Ten North Frederick (11 page)

“It's a coal capital, like Scranton.”

“Yes. But so many of the so-called first families, they don't seem to have anything to do with coal. Some of them own farms, some own timber land. Small factories. The steel mill. Silk mill. Shirt factories. It's a highly skilled town. The other day I saw a list of college graduates that live here, and there isn't a major college in the East or Middle West that wasn't represented—with one exception. Do you know what that was?”

“Yale.”

“Lord, no. It's full of Yale men, but you were close. I couldn't find one graduate of Harvard College. Penn State leads, then Lehigh, because of so many men with engineering training, I guess. Then the University of Pennsylvania, then Yale, and after Yale I think Lafayette or Muhlenberg.”

“Anybody from Illinois?”

“Yes, I told you, all the Western Conference.”

“Who from Illinois?”

“A man named Sanders, works for the Power & Light Company. He was in the class of '
22
. I haven't met him yet. He was a Zeta Psi.”

“What was this list for?”

“Oh, they're thinking of starting a University Club. They tried it once before, years ago, and it didn't pan out because anybody that could afford a club joined the Gibbsville Club. But now the Gibbsville Club has a waiting list as long as your arm and some fellows would like to have a place to go that isn't the Elks.”

“To get away from their wives.”

“Very likely, among other reasons.”

“And you're going to join this University Club?”

“I haven't said anything either way. In one way the Gibbsville Club would be better for me, but the new one has its advantages too.”

“As the Superintendent of Schools you join the Gibbsville Club, but as a nice guy you join the new one. Right?”

“I've been told I can get in the Gibbsville Club through a special dispensation.”

“Does the dispensation dispense with dues and initiation?”

“It does not,” he said. “But there's a possibility I might not have to pay anything to be a member of the new club.”

“Then join that,” said Amy.

“No, seriously.”

“I'm being serious. That's the one you can afford, and it'll look better for you to be in a club you can afford than one that everybody knows is too expensive.”

“You know, you're right,” said Carl. “And tell the Gibbsville Club people—”

“That you're getting in the new club for free.”

“No, then they'll think I'm hinting for a free membership at the Gibbsville Club.”

“Well?”

“No.”

“If the Gibbsville Club will make it easy for you to join, they must want you, but you can't afford the expense.”

“Maybe I can't afford not to join.”

“You weren't a member when they hired you. Problems, problems. But I can't get too excited over this one. How much does the Gibbsville Club cost?”

“I think it's two hundred initiation and a hundred a year.”

“Well, that solves that problem. Unless you want to make a few speeches and get paid for them, and then join.”

“They'd probably want me to make speeches after I became a member.”

“And without paying you. They want you in other words to shell out three hundred dollars to deprive yourself of the opportunity of making yourself a few hundred dollars. The more I think of it, the less I like the Gibbsville Club. What was originally on your mind when we started to talk about Gibbsville?”

“Let me see. Way back?”

“Yes, before we got onto this club stuff, which I can tell you I don't like any part of. Three hundred dollars. Let's make a list of things we could do with three hundred dollars and see how far down the list this club would be. Insurance, dentist, medical bills, clothes for growing children, vacation money, ten dresses for me, four suits for you, income tax, war bonds, new washing machine after the war. The longer I make the list the lower down the club gets.”

“They want us to join the country club.”

“After the war, if we're still here, then we can discuss the country club. The country club makes some sense. The children can swim there, and play tennis, but let's wait and see if we stay in Gibbsville, this interesting town.”

“That's what I was saying.”

“I know. We finally got back to it. You were saying something about its being a highly skilled town.”

“It is,” said Carl. “I imagine Schenectady, New York, is highly skilled, all those electrical engineers and practical men. But this place is interesting because it's diversified, and we weren't led to expect that. Do you know how many breweries there are in this town?”

“A lot.”

“Five.”

“That is a lot, isn't it?”

