by John O'Hara
The widow’s representatives among the invited callers were her son Joby and her brother, Carter Stokes Junior, who was four years younger than she and therefore closer in age to most of the company. Carter Stokes was a not unpleasant little man, a bachelor who lived at the Y.M.C.A. because it was cheap and respectable and offered the facilities of the swimming pool, the cafeteria, the barber shop, the New York and Philadelphia newspapers, and all of the standard American and English magazines. He was a member of the Gibbsville Club (an annual Christmas present from Edith) but he seldom went near it for club life. The drinking and gambling at the Gibbsville Club were, he declared, too rich for his blood. At the “Y” he enjoyed the status of a full-fledged but democratic member of Gibbsville society, who preferred the company of a good bunch of fellows like the ones that lived at the “Y.” He made $7,500 a year as assistant cashier at the bank, which enabled him to buy his clothes at Jacob Reed’s in Philadelphia and maintain a Plymouth automobile and give one small party a year at the Gibbsville Club to repay hostesses for the free dinners he earned as extra man. It was generally agreed among his friends of both strata that he was not a homosexual, although no proof could be offered by those who brought up the question or those who defended against the suspicion. Men liked old Carter, who was called old before he was out of his forties, and hostesses found him useful at quarter-a-corner and twentieth-of-a-cent bridge parties, on which a large part of Gibbsville social life was based. As an alumnus of Haverford College he qualified as an educated man; in his case the college education figured in his past and his present in much the same way as the straightening of his teeth; in youth the teeth had been straightened, the education provided, and for the rest of his life he was a college man and straight-toothed.
Carter was not exactly a snob. He really had more fun with the fellows at the “Y” and his associates at the bank, and it was not because they were so different that he enjoyed their company. They put no great demands on his intellect and they even gave him a snobbish respect for his social standing. But he was not by any means ill at ease among the callers at his sister’s house. He was impressed by the Governor’s governorship and the admiral’s admiralcy (Carter had been an ensign in World War I), and as a man in banking he was conscious of the Morgan partnership of David L. Harrison. He was not hurt when Paul Donaldson of Scranton did not remember him, although this made their fifteenth, possibly their twentieth, meeting. Carter had nice manners and a friendly attitude, which made him just right for his duty as Edith’s representative, and the old, old fact that Joe Chapin could not stand him made no difference now. He had come to this house a hundred times, for Christmas dinner, Thanksgiving, Sunday suppers, and almost without fail his brother-in-law would say to Carter: “Well, Carter, what have you been doing?” And the tone of the question implied that the answer would be so awful or so dull that it was not to be waited for, so the question seldom got an uninterrupted answer. For years he had known that Joe despised him, and in his quiet way he hated Joe too. None of that showed as he went around seeing that people were eating, drinking, and comfortable. “I was afraid we’d have snow . . . Edith’s taking it very well . . . Let me get you another cup of coffee.” He was much more helpful to his absent sister than her only son.
Joe Chapin Junior was making mistake after mistake—the same mistake over and over again. He would go up to one of the sixtyish ladies, asking her if he could get her anything, and then allow himself to be held on to so long that his boredom would show and the lady would be antagonized. Then he would repeat the ordeal with another lady. His cousin Whit Hofman was the only person in the crowd he wanted to talk to. Knowing Whit, an affable, kind man who liked women, whiskey, and golf, Joby was sure that his cousin would have liked to join him in the pantry over a bottle of Scotch. Joby had no illusions of the esteem in which his cousin held him, but cousins they were, without any history of unkindness or quarrel. But a quiet drink with Whit was not possible now; Joby had his chores to perform, and Whit seemed to be having a good time. Whit had the social graces.
Joby excused himself from Mrs. Henry Laubach and made his way to the pantry and his second drink of the day, a straight Scotch with a water chaser. It had no immediate effect, but he knew it would do him some good in a few minutes, and he returned to the spot beside the newel-post which he had been using as his headquarters. There he was approached by Paul Donaldson from Scranton.
“Joby, I wanted to ask you—”
“Yes, Mr. Donaldson.”
“What about your mother? I’m motoring back to Scranton in a few minutes and I wondered if I could see her for a moment or two. Is she seeing people?”
Joby looked at his watch. “I don’t like to seem mysterious, but can you wait a few minutes? Oh, hell. I wasn’t supposed to tell anybody, but almost any minute Mother’s coming downstairs. She didn’t want to have people coming in her room two or three at a time, so what she’s going to do is, she’s coming down and sort of wander through and say hello to people. Unless there was something special and you wanted to see her alone. Then I’d have to go up and ask her.”
“No, I just wanted to be sure and see her,” said Paul Donaldson. “She’s all right?”
“Oh, yes. She’s all right. Ann’s been sitting with her upstairs. She hasn’t been alone, if that’s what you mean.”
“I see,” said Donaldson. “How are you, Joby?”
“Why, I’m all right, thank you. It came as no surprise to me. We’d had some warning.”
