On our final night, after we’d managed to make it through Christmas Eve and Christmas Day without open conflict, through crowded visits with neighbors and old Battle Creek friends and even a church service of Christian Science, Papa planned a casual supper for the family at home, just the four of us. The family—hardly. But my focus was pulled from my irritation with Leila as I entered the dining room; I could see before he sat down at the table that Papa’s blue eyes were aflame. No doubt he had some new topic about which he was eager to speak with us. I didn’t expect what came next, however.
A servant brought out the roast with crispy potatoes and carrots. We bowed our heads as Papa blessed the food. After that, as he began to carve the meat, Papa looked down the table toward my husband and asked, “You all ready for your trip back east?”
Eddie accepted a serving of the meat as he nodded, all formal manners, even in this relaxed setting. “I believe we are, yes.”
“We sure will miss you,” Papa said, continuing to slice the roast before him.
“We’ll miss you, too, Papa.” I did not spare a glance in Leila’s direction. “We’ll see you soon though. When you come visit The Boulders this spring.”
“Maybe sooner,” Papa said, looking at me.
I arched an eyebrow, unsure of his meaning. Then he turned toward my husband and asked, “What do you know about Texas, son?”
“Texas?” Eddie held his fork and knife suspended over his plate, giving my father’s question just the right amount of polite consideration, even though I could tell he was baffled by it.
Papa was done serving the plates, and he sat in his chair, still eyeing my husband as he went on: “I’m looking to Texas, son, as the way of the future.”
“Why would you…？” Eddie’s veil of good manners slipped just momentarily, and Papa noticed.
Eddie cleared his throat, but before he could re-form his question, Papa interjected, “Come now, you don’t have anything against Texas, do you, son? Why, your wife spent her early childhood there. Isn’t that right, Budge?”
I shifted in my chair, nodding once. Papa propped his elbows on the dinner table. Eddie glanced to me, then back to Papa. “Of course…of course not. It’s only…I’ve never been.” Eddie chewed his food, saying nothing more.
Papa went on, a grand sweep of his hands as he spoke: “Then you don’t know what you’re missing out on.” Silence stretched across the table, and after a few moments, Papa continued. “I want to establish my own village there. Already got the perfect name for it. We could call it Post, Texas.”
I stopped chewing midway through a bite. “Papa…is that…done?” I asked, as surprised as my husband looked.
“Course it’s done. Why, the Rockefellers are doing it in upstate New York as we speak. If you buy enough land, you can do whatever you want on it. I’m thinking it would be nice to have a place where we can create and invent, free from the thumb of some mayor or town council.”
Eddie took a slow sip of his gin—how many had he had that day? I wondered—as he weighed some possible response. My husband’s manners were so deeply ingrained into his being that he could not have been rude to Papa even if he had wanted to be. Nevertheless, I could see how flummoxed he was by my father’s abrupt declaration. I was, as well. All Ed managed, eventually, in reply was a flimsy “Oh?”
Papa was undaunted. He hadn’t let my mother put him off of fiddling with a rusty old corn toaster from Osgood’s junk pile, and he wouldn’t let anyone put him off this idea, either. “I’m considering some land down there, in the Panhandle. I was wondering if you two lovebirds would come with me. You know, to look things over?”
Ed turned toward me, wordless and pale, and I knew he was seeking my help. The clock on the mantel chimed softly. I did not know what to say. This was nothing new; Papa was always coming up with these outlandish schemes—brilliant gambles, to hear his admirers tell it, fool’s errands if you asked his detractors—but Eddie clearly wanted no part in this one. My husband was a lawyer, Columbia trained, with a respectable practice in New York City and a predictable, comfortable life already plotted out in Greenwich.
And yet, Edward Close had married Marjorie Merriweather Post, and he’d married into the family of C. W. Post. Even as C. W. Post’s only child and heir, I could not, as a woman, assume responsibility of Papa’s ventures, and so the next best hope was that my husband might eventually wish to do so. Someday, if God blessed us with a boy, the entire Post empire could be my son’s, but that would only be guaranteed if Ed agreed to step up in the interim.