Ten North Frederick

by John O'Hara

  “Because believing in Santa Claus is a childish notion.”

  “It may be a childish notion, yes. But it’s a good one.”

  “For children.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did the stork bring Ann?”

  “Oh, now, Edith,” said Joe.

  “Did the stork bring Ann?”

  “‘Answer yes or no’? No.”

  “You and I made love and your seed stayed inside me and grew and finally very painfully I gave birth to a child. Not the stork flying over Gibbsville and bringing a baby to 10 North Frederick Street.”

  “Yes.”

  “When you were born, did the stork bring you?”

  “No.”

  “Your mother and father made love, and so forth.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your mother eats three meals a day.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your father eats three meals a day.”

  “Yes.”

  “Does your mother go to the bathroom?”

  “Yes, and so does my father.”

  “Do they drink water?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do they breathe air?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does your mother like anybody?”

  “Of course.”

  “Does she dislike anybody?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does she hate anybody?”

  “Oh.”

  “Please just answer me. Does she?”

  “I don’t know that she hates anybody.”

  “Do you believe it possible that she could hate anybody?”

  “Could, that’s a big word. Yes, I suppose she could.”

  “Could she hate your father?”

  “She could, but I don’t admit that she does.”

  “Will you admit that she could hate him and that he could hate her? You don’t have to go into the reasons why they do, just admit that they could. If you admit that much, for the first time in your life, then that’ll be a start toward getting rid of one of your notions. You know of law cases in which the husband and wife hate each other, even kill each other. Your notion is that it couldn’t happen to your mother and your father.”

  “That’s what I prefer to think.”

  “You’re afraid that if you think something people will know you’re thinking it. Don’t be afraid of that. They won’t have to know. But if you deceive yourself, you’ll know it. You’ll be more successful and happier if you don’t deceive yourself. I’m happier than you are because I don’t deceive myself. I know all the good and the bad things about myself.”

  “I don’t think you’re any happier than I am, and I don’t know any of the bad things about you.”

  “You might not be so happy if you knew the bad things about me.”

  “What are they?”

  “They’re my secret, and I hope you never find out. You won’t if I can help it.”

  “Would you like to know some of the bad things about me?” said Joe.

  “No, I’d rather not.”

  “Ah, then you practice self-deception too.”

  “Perhaps I do, perhaps not. But it doesn’t suit my plan to have you tell me the bad things about yourself.”

  “You’d rather find them out on your own hook?”

  “Oh, perhaps. I’m only a woman, so don’t expect me to be consistent.”

  The crying of their daughter brought an end to the colloquy. The nursery was on the floor above their room and in the hall they saw Joe’s father standing in the doorway of his own bedroom, clad in nightgown and bathrobe and leaning on a snakewood walking stick.

  “Time for her little drink, eh?” said Ben.

  “Time for her drink, yes,” said Edith.

  “Time for you to stay in your chair, Father,” said Joe. “You know that.”

  “Oh—bother my chair,” said Ben. “Come in, I want to talk with you.”

  “I’ll be right down after I’ve seen Ann,” said Joe. He followed Edith up the stairs and was allowed to hold the hungry baby while her mother prepared to nurse her.

  “I hope you don’t mind if I have notions about her,” said Joe.

  “What kind of notions?” said Edith.

  “Childish ones, I guess. I want her to be the happiest girl that ever lived.”

  “So do I,” said Edith. She held up her hands for the baby.

  “I didn’t finish,” said Joe, placing the baby in her mother’s hands. “I want her to be happy without thinking her mother and father hate each other.”

  “I do, too. Now would you mind leaving while I feed her?”

  “I like to see you feeding her.”

  “I know you do, but it makes me feel ill at ease, so go have your talk with your father.”

  Ben was lighting a cigar as Joe opened the door of his bedroom. “Father,” said Joe.

  “I believe it does me more harm to sit here and wish I could have a cigar than smoking it does. Besides, what difference does it make? Have one?”

