Ten North Frederick (24 page)

Ben came home from the office one July day when Joe was six years old. It was noon, time for dinner. “Good morning, Father,” said the boy. “Mother has a headache.”

“Oh,” said Ben.

Foley's sister, Martha, entered the sitting room and announced that Mrs. Chapin had a headache and would not be down for dinner.

“So I understand,” said Ben. “Tell your brother to put Blackie in the cut-under and bring him around to the front door. Right away, please, Martha.”

“Will you be having your dinner now, sir?”

“No. Just do as I tell you, please.”

“Where are you going, Father?”

“I'll tell you in a minute. Is your mother asleep?”

“I don't know. I guess so.”

“Well, tiptoe upstairs and see, and come right down and tell me.”

The boy was unaccustomed to orders, but he did as directed and returned to report that his mother was asleep. “We're going for a drive, you and I.”

“You and I, Father?”

“Yes.”

“I didn't ask Mummy.”

“I'll leave word. I'll write her a note. She won't be worried.”

“Yes she will, Father.”

“Not after I've written this note.”

“Where are we going?”

“It's a surprise.”

Ben was writing the note to Charlotte.

“What kind of a surprise?”

“A nice one,” said Ben. “Now don't ask me any more questions till I've finished this note.”

“Are we going away somewhere?”

“Hmm?”

“Where are we going?”

“A place you like to go to,” said Ben.

“The carriage is out front, sir,” said Martha.

“Give this to Mrs. Chapin when she wakes up. Come on, son.”

The father and son drove away in the cut-under and Ben refused to vouchsafe any information until it was unmistakable that they were driving to The Run.

“Are we going to The Run?”

“Yes.”

“What for?”

“A surprise.”

“A picnic, Father?”

“You'll see.”

The Run was the name for a large reservoir owned by the coal company. The shores were lined with boathouses, elaborate and simple. The Chapin boathouse was not one of the simple places. Ben got out and lowered the horse's checkrein and knotted the tie-strap.

“What are we going to do?” said Joe.

“We're going for a swim.”

“I can't swim, Father, you know that.”

“Now's the time to learn.” They entered the boathouse and went downstairs to the men's dressing room. Ben took off his clothes and put on his bathing suit. “Well, get undressed, son.”

“I don't want to. I don't want to learn to swim.”

“Now, just take off your clothes and hang them up over there.”

“I want to go home!”

“All in good season. Shall I undress you, or can you undress yourself?”

“I don't want to get undressed. I don't want to learn to swim! I want Mummy!”

“She can't hear you, son. Now do as I say, or I'll do it for you.”

The boy took off his clothes and laid them in a pile and stood waiting for the next move.

“That's a good boy. Now for a dip.”

The water was eight feet deep in front of the Chapin boathouse. Into it Ben suddenly threw his son, then after a few seconds he lowered himself into the water and took hold of the screaming, thrashing child.

“See? Now you can swim.”

In half an hour the boy actually could swim. When Ben said it was time to go home the boy asked to go in once more and Ben granted the permission. They dried themselves and got into their street clothes.

“See? Now you can swim. Isn't that splendid? Did you like it? Do you like being able to swim?”

“Yes. Oh, yes. Wait till I tell Mummy I can swim.”

“It's the only way to learn. It's the way I learned. Sorry I had to take you by surprise, but that's the only way. And you'll never forget it. Once you learn to swim, you never forget. Isn't that splendid?”

They drove to the stable and went through the yard to the house together, the father with his hand on the boy's shoulder. “I hope Mummy's awake so I can tell her.”

“She is. I see her at the window.”

The boy looked up and waved and his mother waved back. “Come up and see me, dear,” she called to him.

“I have a surprise for you,” said the boy. He and his father went to Charlotte's room.

“Tell me
all
about it,” said Charlotte. “I want to know everything you did.”

The boy gave an accurate, excited account of the swimming lesson. When he finished his mother said, “Have you had any dinner?”

“No, Mummy.”

