by John O'Hara
A girl of great good sense, of honesty and simplicity, so much so that the young man whose approval of her virtues was sought finally approved. She waited for him all through the last years of prep school, of college and law school, hoping to see him, merely to look at him, when he came home for Christmas (that awful Christmas when he went visiting a college friend in New Orleans and never came home at all). She watched the face become more beautiful, the form more perfect, the manner and the manners so polished and easy through his associations and his travels to distant cities that were to her no more than stars on the map. She had no fully developed idea of what she would do with him if she were alone with him and owned him; her information on the possession of one human being by another was incomplete, based largely on hearsay and logical comparisons of her own body and functions with those of animals. But no man or boy had touched her skin under her clothing nor caressed her on the outside of her clothing, and the caresses she shared with a girl in her single year at boarding school were pleasant and even exciting, but had no finality, not, at least, to the degree that she knew would be possible if she could own Joe. She had owned the girl in school, had surprised herself by the ease and rapidity of her possession of her. The girl wrote love letters to her, did favors for her, performed menial tasks, and risked expulsion night after night by visiting her curtained bed in the dormitory, but the experience, aside from the immediate pleasure, only confirmed for Edith what she had always half known: that a girl would respond passionately to certain caresses that a man could give, and the man she wanted them from was Joe Chapin, who could also give more, but whatever more or less he could give, it would be Joe Chapin or nobody. Thus what passed for her shyness was actually restraint. Toward other girls it was restraint and superior knowledge and experience and lack of curiosity. The ease with which she had taken possession of the girl at school convinced her that it would be no more difficult with girls she had known all her life. With young men other than Joe Chapin the curiosity did not become as strong as the desire to own Joe, and in the years just preceding their marriage she became convinced that when she owned Joe she would be owning someone whom no one else had owned. She had acquired a special wisdom about Joe, and one night in her bed, alone with her thoughts, she realized that he had belonged to no one else. He was intact, virginal, uninformed, and innocent. Her own experience, which had taught her much because she was willing to learn, and the new realization of Joe’s virginity, gave her an advantage that Joe could not suspect or overcome. After that she was careful, but there was a change in her, and Joe was proud of the change because, he declared, he felt that in a small way he might be responsible for giving her more confidence in herself. Which was, indeed, the truth. Joe, she was sure, would have had a talk with his father sometime before the wedding, and the mechanical techniques she could learn from him and with him, but what he did not yet know was that there were depths to passionate expression and when she owned him she would use him to explore those depths.
Such pleasures were worth waiting for, and the very idea of risking them for the honors and amusements of social intercourse was foolish and absurd. There were friends of Joe’s and of hers who had had relations with women, but they had nothing to offer her. She was more than content to have them think of her as the virgin which technically she was, and the unsuspecting girl that she was not. Moreover, she was content to appear to be naive because her naïveté kept them ignorant of her subtle efforts to make them and their bad habits unattractive to Joe. He had gentlemanly standards, but it would have been easy to compromise his standards if he were allowed to believe that affairs with women were an attractive feature of those of his friends who led that kind of life. She encouraged his friendship with Arthur McHenry, which needed no encouragement, but when she was asked to comment on other friends of Joe’s—Alec Weeks, for example—she would say: “You mustn’t ask me about people like Alec Weeks. He is your friend, and I don’t like to say anything in criticism of your friends. Women see things in a man that other men don’t . . . Well, if you insist, I can’t help feeling that he’s sneaky, and I like honorable men.” The effect was as she wanted it to be. Joe did not give up his friendship with the Alec Weeks type of man, but the Alecs were made to seem unattractive and their conduct unworthy of emulation by honorable men like Joe Chapin and Arthur McHenry. She caused Joe to believe that he had chosen his own way of conducting himself, rather than the Alec Weeks way, because his own way was preferable, superior, more fastidious, and, of course, honorable.
They had many discussions about honor, in which she encouraged him to repeat so often the conventional observations on the subject that he came close to sounding like its principal champion, if not the inventor of it. Because of the layman’s association of Honor with The Law, which causes an honorable lawyer to appear to be slightly more honorable than anyone else, she was able to speak with genuine conviction when she uttered her admiration for him as a custodian of the principle. She had no knowledge or understanding of the law, and was quick to say so, but in spite of her remoteness from it she theorized that the study and practice of law offered a fortunate young man the opportunity to learn and employ secrets about honor that were not available to the layman. Honor, indeed, became a secondary career in itself. From discussions of honor, in which they were in total agreement, they sometimes proceeded to discussions of religion, and in such discussions they were again in complete accord, even more so, if possible. And since honor could be illustrated with stories of dishonorable behavior, honor was discussed more frequently and at greater length than religion. Four years at New Haven and the years in the somewhat more inquisitive atmosphere of the Penn Law School had made no apparent change in Joe’s religious belief, which was Episcopal, and Edith’s acceptance of the same faith enabled her to avoid detailed discussion of a topic that is never settled anyway. Their over-all belief, which was not unique at the time, was that friends who professed the other Protestant religions were likely to be overconcerned with matters of theology; that Catholics (Roman) were people who had lost control of the beauties of ritual; and that Jews were strange Biblical characters in modern dress. The church they attended, Trinity, was comfortably Low and not vulnerable to little jokes about the Pope and incense. Attendance at Trinity was good numerically and afforded a by no means unpleasant opportunity for weekly contemplation of the relationship with God, in sanctified but not severe surroundings and in the company of persons of one’s choosing. In Trinity you were in another world, where the first rule was silence, but you bowed and smiled to your acquaintances as though in that other world you were seeing friends from home. Religion was a comfort; Trinity was nice.
