There Comes a Time - - Redbook (1952-02)

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The father was a portly, big-shouldered man with a bluff, hearty manner, and yet with something indefinably uncertain about him. It was almost, the son thought, as though a small, frightened man sat back out of sight and guided the splendid exterior, marching it about and making it laugh on cue. The son was eighteen. The bones of cheek and jaw were heavy and good. He was quiet, polite, and with a look of awareness.

They had lived in Mexico for three years. Their name was Porter. The boy’s grandfather had made, and lost, a great deal of money. At the time he died, a small fortune was left. The father had tried to take over the management of the money and, in a frighteningly short time, had lost almost half of it. He placed the balance in the hands of a conservative investment house. The income, after taxes, was six thousand dollars a year. They lived very comfortably indeed in Mexico City. The apartment in Chapultepec was bright and airy and new. The son attended the English school. There was a small, sturdy sedan of French make. Rosita, the fat, elderly cook, kept the apartment spotless.

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