pritchard would go about enjoying herself. "Did I have any appointments? I didn't think so."
"No. But Mr. Liu called again. The man from the Oriental Improvement Society. He said he would call back."
"Then you talk to him. What does he want, a contribution?"
"I don't imagine so. I think it's part of their campaign to place Chinese and Japanese in jobs in banks."
"We're not taking on anyone, you know that," Jean said with some irritation. "If he wants to see anyone, he can see Mr. Sommers next week."
Provoked, and annoyed with herself for allowing it to show, Jean went