by John O'Hara
Joe Chapin was more bitterly disappointed than Arthur McHenry. “Those people out in California,” said Joe. “They’re so far away from everything they have no idea what’s happening.”
“It’s a long distance away,” said Arthur. “As far from us as we are from Europe.”
“With one big difference. What’s next to California? Nevada. There are no German submarines in Nevada, but there are off the Jersey coast. That’s how much closer we are than those Californians.”
“Well, like it or not, we have four more years of Mr. Wilson.”
“Yes, and the prospect—it makes me want to do something.”
“Well, you did something in this campaign.”
“What, Arthur? I gave some money, and I had my name on some letterheads.”
“Don’t underestimate either. Your name is worth a lot. So’s your money, but your name plus your money—it’s the first time you’ve ever let them use your name. Speaking of which, I meant to tell you this before. You’d better give Bob Hooker a better photograph of yourself. The other day, just for the fun of it, I drew a pair of glasses on your picture—Joe, that picture makes you look like Woodrow Wilson.”
“You’re not the first one to tell me that. Edith mentioned it. I never take a good picture.”
“Well, you’d better get a different one if you’re going to be in politics.”
“I’m not going to be in politics. I’m a partner in McHenry & Chapin, attorneys-at-law. But I’m interested in good government and the future of the Republican party, and as Edith says, if Vance McCormick can stand up for the Democrats, I can stand up for our side.”
“We’re soon going to have to make a decision about the firm, by the way,” said Arthur.
“To get bigger or not to get bigger?”
“Exactly,” said Arthur. “I don’t think you had this in mind, but if you should become influential in politics, very influential, we’re going to be attracting a lot more business. Some of it we won’t want. That’ll be the people who will want us to handle their legal affairs because we may, just may, have political influence. Then of course there’s the other side. There will be some clients who will leave us because we’re mixed up in politics.”
“I’ve had occasion to think about that lately,” said Joe. “I met a man in Philadelphia the other day. When he heard my name he asked me if I were the McHenry & Chapin Chapin, and when I said I was he gave me his card. He has a construction business. I have the card at home. Name I never heard of.”
“Why did he give you his card?” said Arthur.
“He said if I ever came to Pittsburgh to drop in and see him. I said, well, if he ever came to Gibbsville to drop in and see us. That was all.”
“That was all for the present,” said Arthur. “How did you meet this fellow?”
“The day I had lunch at the Union League. You know, with Kirkpatrick. Kirkpatrick introduced me to him.”
“Well, I had a chat with Henry Laubach yesterday, at the Gibbsville Club. Henry never comes to the point if he can help it, but I can usually tell what he’s thinking. I would say, reading between the lines, that Henry tried to tell me that if we became a political law firm, we’d have to struggle along without Laubach & Company. Joe, I think we ought to go easy on this whole thing. I don’t like your friend from Pittsburgh, whose name you don’t remember. You don’t remember his name, and the only thing we know about him is that he’s in the construction business. But we also know that Council is going to ask for bids on paving South Main.”
Joe smiled. “I spied that connection right away,” he said.
“I hoped you would,” said Arthur. “Laubach & Company were almost our first clients, and they were my father’s clients before you and I hung out our shingle. Now we may decide that we want to get bigger, expand. But let’s not take the first business that comes our way. And let’s be very careful about taking on construction companies from Pittsburgh. If they’re any good they have their legal business taken care of by a Pittsburgh firm. If they’re not taken care of by a Pittsburgh firm, they’re probably fly-by-night.”
“I agree,” said Joe.
“You may want to run for office, and that might be a good idea. But without talking like Henry Laubach, I want to say here and now that I’m always going to oppose taking new business that looks as though it came our way through politics, or your political connections. You don’t need the money, and while I haven’t got as much money as you have, I don’t need the money. We’re doing very well now, and we’ll continue to do very well and better as our firm gets older.”
Joe nodded slowly and seriously. “I’ll tell you what my ambition is, as far as money’s concerned. I would like to be able to leave my wife and children each a million dollars.”
“You have quite a way to go,” said Arthur. “But we ought to be good for many more and prosperous years. You could do it. But you’re going to have to do it through investments and the stock market. Not through our profits as McHenry & Chapin.”
“Let’s have this talk again a year from now,” said Joe.
“Why, of course. Let’s have it every year,” said Arthur. “You may want to go out after that big business—and maybe I might change my mind.”
“I doubt it,” said Joe, smiling.
“So do I,” said Arthur. “But if I see you getting rich . . .”
“I know what you’re thinking, Arthur,” said Joe.
“Yes, I imagine you do,” said Arthur. “Am I thinking that I have no children to leave it to?”
“You don’t want to talk about Mildred,” said Joe.
“You’re the only one I do talk to.”
