Ten North Frederick

by John O'Hara

  In the limousine on the way to Frederick Street he sat beside Mike Slattery. “They gave Joe a nice turnout,” said Paul Donaldson of Scranton.

  “Very,” said Mike Slattery. “He’d have appreciated your coming.”

  “Oh, balls,” said Donaldson. “Tell me about the son. I hear he’s no damn good.”

  “That’s about the size of it, I guess,” said Mike.

  “What about him, Whit? You know him, of course,” said Donaldson.

  “Oh, sure,” said Whit Hofman. “I haven’t seen him much since he was a kid, but we all get a lot of funny reports on him.”

  “What kind of reports?” said Donaldson. “Is he a Commie? One of those?”

  “No, at least I haven’t heard that. Have you, Mike?”

  “No, although he may well be,” said Mike.

  “What else then?” said Donaldson.

  “Well, I heard he was kicked out of your alma mater for being a fairy,” said Whit Hofman.

  “I can tell you that’s not true,” said Donaldson. “If we started kicking them out for being fairies . . . God, when I was there I don’t think there were a half a dozen known ones in the whole university, but now I understand the place is full of them. But it’s not only Yale. Every place. Harvard always had them. Princeton, full of them. Where did you go, Whit? You went to Williams.”

  “Right. Never any fairies at Williams. We used to send them all to the Big Three.”

  “You may think you’re kidding, but you’re not. My boy went to New Haven for two years and he was glad to get out and go in the Navy. He hated it, and I can’t say I blamed him. You go to Yale nowadays and if your father wasn’t a jailbird or an immigrant, you go around feeling you owe somebody an apology. I guess it isn’t quite as bad as that, but things are going in that direction. Mike, where did you go?”

  “Villanova to college and Penn to law school.”

  “Well, I guess Villanova’s all right, but Penn, I hear that stinks too. But getting back to young Joby Chapin. You think he’s a fairy, eh? I knew Joe was disappointed in him, but I didn’t know that was the reason.”

  “That was one of the stories when he left Yale,” said Hofman.

  “Well, wasn’t there somebody from Gibbsville there at the time? This was always a pretty good Yale town,” said Donaldson.

  “There must have been,” said Hofman. “Who? Can you remember, Mike?”

  “I was just trying to think,” said Mike. “Young Ogden. Wasn’t he at Yale about then?”

  “Oh, no. Later,” said Hofman.

  “How did young Chapin stay out of the Army? He looks healthy enough,” said Donaldson.

  “He was in the Army for a while, wasn’t he, Mike?”

  “I can tell you about that,” said Slattery. “He got a medical discharge for something to do with the inner ear, and then he got in that O.S.S. outfit. That was one of my contracts. They made him an instructor in code work at one of their secret camps.”

  “Overseas?” said Donaldson.

  “Virginia somewhere,” said Slattery. “I think that’s where he is now, or at least he’s still with the cloak-and-dagger boys to the best of my knowledge.”

  “What about Ann? Where was her husband? She’s married to some fellow named Mugridge,” said Donaldson.

  “Musgrove,” said Hofman. “Divorced. She’s been living at home—how long would you say, Mike?”

  “The best part of a year. Close to it,” said Slattery. “I understand she’s back and forth between here and Philly, but mostly at home.”

  “She have any children? No children, if I’m not mistaken, unless she had one lately,” said Donaldson.

  “No children,” said Hofman.

  “And she was married once before, wasn’t she?” said Donaldson.

  “To an Italian fellow that played in an orchestra. We had that annulled. Not many people know about that,” said Slattery.

  “Oh, the hell they don’t, Mike,” said Hofman.

  “They may know about it, but they’d have one hell of a time proving it on any record,” said Slattery.

  “You fixed that, did you, Mike?” said Donaldson.

  “I was instrumental, put it that way,” said Slattery.

  “Good old Mike. Instrumental,” said Donaldson.

  “We politicians have our uses,” said Slattery.