If they talked oftener than most young couples about religion and honor, it was not altogether an accident. During what might be termed the early days of Joe’s courtship Edith was anxious to have him depend upon her for a companionship that she could offer and that would become a habit with him; a companionship that was not based on qualities that other girls had more abundantly than she. There was, first, her good sense, which everybody knew about. But what everybody did not know about was Joe’s unsureness of himself, that had nothing to do with his good manners. His manners were exquisite even in a day when good manners were the rule. But she became convinced of his unsureness of himself when she had her instinctive realization of his virginity. With that knowledge she encouraged him to talk to her and to reveal himself without quite exposing himself. On matters pertaining to the law and honor and religion they were on safe ground; in her company he became an authority on everything they discussed, and above all they were not there to argue. They did not argue. More and more he would permit himself to say what he thought, either as simple statement or hopelessly complicated theory. She listened to everything he said and her questions were slight rephrasings of his statements, which proved to him how attentively she listened and how respectfully she heard. For a year they had no physical contact beyond the clasp of hands, but what she p
rovided was habit-forming and exhilarating and intoxicating. When he left her of an evening she could hear him whistling a Yale marching song and she knew that he was already looking forward to their next meeting. She would wash her face with Roger & Gallet soap and brush her hair, and lie in her bed and want to own him. She did not yet know that there were degrees of technical proficiency in love-making between a man and a woman, as well as fumblings and acute dissatisfaction; consequently in her imagination she gave little thought to his pleasure other than to take for granted that since he was a man, his pleasure would come. Her owning him was for her own pleasure; he would be hers. She never thought that she would be his. It simply never occurred to her to think of herself as his. Whatever he would do with her—caress her, lie on top of her, insert himself in her—was part of her wakeful dream of undefined sensuality, of which he was the essential and enormously desirable instrument. She was convinced that he never had seen a live nude woman close to, and she would lock her door and parade herself about her bed, wearing no clothing, and pretend that he was lying on the bed and looking at her for the first time. She had reason to be proud of her figure. It was a time of the long, tailored line, when ladies’ outfits came in three pieces of skirt, blouse and ankle-length coat, following the natural waistline. The design was to make women look tall, with vertical stitching and piping to further the scheme. Edith was an ideal model for the suits and dresses, and even the hats, which were enormous and elaborate (and expensive), were, if not “becoming,” effective in drawing the attention away from the face that was less than beautiful. No man ever had seen her unclothed, and that too was going to be part of the great sensuality when she owned Joe. She was quite aware that men of her class expected the girls of her class to be virgins, and in most cases the expectation was justified. Not knowing exactly what to expect, limited only by her unlimited imagination, she conducted orgies of the mind with herself after an evening with Joe, while at all other times maintaining a calm that was her public character. It was also the character she presented to Joe Chapin; calm, attentive, interested, sympathetic, eager to learn from him the things of the mind, the intellect.
After a while he became totally dependent upon her without realizing it. Gradually other girls had become, he told her, so frivolous and empty-headed that he was regretting invitations that would involve his having to be paired off with them. His own friends, too, his contemporaries, were beginning to appear in a bad light; they were not taking things seriously enough, not buckling down to work, not thinking things through. It was not exactly their fault, he said. They had no one to help them think things through. With this conversation Edith moved into the first stage of owning him. She began to let him do things for her. She would ask him to stop at a shop to pick up something she had ordered. She had him do little errands for her on his visits to Philadelphia. She asked for and took his advice on investing a small sum of cash. She had him read a letter of sympathy she had composed on the death of a far-off cousin. She sought his help in mapping out a trip to Europe which in truth she never intended to take. Then, so fortuitously that she would not have dared plan it, she was stricken with acute appendicitis and had to undergo emergency surgery.
At that time the appendectomy was years away from the routine operation it was later to become, and a stay in the hospital was likewise a matter for great concern. The newspapers of the day always spoke of a patient as going under the knife, chloroform was the usual anaesthetic, and the word hospital was considered to be suitable evidence of the extremity of the patient’s condition. The horses drawing the ambulance proceeded at a walk or a slow trot, and the ambulance bell, pressed by a large pedal button, was more of an announcement than a warning signal. The doctor and the nurse rode inside with the patient and because of the comparatively slow pace of the team of bays, the citizens were able to have a good look at the faces of the professionals. The faces told little more than the seriousness of their mission. Nothing about the trip to the hospital or the hospital itself was likely to dispel fear or create optimism.