“It sure is,” he said. “What I've been thinking about is that this town ought to be going places after the war. There'll be a let-down. There always is after a war. But not as bad as if the coal business were the only thing they had to depend on. There'll be a big building program, all over the country, and right here. And what does that mean? How does that affect us? Schools. Bigger and better schools, and being superintendent is going to be a bigger and better job. And it's going to be better, if not bigger, in our field, because with such a high percentage of college-trained and skilled men, education is going to be terribly important. If we were living in a mill town, with most of the people working with their hands, the laboring class—well, you know what that would be. Less interest in education. But every college man wants his children to be college men, and won't settle for less. And they'll take an active interest in education.”

“And think they can do it better than you can.”

“Let them think it, if they'll let me do it,” said Carl.

“This is the first time you've waxed so enthusiastic about Gibbsville. How come? Has it been gestating, or is it sudden?”

“Both. I've been looking, studying, taking walks and talking to people. But I guess what got me started today was going to that funeral. A man that never did much, never really accomplished much, and from what I gather wasn't terribly popular—nevertheless you saw that funeral. Really impressive. I said to myself, ‘What if I died? What kind of a turnout would I get?' Put aside the morbid aspects, and by gosh it was a stimulating experience. This is a good town, Amy, and we could do a lot worse than spend the rest of our lives here.”

“Maybe.”

“Well, can't you show a little enthusiasm? I don't expect much, but a little.”

“I'll save my enthusiasm for when you need it. Right now you don't need any extra.”

“Oh.”

“I did a little thinking today, too, if you want to hear about it.”

“Of course I do,” he said.

“Well, I put myself in her place, Mrs. Chapin's. A big, respectable turnout, a lot of important people, crowds in the streets, and everything but a brass band. But what has she got? She has no husband, she has a daughter that I understand is a bit of a nymph, and a son that hasn't amounted to anything and probably never will. You were stimulated, but the whole thing depressed me, if you want to know.”

“Oh.”

“And the worst of it is, I didn't feel any sympathy for her at all.”

“I wonder why.”

“I know why,” she said. “It's because without knowing her at all I got the feeling that she was the strongest person in that family, and that whatever happened was her own doing.”

“Her undoing?”

“Her—own—doing. Her fault. I wouldn't like to have her for an enemy, but I also don't want her for a friend.”

“Well, I guess that's the girls,” said Carl. He called out: “Carlie? Ing? Come give your father a kiss.”

“We're in the kitchen, girls,” called their mother.

 • • • 

In the kitchen at Number
10
, Mary Loughlan was engaged in conversation with Marian Jackson, the cook, and her husband Harry Jackson, butler-chauffeur-manservant. Harry was sitting back in the Morris chair, the most comfortable seat in the room, smoking a semi-bulldog pipe and sipping a well-diluted whiskey from a teacup. He was wearing the trousers of his chauffeur's livery and a white shirt and black necktie. His wife was sitting with her hands crossed at one end of the large table, and Mary Loughlan was at the other end, turning and turning an empty teacup over and over in her hands. “She hasn't shown a sign of strain that I've been able to detect, which is remarkable considering,” said Mary Loughlan. “True, she's usually sound asleep the moment her head touches the pillow at night, but—”

“How do you know that?”

“How do I know that? The years I've been in service. I can tell more by the crushings and the contours of a pillow in the morning how a person slept than most people that occupied the same room and indeed the same bed. Ask Marian if that isn't true.”

“It's true,” said Marian Jackson.

“There's very little a person can't tell if she uses her powers of observation that the good Lord gave her. The condition of a bed in the morning holds very few secrets, and since I've been with her and the late lamented, the years were very interesting ones from that point of view.”

“You should have been a house detective,” said Harry Jackson.

“In a manner of speaking, that's what I have been,” said Mary Loughlan. “Ask your wife if that isn't so.”

“Yes,” said Marian.

“I could almost put a date on when they discontinued the relation between man and wife.”

“Put a date on it,” said Harry.

“I can't now, but I could of then,” said Mary. “And it wasn't when they took to the twin beds. It was some time after.”

“Did you know that?” Harry asked his wife.

