Ten North Frederick

by John O'Hara

“You’re talking through your hat.”

  “Aren’t we neutral? Aren’t we?”

  “Officially, because Woodrow Wilson wants us to stay out of it.”

  “Very well, then if my sympathies cause me to send money to England, my belief in strict neutrality, the policy of our country, ought to cause me to send money to Germany.”

  “Well, don’t do it, because no matter what we are officially, if we get into this war you know darn well whose side we’ll be on.”

  “Yes, and the Germans know it too.”

  “Well, they started it, and they’re going to be very sorry they did.”

  “Joe, that’s exactly the attitude that may result in your donning a uniform and fighting for your country.”

  “All right. If I have to.”

  Arthur helped himself to more whiskey and whistled an unrecognizable tune. They had the kind of friendship that permits quiet as well as argument, without nervous searching for conversational topics. Always the one who happened to be the visitor knew he could leave when he felt like it, comfortable in the knowledge that visits were only incidental to the whole relationship.

  “Edith asleep?”

  “Mm-hmm, I think so.”

  Joe picked up the afternoon newspaper. “They had quite a big fire in Fort Penn.”

  “Yes, I saw that,” said Arthur.

  He sipped his drink.

  Joe read the newspaper.

  “Are those the shoes you bought at Wanamaker’s?” said Arthur.

  “Hmm?” said Joe.

  “Are those the shoes you got at Wanamaker’s?”

  “These shoes? No, I got these at Frank Brothers about two years ago. They were hard to break in, but now I like them.”

  Joe went back to his newspaper and Arthur smoked his pipe, sipped his drink, whistled in between. Perhaps five minutes went by. Then Arthur stood up, but Joe did not ask him if he were leaving. He was not leaving. He went to the dictionary, spent a minute with it and sat down again.

  “What were you looking up?” said Joe.

  “Parturition.”

  Joe laughed. “Oh,” he said. “I looked it up myself about eight months ago.”

  In a little while he finished with the newspaper. “What’s the name of the man Mildred’s going to see?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Not Deaver or d’ Acosta or one of those?”

  “No, I’d never heard the name before. He has an office on Walnut Street.”

  “Well, I hope you remember the number, on Walnut Street.”

  “I have it all written down, and Billy telephoned him long distance last week.”

  “I’d like to drop in and say hello before she leaves.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t. She—”

  “You’re right, you’re right. It might alarm her. You’re absolutely right.” Joe nodded. “Make it seem like—nothing very serious, nothing to get alarmed over. I’ll send her a book to read on the train.”

  “That would be nice.”

  “Something light, humorous,” said Joe. “Would she like some candy? You know Marian’s homemade candy.”

  “She loves Marian’s candy.”

  “You know, Arthur, it’s awful how much of our lives we spend just waiting, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Edith and I, first waiting to be sure she was going to have the baby, then waiting for her to have it. Now you, waiting to take poor Mildred to Philadelphia, and waiting there for what the doctor has to say.”

  “I know what he’s going to say, Joe. And that’s when the worst waiting begins.”

  “Oh, no. You don’t think it’s that bad. Do you really?”

  Arthur nodded. “Whatever it is, it’s gone too far. And Mildred knows it too. We pretend, but we know.”

  “Oh, Jesus, Arthur. Here I am, so God damn happy, with my son . . . Arthur, I feel like a shit. I’ve been no help to you at all.”

  “Oh, yes you have. Yes—you—have.”

  “Don’t be ashamed to cry.”

  “I’m not ashamed. I was just hoping I wouldn’t.”

  Joe rose. “I’m going upstairs. You stay here as long as you like, and don’t bother about the lights. I’ll turn them out when I go to bed.”

  “Thanks, Joe.”

  “And I’m right here every night, you know that.”

  “I know,” said Arthur. “Congratulations. That’s really why I came.”

  Joe smiled and left him.