  “If they were all like you we wouldn’t have anything to worry about,” said Donaldson.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Slattery.

  “I mean it. I often wish to God Almighty that we had you in Washington.”

  “What could I do in Washington that I can’t do right here in Gibbsville? As long as I pay my phone bill.”

  “Well—yes. Whit, why don’t you run for office?”

  “Whit’s very active behind the scenes,” said Slattery.

  “I see. Beg your pardon,” said Donaldson. “Just so a good man like Whit isn’t going to waste.”

  “He’s not going to waste, you have my assurance,” said Slattery. “He does more for our crowd than a lot of fellows that get more credit.”

  “Glad to hear it,” said Donaldson. “Now, one more question. What about Edith? Is she going to be all right?”

  “Financially, you mean? Financially, in the neighborhood of a million and a quarter,” said Slattery.

  “Besides financially. Her disposition, temperament,” said Donaldson.

  “Sound as a dollar,” said Slattery.

  “Not this God damn Chinese dollar, I hope,” said Donaldson.

  “No, not the Chinese dollar,” said Slattery.

  “Is she going to take this hard, Joe’s death?” said Donaldson.

  “You never know what goes on in a woman’s mind, but Edith—well, you know her as well as I do,” said Slattery.

  “Yes, and I think she’ll be all right,” said Donaldson. “I was just wondering whether you had any particular information, any signs of anything.”

  “Edith wouldn’t let on to me,” said Slattery.

  “Possibly, but you’re one of the sharpest observers I ever knew,” said Donaldson.

  “Not sharp enough to penetrate that mask,” said Slattery, “when it’s the same face day in day out, year in year out. Ask Whit. He’s her cousin.”

  “I’m her cousin, but I was Joe’s cousin, too. Joe’s mother was my aunt, my father’s sister. I could never figure Joe out. I guess I’m not awfully good at that sort of thing. If I couldn’t figure Joe out, I’d have one hell of a time with Edith. They’re just my cousins, and I always more or less took them for granted.”

  “Now that’s interesting,” said Donaldson. “Your saying you couldn’t figure Joe out. Why not? What was difficult about that?”

  “One of the smartest things he ever said,” said Slattery. “Who did know Chapin? Arthur McHenry knew him better than anyone else. Then I think I did. But I’ll tell you this much, Paul. We knew exactly what Joe wanted us to know. And believe me, that wasn’t much. You were a friend of his, sure. But did you know him? Do you think you knew him well? You didn’t. I admit I didn’t. I don’t think Arthur did. And as to Edith—I wonder.”

  “Are you hinting that Joe had a secret life?” said Donaldson.

  “No, but I am hinting that he could have had a secret life without any of us knowing about it.”

  “Oh,” said Donaldson.

  “Joe was like a young fellow that never grew up. In many respects that was what he was. But if you let it end there, you wouldn’t have the full picture of the man. I can’t believe that what I was allowed to see of Joe was all there was. If that was all there was, he was a dull man, perhaps a stupid man. But then that would make me a stupid man for taking so much interest in him, and while I may be a lot of things, I’ll never admit that I’m stupid.”

  “Nobody could ever
call you stupid,” said Donaldson.

  “Correction, Paul. They have called me stupid, but they usually found out different. I’ve been wrong, but not stupid. So, now we have these two people, friends of ours. The one is a woman, painfully shy and retiring, and we all right away credit her with a lot more gray matter than she ever admitted. Then the other, the man, he isn’t shy or retiring. Enters politics. Gets around and meets people, so we never bother to wonder, maybe there’s more to this man than we see. I’ve always thought there was a great deal more. In fact, Joe was a much more interesting study than Edith. We think, we conceded that the woman had more because she showed practically nothing. We don’t bother to think the same thing about the man. Why? Because we think we’ve seen it all. I say we missed the boat on Joe Chapin, and I was one that missed it by a mile. Maybe I was stupid. Maybe I was.”

  “Mike, it sounds to me as though you were thinking a lot of these things for the first time,” said Donaldson.

