New York_ The Novel - Edward Rutherfurd [91]
“Wasn’t my idea,” said Charlie. “It was his.”
“When he was drunk.”
“I’ve seen him drunk. He wasn’t drunk.”
“You think rich young Master’s going to show up?”
“I know he is. His father told me.”
“Well, maybe he will, and maybe he won’t,” said his wife. “But I’ll tell you one thing, Charlie. John Master wants something. I don’t know what he wants, but when he’s got it, he’ll forget about you again, just like he did before.”
“You don’t understand,” said Charlie. “He’s my friend.”
His children were all looking at him. His wife said nothing.
“You’ll see,” Charlie said.
So now Charlie and Sam waited. The street was busy. Once in a while, a respectable person came by, but no sign of young James Master. A quarter of an hour passed. Sam glanced at his father.
“He’ll come,” said Charlie.
Another quarter-hour passed.
At one o’clock, Charlie said to his son: “You can go in now, Sam.”
But he himself remained, for a long time, staring up the street.
At six o’clock that evening, James Master walked toward his home, and hoped his father was not there. He was still working out what he was going to say.
He’d meant to go to Charlie White’s house. In a way, when you came to think of it, he’d almost done so. At least he’d set out for the place in good time. But something had held him back. He hadn’t really wanted to meet Sam White. Not that he looked down on poor people. It wasn’t that. But if only his father wouldn’t make all these arrangements for him.
For he knew what this was, of course. It was another of his father’s plans for improving him. He thinks I need friends like Sam White, so I’ll understand the world and grow up like he did, he thought.
And then, if only his father hadn’t kept reminding him about it, and giving him directions. You couldn’t tell him, of course, but it seemed to James, right now, that it was really his father’s fault more than his own that he hadn’t turned up.
Perhaps it was just fate. He’d been on his way when he’d met a friend, which had caused a necessary delay. And after that, he’d still almost gone; but he realized that the delay with his friend had been so long, that it was too late to go now, anyway.
So maybe the best thing to do was say that he couldn’t find the place and that he’d go back the next day. And he’d pretty much decided that was what he’d do, when he met his father just a minute sooner than he expected, in front of the house.
“Well, James, did it go well?” His father was smiling expectantly. “Charlie’s quite a character, eh? And what’s Sam like? A chip off the old block?”
“Well …” James looked at his father’s eager countenance. “No. He’s pretty quiet, I guess.”
“But he was friendly, I hope. And you were too?”
“Yes … Yes, I was.” He was getting in so deep now, where he hadn’t meant to. Should he break down and confess? His father would probably take a strap to him, but he didn’t mind that. It was the sense of disappointment the whole thing would create. He just wished he could get his father off his back.
“So you’ll meet again?” his father said hopefully.
“I reckon so. Don’t worry, Father, we’ll see each other if we want to.”
“Oh.”
“You should just leave it between us, Father.”
“Yes. Yes, of course. Don’t worry, my boy. I won’t interfere.” And with that, his father let him escape into the house.
Had he got away with it? He wasn’t sure. He knew his father didn’t see Charlie White too often, but they were sure to see each other, all the same. The best thing, he reckoned, would be to go round to Charlie White’s house the very next day, say he got the date wrong, and spend time with Sam. That would cover his tracks, pretty much, and make everything all right. And he very nearly did. But he put it off until so far into the afternoon that unfortunately, he realized, it was too late again. Same thing the next day. The third day, he was starting to put the whole thing behind him, when in the middle of the street, a cart with a red number painted on it stopped and the driver, a thickset man with a few days’ stubble, and a heavy