  • • •

  Newness lasts longer in a small town than in a big city, whether the newness is on a private residence, a store building, a new baby—or, for that matter, a corpse. A new baby remains a fresh conversational topic long past his first birthday, just as a house that has sheltered a family for a full generation may continue to be referred to as a new house. And in the same way a man who has lost a loved one in March is still being told, in December, that “I’m sorry for your trouble,” if the speaker is Irish, or the conventional expressions of sympathy if he is not. Joe Chapin thus was receiving expressions of sympathy (and sorrow for his trouble) while accepting the early congratulations on the birth of his son.

  As an example there was the case of Mike Slattery, when the two men had a chance meeting on Main Street. “Good morning, Joe,” said Mike.

  “Good morning, Mike,” said Joe.

  “The last time I talked to you was right on this very spot,” said Mike. “Only that time it wasn’t to congratulate you.”

  “I remember,” said Joe.

  “Very pleasant news. The mother and child both doing well, I trust? I’ve heard nothing to the contrary.”

  “Yes, they both seem to have benefited by the experience.”

  “Glad to hear it. I always admired Edith greatly. A fine woman. And little Nancy, is it?”

  “Ann,” said Joe.

  “That’s right, Ann. I fancy she’s pleased to have a little brother in the house.”

  “Oh, yes. And your little girls. You have three, haven’t you, Mike?”

  “Margaret, Monica, and Marie. In that order. All M’s, but no Michael so far. I told Peg, I said the next one is going to be Michael no matter what.”

  “Michelle’s a pretty name, in case you have another daughter.”

  “Thank you, thank you,” said Mike, with mild sarcasm. “But if you don’t mind, I’d like a straight, plain Michael. A stem-winder, as the fellows say. Your boy is Joe Junior, I understand.”

  “Yes, Junior. We’re both named after my grandfather.”

  “Uh-huh. The Joseph B. Chapin they named the school after.”

  “That’s the one. I guess they’re mostly little pickaninnies going to that school, but my grandfather would have been pleased with that. He was bitterly opposed to slavery.”

  “Oh, is that so, Joe? Was he in politics?”

  “Oh, yes. He served one term as lieutenant governor.”

  “Lieutenant governor of Pennsylvania. I didn’t know that. Your father was never active.”

  “No, Father never became interested in politics. I don’t know why, but I suppose because Mother was a semi-invalid.”

  “Of course. Well, Edith’s a fine, healthy woman.”

  “Yes.”

  “Edith isn’t a semi or any kind of an invalid.”

  “No.”

  “Do you get what I’m driving at?”

  Joe smiled. “Possibly.”

  “It’d be nice to have another Joseph B. Chapin in public life.”

  Joe smiled again. “Well, you might talk to my son when he gets old enough.”

  “I’ll talk to him when the time comes, but I’d like to put the bee in your bonnet too.”

  “I’m afraid not, Mike. Nobody knows me.”

  “And nobody kno
ws anything against you. Seriously, the party’s always desperate for the better-type young man. If fellows like you took a more active interest, politics wouldn’t have such a bad reputation.”

  “Thank you, Mike, but I’m a lawyer.”

  “I never heard of that being a hindrance, not in politics. Invite me over to your house some evening when Edith can be present and I’ll tell you a few things about politics that you may not realize.”

  “You don’t think Edith would want me to go into politics. Why, Edith is one of the shyest girls I’ve ever known.”

  “Well, I didn’t say I was going to ask Edith to run for anything. I’d just like you and Edith to know that politics can be the most respectable thing in the world. Don’t forget, Joe, the men we all look up to the most—Washington, Lincoln, Teddy—they were politicians, and damn good politicians.”

  “Mike, you’re too persuasive already.”

  “Just promise me you’ll speak to Edith, just tell her what I’ve told you. Now I’ve got to go and play some politics. Help a man get a pension that he’s entitled to, but on account of some red tape he’s on the verge of starvation. That’s politics, too, Joe. A lot of it is helping people get what they’re entitled to. Billy English can tell you some of the things we politicians do that you never hear about.”

  “Mike, you’re a scoundrel and I’ve listened to too much already. Give my kindest regards to Peg.”

