by John O'Hara
The first twinges of pain began in the early evening, but Dr. English had been in to see Edith in the afternoon, and told her no more than she already knew. In an attempt to lighten her mood he said: “I think we can say with positive assurance that you’re going to have a baby.”
“When?”
“Well, if you were one of my patients, a woman who lives out near the steel mill, I could tell you almost to the minute, and how long it would take. She’s had nine and another on the way. She doesn’t really need me. But with a first baby I don’t like to make very positive predictions. You know. I want to be your doctor with all your babies, so I don’t like to make a guess and be wrong on the first one.”
“All my babies?”
“Yes. You may not think so now, Edith, but you and I are going to see a lot of each other, professionally. You’re going to want them. Oh, they can be all sorts of trouble, I know. Julian’s too high-spirited, for instance, but he’s not a bad boy and if we had our way we’d provide him with brothers and sisters, but we can’t always have what we want in this life. Now I’ll leave you in the capable hands of Miss McIlhenny and I probably will drop in first thing in the morning.”
He was more nearly correct than he knew. He was sound asleep when he received the telephone call, and he was dressed, if unshaven, by the time Harry arrived at his house with the Chapin Pierce Arrow.
“Doctoring must be hard work, sir. Three o’clock in the morning and I wager it happens often.”
“It happens very often, Harry.”
“Marian put the coffee on for you.”
“Good.”
There was no one asleep at 10 North Frederick, and for the first time in thirty years someone other than Charlotte Chapin was in command. She had no more true confidence in William English than she had in any other doctor or any other man, but doctors are accustomed to giving orders and are in the habit of being obeyed, two related facts which produce in them an air of authority even when they are not authoritarian men. The manner, even when it is only acquired, inspires respect and confidence, and with William English it was not only acquired but inborn.
“Now if you don’t mind, I’d like everybody to stay downstairs except Miss McIlhenny and Marian,” said he, on the second-floor landing.
“Marian?” said Charlotte.
“Yes, Marian. We’re not going to have time for Edith’s mother to see her first, but that’s just as well. Now, if you don’t mind, will everybody clear out? Downstairs, please?”
He had some coffee and a cigar in Ben Chapin’s bedroom and from time to time he would look in on Edith. Then Marian came in and said, “Nurse McIlhenny—”
“Well, sooner than I expected. Thank you, Marian. I’d like you to remain in the hall where we can call you if we need you.” He had another look at Edith, who was beginning to show perspiration on the forehead. Now for the first of many times Nurse McIlhenny said, “Bear down,” and the birth had begun. After two hours they put the aluminum mask on her face and dropped chloroform on the gauze. With the outrageous final pain she fainted into deep sleep.
“Tell Marian to tell them they have a daughter,” said Dr. English. “Granddaughter, I should say.”
Marian tiptoed down the stairs to the sitting room. The father and the grandfather were fully dressed; the grandmother was clad in flannel nightgown and a quilted dressing gown, bed socks and mules. Marian looked quickly at each person, and then from old habit she reported to Charlotte: “A baby girl, ma’am. A beautiful baby girl.”
“Have you seen her?” said Charlotte.
“No, ma’am.”
“How is my wife?” said Joe Chapin.
“Sleeping peacefully, Mr. Joe, sleeping peacefully.”
“Really asleep, not—something else,” said Joe.
“Really asleep, sir.”
“What does the baby weigh?” said Ben Chapin.
“I wasn’t told, sir,” said Marian.
“Exactly what were you told, Marian? Without any of your own embellishments, please,” said Charlotte.
“I was told to tell you that Mrs. Joseph Chapin had a fine baby girl—”
“Who said that? Who said fine?” said Charlotte.
“Miss McIlhenny, Nurse McIlhenny,” said Marian.
“You have not spoken to Dr. English,” said Charlotte.
“No, ma’am, but he was in the room when Nurse McIlhenny came out in the hall.”
“And you were told to tell us—?” said Charlotte.
“That it was a beautiful, I mean fine baby girl, and Mrs. Chapin was sleeping peacefully, sir. Sleeping peacefully, Mr. Joe.”
“Thank you, Marian,” said Joe.
“That’s not all,” said Charlotte. “Marian, you march upstairs and find out when we can see the baby—and Mrs. Chapin.”
“Billy English will let us know, I’m sure,” said Ben.
“And again it may slip his mind,” said Charlotte. “Do as I say, Marian.”
“Very good, ma’am,” said Marian, marching.
“Congratulations, son,” said Ben, shaking Joe’s hand. “Now you belong to the great brotherhood of fathers. Welcome.”
“My boy,” said Charlotte, kissing Joe, who bent down for the salute. “I’m sure everything’s all right and you have nothing to worry about, although I should think William English might at least have told us himself.”
“Shall we all have a glass of champagne?” said Ben.
“No, we shall not,” said Charlotte. “Five o’clock in the morning is no time to drink champagne.”
