Ten North Frederick

by John O'Hara

  When Joby was called to the principal’s office for a lecture, Mr. Koenig would tell the boy about what a fine family the Chapin family were, what high hopes they had for him, what ability he had if it was only directed in the proper channels—and end up without meting out the punishment Joby had been expecting. For certain infractions of the rules a boy could expect to be kept in during recess or after school, but for the same infractions Joby would get a lecture. And Joby knew it, and so did his schoolmates.

  Then in 1927-28, the school year, when a more serious offense was committed, Joby was overpunished, for the word had reached Koenig that he was being overlenient with Joby.

  “Take your hands out of your pocket,” said Mr. Koenig. “What’s this I hear about you smoking a cigarette in the toilet?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “You don’t know? What kind of talk is that, you don’t know?”

  “I don’t know what you heard, sir,” said Joby.

  “Oh, you want to be fresh,” said Mr. Koenig. “You think because we’ve been lenient out of consideration for your parents, you think you’re lord and master around here. Well, you’re not, Chapin. You’re not. Where did you buy the cigarettes?”

  “I didn’t buy them, I took them from my father’s box.”

  “What would he say if he knew you were stealing cigarettes out of his private box?”

  “I don’t know,” said Joby.

  “Well, I think I do. He’d say you were a thief as well as a smoker.”

  “No he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t call me a thief.”

  “Isn’t that what you are?” said Mr. Koenig.

  “ . . . I don’t know.”

  “You stole them. Isn’t that what a thief does?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes sir. You’re not here to receive a medal. You’re here to be punished, and don’t forget that. When you speak to the masters and the principal you say sir, you’re no better than any other boy in this school and don’t think for one minute that your father wants you treated any differently, because he doesn’t. Your father is a fine man and one of the leading citizens of this town, and he doesn’t expect any privileges for you, young man. Well?”

  “Sir?”

  “Well, what have you got to say for yourself?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Are you guilty, or are you not guilty? You know that much, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, then, what are you? Guilty, or not guilty?”

  “I didn’t know that’s what you were asking me, sir.”

  “What do you think I’ve had you in my office for? To talk about baseball?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then answer my question.”

  “Which question, sir? Gosh, you ask me a thousand questions, and I don’t know which I’m supposed to answer.”

  “There’s only one question. Are you guilty of smoking cigarettes in the toilet and endangering the property, the lives and property of this school?”

  “I smoked. You know that, sir. I was caught.”

  “And I suppose if you hadn’t been caught, you’d go right on smoking every day, I don’t know how many times a day. Is that about the size of it?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “You don’t know. You—don’t—know.”

  “Go ahead and punish me!”

  “Just a minute, there. Just a minute. I’ll punish you, don’t worry about that. But don’t you start giving orders around here, young Mister Chapin. I’ll punish you, and you’re not going to wish you hurried me. Tried to hurry me. You might have received the ordinary punishment for smoking, but we can’t tolerate students giving orders and disrespect or we’d have a bedlam, not a school. Once we let the students give the orders around here we might as well close up shop. We won’t have a school, we’ll have a bedlam, that’s what we’ll have. All right, since you’re so anxious to be punished, you can start now, as of this minute. You are suspended for one week.”

  “Suspended?”

  “For one week. One week from tomorrow you may return to school and resume your classes.”

  “You mean I’m not to come to school at all?”

  “I mean exactly that. An enforced vacation. And when you return you may make up the lost work, if possible. Go put your things in your locker and then leave the school and go home. I will see to it that your parents know, in case you have the mistaken idea that you are going to spend the rest of the afternoon at the moving-picture show.”

  “I’ll flunk if I miss a week.”

  “You should have thought of that when you were endangering the lives and property of this school, and giving me disrespectful answers when I tried to question you. That’s all, you may go.”

