Chapter 11

Bud and Jeanne went steady as both juniors and seniors in high school. The class prophecy suggested Jeanne would have a dozen children by the class's tenth reunion. The truth was they had known each other since they were in elementary school and that their fathers had met through the Rotary Club before they were born.

Jeanne dated their love from a fraternity dance in Rock Creek Park at the end of their sophomore year. Bud just shook his head and looked puzzled by the question. He felt as if he had always loved her.

Both families had expressed some reservations about them getting married right out of high school, but since Bud seemed to have a steady job at the bodyshop, and Jeanne showed no interest in either a career or further education, they acquiesced and hoped for the best.

When Bud and his bride went to his folks' house for Sunday supper as they did about once a month, his mother Polly almost always enjoyed chatting with the young woman while Bud and his storekeeper father talked baseball, cars and trucks.

"I don't know," Polly admitted after one such visit that fall, "Jeanne seems dissatisfied, ill-at-ease about something but I can't get her to talk about it."

"Your imagination, old woman," Sammy said, "they look happy as can be, both of them."

"Now that the war's over, at least they don't have that worry," Polly said.

"And I sure am glad to see the end of rationing," said Sammy.

"How much is he making? Should we give them some help?"

"Not unless they ask. But I think her father gave them a bit of money for a wedding present."

"Lord, after that big reception. I didn't know dairy faming was so lucrative."

Sammy smiled. "Like you, my dear, he has been investing in land and has I-don't-know-how-many tenant farms. Mr. Weston is what is coming to be called a 'gentleman farmer."

"Like that Chevy Chase fellow, the one with the German name and the fancy cows, oh and the Wonder Bread man out on the Pike. I know what you mean."

And when Bud and his young wife had Sunday dinner at her family's home near Gaithersburg, which they did once or twice a month, a similar conversation often followed.

"That boy lacks ambition," said Mr. Weston as his daughter and son-in-law went down the long driveway in the bodyshop's pick-up truck. "He doesn't even own a car yet."

"What does he make?" asked Mrs. Weston. "She wouldn't tell me."

"Decent pay, ten dollars a day more or less."

"Is he learning a trade?"

"Oh I think so, but he's never talked about making a career out of pounding dents and painting cars."

Mrs. Weston shook her head. "They should have waited."

"I suppose we could help them buy a house. Is she pregnant yet?" Mr. Weston stoked his pipe.

"I think so. I'll find out for sure next week. I'm going down to take her to the doctor."

"McGillis? He doesn't come cheap."

"I already talked to him and he will bill us."

Mr. Weston nodded and picked up the Sunday paper he had never finished. "Good, good. He's a nice enough boy, just no ambition."