Ten North Frederick

by John O'Hara

  “I don’t know. Had you thought of anything?”

  “We don’t want people to think we’re two mothers resenting the shabby treatment of their children. Humiliating them before all their little friends, and making it impossible for them to stay another minute. Of course we can see to it that our children never set foot in that house again. That we can take for granted, naturally. But that isn’t enough. Blanche herself is responsible, and she’s the one that ought to be taught a lesson.”

  “She might be kept out of the Assembly.”

  “Something like that, but not that exactly. The Montgomerys have belonged to the Assembly since it started.”

  “Yes, they have, that’s true.”

  “She’s in your sewing club, isn’t she?”

  “Yes. Last year. Too bad it isn’t this year.”

  “And the Altar Guild.”

  “Oh, yes. Busy as a bee in that.”

  “I’m afraid it isn’t a question then of keeping her out of things she’d like to push her way into. It would be more of a reflection on the Montgomerys than on her. Except there is one thing.”

  “What’s that, Charlotte?”

  “Well, the organized things, like the sewing club and the Altar Guild, we can’t do anything about them. But there are other things that aren’t organizations. There’s that group you’re getting together for next year, the little dinner club.”

  “Arthur’s chairman.”

  “So Ben told me. Naturally in my condition we had to decline, but so far you haven’t even got a name for it, have you?”

  “No, we haven’t even got a name for it so far. It’s just an informal little dinner club. Once a month, November, December, January, February, and March.”

  “Just the kind of thing Blanche Montgomery’s dying to get in. An upstart from Reading, and some nice people that have lived here all their lives won’t even know about the club. After the way she treated our children I know I wouldn’t enjoy sitting down to dinner with her. Well, I think that would do for a start.”

  “Oh, I can see to it that they don’t get an invitation.”

  “You have so much influence, Bess. If she’s quietly left out, without making any fuss, and if people don’t accept her invitations, then she may come to realize that you simply can’t humiliate small children and get off scot-free. She sat in this very room and I’ve never seen a woman with such a guilty conscience. And when I saw my little boy, spattered with mud, and chilled by the cold—well, Arthur must have been the same, and you must have felt the same as I did.”

  “Yes,” said Bess.

  “I won’t say anything about the dinner club, not even to Ben. You take care of it in your own way, and perhaps Mistress Montgomery will learn that she can’t ride roughshod over the feelings of some mothers. And if you think of anything where I can be of help, you tell me, Bess. It was our boys that were treated so shabbily, and that makes you and I even closer than ever.”

  “I promise you that, Charlotte.”

  “Ah, dear Bess, old friends are the best, aren’t they?”

  “Yes. Yes they are.”

  The exclusion of the Montgomerys from the informal little dinner club was not noticed until the unannounced twenty-couple limit had been reached and nominations closed. It was an informal club in that there was no clubhouse, it had no rooms, no place for a bulletin board, no stationery. Its name was The Second Thursdays, without the word club. When it was seen that the Montgomerys were not included (and when it became known they had not been asked), their social indispensability was at an end. Charlotte’s strategy had included extra, direct snubs for Blanche Montgomery, but she need not have planned so carefully. The absence of the Montgomerys from The Second Thursdays lowered their standing in the eyes of nonmembers and members—and no one, or almost no one, ever knew what had happened. One day they were a First Family; then in a short while they were just another old family with money. And even Blanche Montgomery did not suspect Charlotte, who was not a member of The Second Thursdays; nor did she suspect Bess, a woman incapable of intrigue. In her tears and anger she blamed herself, but she never discovered the real reason for the snub. Perhaps she spent too much money on clothes? Perhaps she had flirted with someone’s husband? Possibly they did not like the color she had chosen for the repainting of the old Montgomery mansion? She was fully aware of the enormity of her failure: not even being married to a Montgomery was enough to carry her, but being married to her was enough to hurt a Montgomery. In 1930, when her son was a lawyer for the big bootleggers and organized prostitution, dressed like a bootlegger and one of the prostitutes’ best patrons—she still blamed herself, and wished that her boy could have turned out like Joe Chapin.

  Charlotte observed in passing that Bess McHenry had done her work well, but Charlotte was too industriously Joe’s mother to permit the Montgomery affair to become an obsession. There were other things to think about. Charlotte encountered no difficulty in persuading the McHenrys that their boy belonged in a boarding school. Arthur Davis McHenry had gone to Gibbsville High School in the Class of 1870 and to Dickinson College. A high school education was considered adequate; college, any college, was a luxury. Charlotte’s way was made easy by young Arthur’s wanting to do the things that Joe did, and Arthur D. and Bess McHenry were as enthusiastic as their son about boarding school. But the McHenrys were a Dickinson family, and to convince them that their boy should go to Yale was not so simple. It was not a question of money. The difference between having a boy at Yale and sending him to Dickinson, Lafayette or Muhlenberg was not important financially. But there existed a strong feeling in Pennsylvania in favor of the good nearby colleges, and a slight prejudice against Yale as a New England institution and Princeton as too strongly Southern. To Gibbsville the University meant the University of Pennsylvania, the traditional institution. But it was in Philadelphia, and many families preferred to have their sons in smaller towns—Easton, Allentown, Carlisle. Most of the boys who were sent to Yale had some pre-Pennsylvania New England background, as was the case with the Chapin family. It was always understood that Joe Chapin would go to Yale, but to win young Arthur McHenry’s family over from Dickinson was a task that took Charlotte and Ben five years. The winning argument was based not on Yale’s superiority as a college, but on the advantages of friendships that would help the boy if, as they predicted, he should become an outstanding lawyer. They had a point. The Coal & Iron Company was owned in Philadelphia and New York, where Yale men were more numerous than in Gibbsville.