  The severity of the punishment removed the active suspicion among the other boys that Joby was a suck, their word for a teacher’s pet who was liable to be an informer. But the disgrace did not have the compensating effect of making him a hero. There were too many boys in the school who did not like Joby anyway, who were glad to see Chapin get what was coming to him. No boy had ever been formally expelled from Gibbsville Country Day, although a few had abruptly transferred to boarding school. Joby’s suspension therefore ranked historically among the major punishments and had the effect of convincing parents as well as students that Frederick Miller Koenig was a man of character, who had the courage to stand up against the prestige of the Chapin-Stokes clan. The unfairness of the punishment also had a curious effect on Koenig himself. He knew, without going so far as admitting it, that the punishment had been disproportionately severe and that he had acted not so much on principle as on pique at the boy’s manner. It taught Koenig a lesson in self-control, but of course the person who paid for the lesson was a boy just entering his teens, and in the transcript of Joby’s school record there was no credit for instructing a headmaster. It was a situation calling for a variant of the medical joke that the operation was a success but the patient died.

  The episode of the suspension had the effect of opening an undeclared war between Joby and authority. It was not in Edith to question the established order and she accepted the Koenig verdict without inquiring into the justice of it. In the inevitable meeting between parents and son, behind the closed doors of Joe’s den, Joby told the truth, but his account of the interview with Koenig was not phonographic and only contributed confusion. He could not remember exactly what Mr. Koenig had said or what he had said in reply, and Edith lost patience when the boy said: “Mother, you’re just as bad as he is.”

  “How dare you!” said Edith.

  “Look here, don’t you speak that way to your mother,” said Joe.

  “I don’t care,” said the boy.

  “You’re going to have to be punished at home, too, I can see that,” said Edith.

  “I don’t care! Just leave me alone,” said the boy and ran out of the room.

  “Really!” said Edith. “Now don’t you go and be sympathetic with him. If you do, Joe, he’ll never learn to obey.”

  “Oh, I won’t,” said Joe. “After all, I was the one that picked Koenig.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of school, I was thinking of his rudeness to me. He should be getting a good spanking, he’s not too old for that.”

  “Well, don’t look at me. I’m not going to do it. If you want to, go ahead.”

  “You know perfectly well I won’t. He’s too strong. And you’re too weak. Too soft with them, both of them.”

  “Oh, cut it out, Edith.”

  “All right, I’ll cut it out, I won’t say a word, I’ll leave everything in your hands.”

  “You’ve said that before,” said Joe. “Always when we have some small crisis over something that happened at school. I’m the one who was too soft with them. When everything’s going well I don’t hea
r any of these renunciations of authority, but when something happens, it’s because I’ve been too soft with them. Maybe if I weren’t so soft with them we wouldn’t have these long periods where they seem to behave themselves.”

  “Seem to. You don’t know everything that happens.”

  “Well, why don’t you tell me?”

  “Because you’re at your office, or somewhere in the western part of the state, playing golf with your politicians.”

  “If I’m neglecting the children I’d like to know about it.”

  “Well, today’s an example,” said Edith. “It just happened that you were here and not in Pittsburgh when Joby was sent home from school.”

  “That’s never happened before,” said Joe.

  “Not suspension, no. But other things. It isn’t the first time he’s been punished, or Ann either, for that matter.”

  “Let’s confine this to Joby,” said Joe.

  “Suit yourself. Ann has been caught smoking too, but you weren’t here to hear about that.”

  “I was here when I got home, and you could have told me then,” said Joe.

  “When it’s something about Ann you don’t like to listen,” said Edith.

  “She’s sixteen,” said Joe. “If what I hear is true, we’re very fortunate that our daughter’s worst crime is smoking. I’d be more worried about her drinking this bootleg liquor.”

  “Would you?”

  “Yes. Are you implying that she does drink?”

  “I’m not implying anything.”

  “Then let’s get back to Joby. How do you propose to punish him? Cut off his allowance?”

  “Yes, or reduce it. Cut it in two. But something else, something to do with smoking.”