“Mm-hmm, at the time.”

“How often did J. B. get up in the night to make his water?” said Harry.

“There's no necessity to be vulgar, Harry,” said Mary. “No necessity for that, at all. But I could of told you that, too.”

“Come on. How many times he got up during the night?”

“I knew he was having trouble with his kidneys, didn't I, Marian?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“You could tell that from the condition of the bed?”

“I didn't say that, but Marian and I knew, didn't we, Marian?”

“How?”

“Let Marian tell you when I'm not present. I don't care to continue the discussion,” said Mary. “Early breakfast for Joby. He's leaving on the seven-five train in the morning. He won't want much in the way of solid food, but strong coffee.”

“The drunken pup.”

“Well, it's a wonder to me it didn't happen long before this,” said Mary. “At that it's better upstairs in his own room away from everybody than as if it was the Gibbsville Club or the hotel bar or other places I could think of. And at least it put him to sleep instead of giving him the prowls. Him prowling about the town on this night of all nights, that would be the last straw. Then he
would
hear from her. This way she's putting up a great pretense of total ignorance of his condition. She knows, but she won't let on. She doesn't have much to rely on—though credit where credit's due. Ann Chapin is the pleasantest surprise I've had these past four days. I give her full marks for proper conduct.”

“What did you expect her to do?” said Harry.

“What I expected her to do is so far different than what she's surprised me by doing that the two don't compare. Yes, Ann Chapin Musgrove, I give you credit. There's good stuff in you after all, even if it takes a thing like this to bring it out.”

“Good stuff, good stuff. I've known this family all my life. Sure there's good stuff on both sides,” said Harry.

“Did you hear me say anything to the contrary?” said Mary.

“I don't like you criticizing,” said Harry.

“Who was it only a moment ago called the boy a drunken pup?”

“I'm talking about Ann. It took you since you been working here to find out about her,” said Harry.

“Ann's his soft spot,” said Marian. “Never say anything against Ann when Harry's around.”

“It's my recollection that I gave her credit for having good stuff in her,” said Mary.

“The first time you ever said anything good about her, the first time since you been in this house,” said Harry.

“Relax yourself, Harry Jackson,” said Mary.

“I'm glad I got something better to do than look at bedsheets,” said Harry.

“Now, now. Now, now, now, now, now. Don't get too personal there, my man. Don't get too personal. Have your favorite, if you like, and all well and good. But no personal remarks, and don't try to deprive me of my right to express my opinions, because nobody is going to tell Mary Loughlan to shut up, and nobody's going to tell Mary Loughlan how she's going to think about a person. Right, Marian?”

“Everybody should calm down,” said Marian.

The speaking-tube whistle sounded. “Now what?” said Mary Loughlan going to the outlet. “Yes, ma'am,” she said.

“Mary, will you go to Mother's bedroom, please?” said Ann.

“I will,” said Mary Loughlan.

She looked at the Jacksons. “Speaking of the devil, or I should say, speaking of the angel,” she said, “I'm wanted up on high.”

 • • • 

Number
15
, which usually left Gibbsville for Philadelphia at
4
:
10
in the afternoon, was held for fifteen minutes because of the unscheduled visit of Edith Chapin with the luncheon guests. The Messrs. Weeks, Kirkpatrick and Harrison and the admiral were taking Number
15
, onto which was coupled the private car of the president of the line, and in which they were riding to Philadelphia. Kirkpatrick, the only Philadelphian, invited Harrison and Weeks and the admiral to dine with him at the Union League, but Harrison and Weeks said they were going to New York and the admiral was proceeding to Washington. The admiral was met by a Navy car; Kirkpatrick took a taxi home, and Harrison and Weeks were greeted by a personable young man whom they did not know, but who knew them. He escorted them to a black Lincoln limousine in which Weeks was first driven to the Broad Street Station, after which Harrison was taken to the Philadelphia Club. Harrison joined two Philadelphia friends, and the personable young man, who was a member, went upstairs and whiled away the time in a game of Sniff.