  “Paul, you are absolutely right,” said Slattery.

  “Well, here we are,” said Whit Hofman.

  “I want to add one thing,” said Slattery.

  “What’s that?” said Donaldson.

  “I may have been stupid about Joe, and he’s dead. But I won’t be stupid about Edith.”

  Donaldson was using the hand loop to pull himself out of his seat. He paused. “You sound as though you might have plans for Edith?”

  “It’s too early to say,” said Slattery. “Or is it?”

  “Keep in touch with me, Mike. I’ll be interested to see what develops.” He patted Slattery’s knee. “You know, you’re the most stimulating Irishman I know.”

  “If I am, why limit it to Irishmen? We’re a very stimulating race of people. So much so that the rest of you can only take us in small doses. Or so it would appear.”

  “You’re an arrogant old son of a bitch, too,” said Donaldson.

  “Now that’s more like it. There we meet on equal terms.”

  “You see why I love this fellow?” said Donaldson to Hofman.

  “I sure do,” said Hofman.

  “Let’s save the rest of the compliments for the deceased,” said Slattery. “With my swelled head and your big bottom we’re having a hard time getting out of this chariot.”

  They descended from the limousine and the chauffeur addressed Mike Slattery. “About what time will I be back for you, sir?”

  “An hour and a half,” said Slattery. “No, I’ll tell you, Ed. Be back at four. That’ll be soon enough.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Ed.

  “I hope you notice I’m using my own car, Paul,” said Slattery. “The Commonwealth doesn’t pay for this ride.”

  “Senator, your concern for the economy touches me,” said Donaldson. “Whit, you know this house. If I don’t empty my bladder this minute I’m going to have a childish accident.”

  “Then let’s head for the garage. There’s a can back there,” said Hofman. “Mike?”

  “Everything under control. See you inside,” said Mike Slattery. One of Mike Slattery’s gifts was that he knew when to leave, and he knew that Paul Donaldson had had a pleasant time with him. The moment to separate had come and he was glad that Donaldson had supplied the excuse.

  • • •

  The Chapin house was the only one on Frederick Street that had a stoop of three chaste brownstone steps. The other houses of equal age and proportion had marble stoops, originally chaste but soiled by time and traffic. The front door was a massive fixture, four inches in thickness, with a brass plate the size of a playing card, in which had been cut the name Benjamin Chapin. The patina from years of polish and rubbing left the name barely distinguishable. The plate was screwed into the door at a point sixty-eight inches from the bottom, or eyes’ height as measured to the full height of Benjamin Chapin. Beneath the name plate, exactly halfway from top to bottom of the door, was a letter-slot of brass bearing the word Letters. (It had not been used in many years, a fact known to the regular letter carriers, but confusing to the occasional extra carrier, who did not know that the slot was permanently closed to keep out draught and dust.) Above the door was a fan light into which was etched the number 10. The outer side of the light had not been washed—“hopeless,” was Edith’s word for the task of keeping it clean—but the inside was comparatively free of dust. The doorknob and the bell-button assembly were of figured bronze, the latter a later copy of the design for the knob, made by hand at the time of the substitution of the electric bell for the bronze pull. The knob of the bronze pull still served as a paperweight in Joe Chapin’s study, mounted on mahogany in which had been picked out the date of the installation of electricity in the Chapin house.

  The entrance was in the center of the street floor. On each side of the entrance, on the western elevation, was a pair of windows, plate glass, separate but twins. The window sills were high enough above the street level to make it impossible for the nosy to peer in, and in any event there usually was nothing to see but furniture, since the rooms were seldom used in the daytime and the shades lowered, the curtains drawn, every night.