  “Make the punishment fit the crime, the punishment fit the crime.”

  “If we don’t, when he goes to boarding school they won’t just suspend him. They’ll send him home for good.”

  “I know,” said Joe.

  They agreed on cutting Joby’s allowance, but they never did find an appropriate punishment for smoking, and Joby was back in school in a week’s time.

  • • •

  While he did not return a school hero, he had become a school celebrity. “Hey, Joby, got a cigarette?” the boys would say. He had the ephemeral nickname Lucky, after the cigarette brand. He was invited to join other boys in a smoke and he accepted the invitation if it did not mean smoking on school property. By degrees he became identified with the rebellious element, who were also the physically unattractive: the pimply, the fat, the bespectacled. There was a boy who was a source of supply for obscene versions of comic-strip characters; another boy who often got into bed with a housemaid; another boy who prowled the woods looking for embracing lovers; another boy who frequently carried a loaded .25 automatic; another boy who always had money provided by a middle-aged gardener. The last-mentioned boy said that the other boys could make fifty cents any time they wanted to, and it would not hurt but kind of tickle. But a boy who had once taken up the offer said that that was not all the gardener wanted, and the offer was closed when the gardener was sent to prison, where he hanged himself, and the boy sent to a distant boarding school where there were other boys who had known generous gardeners. The departure of the gardener and the boy was a fortunate accident for Joby, whose allowance had been cut to half of the fifty cents he might have earned from the gardener. On a quarter a week he was even more in debt than usual to Ann, Marian, his Uncle Cartie, and his cronies. For the remainder of his stay at Gibbsville Country Day, Joby was in debt, he was a member of a “crowd,” he stayed out of discovered trouble, and he made passing or better grades in all studies. He was coolly polite to Mr. Koenig (who, to be sure, was more than happy to be able to report a total regeneration to the boy’s parents), he forced himself to acquit himself adequately in the classroom, he did nothing that would jeopardize his chances of going to boarding school, where there would be a new life and new people, and where it would be fun. So far, in his thirteen years, he had not had much fun.

  • • •

  It was Joe Chapin’s custom to make all important announcements at the dinner table, provided they were not unpleasant announcements that might upset the digestion of the food. The custom made for interesting and amiable dinner conversation, as well as being the only time of day when the entire family were sure to be together.

  On an evening in the spring of 1928 he smoothed out his napkin on his lap and said: “This is Station JBC Senior about to broadcast.”

  They looked at him expectantly.

  “I wish to make an important announcement to my millions of listeners at this table.”

  Some laughter by Ann and Joby.

  “First, bad news,” said Joe.

  “Oh,” said Ann, with an exaggerated groan.

  “The bad news, however, will be quickly followed by the good, so if Miss Chapin, of Gibbsville, Pennsylvania, will please remove her chin from her soup, let us proceed with the announcement.”

  “Chin removed. Matter of fact, wasn’t in the soup,” said Ann.

  “Almost, though. It certainly dropped when I said I had bad news,” said Joe. “Well, the bad news, not really bad, is that Mother and I have talked to each other about the whole family going abroad this summer.”

  “Us too?” said Joby.

  “The whole family. Mr. and Mrs. Joseph B. Chapin, Miss Ann Chapin, and Mr. Joseph B. Chapin Junior. No dogs, cats or other livestock.”

  “But we’re not going. That’s the bad news,” said Ann.

  “You are correct, Miss Ann Chapin. You are interrupting, but you are correct. The reason we are not going this summer is that I am going to have to go to the Republican National Convention, which is always in the summer, and there would be no point in my going to Kansas City in the middle of our trip abroad. So, this is the good part of the announcement—we are going abroad next year.”

  “All of us?” said Joby.