“But not enough,” said Joe. “Don’t you ever talk to Rose?”
“Rose? Not about Mildred. Rose misses Mildred as much as I do. We don’t even want to see each other.”
“I think you and Rose ought to get married,” said Joe.
“You what?”
“Don’t hit me,” said Joe.
“Is that Edith’s idea?”
“It’s my own idea, and I never thought of it till just this minute.”
“Well, get rid of it quick, and don’t ever repeat it. Don’t ever say that again.”
“I’m sorry, Arthur, but it’s what I think. I think you and Rose would be perfect for each other.”
“I thought you knew me. That is the most cold-blooded statement you’ve ever made.”
“Why?” said Joe.
“Because it is. I shouldn’t have to explain why.”
“Even so, why?” said Joe.
“Mildred hasn’t been dead a year, but you suggest not only that I get married, but that I marry her sister.”
Joe looked away from him. “Well, I was in love with a girl, and she died. She died without my marrying her. And she was in love with me. Then I fell in love with another girl and did marry her. Love can happen twice, and it can happen very quickly. In some ways you’re so much more intelligent than I am, but in other ways—Arthur, Rose has been in love with you for years. And I think it’s damned unfair of you to let her become an old maid. She will, too, you know. Has she any beaux?”
“No. Or at least I’m sure I don’t know.”
“Yes you do. You know. Be honest. Rose White made the best of it when you married Mildred, but—let me ask you something, and give me a word-of-honor answer. Are you in love with Rose?”
“Yes,” said Arthur.
“Now aren’t you glad you told me the truth, Arthur?”
“No, I’m not, not a bit glad.”
Joe took the receiver off the hook and spoke into the telephone: “Six-four, please.”
“What are you doing?” said Arthur.
“ . . . Hello, Rose? This is Joe Chapin. Arthur wants to speak to you.” He got up and transferred the receiver into Arthur’s hand.
> Frowning and bewildered, Arthur spoke: “Rose, this is Arthur . . . No, there’s nothing wrong. He just called your number and handed me the phone. Will you be home this evening? . . . Could I drop in for a minute? . . . That would be fine . . . Good-bye.”
“You’re so punctilious, if that’s the word I mean,” said Joe. “So proper.”
“Well, you’re not, I must say. I was afraid you were going . . .”
“I thought of it, and I almost did. But it’ll be more punctilious if you tell her yourself,” said Joe. “This may change your attitude toward making money.”
“What made you act as Cupid?” said Arthur. “It’s something new for you.”
“I wonder. I suppose when you have a daughter it starts you thinking along those lines. You’re too old for Ann, and in fact you’re getting too old for Rose, but you’re marriageable.”
“Are you sure Edith had nothing to do with this?”
“Edith not only had nothing to do with it, I don’t want you to ever say anything to her about this. Edith has altogether different ideas about me. In fact, I don’t think anybody really knows me. If they did—oh, well.”
Arthur put his hand on Joe’s shoulder, a display of intimacy he had never made before. “You know, Joe. You’re a very kind man.”
Joe looked at his own hand. “That’ll be enough of that, please,” he said.
Arthur smiled and left his friend without looking back.
• • •
On an afternoon in April of 1917 the partners met in Arthur’s office. They talked for an hour and more, then Arthur summed up. “All right, one of us goes, and the only way we can decide it is to toss a coin.”
“Here’s my cartwheel,” said Joe. “You toss it and I’ll call it.”
Arthur flipped the coin and while it was in the air Joe called, “Tails.”
It was heads.
“I win,” said Arthur.
“Wait a minute,” said Joe. “What were we tossing for? We should have agreed on that first.”
“The winner joins the Army,” said Arthur.
“That wasn’t agreed upon. I insist on another call. This time, if it’s heads, you join the Army, and tails, I join the Army.”
“Well—all right,” said Arthur. He tossed again, and again it came up heads.
“I furnished the coin, but I lost anyway,” said Joe.
“You lost twice, if you want to be honest about it.”
“Oh, well, it may be over by the time you get there. Everybody says the Germans will quit now that we’re in it.”
“Sour grapes from a bad loser,” said Arthur.
“They don’t really want men of thirty-five.”
“I’m still thirty-four.”
“Especially people who are out of shape and never take any exercise.”
“But I had a complete physical examination a month ago and Billy English says I’m in excellent condition, excellent. I think you forget, I took out more insurance for Rose.”
“That was considerate of you, but I’m sure she won’t need it. Take my advice and write a letter to the Judge Advocate General, that’s where you’ll be most useful, out of the way. You a soldier! Hoch der Kaiser!”