“I thought not. Well, run downstairs now. Your father will be down in a minute or two.”

The boy left the bedroom. When the door was closed they sat until they heard his rapid footsteps on the stairs, then Charlotte got up and crossed the room and slapped Ben's face three times, four times. “I could kill you,” she said.

“I understand that, Charlotte.”

“You are a pig, a coward, a beast. Do you realize what could have happened? Hit his head on a stone? Heart attack from that freezing water? You are the worst son of a bitch that ever lived. Do you hear me? You are the worst son of a bitch that ever lived. You are a son of a bitch, a son of a bitch. You are a fucking son of a bitch, do you hear me? You son of a bitch. Oh, I'd like to kill you. I'd love to kill you so that you'd die in horrible pain, and I could watch you.”

“I know that, Charlotte.”

“And you did it to torture me.”

“No,” said Ben. “I wanted to teach your boy to swim, and I did.”

“You son of a bitch.”

“
You
can't swim,” said Ben. “Now you can go to The Run with him and he won't drown. Before this you couldn't save him. Now he can swim. Now if you'll excuse me.”

He went downstairs and from the dining room the boy called to him. “Is that you, Father?”

“Yes, my dear. I have to go back to the office. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, Father,” said the boy.

Charlotte should have been—but was not—grateful to Ben if for no other reason than that Ben's drastic introduction to swimming put Joe on equal terms with Arthur McHenry. Arthur had learned to swim the same way, but earlier than Joe, and Charlotte did not like the idea that Arthur could be better at anything than Joe was. She had plans for Arthur even at that age: Arthur was a nice boy, a quiet, steady boy, well born and healthy, and devoted to Joe. The friendship between the boys was a natural and genuine thing and needed no more than propinquity for a start. But Charlotte gave it active and thorough encouragement. She wanted Joe to have a
suitable
friend; a boy with the same background but an ancillary personality. She was not convinced that at the age of six Joe was a brilliant boy in the things of the mind, but she correctly judged her son to have the makings of a brilliant personality. He had good looks that were not likely to suffer during the distortions of puberty and adolescence. (The fine thin nose, the beautifully formed thin lips.) His way with servants was something you were born with, almost never acquired, almost never lost. At a children's party he was the child whom, besides their own offspring, the other mothers looked at. He was accused of arrogance and insolence before he was ten years old, and in most instances the accusations were unjustified. But the mothers of lumps of children felt keenly the difference between their own scions and the Chapin heir. Joe, the most mannerly child, was subject to the severest scrutiny because his slightest departure from the conventional politenesses was automatically exaggerated by the very fact of his usual good manners.

At a party at the Montgomerys' when Joe was ten an incident occurred that affected various lives out of proportion to the words and deeds making up the incident. The game was Hide the Thimble. The thimble was hidden, and the children trooped into the parlor to search for it. Blanche Montgomery, the mother of the nominal host Jerry Montgomery, made the customary announcement: “When I say you're getting warm, that means you're getting close to it. When I say you're getting cold, you're getting farther away. Does everybody understand?”

Yes, they all understood.

They milled about until one little girl said: “Who's the warmest?”

“The warmest? Henry Laubach's the warmest,” said Blanche.

“No he isn't,” said Joe Chapin.

“Oh, yes he is, Joe,” said Blanche Montgomery.

“Oh, no he isn't,” said Joe.

“Please don't be rude, Joe. That's naughty,” said Blanche.

“But Henry
isn't
the warmest,” said Joe.

“Then suppose you tell us who is,” said Blanche.

“Arthur is,” said Joe.

“
I hardly
think so. Arthur's
very
cold.”

“Ha ha ha.” Joe laughed. “Are you cold, Arthur?”

Arthur laughed. “No, I'm boiling hot.”

“Are you the boiling-hottest one in the room?” said Joe.

“Ooh, I'm scalding hot,” said Arthur.

“Just a moment, please,” said Blanche. She walked to the part of the room where a puzzled Henry Laubach was standing. “Someone has played a nasty trick, and I think we all know who it is,” said Blanche.