It was a social convention that visits to hospital patients were restricted to members of the immediate families. This was no less true for patients in private rooms, and it was especially true where the patient was an unmarried young woman. When Joe Chapin read in the paper that Edith had been taken to the hospital he first paid a call on Dr. English at the doctor’s office. The doctor revealed that it had been a nasty operation and that Edith had been on the table almost three hours. In the tradition of his calling the doctor employed words of Greek and Latin origin that Joe Chapin was at a loss to understand, but in reply to the direct question Dr. English cautiously admitted that Edith would live, barring unforeseen complications.
“When do you think I can go to see her, Bill?” said Joe Chapin.
“Had you intended to go see her?”
“Well, I would like to, if possible.”
“Well—not for several days at the earliest,” said Dr. English. “And you understand, of course, you’d have to have permission from her family.”
“Oh, of course.”
“I don’t as a rule encourage visiting, Joe. Edith has a day nurse and a night nurse. She’s still on the critical list, and I should think it’d be a week before she’d be ready to see anybody except her family.”
“I’ll abide by your decision, but I’m really very anxious to see her.”
“Yes. Yes. That hardly comes as a surprise; and very understandable. But for the time being I’m keeping a close watch on her to guard against any post-operative complications, you understand.”
“Of course.”
“And as a man of the world, you understand that a young lady doesn’t always look her best in a hospital gown, so there’s that to consider.”
“Bill, I have to tell you this. I’ve never told anyone else, not even Edith herself. But I’m in love with Edith.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Joe. Not altogether surprised, but I’m glad to hear it. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll speak to her family and get their permission, and then I’ll ring you up on the telephone, next four or five days. But you must bear in mind, if I do allow you to see her, it will only be for five minutes, and your conversation must be confined to cheerful topics, nothing to upset her or even—well, nothing of a romantic nature, either.”
“I promise you, not a hint.”
“When we have her all well again, time enough then, don’t you agree?”
“By all means, Bill. By all means.”
“When the time comes I’ll tell her ahead of time so she’ll have a chance to have the nurse brush her hair and pretty her up a little, but don’t be surprised by her appearance. She’s been through quite a siege. And above all, don’t show that you are miserable or unhappy at the way she looks.”
On the appointed day Joe Chapin walked to the hospital and stood in the waiting room until a probationer arrived to conduct him to Edith’s room. The odors and the darkness of the corridor and the coughing and the walking patients and the grubby visitors to mining-accident cases were all new to Joe Chapin. But Edith’s room was not unpleasant, with the bareness relieved by an abundance of flowers.
Edith looked up at him from her pillows and raised her lower arm. “Hello, Joe,” she said.
“Edith, how good to see you again.” He took her hand for a moment, then let it fall back to the bedcovers.
“This is Miss McIlhenny, my day nurse,” said Edith.
“How do you do, Miss McIlhenny.”
“Good afternoon,” said the nurse.
“Your flowers have been lovely. There they are, do you see them? Recognize them?”
“I’m glad you like them,” said Joe.
“It was nice of you to come.”
“Nice of me? Oh, Edith, I’ve been trying to ever since you’ve been here. How do you feel?”
“Well, much better, thank you. I’ve lost tr
ack of the days.”
“Bill English told me you’re a very good patient.”
“Did he? I don’t think Miss McIlhenny will agree on that score.”
“Indeed I will, she’s been a darling, and never a whimper,” said the nurse.
“I haven’t much news for you, I’m afraid. I’ve been in court most of the time. Everybody’s asked for you, but I’ve been asking them. Every little scrap of information I could get.”
“Everybody’s been so kind, especially here in the hospital. They’ve done everything for me, everything. I’ve never had so much attention, kindness. But naturally I’ll be glad when it comes time to go home.”
“Do you know when that will be?”
“In another week, I believe. Isn’t that so, Miss McIlhenny?”
“That’s what we’re hoping.”
“Miss McIlhenny is going with me. Shall I tell him about the belt?”
“Sure, go right ahead if it won’t embarrass him.”
“Did you know that you have to wear an enormous belt after you’ve had an operation for appendicitis?” said Edith.
“Yes, I guess I’d forgotten that.”
“It has to be made especially, but even so I won’t be able to ride or play tennis for at least a year. Isn’t that discouraging?”
“Oh, no. A year isn’t long,” said Joe Chapin.
“Oh, I think it is. And I’m not even supposed to laugh very heartily.”
“Very well, then we’ll talk about nothing but serious subjects.”
“Oh, Joe. You’re a dear.”
“Am I, Edith?”
“Yes, you are.”
“Well,” said Miss McIlhenny, taking her watch out of her pocket. “If Mr. Chapin wants to come again, he can’t stay any longer this time.”
“Then I’ll go immediately, because I want to come back soon. May I?”