  “No, thanks,” said Joe.

  “Where I’m going, there’ll be too much smoke to enjoy a cigar.”

  “Oh, now, Father.”

  “Too early in the day for you to have a drink, I suppose. There’s a bottle of whiskey on that closet shelf. Pour me a half a glass, will you please? And fill it up with water. Half and half. Always reminds me of an old English story. A fellow’d been out carousing late at night and he came to his favorite tavern, but it was closed. So he banged on the door and banged on the door till the innkeeper stuck his head out the window. I can just see him, with one of those nightcaps, putting his head out the upstairs window and saying, ‘What do you want at this hour?’ And the drunken gentleman said, ‘I want me half and half.’ ‘You’ll get your half and half,’ the innkeeper said, and poured the contents of the chamber pot down on his head. ‘Half the old woman’s, and half mine,’ said the innkeeper.”

  “Here you are,” said Joe.

  “I first heard that story when I was a junior in college. I suppose they still tell it.”

  “Yes, they do.”

  “Old stories die hard,” said Ben. “Well, there are several things I want to talk about. First, I want you to find out how much it will cost to buy a full partnership in Arthur McHenry’s firm. I want you to find out right away, tomorrow, if possible. When you do, I’ll write you a check.”

  “I know the amount. It’s fifteen thousand dollars.”

  “Is that all?”

  “That’s all, but I don’t want you to buy it for me, Father. I want to buy it myself and pay for it year by year.”

  “I know you do, and that pleases me, and I would have let you do that if I hadn’t had this stroke. But now I’d like to see you a full partner before I die. It isn’t much money, son. If you were going to open a grocery store on a good corner you’d have to spend that much before you were through. And you’re not opening a grocery store. You’re becoming a partner in one of the best law firms in the eastern part of the state. With their name and our name, there won’t be any better.”

  “Why do you want me to become a partner in another firm instead of continuing your firm?”

  “That’s a delicate question. I’ll tell you why. I have friends, but I also have enemies. The McHenrys have friends and enemies too. My enemies, that you may inherit, they may take their business to the firm with the understanding that Arthur handle the business. And the same is true the other way around. And two unrelated young fellows are stronger than any one fellow, especially carrying on a family business. There’s still another reason. A little healthy competition between you and Arthur will be good for both of you. Keep you on the alert, friendly rivalry, better all around. New blood for the McHenrys, new blood for the Chapins. Now I’ll tell you something else.”


  “Yes,” said Joe.

  “In about five years you’re going to be so successful, you and Arthur, that either one or both of you are going to be offered partnerships elsewhere. Philadelphia, and New York. Stay where you are. You will make more money here, you’ll have the outstanding firm, and the New York people and the Philadelphia people, they’ll have to come to you. You won’t be working for them as a junior partner, or any kind of partner. You will be able to fix the terms and conditions you want. You will be the one firm in this part of the world that the big fellows in New York and Philadelphia will want to do business with.”

  “Hmm.”

  “A lot of people are going to ask the same question you did. Why do you and Arthur form a partnership? Well, it’s obvious that you can get along without Arthur, and Arthur can get along without you. So since that’s the case, people will say, well, those two young fellows must feel that they’re even stronger together than apart. Therefore why not do business with the two strong firms in one? Later I’ll speak to the McHenrys as a courtesy and then we’ll make out the check.”

  “Father, I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “I’ll tell you how, Joe. Be the man I wish I’d been and didn’t turn out to be. I don’t have to tell you not to do anything crooked, but I hope you can get through life without doing anything cruel, or dirty, or mean. Now then, I’ve made a will. Your mother gets the bulk of what I have. The income while she lives. The bulk. I’ve left you a hundred thousand dollars and I suggest you invest it and forget about it. Pretend you haven’t got it. Earn your own money and live on what you earn. I’ve left twenty-five thousand outright to Edith.”

