American Dreams by John Jakes Page A

swerved too close. In the east, clouds like gray granite slabs layered the sky. Sleet began to tick against the windshield. Fortunately, his velvet-collared motor coat had a warm leather lining. His mood matched the bleakness of the day.
    The sleet had turned to snow by the time he drove into the big four bay garage at the rear of his property. He parked the Cadillac next to his prize vehicle, the beautiful cream-colored seven-passenger Welch touring car. Its four cylinders developed 50 hp. Brilliant brass coachwork and leather upholstery, fire-engine red with a diamond pleat, dazzled the eye. Made in Pontiac, Michigan, the Welch was a top-of-the-market vehicle for rich men. Joe had long coveted a chain-driven Mercedes, but they cost more than twice as much. He thought $12,000 for a motor car excessive.
    In the house he handed his automobiling clothes to Leopold, the steward.
    Leopold was middle-aged, phlegmatic, less of a trial than his martinet predecessor, Manfred. Leopold hailed from Bavaria, but Joe saw none of the lazy traits he associated with Germans from that region.
    In the kitchen, lisa and the cook, Trudi, were mixing batter for stollen, the traditional raisin- and sugar-dusted cakes of the season. Joe kissed his The General and His Children
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    wife, who laughed when she saw she'd transferred flour to his chin. He said he'd be ready for Abendessen1 the evening meal, by eight o'clock.
    'I'll be in the office going over sales reports. Sound the buzzer.' Joe operated the house with an elaborate system of bells and buzzers that suited his orderly nature, while annoying others. lisa buzzed at five past eight, and Joe proceeded to the dining room.
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    The Crown mansion reflected the season. A nine-foot fir tree stood beneath the huge electric chandelier in the two-story foyer. A marvelously detailed wooden creche was arranged beneath. The tree wore a festive cloak of glass balls, enameled ornaments, gold chains, and silver tinfoil.
    Scores of white candles were clipped to the branches. They wouldn't be lighted until Christmas eve; that was the German way.
    In the dining room, two candles in the Advent wreath in the center of the long table were already lit. On the sideboard stood a carved St. Nicholas, two feet high with his long beard, miter, and bishop's crozier appropriately painted.
    Joe sat at the head of the table. He heard his older son coming, announced by the scrape of his artificial foot and a hacking, phlegmy cough. Joe Junior smoked too much; nothing his parents said would make him stop. The General bridled his annoyance and unconsciously brushed nonexistent specks from his immaculate vest.
    Joe Junior created fierce pity and anger in his father. The boy was a tragic misfit. Mired in socialist dogma -- he was friendly with the very red Gene Debs - he'd taken part in a strike at a shingle factory out in Everett, Washington, where he worked for a time. The strikers fought a bloody brawl with hired goons. Two of the goons threw Joe Junior onto one of the buzz saws that split cedar blocks into shingles; the saw tore off his right foot.
    , Only the quick action of a Norwegian woman, Anna Sieberson, kept him from bleeding to death. He later married Anna, and was planning to adopt her son when influenza carried her off suddenly. The boy went to live with relatives, and Joe Junior slunk home to Chicago, a bitter and defeated man.
    'Good evening, Joe,' the General said as his son limped in.
    'Hello, Pop.' Joe Junior sat - no, that wasn't quite right, he took his seat and slouched, his right shoe stuck out as if to remind everyone defiantly of the cork foot it covered. Look at him, Joe thought. Dirt under his nails.
    Sweat rings on his shirt. Joe Junior was always demonstrating that he was one of the 'common people,' although he lived under Joe Crown's roof at 36
    Dreamers
    no cost, and ate Dsa's food, and enjoyed a life monumentally better than any other man who did low work at the brewery. Joe Junior was