Chapter 7

After Sunday supper at the Weston home, Bud sat in the living room smoking Camels while his father-in-law went on about General Eisenhower. When the women came in from the kitchen, Jeanne said, "They think we ought to get a house."

"So do I," said Bud, "going to be a bit crowded over there with two kids in that little apartment."

"We've been looking, driving around," said Mr. Weston, "and there are two or three places we'd like you to visit, houses that are for sale, at least they were last week."

Bud nodded. "I, I mean we, we don't have enough saved for a down payment, not yet." The truth was they had not saved anything unless Jeanne had done it without Bud knowing. He knew she kept some money in a wedding-present cookie jar, but it was never more than a few dollars.

"What's your rent, forty a month?" Mr. Weston put his pipe aside, blew his nose and sat up straight.

"Yes sir," said Bud, "that's right."

"And you make what, two-fifty a month?" the man asked, writing on a pad of paper.

Bud nodded, guessing that was about right, as Mrs. Weston bounced the baby on her lap and listened to him coo.

"So," Mr. Weston sniffed, "you could pay a bit more, maybe fifty bucks, principle, interest, taxes and insurance; can't forget that insurance."

"I guess," Bud said. Things seemed to be moving pretty fast.

"Well, Maude and me, we're doing all right so we'll make a down payment big enough that you'll need pay about fifty. How's that?"

"Very generous, Mr. Weston, Mrs. Weston, but I don't know when I, I mean when we can pay you back." Bud looked from the man to his wife. She was smiling at his son. Jeanne watched him but did not say anything.

"No need," the man said. "Go on now and look. You can leave the baby with us. Ma knows about babies." He handed Bud a list of addresses and the car keys.

In Mrs. Weston's always-clean Chevrolet, the one they had used for their honeymoon trip, Bud and Jeanne, with few words between them, visited one of the new little houses on Veirs Mill Road that were selling for just under $8,000, a small bungalow in Woodside near the railroad tracks that was $7,500 and a Cape Cod in Battery Park that was listed at $8,250. Jeanne liked that one a lot, especially the big, shady back yard and the neat arrangement of the sunlit kitchen.

They drove back to Gaithersburg, retrieved their son and went home in the body shop's pick-up truck. Once the baby was tucked in for the night, they sat around the secondhand kitchen table and discussed the idea.

"I don't like it," Bud said, shaking his head and tilting back his Gunther to drain the last drop.

Jeanne nodded. "We maybe could rent a bigger apartment, but why waste the money?"

"What'd you mean, waste?" Bud said, angry and not sure why.

"You know, rent, that's a waste when we could be paying off a mortgage.

Bud nodded. "But it's like charity."

"Come on, Bud," Jeanne said, "another month and Jimmy will be walking. Besides, your folks have been helping since day one."

"I'll go talk to my folks, see what they think."

"Good idea," Jeanne said. "Your mom's got two or three mortgages I think."

"Yeah, she inherited some dough back in the Twenties. Dirt's all she believes in, like what's-her-name, Scarlet O'Hara."

Two months later, with the help of two men from the body shop, Bud and Jeanne moved their few belongings from the Takoma Park apartment into the small, white house in the Battery Park section of Bethesda. Bud built a fire in his fireplace and burned up the newspapers the dishes had been wrapped in while his mother-in-law heated up the casserole she had brought. After supper they watched their youngster totter around the back yard on his chubby legs trying to catch fireflies.

Late that night, with the baby asleep at last, Bud and Jeanne lay in each others arms, thoroughly sated, both of them, and Bud promised that everything was going to be better now. For Jeanne it was the first time in two years of married life that she had enjoyed conjugal love. It was also one of the last occasions for a long time.