by John O'Hara
In 1920 Ann Chapin reached the age of nine, and her small brother became five. Ann had her own room, she was at Miss Holton’s School, she had a Shetland pony which she drove in a governess cart, on Saturdays she rode her mother’s gelding, and on Saturday afternoons she attended dancing school, which she hated because it was full of girls and half full of boys who likewise hated it because it was full of girls. She fought boys with her fists and with her fingernails and teeth, but she liked to sit in the garage with Harry while he repaired and polished the new, the Chapins’ second, Pierce-Arrow. She helped Harry: when he was washing the car he would tell her to turn off the hose, turn on the hose, bring him the sponge, hang up the chamois. When he finished he would take off his rubber boots and put on his old sneakers (which had belonged to her father) and they would go to the kitchen for a glass of homemade root beer. Marian would always protest that the root beer would spoil Ann’s supper, but Harry would remind her that root beer contained herbs, and herbs were good for a person. Better for a person, Marian would say, than the smoke from Harry’s pipe. “But Father smokes a pipe,” Ann would say. “But he puts tobacco in it,” Marian would say. “Not old hunks of rubber boots.”
She liked the pungency of the garage, with its mixture of motorcar and horse smells, and the lingering sweetness and cleanliness of the kitchen and even the dankness and cleanness of the laundry, with its stationary tubs and inside wash-lines. When Harry was out she would watch Marian at her ironing or her baking or cleaning a chicken, and she liked Marian, but being with Marian was not the fun that being with Harry was. When she had a wound she would show it to Harry, when she needed money she would go to Harry.
When she needed affection demonstrated, she would go to her father, and she would go to him when she wanted to know the meaning of a word, or for permission to do something unusual, or for an appeal from severe punishment. It was not lost on her, even before she was nine, that her father reserved for her alone any outward demonstrations of affection. There was almost always room made for her on his lap; and in his den, at his desk, he would always break his concentration on a book or a letter when she entered and spoke. She had been told not to sit on her mother’s lap, an order that was not satisfactorily explained to her during the time of Edith’s second pregnancy, a time during which her mother also had stopped carrying her upstairs to bed or lifting her into her crib. Edith forgot to resume the tender acts after the baby was born, and the oversight cost Edith the opportunities for affectionate gestures that Joe made automatically. Thus inevitably home to Ann meant her father first, then her mother and Harry and Marian, then her brother.
“I don’t think you ought to spend so much time in the garage and the kitchen,” said Edith, during Ann’s ninth year.
“Harry likes me to,” said Ann.
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” said Edith. “You must get in their way.”
“No I don’t, Mother. I help Harry and Marian.”
“I’m afraid you keep them from doing their work, and they’re too polite to say so,” said Edith.
Ann stayed out of the kitchen and the garage for a week. She spoke to Harry and Marian only when spoken to, and replied to them without looking at them. Then Harry, who was beginning to miss her visits, said to her: “Where you been keeping yourself?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? Well, you better give that pony some exercise or she’ll be sick.”
“Why?”
“Because it isn’t good for her to be standing in the stall without any exercise, that’s why.”
“I’ve been forbidden.”
“You’ve been forbidden? Forbidden to what? Your father’d rather sell the pony than have her just stand there and founder. She’ll get the bloat.”
“My mother said I get in you and Marian’s way.”
Harry looked at his wife, who nodded and made a face. “Ah, you don’t get in our way,” said Marian. “We’re only too glad to have you.”
“That’s not what my mother said,” said Ann.
The situation was relieved by a conversation between Harry and Joe and a further conversation between Joe and Edith.
“Do you want her to grow up saying ain’t? And I’ve heard her say worse,” said Edith.
“What worse?”
“The word beginning with S. You know where she got that.”
“I’m pretty sure I know where she didn’t get it, Edith. Harry wouldn’t use those words in front of a child.”
“She heard it somewhere and that’s the logical place. Besides, it isn’t only the nasty words. It’s ain’t, and me and him, and bad grammar. And another thing.”