  “Thank you, Joe, and the same to Edith and Joe Junior and Ann,” said Mike. “I’ll never call her Nancy again.”

  When Joe came home that same evening Edith was at his desk in the den, writing letters. “I don’t think I’ll ever catch up on my correspondence, and yet before we were married I didn’t write six letters a year. By the way, who do you think sent me the biggest bouquet of flowers today?”

  “I don’t know, dear. Who?”

  “The Slatterys. Mr. and Mrs. Michael J. Slattery. Michael James Slattery. No message, just the card. I looked under the envelope and the card is from Bailey’s. What ever possessed them to send me flowers?”

  “Well, they’ve always been friendly. I’ve known both of them all my life, and Mike was in my class at law school. We used to see each other there, and ride home on the train together at Christmas time.”

  “Oh, I know them, I know them, but they don’t know me well enough to send me flowers. To tell the truth, I can’t stand her. That round pretty face and those clothes. I’ve never seen her in the same thing twice—not that I ever see her much. But she always looks new and painted.”

  “Painted? Peg Slattery?”

  “I don’t mean like a bad woman, but cheap. New. And there must be at least six dollars’ worth of roses. Now I’ll have to write to her, and I don’t want to write to her. I have no idea what to say to her. And what on earth does she want? Her oldest child is in Miss Holton’s and I think she goes to dancing school. What else does she want?”

  “They’re Irish, and the Irish are very kind people. Generous. And you’ve just had a baby.”

  “I hope I don’t have to keep track of all their babies. They have three girls and I think another child on the way. Oh, she wants something, of that you may be sure.”

  “Well, let’s wait and see what it is,” said Joe.

  The invitation Mike Slattery sought was not forthcoming, and he did not press the point, either of the invitation or of Joe’s more active participation in politics. In time, but not immediately, Peg received a note from Edith Chapin:

  Dear Peg:

  I would like to offer my belated thanks for the beautiful flowers you sent when our son was born. They were exquisite.

  I hope this finds you and your family all well.

  Sincerely,

  Edith S. Chapin

  (Mrs. Joseph B. Chapin)

  Peg Slattery read the note aloud to Mike, a custom they both followed even to household bills. “When did I send exquisite flowers to Madam Chapin?”

  “I forgot to tell you. When you went to Scranton for Sheila’s First Communion?”

  “Yes?”

  “I happened to meet Joe Chapin on Main Street and we had a chat and I got an inspiration. It wasn’t an inspiration, meaning the first time I ever thought of it. I’ve been thinking of it for quite a while. But while I was talking to him I planted the bee in his bonnet about him getting into politics. And what a lucky coincidence! Because it came out in the conversation that his grandfather and namesake, Joseph B. Chapin, was once the lieutenant governor. Did you know that?”

  “How would I know that?”

  “Well, I didn’t know it either, and it makes it so much easier. I told him the party needs young men like him, and if ever I spoke a true word in the form of flattery, that was it. A good old name, plenty of money that wasn’t stolen, at least stolen outright, and a handsome fellow with a good education. Married. Two young children. Protestant, but not an A.P.A. No scandals anywhere in the family.”

  “Edith’s father liked the bottle.”

  “But was he ever in trouble? No.”

  “Joe’s mother. A long, long time ago she got in some mix-up on Christiana Street when they used to have all those saloons there. Mom told me about it. Charlotte Chapin was—oh, dear, now—there was something about a man lifting up her skirts and—the Chapins had a coachman—he horsewhipped the man that got fresh with Charlotte.”

  “I never heard any of this,” said Mike. “It sounds crazy.”

  “It isn’t, I can assure you. I haven’t got it right because it’s so long since I thought about it. But I’m pretty sure the coachman beat up the man . . .”

  “Did the man climb in her carriage and get fresh?”

  “No. She was walking.”

  “Oh, come on now, Peg. Charlotte Chapin would never walk through that section.”

  “Ah, she never did again, but this one time she was walking—”

  “Accompanied by the coachman with a whip, of course,” said Mike.