  “Excuse me, Father. You’re spilling your glass,” said Joe.

  As Ben was speaking he tilted the tumbler so that the whiskey and water dripped on the Brussels carpet. “Waste not, want not,” said Ben. “I don’t know why I said that. It doesn’t apply. But as I was saying, I’ve left Edith twenty-five thousand dollars. I’d like to remember Ann too, but of course you’ll have more children and it doesn’t seem fair to mention Ann and leave out the others that haven’t been born. So you take care of them for me. I know you will.”

  “This talk, Father, this information you’re giving me.”

  “Yes?”

  “I hope it doesn’t indicate pessimism on your part. You aren’t in that frame of mind, I hope. A man who’s had a stroke doesn’t go out and play tennis, but he can live for years.”

  “He can, but this one isn’t going to. Yes, I consider this one of our final talks, Joe, and since we’re about it, I have another request that I haven’t made a condition in my will, but I can say to you, I hope you hold on to this house. Everything’s following the westward trend, Lantenengo Street. And if you buy any real estate, buy property as far out Lantenengo as you can, hold on to that too, as long as you live. Don’t sell. But this house, don’t let it fall into other hands. If you decide to sell, tear it down. I don’t want anyone but our family to live here. I hate to see that happen to a house. Our family built this house, and I wouldn’t want another family to—to live in these rooms, go through our front door. I was born here, you were born here, and now my first grandchild. I hope you have grandchildren born in this house. I love this house.”

  “I’ll never sell it, or at least I hope I never have to,” said Joe.

  “If I had my way I’d be cremated, so that what’s left of me could stay on in this house, but I guess that’s impossible in Gibbsville. I never heard of anybody being cremated in Gibbsville. And yet it’s so much more sensible.”

  “But cold-blooded, I think. I’m not in favor of cremation.”

  “I don’t know, it seems much more sensible to me,” said Ben. “Joe, this is a very unpleasant ordeal I’m putting you through, talking so morbidly, but I have a reason. I’ll tell you a secret. I don’t think this was the first stroke I had. I think it’s the second. I think I had one about two years ago. Not as bad as this one, but enough like this to make me feel pretty sure it was a stroke. Of course it may not have been a real stroke, but I was in Philadelphia, forget what the business was. And came back to the hotel late in the afternoon, got to my room, and fainted. Lay there till the chambermaid came to turn down my bed and she had the doctor. The hotel doctor. He asked me if I had a doctor in Philadelphia and he wanted to have him in, but I didn’t want to make any fuss, so I came home the next day. I never told your mother or anybody else, but I tell you now. It may have been a slight stroke.”

  “You mean it was a slight stroke.”

  “Well, it may have been. The hotel doctor didn’t use that word. He may have been confused because I’d had quite a bit to drink. Wasn’t intoxicated, but quite a few drinks. Well, what difference does it make now? I’ve had the real genuine article, diagnosed and so on. Oh, this is a hell of a life, Joe, and sometimes I sit here and wonder what makes us want to hang on to it. But then I think of little Ann, and I have my answer. I want to give you one last piece of advice about her.”

  “Please do, Father.”

  “Spoil her.”

  “You mean, don’t spoil her.”

  “No, I mean spoil her. Give her everything she ever asks for, everything you can. Edith won’t let you, of course, but you give her as much as you can. First and foremost—love. When she wants a pony give her a pony. Dolls, dresses, toys. It never hurt a little girl to have her father spoil her. It never spoiled her, in fact. I once knew a girl, her father did the opposite of spoil her. And when she grew up she hated men, because her father didn’t as-they-say spoil her.”

  “I don’t know that I can promise you that, Father.”

  “I didn’t ask for your promise. I merely gave you a piece of advice. I’ll give you another piece of advice that you don’t have to pay any attention to.”

  “All right.”

  “When you have a son, and you’ll have a son—don’t try to get too close to him. It isn’t in the nature of things for a father and a son to be very close.”