  Charlotte’s concern for young Arthur’s future was real, but involved only his future as a roommate for Joe. Since it was impossible for her to accompany her son to Yale, she could do the next best thing: she could provide him with a trustworthy companion. It was fortunate for all parties that the boys were fond of each other. The senior McHenrys created no difficulty about law school. They sent their son to the University of Pennsylvania with Joe, ignoring the fact that Dickinson had a first-rate law school. But by that time Arthur and Bess “had a son at Yale” and they were committed to the Big Four.

  It never occurred to anyone to ask young Arthur his school and college preferences, possibly because it never occurred to him to wonder what they were. His companionship with Joe Chapin was so much a part of his life that in making the big decisions he was nearly always guided by Joe’s preferences. It would not have been an American way of thinking to say so, but the fact was that Joe occupied a position like that of royalty, with Arthur’s relationship that of noble companion. But never in his own mind did Arthur occupy a servile or humble position. He was often a convenience for Joe, but he never regarded himself as that. He possessed complete self-respect and was not plagued by jealousy when Joe enjoyed the company of Alec Weeks, Dave Harrison, or Paul Donaldson. On his looks, his manners, and the fact that he was financially stable, Joe was invited to parties and into the homes of Yale friends who did not fee
l compelled also to invite Arthur McHenry. Joe could easily have become a New Yorker and been lost in the large and increasing body of New York Yale men. Arthur, on the other hand, was truly a Pennsylvanian-at-Yale and never anything else; never sought jobs or the entree to jobs in New York. To Arthur during his four years at New Haven and later at Penn, the big social event of the year remained the Gibbsville Assembly; the New York and Philadelphia parties were events at which he always felt like a guest; in Gibbsville he was a member of the Assembly (or would be when he reached the age of twenty-five). In his own way Arthur McHenry came close to matching the Yale career of Ben Chapin, with the notable exception that he was considerably more of a social success in point of organizations joined and friendships made. But Ben Chapin and Arthur McHenry were New Haven–Yale men, not New York–Yale men. Dave Harrison and Alec Weeks, New Yorkers, would have welcomed Joe Chapin into their midst and he never had trouble picking up the relationship when he would reunite with them. Out of sincere politeness they would inquire for “McHenry” because he was known to them to be Joe’s best friend, while Joe was one of their crowd who happened to live in a place called Gibbsville.

  But Joe Chapin followed Arthur back to Gibbsville.

  They had one discussion on the subject. “I sometimes think I’d like to work in New York,” said Joe in their senior year.

  “You’d do well there,” said Arthur.

  “Do you think I would, honestly?”

  “I think so.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, you like New York. You have a good time there. You like the people.”

  “Yes, but I wouldn’t want to take a job there unless you did.”

  “Oh, I never would,” said Arthur. “I belong in Gibbsville. I don’t really like New York as much as you do.”

  “No, you never have, have you?”

  “Once or twice a year, that’ll be enough New York for me. But I’d never feel that I was a part of New York. Any more than Alec or Dave would ever feel he was a part of Gibbsville. But you could fit in in New York very easily.”

  “Maybe. But I guess I have the same feeling about Gibbsville that you have. It’s where I was born, et cetera.”

  “As I look at it, our families spent a lot of money to educate us, Yale, and The Hill. But they gave us something else besides.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, all those years before we went away to school, we were learning all about the people and the geography, the streets, the names of the towns and patches. You might say we took a course in Gibbsville. Why throw that out the window? No, I’d never work in New York, not permanently. I’ll go to work in Father’s firm, get married, maybe run for judge some day.”

  “What about our partnership?”

  “Can’t have a partnership if you’re going to be in New York.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t very serious about New York.”

  “Well, I don’t blame you for considering it.”

  “Dave and Alec have been broaching the subject, that’s the only reason I considered it.”

  “Well, don’t act hastily. We’re not even in law school yet.”

  “And I’m not so sure I’d like New York if I went to live there,” said Joe. “I don’t like the idea of having to explain who you are. I don’t know how many times this has happened to me, but I’ve met girls in New York and they say how strange it is they never met me before, and then when I tell them I’m from Pennsylvania they look at me. Pennsylvania? As though it were part of the Indian territory. Or else they take for granted I’m from New York and can’t understand—well, the same thing over again. Why are they just meeting me for the first time? New York’s supposed to be a big place, but among Dave’s and Alec’s friends it’s just a small town like Gibbsville. The only difference is, I’m not part of it in New York, and in Gibbsville I am.”