Some of the bitterness Joe felt was lessened by the assignment given Captain McHenry. They had agreed to abide by the decision of the coin: that one or the other was to stay at home and carry on the business of the firm until the Army called him. Arthur was sent overseas, but his duties consisted largely of desk work in Paris and Tours, where he saw war but engaged in no personal combat. Joe’s bitterness, he admitted to Edith, changed to envy, which was somewhat easier to suffer. As the war continued into its second American year Joe began to make preparations to suspend the firm’s activities and transfer some of its business to other firms. He had completed most of the arrangements when the Armistice was declared. Arthur remained at Coblentz until the late spring of 1919, and was one of the last Gibbsville men to return to civilian status.
Joe had done everything a healthy civilian could do, but the Army was forever out of his experience and conversation. It took a little time for Arthur, who had no delusions of heroism or sacrifice about his own service, to understand that in missing the experience Joe had been affected in much the same way as a classmate of theirs who had failed to make a senior society. At New Haven Joe and Arthur had tried to tell their friend that the failure meant very little, and now Arthur tried (but only once) to convince Joe that there was no shadow over his patriotism or manliness. Arthur accidentally made one consoling remark: “It’s too bad we couldn’t have made a trade. I could just as easily have been here half the time and you in Paris.” He carefully never revealed to Joe that while he never fired a shot at the Germans, he had once been under fire, and machine-gun fire at that, when he and a colonel got lost in the forward area.
In re-familiarizing himself with the firm’s affairs he was made to realize the amount of work Joe had undertaken, the money he had made for the firm, the money he had given to war campaigns, and the time he had put in in the militia and in investigating distress cases for the Red Cross and the Patriotic League. But the mere mention of these activities seemed to fill Joe with disgust, and Arthur refrained from mentioning them in Joe’s presence. “I don’t see how one man could have done so much,” he said to Edith. “Joe did the work of four men.”
“Yes, he did,” said Edith. “But it will never make up for his not being in the Army.”
“Do you blame me, Edith?” said Arthur.
“Tossing a coin wasn’t the way it should have been done. No, I don’t blame you, Arthur, but I wish you had both agreed that keeping the firm going was not as important as it seemed. It will take a long time before Joe feels right about the war, maybe forever.”
“He did more than I did. I mean that.”
“I don’t doubt you for a minute. But you were in uniform, and you came back with those little striped ribbons on your coat.”
“Well, they’re not on my coat now, Edith.”
“No, that’s true,” said Edith. “I have a confession to make. I tried to coax Joe to give up the law and join the Army, but he insisted that you would have kept your end of the bargain if you’d lost. I insisted that you’d do no such thing. And you wouldn’t have, would you, Arthur?”
“No, I probably wouldn’t,” said Arthur.
“At least you admit it,” said Edith.
Arthur smiled. “Edith, for the first time in our lives I’m beginning to realize that you don’t like me. I’ve been very stupid.”
“Oh, I don’t believe you ever cared what I thought, whether I liked you or disliked you. All I ask now, Arthur, is that occasionally you remind yourself that Rose could be in my position and you could be in Joe’s. You served your country in the Army, but it was all decided by a toss of a coin.”
“I’ll do exactly as you wish. It happens to be what I’d have done anyway.”
“Very well, then the subject is closed,” said Edith.
“Good. Now there’s a subject I would like to bring up, if you don’t mind.”
“Please do.”
“Are you in favor of Joe’s going into politics?”
“Whether I’m in favor of it or not, his war record is against him, or would be if his opponent had been in the Army.”
“I guess the subject isn’t closed after all,” said Arthur.
“Well, we have to face facts,” said Edith. “And of course you’re not unhappy. You don’t want to see Joe in politics.”
“No, you’re damn right I don’t,” said Arthur.
“You can be emphatic without talking like a soldier. You never used to swear in my presence.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“If Joe should enter politics, I do think you ought to put aside your personal preferences in the matter, and do for him wh
at he did for you while you were in Paris. That is, do all you can to support him and encourage him and assist him. Joe has all the money he’ll ever need—”
“Not quite. He needs three million dollars so that he can leave a million each to you and the children.”
“Oh, so you know that? Well, I’d rather have him feel happy in whatever he’s doing than make a lot more money for the children and me. And the day may come when he does decide to do more in the field of public affairs, for better government and the good of the party.”
“Mike Slattery,” said Arthur.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Edith, we’d better not talk any more.”
“Whatever you say,” said Edith.
“Whatever I say will be used against me.”
“Very clever tonight, aren’t we?”
• • •
For most married couples who are parents, there comes a Children’s Era. It commences with the parents’ ceasing to regard the children as pets, toys, total dependents. There is no fixed age when the change occurs; the change in parent and child is too subtle for that. But in retrospect the parent sometimes can fix the time by recalling an incident, by a recognizable change in attitude of parent toward child, or of child toward parent.
