"Told you what?"
"What we have in common," Jerome said.
"Which is?"
"That both our daddies own newspapers, and television stations, and are legends in their own times, et cetera et cetera," Jerome said. "My daddy, in case I didn't get to that, is Arthur J. Nelson, as in Daye hyphen Nelson."
She looked at him, but said nothing.
"The difference, of course, is that your daddy is very proud of you, and mine is just the opposite," Jerome said.
"Why do you say that?"
"Why do you think? My daddy knows the odds are rather long against his becoming a grandfather."
"Oh, Christ, Jerome," Louise said.
"I haven't, and won't, of course, say a word to anyone," Jerome said. "But I thought it might give us a basis to be friends. But I can tell by the look on your face that you are not pleased, and I have offended, so now I will take my tent and steal away, with appropriate apologies."
"I wish you wouldn't," Louise heard herself say.
"Pissed off I can take," Jerome said. "Pity is something else."
"I knew the cop who got shot," Louise blurted. "More than just knew him."
"You were very good friends, in other words?" Jerome said, sympathetically.
"Yes," she said, then immediately corrected herself. "No. But I went there, to meet him, thinking that something like that could happen."
"Oh, my," Jerome said. "Oh, my darling girl, how awful for you!"
"Please don't go," Louise said. "Right now, I need a friend."
FOUR
Brewster C. (for Cortland) Payne II, a senior partner in the Philadelphia law firm of Mawson, Payne, Stockton, McAdoo & Lester, had raised his family, now nearly all grown and gone, in a large house on four acres on Providence Road in Wallingford.
Wallingford is a small Philadelphia suburb, between Media (through which U.S. 1, known locally as the "Baltimore Pike," runs) and Chester, which is on the Delaware River. It is not large enough to be placed on most road maps, although it has its own post office and railroad station. It is a residential community, housing families whom sociologists would categorize as upper-middle income, upper-income, and wealthy, in separate dwellings, some very old and some designed to look that way.
What was now the kitchen and the sewing room had been the whole house, when it had been built of fieldstone before the Revolution. Additions and modifications over two centuries had turned it into a large rambling structure
which fit no specific architectural category, although a real estate saleswoman had once remarked in the hearing of Patricia (Mrs. Brewster C.) Payne that "the Payne place just looked like old, old money."
The house was comfortable, even luxurious, but not ostentatious. There was neither a swimming pool nor a tennis court, but there was, in what a century before had been a stable, a four-car garage. The Payne family swam, as well as rode, at the Rose Tree Hunt Club. They had a summer house in Cape May, New Jersey, which did have a tennis court, as well as a berth for their boat, a 38-foot Hatteras, called Final Tort IV.
When Mrs. Payne, at the wheel of a Mercury station wagon, came down Pennsylvania Route 252 and approached her driveway, she looked carefully in the rear-view mirror before applying the brake. Two-Fifty-Two was lined with large, old pine trees on that stretch, and the drives leading off it were not readily visible. She did not want to be rear-ended; there had been many close calls.
She made it safely into the drive, and saw, as she approached the house, that the yard men were there, early for once. The back of the station wagon was piled high with large plastic-wrapped packages of peat moss.
She smiled at the yard man and his two sons, pointed out the peatmoss to them, and said she would be with them in a minute.
Patricia Payne was older than she looked at first glance. She was trim, for one thing, despite four children (the youngest just turned eighteen and a senior at Dartmouth); and she had a luxuriant head of dark brown, almost reddish hair. There were chicken tracks on her face, and she thought her skin looked old; but she was aware that she looked much better, if younger meant better, than her peers the same age.
The housekeeper-the new one, a tall, dignified Jamaican-was on the telephone as Patricia Payne entered her kitchen and headed directly and quickly for the small toilet off the passageway to the dining room.
"There is no one at this number by that name, madam," the new housekeeper said. "I am sorry."
Ordinarily Pat Payne would have stopped and asked, but incredibly there had been no peat moss in Media, and she'd had to drive into Swarthmore to get some and her back teeth were floating.
But she asked when she came out.
"What was that call, Mrs. Newman?"
"It was the wrong number, madam. The party was looking for a Mrs. Moffitt."
"Oh, hell," Patricia Payne said. "Did she leave her name?''
"No, she did not," Mrs. Newman said.
"Mrs. Newman, I should have told you," Patricia Payne said, "before I married Mr. Payne, I was a widow. I was once Mrs. Moffitt-"
The phone rang again. Patricia Payne answered it.
"Hello?"
"Mrs. John Moffitt, please," a familiar voice asked.
"This is Patricia, Mother Moffitt," Pat Payne said. "How are you?"
"My son Richard was shot and killed an hour ago," the woman said.
"Oh, my God!'' Patricia said. "I'm so sorry. How did it happen?"
"In the line of duty," Gertrude Moffitt said. "Like his brother, God rest his soul, before him. He came up on a robbery in progress."
"I'm so terribly sorry," Pat Payne said. "Is there anything I can do?"