“It’s no time to have a baby, either,” said Ben. “But you didn’t have anything to say about that, and you’re not going to have anything to say about the champagne.”
“Let’s not, Father,” said Joe. “Let’s wait.”
“I have no misgivings about the baby or about Edith. If there’d been any complications Billy English would have sent for you, not us, you. He didn’t send for you, he sent Marian to tell all of us. I’m going to have a glass of champagne and toast my granddaughter, and I’m going to smash the glass in the fireplace. God damn it, I won’t be around for her wedding, but I’m here now.” He went out to the butler’s pantry where there was a case of champagne in a bin.
“Oh, hello, Harry,” said Ben, surprised. Harry was sitting at the kitchen table. “It’s a baby girl. Is that tea, or whiskey you have in that cup?”
“I have to own up, it’s whiskey, sir.”
“Well, chop some ice. We’re going to have a bottle of champagne, Mrs. Chapin and Mr. Joe and I. Three of Mrs. Chapin’s best glasses and a bowl of ice. Bring them to the sitting room and I’ll open the bottle.”
“May I offer congratulations, sir?”
“Thanks, Harry, you may, you may indeed.”
“It’s too early to tell who she looks like?” said Harry.
“I haven’t laid eyes on her. I’m taking her on faith and I love her sight unseen.”
“Yes, sir,” said Harry. He raised his cup. “To the new Miss Chapin. The only Miss Chapin, I guess, sir?”
“You are correct,” said Ben.
Ben returned to the sitting room where Joe was sitting on the sofa beside his mother. “Well, any more news?” said Ben.
“Not yet,” said Joe.
“Can’t I persuade you two that this is a cause for celebration, not for long faces?” said Ben.
“It’s easy for you to forget,” said Charlotte.
“How dare you!” said Ben.
“Father, please,” said Joe.
“Go upstairs and see your wife and your child,” said Ben. “Do as I tell you.”
“I’d better wait till—”
“Did you hear me?” said Ben.
Joe rose and left the room, and when he had gone Ben stood before his wife. “So—you’ve been filli
ng him up with the horrors of it.”
“I refuse to listen to you,” said Charlotte.
“I know what you’re doing, and you know I know it,” said Ben.
“If you could see yourself,” said Charlotte.
“I see you, all right,” said Ben.
“Yes, and I see you. You look as though you were having apoplexy. If you are—too bad. Too—bad.”
“You wish I were, but I’m not, Charlotte. I’m in the best of health and I’m going to stay that way, so I can watch my son getting to be a man.”
“Your idea of a man,” said Charlotte.
“Exactly,” said Ben. “Now he’s a father, and you’re going to have to watch him getting to be a husband. He hasn’t been, but he will be. The human being you ought to hate now is that baby. That baby is your rival now.”
“Well, you never were,” said Charlotte. “I never had to worry about you.”
“Oh, I admit that. You ran his life, you got the affection and respect. But watching you lose it to a tiny girl, an infant, that’s going to be some satisfaction to me. And there isn’t a thing you can do about it, Charlotte my dear.”
“We’ll see,” said Charlotte. “Or I will. As you yourself said, you won’t be here for her wedding, and a lot can happen between now and then.”
Harry came in with the tray. “Congratulations, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Harry.”
The man left the room and Ben picked up the champagne bottle, removed the foil and the wire and started to twist the cork. Suddenly he turned and fell onto the sofa, dropping the bottle. Charlotte jumped to her feet, away from him, and looked at him. His eyes had closed and he was breathing heavily, his cheeks puffing and vibrating his lips.
“Ben!” she whispered sharply. “Ben!”
There was no answer.
“Ben Chapin,” she whispered again. That he was alive it was plain to see and hear. He was half sitting, half lying on the sofa, asleep as she had often seen him in his chair, but she knew that the suddenness of the overpowering sleep, the quick fall, were signs of a stroke. She jerked the bellpull and Harry responded. He went to Ben without speaking to Charlotte.
“A stroke?” said Harry.
“You’d better get Dr. English.”
Dr. English came down to the sitting room in his shirt-sleeves. He examined Ben, and with Harry’s help stretched him out on the sofa. He turned to Charlotte. “He’s had a stroke. He mustn’t be moved. And I’d like an ice pack.”
“Some ice in the bowl, sir,” said Harry.
“How convenient,” said English. “Did he just keel over?”
“Yes,” said Charlotte. “We were talking, and Harry had brought in the champagne. And Ben was opening the bottle and suddenly he fell, right about where I was sitting. What can we do?”
“For the time being, let him sleep. I’ll give him some medicine. Harry, go upstairs and bring me my satchel, the small black one with the compartments for pill bottles. Bring it right down and don’t stop to answer any questions. Mrs. Chapin, I think it would be better if you went to your room.” Harry left.
“I don’t think so,” said Charlotte.
“Well, I do.”