  “You could be part of it in New York in no time.”

  “I’m not sure I could. When they start talking about things they did when they were children, I have to keep quiet. They all knew each other. I think it would take years before I got to be part of New York. And I don’t think I want to marry a New York girl.”

  “Have you got over your case on Marie Harrison?”

  “It was never a real case. I kissed her, but I’m not the only one that kissed Marie. And she’d have let me do more than kiss her. You may think it’s a rotten way to talk about a friend’s sister, but I found out. I heard a Princeton fellow saying how Marie was looking for a husband and didn’t care who it was or how or what she had to do to get him. And when I stayed at the Harrisons’ in February . . .”

  “You don’t have to tell me anything.”

  “I’ve told you that much, I might as well tell you what happened. I was given the guest room, on the same floor as Dave’s mother and father. On the same floor, mind you. And I was asleep the second night I was there and I guess it must have been three o’clock in the morning. Sound asleep, and suddenly I woke up, or not suddenly. I woke up gradually. I thought I was dreaming this, but she was in bed with me. In her nightgown and in bed with me and rubbing her hand over my stomach and finally when I got altogether awake she put her hand over my mouth and whispered to me. ‘Sh-h-h, darling.’ I thought I was dreaming it, but I knew I couldn’t be.”

  “Then what?”

  “Frenched me.”

  “God! Really?”

  “You know I wouldn’t make this up.”

  “I know.”

  “The next day I could hardly face her, but it didn’t affect her. You would have thought nothing happened. That night we all went out together and I didn’t know what to say to her, and half the time I still couldn’t believe it was true, what’d happened the night before. But it was true, all right.”

  “Why? Did she say anything about it?”

  “Not only said. On the way home in the carriage she whispered to me, ‘Don’t go to sleep.’ I guess I couldn’t have anyway, because by that time I was hoping she’d come to my room again. And she did. That time she didn’t have to wake me up. I was waiting for her, over an hour. Closer to two hours. ‘Darling, are you asleep?’ she said. I said no, and she got into bed, but this time without her nightgown and I admit it, I didn’t have anything on either. She stayed till about five o’clock in the morning.”

  “Good Lord, that’s taking a chance.”

  “I know, and I wondered how I could face her mother and father, and Dave, one of my best friends. But it didn’t worry her. She’s like two people, two different people. You think of her as a pretty girl and good company, but like somebody’s sister. Well, she is somebody’s sister. Dave’s sister. I’ll bet if Dave knew anything about it he’d kill her, and me too. And in a way I wouldn’t blame him.”

  “But you didn’t make the advances. She did.”

  “But I should have had more sense.”

  “But what could you do?”

  “Well, whatever I could do, I didn’t do it. She’s like two completely different people. But she’s not two different people. I took for granted that she expected me to marry her and before I came back to New Haven I said to her, ‘Marie, I have to finish law school before I can get married,’ and do you know what she said?”

  “No.”

  “She said, ‘Well, don’t let that stop you from visiting us again.’ Never expected me to marry her. It meant no more to her than holding hands does to some girls. I was relieved, but then I changed. I fell in love with her.”

  “I thought you had.”

  “I wrote her letter after letter. I wrote her every day for a while, and got no answer. Then she wrote me. Oh, I might as well show it to you.” Joe went to his desk and unlocked a black metal strong box. “Here it is.”

  “‘Dear Joe,’ she says. ‘I am writing to you because if I am to believe your letters I have led you on. Such was not my intention,
much as I value you as a friend. Our pleasant moments together were not intended to convey that impression, therefore I can only say to you that I shall always think of you as a charming friend of Dave’s and I shall always be glad to see you as a welcome visitor to our house. Please forgive me if I have accidently’ (She spells it a, c, c, i, d, e, n, t, l, y.) ‘given you any other impression. I am very much in love with a certain gentleman who must be nameless for the time being, otherwise I would be glad to tell you his name. I wish you every good fortune and I remain, Your friend, Marie.’”

  “What do you know about that?” said Arthur.

  “Well, she must have been in love with the other fellow when she came to my room.”

  “And yet it’s hard to believe,” said Arthur.

  “The whole thing’s hard to believe,” said Joe. “I’m glad I don’t know who the other fellow is.”

  “Would you care to know what I suspect?”

  “What?”

  “I suspect she’s in love with a married man,” said Arthur.

  “You do? So did I. Why else be so secretive?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, that’s why I don’t think I want to marry a New York girl.”

  “Why?” said Arthur. “They’re not all like Marie.”

  “No, of course not, but she’s the only one I had any experience with, that kind of experience, and I wouldn’t want to be disillusioned again. Your father and mother, and my father and mother—that’s what I think marriage ought to be. Marie’s only twenty or twenty-one, and yet think of her.”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s old, Arthur. What’ll she be like when she’s thirty? Not in looks, but experience. I’m sure it’s a married man, and most likely there’ll be—she’ll be written up in the scandal sheets. And when that does happen I’ll be thankful I escaped when I did.”

  “Yes.”

  “The man that marries Marie—how would you like to be in his boots?”

  “Not me, thank you.”