Some of the children provided her answer: “Joe Chapin! Joe Chapin!”

“Have you got the thimble?” said Blanche.

“No,” said Joe.

“Or Arthur McHenry?”

“Yes, I have it,” said Arthur.

“Then hand it over, please, and we'll start the game again without you boys. No prize for either one of you.”

“But I found it and I gave it to Arthur,” said Joe.

“You played a deceitful trick on all the other children. You're a spoil-sport,” said Blanche.

“But I'm not, Mrs. Montgomery. I saw it first, as soon as we came in the room,” said Joe.

“That must have been before the game started,” said Blanche.

“No, it wasn't. The game started as soon as we came in, I thought,” said Joe.

“Well, you thought wrong.”

“That's not fair. I found it first and I gave it to Arthur and he was the warmest.”

“That is
not
the way the game is played, and you know it. And what's more, I don't like little boys to be impertinent.”

“I wasn't impertinent,” said Joe.

“Yes you were. You always are. You think you're a lot, but you're not.”

“Then I'm going home,” said Joe.

“Me too,” said Arthur McHenry.

“You'll do no such thing. Kindly hand over the thimble and we'll start the game over again without you two boys.”

Arthur handed her the thimble.

“You boys can sit here, and now, children, all the others go out in the hall and we'll hide it again. All others go out in the hall, please. No, Joe. Not you. Not you, Arthur.”

“We're not going out in the hall, we're going home,” said Joe.

“You'll
have
to wait for your carriage,” said Blanche.

Joe stared at her for a few seconds, then suddenly he ran, followed by Arthur, out of the house, without stopping for cap and coat. The woman hurried to the porch, calling after them, but her voice only made them quicken their speed.

The Montgomery house was on Lantenengo Street, on the other side of town from the Chapins' on Frederick Street. The boys stopped running at Main Street and spent a half hour looking in the shop windows and otherwise disporting themselves, picking up some mud on their shoes and stockings and incidentally catching the beginnings of colds in the late-winter air. When darkness began to come each boy went to his own home.

Blanche Montgomery was with Joe's mother in the sitting room.

“Mummy?” called Joe.

“In the sitting room, dear.”

“Don't track up the whole house with your muddy shoes,” said Martha. “Let me wipe them off.”

“Martha's taking the mud off my shoes,” called Joe.

“Take off your shoes and come in here,” said Charlotte.

The boy went to the sitting room. On seeing Blanche Montgomery he hesitated.

“I want you to apologize to Mrs. Montgomery for leaving her house that way.”

“I apologize,” said Joe, and turned to leave.

“Is that all, Mrs. Montgomery?” said Charlotte.

“I'm sorry this had to happen, and—”

“We're all sorry it happened. Thank you for coming over. Very considerate of you. Martha, will you see Mrs. Montgomery to the front door?” Charlotte emphasized
front
door only slightly.

Blanche spoke to Joe; “I'm sorry this had to happen, Joe. Next year I hope we'll—”

“Yes. Thank you very much,” said Charlotte.

Blanche Montgomery left the house and Joe gave his version of the incident, a true one.

“And that's all? You hadn't been misbehaving before the game started?”

“No, Mummy. And besides, that was the first game. And we didn't even get any refreshments.”

“You can hardly expect to get refreshments if you leave the party before it's time. I've told Martha to give you your supper in the kitchen. I'm very disappointed in you.”

“But why, Mummy? She just as much as told us we were cheating and we weren't. I saw the thimble first.”

“That's not why I'm disappointed in you. A gentleman doesn't make scenes. You were a guest in their house and you're supposed to abide by the rules of the house you're visiting. I've told Martha, no dessert.”

“What is dessert?”

“Floating Island.”

“But I love Floating Island!”

“I'm sorry, but that's your punishment, not only for forgetting you're a gentleman, but for not coming straight home. What if there'd been a runaway and the horses dashed up on the sidewalk?”