“I wasn’t thinking about your father. I understand you’re in the O.S.S.”
“Yes,” said Joby. “In a very obscure capacity.”
“Harry Reddington’s an old friend of mine.”
“Is that so?”
“Don’t you know Harry Reddington?” said Donaldson.
“I may know him slightly.”
“Now look, Joby, I’m not a German spy. Everybody in the O.S.S. knows Harry Reddington. You don’t have to be as security-conscious as all that. That’s like pretending you don’t know Bill Donovan. Another friend of mine, by the way.”
“As a matter of fact I don’t know Bill Donovan. Mr. Donaldson, you appear to know a lot about the O.S.S., so you must know we’re under instructions not to talk about it.”
“Are you by any chance trying to snub me?”
“No, sir,” said Joby.
“As a friend of your father’s I thought I might be of some help to you, but apparently you don’t need any help.”
“I need all the help I can get, but as I say, I’m in such an obscure job, routine work.”
“Psychological warfare?”
“Routine work, very unimportant,” said Joby.
“By God you are snubbing me,” said Paul Donaldson.
“All right then, for Christ’s sake, I am snubbing you. You asked for it. Now why don’t you shut your silly mouth and stop trying to show off how much you know. You want to be in on everything, don’t you?”
“I’m in on a lot more than a snot-nose like you would know about. Good day!”
“Good—here comes my mother, if you want to be courtly. Be courtly, Mr. Donaldson. Bow from the waist.” Joby turned to his mother, who was halfway down the stairs. “Mother, you remember Mr. Donaldson, from Scranton? Mr. Paul Donaldson?”
“Why, of course, Paul. What on earth do you mean, Joby? Remember Paul Donaldson.”
Joby smiled at Donaldson, who did not return the smile, and moved away, circuitously but determinedly in the direction of the pantry. His mother could now take over.
He prepared a double Scotch and water and a large gin and ginger ale, and with them in his hands he mounted the back stairs to the back bedroom on the second story. A maid whom he did not recognize was in the room, and no one else. He looked in the other rooms, then proceeded to the third floor front, his old bedroom. His sister was sitting on the cedar chest, smoking a cigarette.<
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“Do you want this?” he said, extending the gin drink.
“Do I ever!” said Ann. “Thanks. What is it? Gin and ginger ale?”
“Yes,” said her brother.
“Did you get anything to eat?” she asked.
“I didn’t want anything.”
“I wasn’t hungry either, but I’m getting there. Do you suppose we could get them to send up a sandwich on the dumbwaiter?”
“I somehow doubt it. There are so many strange maids, if you blew the whistle they’d jump as though they were goosed.”
“Probably,” said Ann. “Jolly good show, what?”
“Horseshit.”
“Too tebly steef uppah leep. Honor of the family, old bwah.”
“Yeah,” said Joby. “Well, I took care of one of them.”
“Which one?”
“Paul Donaldson.”
“Oh?”
“He tried to give the impression that one word from him and I could have Donovan’s job.”
“Who’s Donovan?”
“Oh, the high muckalorum at O.S.S.”
“And?”
“Oh, I took as much of his patronizing as I could and so when he asked me if I was snubbing him I said yes, I was, and told him—oh, I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I don’t think I can count on him for an electric train next Christmas.”
“When was this?” said Ann.
“Just now. Why?”
“Pretty good. You held out till just now?”
“I was the little boy in the velvet suit and lace collar. You should have seen me. You’d have been proud.”
“I probably would have thrown up,” said Ann.
“How about you?”
“Well, I didn’t have to mingle with the populace. And I had another advantage over you. I wore a veil.”
“Was she noble?”
“Yes, she was noble. Oh, sure.”
“How in the name of Christ can she keep it up for four days?”
“Listen, this is nothing.”
“How do you mean?”
“I have a feeling that this is just a rehearsal.”
“Oh, no,” said Joby.
“Oh, yes.”
“God pity you.”
“Oh, I’ll be all right,” said Ann. “It’s not bad. If she counted on me for anything, then it might be tough. But as a matter of fact she hardly knows I’m in the room. I’m kind of like a duenna. A duenna for a very well-behaved señorita, of course.”
“What does she do?”
“The duenna?”
“No. Madam.”
“Well—you mean when we’re alone?”
“Yes.”
“Well, when we’re absolutely alone, no chance of being disturbed, she starts working on the lists. The lists of people that sent telegrams and letters. It’s really quite a list, too. Well over a thousand. And she’s going to answer every one of them.”
“Do you help her?”
“I offered to, but she declined.”
“Why do you object to her working on the list? I think that’s rather—nice.”
“I don’t object to her working on the list. What I object to, she does it to kill time, and she won’t do it if anyone can see her.”
“What’s wrong with that?” said Joby.
“Stupid. If there’s anyone around, she wants to be the new widow, grief-stricken but stiff upper lip. Unable to do anything as worldly as making out a list. But when there’s nobody around but me she works away, copying names and addresses, so she won’t have to do it later. It’s so insulting to me, or would be if I gave a damn.”