“What?”
“Talking about Captain’s big peter.”
Joe laughed.
“I don’t think it’s funny, to have a nine-year-old child discussing a horse’s private parts. And you know where she got the word peter. From Harry, of course.”
“Well, it could have been worse,” said Joe. “I’m glad Harry showed restraint.”
“You seem to think the whole thing’s funny. She said Captain’s peter nearly touches the ground.”
“Well, how old were you when you first rode a horse? About the same age. And you can’t spend much time around them without noticing certain things. Harry worships Ann, worships her. You can be damn sure that no harm is going to come to her if Harry can help it.”
“No, of course not. Except that she’ll grow up talking like a stable-boy.”
“You’re not being fair to Harry, Edith. Decidedly unfair, in my opinion. And while I don’t as a rule like to interfere, this time I think there’s more to be lost than gained by forbidding Ann to visit the stable.”
“Very well. I gave the order, if you wish to countermand it,” said Edith.
“Couldn’t you just say to her, something to the effect that she’s been such a good girl lately, you’ve decided she could go to the stable again.”
“I couldn’t say that. She hasn’t been such a good girl lately.”
“Well, you know why,” said Joe.
“Yes, I know why. She’s been sulking because she was told to stay out of the garage. Or stable, which you prefer. She’s been misbehaving, refusing to do her homework, refusing to touch her food. Very naughty. And you propose to have me tell her that as a reward for being naughty, she can do as she pleases. I’m very sorry, my dear, but I refuse to do it. If you want to spoil her, that’s on your conscience. That’s for you to decide. But in the future, perhaps you’d like to take over the whole responsibility. Oh, I’ll relinquish it. But let me remind you that the time isn’t far off when she’ll need her mother more than her father.”
“This isn’t the crisis you’re making it out to be,” said Joe. “I said nothing about countermanding, or relieving you of your authority. However, when I think you’re being overzealous—”
“Overzealous? Hmm.”
“I reserve the right to intervene,” said Joe. “I’m going to tell Ann that what we meant was that we were afraid she was interfering with Harry’s work, but that Harry said she wasn’t, so . . .”
“So?”
“Well, she could go to the stable, but perhaps not as often.”
“Proving exactly nothing except that I was wrong, and she won’t forget that.”
“Well, I think you exaggerate that part of it. But that’s what I’m going to do.”
Joe followed out his plan and Ann’s visits to the stable-garage were resumed. The episode—it was more than an incident—took place over a period of about a year, from Edith’s ruling, through the restoration of Ann’s visiting privileges, and into Ann’s tenth year. The episode concluded with an unhappy occurrence.
Joe Junior—who was known in the family as Joby, a name which developed from the child’s attempt to speak his full name—liked to do everything his sister
could do. He played with her dolls, he imitated her speech, he screamed when he was kept out of her parties, and he attempted to achieve the same relationship with his father that his sister enjoyed. If he saw Ann sitting on her father’s lap, he would climb on the remaining space and try to play the same games with Joe. The maneuvers made the father and the daughter uncomfortable, but they would try to make room for the boy. His mother would invite him to sit on her lap, and he would do so, but his attention remained on his sister and his father, so that Edith was made to feel excluded from the family play, and she ceased to try to participate. Which, in turn, left Joby out of it all.
Among his imitative activities was his following Ann to the garage, and he would try to beat her to the faucet when Harry told her to turn off the hose; to have the chamois in his hand for the moment when Harry would call for it. Joby was quick in body and mind and he sometimes annoyed his sister by anticipating Harry’s commands. On one occasion Ann lost patience with him and turned the hose on him. She was punished, this time by her father, who ruled that she could not go to the stable for a week. She punished Joby by keeping him out of her room and taking away her dolls, privileges which were restored when she was allowed to go back to the garage.
But Harry had no warmth of feeling for the boy. “I can’t get to like the kid,” he told Marian. “I don’t know why.”
“He’s a miserable little lad, you ought to try,” said Marian.