  “I think you and I are.”

  “Oh, no, Joe. No. But we’re close enough. I can wish we’d been closer, but I see now that we were just right. Not too close, and not too far away. You’re a good boy. Honorable. Stayed out of trouble. And reflected credit on your mother and me, and now you’re a father. Independent of your parents, and that’s a good thing. I have one regret, one big regret.”

  “What’s that, Father?”

  “Well, it seems a pity that we had to wait all this time to have such a frank talk. But I suppose that’s not very consistent. One minute I tell you a father and son can’t ever get close, the next minute . . .”

  “I’ve always felt very close to you, Father,” said Joe.

  His father touched Joe’s hand. “D’you know, Joe, I believe you have.”

  Joe was so fully prepared for the death of his father that he was totally unprepared for the death of his mother. Ben Chapin stayed around until the infant Ann was almost a year old. As is so often the case, he had said his good-byes and had created in the minds of his household an acceptance of what was not yet an accomplished fact, but a fact that was only awaiting the final, confirming incident. Ben sat in his chair, smoked his cigar, drank his little whiskey, read his newspaper, fed himself his thrice-daily morsels, suitably greeted his family and servants, accepted their greetings in kind. Age and death were upon him and his life was over, and it was as though his body knew it and was afraid. His body was not resisting death but giving in to it. The voice that communicated the industry of his mind was still hard and masculine but if the words had been fearful the voice could have been called a croak. Instead it was a manly voice, speaking no whimpering words, and making liars out of his eyes which only told what was happening to his body. The eyes had become weak and unrevealing of the soul of the man. They were sick eyes because they could not help it any more than his skin could help what was happenin
g to it. One night he died.

  Harry Jackson was the first to notice that Charlotte was beginning to die.

  He saw her rather less frequently than did the other members of the household. He had a whipcord livery with black leather puttees, which he wore when he was acting as chauffeur, and it was his public dress. He had another uniform, black trousers and waistcoat and black alpaca jacket, which he wore when answering the doorbell. But most of his duties were in the stable-garage and in the yard and in the cellar. Harry was not a butler, or a chauffeur, or a coachman, or a valet. He was The Chapins’ Harry, who could prepare a meal or fix a toilet trap or plant the peonies. Sometimes five-day, six-day stretches would pass in which he didn’t lay eyes on Charlotte Chapin. In his own words, he stayed out of the way as much as possible, and his love for the big Pierce-Arrow kept him close to the stable, which he had begun to call the garridge. An hour after the car had been returned to the garage a man could have run a white-gloved finger under the fenders and found them spotless. All six cylinders were treated as individuals, and his principal reading was the Pierce-Arrow manual furnished by the Foss-Hughes firm in Philadelphia. The radiator petcock was as ready for inspection as the lap robe, and frequently Harry would sit in the car happily when he could have been sitting comfortably in the kitchen with a spiked cup of tea. Sometimes when Charlotte sent for him he would send back word that he was all greasy when such was not the case.

  But he would wipe off real grease and change his shoes for any summons that gave him a chance to see the infant Ann. His love for the child was so early and staunch that Marian’s early attempts to explain it were futile. It soon seemed a sufficient explanation to say that Harry wanted a little girl of his own, and indeed it was the only explanation that anyone offered. No explanation ever became as important in the household as the fact itself. He simply loved the child. He had no fondness for her mother, and because they were so close in age, while distant in position, his feeling for Joe was neither deep nor warm. But when he began to realize that Joe’s feeling for the child was strong and true, Harry felt that on that score he could share a warm interest with Joe. If Joe said anything about Ann, Harry would smilingly watch the workings of Joe’s face and the pleasure in his eyes, and he would listen without interrupting to everything Joe had to say about his daughter. Harry was never heard to say, to declare, that he loved the child. It was so far from necessary that the declaration would have been too moderate.