  It was now possible to see human beings moving about in those rooms; the shades were raised, the curtains tied up. The crape of mourning had been removed from the front door and a curious passerby might have imagined that he was having a glimpse of a reception—which, in a manner of speaking, was the case. The front door was slightly ajar, intentionally, so that the invited would enter without ringing the bell, and the vestibule door was fully open and held open by a carpet-covered brick. There was a quite level tone of conversational exchange, animated enough by the animation and relief of the living who have just been burying the dead, but still suitably subdued for the occasion and by the fact that the company did not include enough of the very young to make a substantial difference. This was an older crowd, recessing now from a duty that was more frequently repeated every year. Joe Chapin, not the oldest of this group, was gone and most of the men and women present had good reason to expect that he or she would be the next, and soon. A month? Too soon. Ten years? Too much to expect. Five years? Three years? It got closer when you thought about it, and the best thing now was not to think about it. One knew, or could guess, the principal complaint or weakness of one’s friends and contemporaries. This man, one knew, had a sixteen-inch-long scar on his belly. That woman was under the x-ray three times a week. That man would never smoke another cigar; that woman was never more than an hour away from her next whiskey. You bought a suit of clothes, knowing it would outlast you. You kept clean wherever soap and water could reach. You controlled the growth of hair on your face and head. You had the small grime removed from the settings of your diamonds and the lenses changed in your spectacles. You remembered everything you had ever known about your acquaintances, but sometimes you put a true sin or a true scandal in your record of the wrong person. Friends were beginning to bore you as much as enemies, and the one quickly became the other over nothing more important than a near-sighted revoke at bridge. But a gathering of this kind briefly took on a party atmosphere because there were so many like you present. No matter how truly you believed that you wanted to be alone, a gathering of this kind did stay off loneliness.

  The front room at the right as you entered the Chapin house was the dining room, connected through a swinging door with the butler’s pantry and the kitchen. Off the hall, on that side of the house, was also a lavatory, and in the hall was the front stairway. The front room at the left of the hall was the sitting room and beyond it a room that Edith Chapin called the library or den but that before her marriage had been called the back sitting room (and which was so indicated on the signal box in the pantry, with the letters BSR). As the invited entered the house they were greeted by Mary the maid. “Gentlemen will put their hat and coats upstairs and to the right. Ladies upstairs and to the left.” It was a chant. The invited did as instructed, delaying
upstairs for the bathrooms to be unoccupied and their turns to come. Otto, the steward, and two waiters from the Gibbsville Club took care of the drink needs expeditiously, asking the preferences of some, knowing from experience the tastes of others. For all to see, in the dining room on the large table—all extra leaves in place—was food, kept hot over alcohol burners, and on the sideboard a club coffee urn and china. The drink ingredients were not in evidence; they were in the kitchen. The largest call, as Otto had anticipated, was for bourbon-on-the-rocks, with the ladies who drank favoring slightly the dry martini. The admiral asked for, and got, brandy and ginger ale; Alec Weeks required Scotch and Saratoga vichy, without ice, and it was supplied. Otherwise the company taste was simple and predictable, as the excellent Otto was sure it would be.

  The early arrivals accepted their drinks and sat down to rest, staying out of the dining room to make polite, irrelevant conversation, and greeting each other (whom they had last seen less than thirty minutes ago at the graveside) with a reunion heartiness, nicely modulated. No one wanted to be the first to attack the food; consequently, when the greater number were arrived, there was a sudden crowding of the dining room and some well-behaved confusion. The gentlemen soon gave up their attempts to serve the ladies first, and the ladies then forthrightly helped themselves and were fed first anyway. Some few more than sixty persons had been invited back to the house, and provision had been made for eighty. At the high point of the luncheon seventy-one men and women were served, including those who asked only for a plate of saltines and a glass of milk. Twenty or more of the company took pills before eating; a smaller number took pills after eating. It was not a group (nor was it an occasion) for sitting on the floor, a condition that resulted in half the men remaining on their feet. Cigars were not passed, but they came out before most of the ladies and gentlemen had finished their food. The time elapsed between the serving of the very first morsel and the last was under an hour; dessert, apple pie or ice cream or both, was generally declined, and a remarkable number of persons went without coffee because it was not Sanka, a detail that had been overlooked by the embarrassed Otto and the unaware Edith.