“Miserable? What’s miserable about him?”
“You don’t see it, but I do,” said Marian. “She don’t know how to give him affection—”
“That I can believe.”
“And Ann don’t need her, with her father and my husband lavishing all the love a child can want.”
“Well, it’s the way some people affect you and some don’t. He’s such a snotty little prick, too. He don’t hesitate to order me around. I don’t pay no attention, but that don’t prevent him.”
“Oh, now.”
“It’s the truth. I get more orders from the boy than I do from him and her put together.”
“What orders could a five-year-old child give you?”
“That five-year-old child can say hello Harry and make it sound like he was giving you an order. I wisht he’d stay out of the garridge and bother you, if you’re so kindly towards him. That time he tattled on Ann—listen, if I had a dollar for every time I had a notion to give him a good dousing with the hose . . . And he’s very mean to the stock.”
“That I didn’t know about,” said Marian.
“Oh, I don’t like that,” said Harry. “He’ll no sooner be in the cart than he grabs the whip and starts slashing away. Or did until I took the whip out. And that pony, you know a Shetland can be as mean a son of a bitch as walks on four feet. And this one kicks. One of these days, you mark my words.”
It was one of not many days later. Ann was sitting in the governess cart, the reins in her hand. It was a rule laid down by her father that the pony was always to be led out of the stable and down the wooden ramp to the alley.
“I want to lead her,” said Joby.
“Get in the cart,” said Harry. “I’ll lead her.”
“Come on, Joby, get in,” said Ann.
“I want to lead her!” said the boy. He made a quick movement to snatch the rein from Harry. The pony struck out and bit the boy’s upper arm, tearing the cotton middy blouse and breaking open the skin. Harry slapped the pony’s head.
“Get out, Ann, and take care of your brother,” said Harry. The boy sat screaming on the cobblestoned floor while Harry removed the harness and put the pony back in her stall. He picked up the terrified child and carried him into the house. “The pony bit him, send for the doctor,” he said to Marian. “Ann, you go tell your mother what happened.” He poured some whiskey on a clean rag and soaked it on the wound. The child screamed without a let-up, raising his voice at every new development and every attempt to comfort him.
In the evening Harry was called to Joe’s den for his version of the biting. He told it straight.
“Well, I’m afraid he got what he deserved,” said Joe.
“It isn’t that I’m thinking about, sir,” said Harry.
“What are you thinking about, Harry?”
“Well, I don’t know how to say it. It’s hard for me to . . .”
“Go on, Harry, go on,” said Joe. “You did everything that was right.”
“Thank you, sir. It’s more in the future.”
“What is?”
“Well, it’s in the past, too.”
“Is it about Joby? Is it something you don’t like to tell me about him?”
“Yes, sir,” said Harry. “It’s—some children don’t understand animals. Ann could go in the box stall with the pony or the horse and nothing’d ever happen. But the pony had it in for the boy.”
“And the boy had it coming to him?”
“Yes, sir, I’m afraid he did.”
“And that’s taking into consideration the all-around meanness of some Shetlands.”
“Uh, yes, even taking into consideration.”
Joe thought a moment. “Would you say he was cruel?”
“I don’t like to say it as strong as that.”
“You don’t like to say it, but if you were under oath that’s what you’d have to say, is that right?”
“Well—yes.”
Joe nodded. “Well, what about the future?”
“I’ll try my best, but I can’t guarantee it won’t happen again.”
“In that case, I guess we’ll have to get rid of the pony. We can find a home for her.”
“No, Mr. Chapin. That ain’t the solution,” said Harry. “You got me saying more than I wanted to say, so I might as well be hung for a sheep as a goat.”
Joe smiled. “We can’t get rid of the boy.”
“That’s right, you can’t, but if it was my son I’d keep him away from animals till he has a few more years to grow up.”
“You think this is a, uh, part of his make-up.”
“If it hadn’ta been the pony it’da been the horse. I never let him in the stall with the gelding, never. You know how when some people get near a horse it’ll start pawing the ground and start snorting?”