  “Never mind the sarcasm,” said Peg Slattery. “It all happened just about the way I’m telling it. And after that, shortly after that, Charlotte Chapin took to her bed and stayed there the rest of her life. Or at least hardly ever left the Frederick Street house.”

  “It couldn’t have been much if I never even heard of the incident,” said Mike.

  “Maybe not, but I’d find out who the man was that the coachman beat up.”

  “Yes. This was what, about thirty years ago?”

  “I couldn’t say. But around that,” said Peg. “So you sent some exquisite flowers to Edith Chapin—Mrs. Joseph B., that is, just in case I might get her mixed up with the old lady who’s dead. You’re going to get at Joe through her, is that it?”

  “More or less.”

  “It won’t be hard.”

  “You think not? What makes you think so? According to Joe, she’d have a horror of public life.”

  “Proving that Joe knows his wife no better than many husbands know their wives. I don’t say Edith’s a suffragette or one of those kind of women, but if she’d been pretty she’d make a good Dolly Madison. She has two children, four years apart, so it doesn’t look to me like she’s out to increase the population. And her house doesn’t take much to run it—time, I mean. Harry and Marian run that house to perfection or Old Lady Chapin would have sacked them long ago. Edith isn’t interested in clothes. She dresses like someone that got her clothes at Cohen’s–North Main. She doesn’t do much church work or charity. I’d say Edith Chapin would relish being the wife of—what? You wouldn’t start him as an assemblyman.”

  “At first, I wouldn’t run him for anything. Just get him acquainted around among the boys. Then later spring him on the public, and if they took to him, fine. He’s not going to cost anybody anything—”

  “Far from it.”

  “And you know he’s so gosh-darn re
spectable. And I like Joe.”

  “Well, why shouldn’t you? I do too. He’s never done anything, good or bad, that I can see. Everything he is or has, he inherited. His good looks, his money, his name. The one thing he didn’t inherit I consider a handicap, but maybe that’s because I can hardly look at her, she’s that ugly.”

  “Oh, you and Edith could never be friends in a thousand years,” said Mike, amiably.

  Peg looked at him straight. “Hmm,” she said.

  “What do you mean, hmm?”

  “Never you mind, Mr. Michael James Slattery. I see through you,” said Peg.

  “I never said you didn’t,” said Mike. He kissed her on the cheek and she pretended to suffer the kiss.

  “She’d be no fun that way,” said Peg.

  He laughed, and she pushed him. “Go ’way from me,” she said.

  Joe Chapin’s political career could have ended with a word from Peg Slattery. If she had expressed an instinctive dislike of Joe, Mike Slattery would have said no more about Joe to her or anyone else. If she had wanted to punish Joe for Edith’s shortcomings, Mike would have so punished him. Mike in the first instance would have been relying, as he usually did, on Peg’s sound reactions to candidates. In the second instance he would have been no more than a loyal husband. But Peg, an equally loyal wife, was deeply and intensely interested in her husband’s business, which was politics, and she was above personal pettiness when it might affect that business. For her there was only one man in the world, and if other men were hurt or honored in the process of her man’s advancement, she was more than willing to dole out the honors and inflict the injuries. By the way that older men were coming to rely more and more on Mike’s judgment and delegate authority and responsibility, a duller woman than Peg could have told that Mike was already accepted as a senior member of the gang. His religious affiliation would keep him from the highest public honors—Governor of the Commonwealth, President of the United States—but the compensation there was that governors and presidents get defeated and the mark of defeat is upon them, while politicians are often at their most powerful after a defeat. When a candidate has taken a licking the party needs the professionals like Mike, the full-time noncandidates, to reorganize for the next campaign. It is a simple enough rule, and it explains the mystery that sometimes baffles the public (and defeated candidates): why, after a defeat, are the same old politicians still eating the big meals and smoking the expensive cigars? Peg knew the answer to the mystery; the best answer was her man, who was a full-time politician who would be eating the big meals and smoking the big cigars (although he personally did not smoke) no matter how many times Woodrow Wilson got elected president.