Two days later, his father threw him out.
It was his fault.
After he had moved his things over to the country club, which was nearer the factory, anyway—after he had settled in a chintz-draped room that overlooked the golf course, he began to see that he had almost consciously precipitated the banishment, in the same righteous way in which he’d got himself into so many other fights….
A few days after his irritated criticism of Biff he had set up a slow distillation in his lab, left it in charge of one of the men, and gone home at four o’clock. Because he seldom reached home until seven—and because, in any case, his presence would have been egregious—nobody had told him about the meeting.
He saw a number of cars parked on the street and in the drive. He thought that his mother was having a female party. He planned to wave at her from the hall, go up to his room, and hide. In fact, he got up momentum to make the trip through the hall a fast one.
However, when he opened the door he smelled cigar smoke and he heard the mumble of men’s voices. That stopped him. Somebody in the living room caught sight of him and waved. Heads turned.
Someone else said, “There’s Jimmie!”
Several men laughed.
Still another man called, “Hello, Jimmie! Come on in and see how the last little band of Americans is clinging to the Faith!”
So Jimmie went in. He went, because he was interested. This was some subcommittee from the America Forever Committee. Jimmie looked at his father, who sat behind the big table, as chairman, evidently, and Jimmie’s eyes were bright with satire.