“God, is it as bad as that?”
“I don’t dare take my eyes off the boy the whole time he’s there.”
“I wish you’d told me this before.”
“Mr. Chapin, I don’t like to tell it to you now. I’m only doing it because we saw what happened today. It coulda been a lot worse.”
“I appreciate everything you’ve said and done. And I’m well aware, Harry, that if it hadn’t been for you, there might have been a runaway, with my daughter in the cart.”
“God forbid,” said Harry. “God forbid that.”
“Well—it’s a problem, no doubt about that. And don’t you worry about it, Harry. Mrs. Chapin and I both appreciate what you did. Cool-headed. The right thing. Go on out and have a nice big tumbler of that whiskey, illegal or not.”
“Much obliged, sir,” said Harry.
For Joe Chapin the Children’s Era had begun.
• • •
Gibbsville, in the first two decades of the Twentieth Century, suffered from a sense of shame because of its lack of a country club. The existence of the tennis club, which was, from the standpoint of exclusiveness, far superior to any of the country clubs in comparable Pennsylvania towns, did not make up for the fact that until 1920, Gibbsville gentlemen had to motor to the next county if they wished to play golf. Everyone who was a member of the tennis club was given the opportunity to become a charter member of the new Lantenengo Country Club, and almost every tennis club member did so. Anyone who belonged to the tennis club had made the club grade in Gibbsville. There were men in the Gibbsville Club who could not achieve membe
rship in the tennis club because their wives had not come along in the social world to the same degree that the men had progressed in the business and professional world. Nor did membership in the Gibbsville Club automatically ensure an invitation to join the new, larger, more expensive golf club. Almost any sufficiently solvent Christian man, who had made his money in a sanctioned enterprise and did not habitually leave his car parked in front of whorehouses, could be reasonably sure of election to the Gibbsville Club within two years of proposal and seconding. The only large list of persons who were in effect automatically eligible for country-club membership was the invitation list of the Gibbsville Assembly, and every person on the list was sounded out before the officers of the new club considered other possibilities. A man or a couple who stayed away from five consecutive Assemblies could be dropped from the invitation list, but the rule was seldom invoked, barring extreme misconduct at or away from the Ball itself. Consequently the men and women who were not on the Assembly list were the rare exceptions among the possible members of the new country club. There were two Gibbsville groups that were immediately essential to the formation of the new club. Without the approval of a majority of the Assembly Board, the club never could have proceeded beyond the conversational stage, and the same was true of The Second Thursdays, a group that finally and ultimately possessed the greatest social power in Gibbsville. The very existence of The Second Thursdays was unknown to most of the citizens of the town and even to many who were invited to the Assembly. In its history it never had had a nonmember guest, it had no charter, no constitution and by-laws, no rules, no officers, no dues (although assessments were permissible), no stationery, no headquarters, no waiting list other than the direct descendants of the original members. At their meetings the gentlemen wore two-inch-wide red ribbons diagonally across their starched shirt fronts and each lady was provided with the corsage of the evening. Among the persons who did know of the existence of The Second Thursdays none was socially so foolish as to mention the organization to one of its reputed members. The club roster never had been printed or made public, and from time to time young nonmembers would try to break the secret of the membership. The young blades would station themselves near the homes of reasonably likely members and keep track of the ladies and gentlemen who entered the homes. But no two reports had identical lists of names, and consequently the curious were not able to say with certainty that any single report did actually cover The Second Thursdays. They might have been mere dinner parties. The curious could have questioned the servants of suspected members, but the purpose of the questioning would have been apparent to any cook or maid, and the reliability of her answers would have been doubtful, since she might be lying out of loyalty or for deviltry. In the beginning the secrecy had had a rather kind justification: they did not want to hurt the feelings of the fellow-townsmen who had not been invited to the dinner parties. But as the years passed the secrecy acquired two other reasons for being: it was fun, and “it was nobody’s damn business.”