“I’m perfectly all right,” said Charlotte.
“Yes, I know you are,” said English. “That isn’t what I was thinking about. And if you don’t like being alone, take Marian with you, but not your son.”
“What are you implying?”
“Now, Mrs. Chapin, please?” said English. “As soon as the registry’s open I’m going to get a trained nurse. You understand that there’ll be two trained nurses staying in the house?”
“Yes, I understand,” said Charlotte.
“Then we both understand,” said English. “A mutual understanding, and no more need be said.”
She half smiled at him. “I think you’re insolent, Billy English.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps Billy English is, but this is Doctor English, Mrs. Chapin, and I think you’re being impertinent.”
“You will excuse me?” said Charlotte, and withdrew.
• • •
The presence in 10 North Frederick of two helpless persons and two persons who were professionally helpful brought about major rearrangements in the housekeeping and in the household. “I always seem to be passing someone on the stairs,” said Joe to his wife.
“Well, we have life and death happening right here at home. It’s like a small hospital.”
“Doesn’t seem so small, either,” said Joe. “I went to see Billy English.”
“What did Billy have to say?”
“I went to have a talk with him about Father.”
“Yes, I gathered that,” said Edith.
“Billy doesn’t think that was the first stroke Father had. I don’t suppose Father ever said anything to you?”
“Heavens, no.”
“Well, it was a possibility. You and Father were getting closer,” said Joe.
“Mostly because I was having Ann. He was being solicitous, that’s all.”
“He never said anything to me.”
“And I shouldn’t think he’d have said anything to your mother,” said Edith.
“No. I haven’t asked her, but I shouldn’t think so,” said Joe.
“If he had had a stroke before wouldn’t somebody have known?”
“Not necessarily. It might have been a slight one and he didn’t even know it himself. At least not recognized it as a stroke.”
“Are you worried about him?”
“Am I worried about him? Perhaps not as much as I should be.”
“Should you be?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Why?” said Edith. “Something Billy English told you?”
“What he didn’t tell me, as much as what he did.”
“What do you think he didn’t tell you?”
“Well—he seemed to be implying that Father’d now had two strokes and the next one would be fatal.”
“But he didn’t say it in so many words?”
“No, not in so many words. Doctors can be like lawyers when it comes to making a positive statement. And I guess for the same reason. Self-protection. What you don’t say can’t be used against you.”
“It’s too bad your father isn’t going to live a long time.”
“It is, but why do you say it that way?” said Joe.
“Because he loves Ann and gets such pleasure out of her.”
“So does Mother.”
“Your mother is waiting for me to produce a son. Your father is happy that I produced Ann.”
“Naturally Mother would like to have a grandson, but I don’t think of her as waiting for you to produce one. She loves you very dearly. I’ve told you that.”
“Yes, you’ve told me, quite a few times. But I think your mother and I understand each other. You don’t understand us. You see—we don’t have to love each other, your mother and I.”
“Not have to, of course.”
“Not have to, and don’t. I am your wife, and that was all I was until Ann was born. Now it’s all I am again until I produce a grandson. You mustn’t insist on your mother and me loving each other. That’s one of your notions. You have so many notions.”
“I believe in certain things, yes.”
“Notions. I’m talking about notions. You’ve had a notion for years that your mother and father love each other. They don’t. They hate each other. Why can’t you face the truth and admit that they hate each other? I hadn’t lived in this house a week before I knew it. I guessed it before we were married, but after a week, I knew it.”
“They often disagree, and—”
“Please don’t deny it to me. That’s the trouble with your notions. You deceive yourself.”
“Sometimes it’
s better to deceive yourself.”
“Oh, you do admit it.”
“No, I don’t admit it. Underneath it all Father and Mother love each other.”
“You’d be happier if you admitted it,” said Edith.
“Happier? To admit that my father and mother hate each other?”
“Yes.”
“Edith, there are times when I don’t understand you at all.”
“I can readily believe that.”
“How could I possibly be happier if I knew my father and mother hated each other?”
“I can explain that easily. If you admitted it, then you wouldn’t keep on looking for signs of their loving each other. You never see any signs of it, but you go on looking because you won’t admit the truth. The truth being, that they can’t stand each other.”
“Now how would that make me happier?”
“I’ve just told you,” said Edith. “You spend half your life convincing yourself that they love each other and looking for proof, but the only time you get any kind of proof it’s proof that they don’t love each other, not that they do.”
“But you haven’t explained why I’d be happier.”
“If you thought there was a gold mine in the back yard and dug for it and dug for it, but then some expert told you there was no gold within a thousand miles, wouldn’t you be happier not wasting your time?”
“The expert might be wrong.”
“Meaning I might be wrong?” said Edith.
“Yes. You might be.”
“When you were a little boy, you believed in Santa Claus.”
“Till I was five years old, I think.”
“But not now,” said Edith.
“No.”