“You mean she’s going to write a thousand letters?”
“Over a thousand. I’m sure it’ll be two thousand. No, I don’t think she intends to write them all letters, but she’s ordered cards and she’s going to sign and address every single one in her own handwriting, and little personal notes on most of them.”
“Joe would have liked that.”
“Joe would have liked that.”
“I want to do everything the way Joe would have.”
“Yes, I want to do everything the way Joe would have.”
“Do we have to put in another appearance downstairs?” said the brother.
“I’m not going to,” said Ann.
“I wonder if I’m supposed to.”
“Uncle Cartie’s there.”
“And having the time of his life,” said Joby. “How long do you think Madam plans to stay down?”
“There’s quite a crowd, and she’ll have to speak to every one of them. Can’t miss any.”
“Seventy-one, according to Gibbsville Club Otto. A minute for each one. That’s well over an hour.”
“Why?” said Ann.
“Well, what the hell, if she’s going to be there an hour or more, I can sneak us another drink.”
“Operation Plastered,” said Ann.
“No, but we might as well be comfortable. You go stand at the dumbwaiter.” He left her and went downstairs. In a few minutes she saw the dumbwaiter rope quivering, then heard the rumble as the dumbwaiter was raised. She removed the bottles, ice, and glasses and carried them to her brother’s room.
“I’m not as young as I used to be,” he said on his return. “I used to run up those stairs fifty times a day.”
“Who is? Thirty-four. What an age.”
“Yep. You’re through.”
“You’re not kidding,” said Ann. “When do you go back to Washington?”
“Seven-five, tomorrow morning. I must say, this is the first time I ever wanted to go back.”
“How much longer is this war going to last?”
“You hear all sorts of guesses. Five years. Three years. I think it all depends on the Navy.”
“Five years. I’ll be thirty-nine, one more year till forty. I thought thirty was bad enough, but forty!”
“I don’t mind thirty,” said Joby.
“Well, why should you?”
“Yes, that’s right. Why should I? For that matter, why should I mind forty, or fifty, or twenty-eight. None of them seem to make much difference.”
“That isn’t what I meant,” said Ann.
“I know it wasn’t,” said her brother.
The Chapin children were momentarily silent, not looking at each other, but together.
“This should be the start of some new life for us,” said Ann.
“Why?”
“I don’t say it will be, I didn’t say that. But the death of your father should be some sort of a milestone.”
“Maybe it is,” said Joby. “Oh, sure it is. Sure it is. Father’s dead, so he isn’t here any more. We’ll miss him. Is that enough for a milestone?”
“I have a feeling it should be more.”
“Money. We each get a hundred thousand dollars apiece. Kind a nice to have a hundred thousand dollars—that is, if he didn’t change his will.”
“Yes, but bear this in mind. I know about the will, too. We each get a hundred thousand dollars, that’s true. But maybe that’s all.”
“What are you hinting at?” said Joby.
“The income from a hundred thousand, what’s that?”
“Varies. Could be three thousand, could be six.”
“Let’s suppose it’s four,” said Ann. “That’s less than what you and I’ve been getting.”
“So it is,” said Joby. “I hadn’t thought of that. You mean Madam can say to us we each have the hundred thousand capital and we have to take a cut.”
“Exactly,” said Ann. “And a thousand a year would make a big difference to me.”
“Not to me, though. I’ll make it up for you. I have a job, and I guess I always will have, so if you get four instead of five, I
’ll make it up. I lead a very simple life.”
“Thank you, Joby,” said Ann. “On the other hand, she may make it up herself.”
“But you and I doubt that,” said her brother.
Ann laughed. “I doubt it very much. She’ll probably tell me I can live here and actually save money.”
“Which you could.”
“Which I could if I could live here.”
“Well, don’t let the thousand difference worry you,” said Joby. “At any rate, dearie, you have your milestone.”
“Yes, I guess I have. Although when I started out I wasn’t thinking of money. I just feel as though something ought to be happening inside. It isn’t, though. I don’t feel older, or younger, or any great sense of loss, or even pleasure.”
“Too soon. Too many things to do the last few days.”
“Probably,” said Ann.
They were silent again.
“What are you smiling about?” said Joby, presently.
“Was I smiling? I guess I was thinking about when we were children, I was always so much older than you. Then I guess I must have stopped being older and you passed me on the way, so now you seem older.”
“I am older,” said Joby.
“I wonder how you got older,” said his sister.
“I’m not sure. Maybe you stayed young and I didn’t.”
“Yes, partly. I had love affairs and stayed the same age.”
“I had love affairs, too. That doesn’t explain it,” said Joby.
“You’re always so secretive about your love affairs.”
“And I intend to remain secretive,” said Joby.
“I wasn’t prying.”
“A little.”
“Well—a little, yes,” said Ann. “But isn’t that all right? You wouldn’t like it if I showed no interest whatever.”