"I can't think of a thing, thank you," Gertrude Moffitt said. "I simply thought you should know, and that Matthew should hear it from you, rather than the newspapers or the TV."
"I'll tell him right away, of course," Patricia said. "Poor Jeannie. Oh, my God, that's just awful."
"He'll be given a departmental funeral, of course, and at Saint Dominic's. We hope the cardinal will be free to offer the mass. You would be welcome to come, of course."
"Come? Of course, I'll come."
"I thought I had the duty to tell you," Gertrude Moffitt said, and hung up.
Patricia Payne, her eyes full of tears, pushed the handset against her mouth.
"You old bitch!" she said bitterly, her voice on the edge of breaking.
Mrs. Newman's eyebrows rose, but she said nothing.
***
When Karl and Christina Mauhfehrt, of Kreis Braunfels, Hesse-Kassel, debarked from the North German Lloyd Steamer Hanover in New York in the spring of 1876, Christina was heavy with child. They were processed through Ellis Island, where Karl told the Immigration and Naturalization officer, one Sean O'Mallory, that his name was Mauhfehrt and that he was an uhrmacher by trade. Inspector O'Mallory had been on the job long enough to know that an uhrmacher was a watchmaker, and he wrote that in the appropriate blank on the form. He had considerably more trouble with Mauhfehrt, and after a moment's indecision entered "Moffitt" as the surname on the form, and "Charles" as the given name.
Charles and Christina Moffitt spent the next three days on the Lower East Side of New York, in a room in a dark, cold, and filthy "railroad" flat. On their fourth morning in the United States, they took the ferry across the Hudson River to Hoboken, New Jersey, where they boarded a train of the Pennsylvania Railroad. Three hours later they emerged from the Pennsylvania Station at Fifteenth and Market Streets in Philadelphia.
An enormous building was under construction before their eyes. Within a few days, Charles Moffitt was to learn that it would be the City Hall, and that it was intended to top it off with a statue of William Penn, an Englishman, for whom the state of Pennsylvania was named. Many years later, he was to learn that the design was patterned after a wing of the Louvre Palace in Paris, France.
He and Christina walked the cobblestone streets, and within a matter of hours found a room down by the river. He spent the next six
days walking the streets, finding clock- and watchmakers and offering his services and being rejected. Finally, hired because he was young and large and strong, he found work at the City Hall construction site, as a carpenter's helper, building and then tearing down and then building again the scaffolding up which the granite blocks for the City Hall were hauled.
Their first child, Anna, was born when they had been in Philadelphia two months. Their first son, Charles, Jr., was born almost to the day a year later. By then, he had enough English to converse in what probably should be called pidgin English with his Italian, Polish, and Irish co-workers, and had been promoted to a position which was de facto, but not de jure, foreman. He made, in other words, no more money than the men he supervised, and he was hired by the day, which meant that if he didn't work, he didn't get paid.
It was steady work, however, and it was enough for him to rent a flat in an old building on what was called Society Hill, not far from the run-down building in which the Constitution of the United States had been written.
And he picked up a little extra money fixing clocks for people he worked with, and in the neighborhood, but he came to understand that his dream of becoming a watchmaker with his own store in the United States just wasn't going to happen.
When Charles, Jr. turned sixteen, in 1893, he was able to find work with his father, who by then was officially a foreman in the employ of Jos. Sullivan & Sons, Building Contractors. But by then, the job was coming to an end. The City Hall building itself was up, needing only interior completion. Italian master masons and stonecutters had that trade pretty well sewn up, and the Charles Moffitts, pere et fils, were construction carpenters, not stonemasons.
When Charles, Jr. was twenty-two, in 1899, he went off to the Spanish-American War, arriving in Cuba just before hostilities were over, and returning to Philadelphia a corporal of cavalry, and just in time to take advantage of the politicians' fervor to do something for Philadelphia's Heroic Soldier Boys.
Specifically, he was appointed to the police department, and assigned to the ninety-three-horse-strong mounted patrol, which had been formed just ten years previously. Officer Moffitt was on crowd-control duty on his horse when the City Hall was officially opened in 1901.
He had been a policeman four years when his father fell to his death from a wharf under construction into the Delaware River in 1903. He was at that time still living at home, and with his father gone, he had little choice but to continue to do so; there was not enough money to maintain two houses.
Nor did he take a wife, so long as his mother was alive, partly because of economics and partly because no woman would take him with his mother part of the bargain. Consequently, Charles Moffitt, Jr. married late in life, eighteen months after his mother had gone to her final reward.
He married a German Catholic woman, Gertrude Haffner, who some people said, although she was nearly twenty years younger than her husband, bore a remarkable resemblance to his mother, and certainly manifested the same kind of devout, strong-willed character.
He and Gertrude had two sons, John Xavier, born in 1924, and, as something of a surprise to both of them, Richard Charles, who came along eight years later in 1932.