  “The whole kit and kaboodle. Now the reason why I’m making the announcement a year ahead of time is because I would like this whole family, myself included, to brush up on our French. And secondly, I think it might be fun if we all studied up on England and France and Italy and learned something about the interesting places we’re going to visit. I’ve never been to Europe, Mother’s never been to Europe—”

  “Mother’s never been to Chicago, Illinois,” said Edith.

  “I’ve never been to Pittsburgh,” said Ann.

  “I’ve never been to Boston, and you have,” said Joby.

  “Only once when I was little,” said Ann.

  “Well, the Swiss Family Chapinson will start their traveling next year,” said Joe.

  “Burn my clothes! Wait till I tell the bunch,” said Ann.

  “What was that expression?” said Joe.

  “Oh, it’s just an expression,” said Ann.

  “It’s a very expressive expression,” said Joe. “Where did that come from?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing.”

  “But where did you get it?” Joe persisted.

  “It’s an expression they use in the South.”

  “When did you visit the South? I don’t seem to remember your taking any Southern trips lately,” said Joe.

  “There’s a new girl at school, they just moved to town. She doesn’t mean anything by it.”

  “No, and I’m sure you don’t, but it isn’t ladylike,” said Joe. “I don’t think the French would like to hear a young American girl say Fumez mes robes, or whatever the French is. In fact I’m sure the French have no such expression.”

  “Oh—from what I hear, the French have worse than that,” said Ann.

  “Je suis très désolé,” said Joe. “My daughter is too sophisticated. Elle est très blasée”

  “You better go back to Yale and take your French over again,�
�� said Ann.

  “Je suis très désolé, elle est très blasée. Woe is me,” said Joe.

  “I can understand the last part,” said Ann.

  “Yes, and I can understand ‘burn ma clothes,’ honey,” said Joe.

  “It’s just an expression, Father,” said Ann.

  They smiled.

  • • •

  There are the luxuries that the rich can afford, and there are the simplicities that the rich can afford if they are the kind of rich who are sure of themselves. The unsure rich buy the luxuries that the sure-of-themselves can do without. When Joe Chapin bought a Dodge for use on the farm he bought a sturdy, inexpensive, hard-riding, economical, clean-lined car. It was what he needed, and it was not a Marmon or a Mercer—or a Ford. It was a car with a tricky gear shift, different from the standard shift and the Buick shift. And because Joe Chapin had bought a Dodge, a lot of people bought Dodges who had the money to buy Lincolns. If it was good enough for Joe Chapin . . . He still had the Dodge in 1928, when he and Edith made a kind of “Dodge” decision.

  The decision concerned a school for Ann, who had been at Miss Holton’s for thirteen years and was eager to go to boarding school. There were the obvious schools—Foxcroft, St. Timothy’s, Farmington, Westover, Shipley, Madeira’s, Irwin’s. There was some discussion over sending her to live with the Alec Weekses while she attended Spence or Miss Chapin’s. Edith’s old school, Miss Hannah Payne’s, had ceased to exist, and if Miss Chapin’s or Spence meant Ann’s living with the Weekses, those schools were ruled out by Edith, and Ann promptly gave up the idea of a couple of winters in New York City. “We could talk for years and never get anywhere,” said Joe. “Ann, you say you don’t want to go to college. Well, your mother and I think you ought to, but we’re not going to insist on it, and if we don’t insist on it, you won’t go. So when we consider a school, we needn’t bother about its record as a college preparatory school. A finishing school is what we’re looking for. I think it ought to be in the country, but near one of the larger cities. But does it have to be one of the more fashionable schools, so called? There are some good schools that we haven’t got down on this list. Do you know a school I always liked? Oak Hill. I don’t know much about it, but on the other hand, I don’t know a single thing against it. It’s Episcopal, and about halfway between Philadelphia and New York. Near Princeton, as a matter of fact. It isn’t a Foxcroft or a Westover, but as long as I can remember, back when I was at New Haven, and even when I was at The Hill, I’ve known girls from the nicest families that went to Oak Hill. Shall we look into it, or is your heart set on one of the others?”