Charles Moffitt was a sergeant when he retired from the mounted patrol of the police department in 1937 at the age of sixty. He lived to be seventy-two, despite at least two packages of cigarettes and at least two quarts of beer a day, finally passing of a cerebral hemorrhage in 1949. By then his son John was on the police force, and his son Richard about to graduate from high school.
***
Patricia Payne leaned her head against the wall and put her hand on the hook of the wall-mounted telephone, without realizing what she was doing.
A moment later, the phone rang again. Pat Payne handed the handset to Mrs. Newman.
"The Payne residence," Mrs. Newman said, and then a moment later: "I'm not sure if Mrs. Payne is at home. I will inquire."
She covered the mouthpiece with her hand.
"A gentleman who says he is Chief Inspector Coughlin of the Philadelphia Police Department," Mrs. Newman said.
Patricia Payne finished blowing her nose, and then reached for the telephone.
"Hello, Denny," Patricia Payne said. "I think I know why you're calling."
"Who called?"
"Who else? Mother Moffitt. She called out here and asked for Mrs. Moffitt, and told me Dutch is dead, and then she said I would be welcome at the funeral."
"I'm sorry, Patty," Dennis V. Coughlin said. "I'm not surprised, but I'm sorry."
She was trying not to cry and didn't reply.
"Patty, people would understand if you didn't go to the funeral," he said.
"Of course, I'll go to the funeral," Patricia Payne said, furiously. "And the wake. Dutch didn't think I'm a godless whore, and I don't think Jeannie does either."
"Nobody thinks that of you," he said, comfortingly. "Come on, Patty!"
"That old bitch does, and she lets me know it whenever she has the chance," she said.
Now Dennis V. Coughlin couldn't think of anything to say.
"I'm sorry, Denny," Patricia Payne said, contritely. "I shouldn't have said that. The poor woman has just lost her second, her remaining son."
Dennis V. Coughlin and John X. Moffitt had gone through the police academy together. Patricia Payne still had the photograph somewhere, of all those bright young men in their brand-new uniforms, intending to give it to Matt someday.
There was another photograph of John X. Moffitt around. It and his badge hung on a wall in the Roundhouse lobby. Under the photograph there was a now somewhat faded typewritten line that said "Sergeant John X. Moffitt, Killed in the Line of Duty, November 10, 1952."
Staff Sergeant John Moffitt, USMCR, had survived Inchon and the Yalu and come home only to be shot down in a West Philadelphia gas station, answering a silent burglar alarm.
They'd buried him in Holy Sepulcher Cemetery, following a high mass of requiem celebrated by the cardinal archbishop of Philadelphia at Saint Dominic's. Sergeant Dennis V. Coughlin had been one of the pallbearers. Three months later, John Xavier Moffitt's first, and only, child had been born, a son, christened Matthew Mark after his father's wishes, in Saint Dominic's.
"Patty?" Chief Inspector Coughlin asked. "You all right, dear?"
"I was thinking," she said, "of Johnny."
"It'll be on the TV at six," Denny Coughlin said. "Worst luck, there was a Channel 9 woman in the Waikiki Diner.''
"Is that where it happened? A diner?"
"On Roosevelt Boulevard. He walked up on a stick-up. There was two of them. Dutch got one of them, the one that shot him, a woman. Patty, what I'm saying is that I wouldn't like Matt to hear it over the TV. You say the word, and I'll go up there and tell him for you."
"You're a good man, Denny," Patricia said. "But no, I'll tell him."
"Whatever you say, dear."
"But would you do something else for me? If you don't want to, just say so."
"You tell me," he said.
"Meet me at Matt's fraternity house-"
"And be with you, sure," he interrupted.
"And go with me when I, when Matt and I, go see Jeannie."
"Sure," he said.
"I'll leave right now," she said. "It'll take me twenty-five, thirty minutes."
"I'll be waiting for you," Chief Inspector Coughlin said.
Patricia hung up, and then dialed the number of Matt's fraternity house. She told the kid who answered, and who said Matt was in class, to tell him that something important had come up and he was to wait for her there, period, no excuses, until she got there.
Then she went upstairs and stripped out of her skirt and sweater and put on a black slip and a black dress, and a simple strand of pearls. She looked at the telephone and considered calling her husband, and decided against it, although he would be hurt. Brewster Payne was a good man, and she didn't want to run him up against Mother Moffitt if it could be avoided.
Aft
er ten months of widowhood, Patricia Stevens Moffitt had arranged with her sister Dorothy to care for the baby during the day and went to work as a typist, with the intention eventually of becoming a legal secretary, for the law firm of Lowerie, Tant, Foster, Pedigill and Payne, which occupied an entire floor in the Philadelphia Savings Fund Society Building on Market Street.
Two months after entering Lowerie, Tant, Foster, Pedigill and Payne's employ, while pushing Matthew Mark Moffitt near the Franklin Institute in a stroller, Patricia Moffitt ran into Brewster Payne II, grandson of one of the founding partners, and son of a senior partner, who was then in his seventh year with the firm and about to be named a partner himself.
W E B Griffin - Badge of Honor 01 - Men In Blue Page 7