Ten North Frederick (33 page)

The law firm, then, gave Joe something to do, and he seemed to like it. If he had had an interest in book collecting, or polo, or even if he had been the kind of young man who could go to his club every day and while away the time in card playing and modulated drinking, Joe would have had Edith's encouragement. Her own father had been a quiet souse, which did not interfere with his functioning as an owner of timber lands and a vestryman in Trinity. But her father was not a handsome man, and Joe was handsome; her father was not a rich man, and Joe was rich. And her father was not her husband. She did not own her father. She had never been able to direct her father by order or by guidance, subtle or overt. She did not consider herself lucky to have Stokes as a father; she never had had ambitions for him; he never had been an instrument of her pleasure. And she was quite sure, without being bitter, that her father had not loved her; as sure as that she never had loved him.

Edith did love Joe, as an adjunct, as a part of herself and a mechanism in her life. That Joe loved her she never for two seconds doubted. In her alone, she was sure, reposed the power to awaken and continually reawaken whatever of lust there was in Joe. Sometimes it was as though she had been present with Joe every minute of his life from birth, and when the time came—on the night of their wedding—he was at last ready, and she was, as always, there to share this new experience. Before their marriage she had so finally convinced herself of Joe's virginity, and on their wedding night she had been so much more convinced by his awkwardness—that she suffered no curiosity about his relations with other girls. Accordingly, she never inquired; consequently, the lie he might have told her did not come up for a test.

Her appraisal of his love for her, in those early years of their marriage, was no more complicated than such a simple emotion and such simple circumstances demanded. There was, for instance (she believed), the fact that he
told
her he loved her. Then if that had not been enough, the fact that he depended on her completely for sexual pleasure. They were living in a time when it was popularly remarked that “he never looked at another woman.” Joe did look at other women, handsomer women—but never strayed from her. There was a point in politeness beyond which Joe did not go, and that was mild flirtatiousness. If, indeed, he ever reached that point. He was a gentleman, and the art of the fan was being practiced by the women they knew, which meant that some of the women appeared to be flirtatious; but Joe would participate only to the extent that nonparticipation would have been loutish. Aside from such politenesses, Joe gave Edith not the slightest reason to have the minutest doubt of his love for her.

In a town that was populated—at least in their set—by happy couples and only happy couples, they stood out as a happy couple for other happy couples to use as a model. There was some slight uneasiness among the other happy couples that was caused by the Chapins' failure, deliberate or otherwise, to produce a second child. But the worries were set at rest when, along about the time the Germans were invading Belgium, it became known that Edith was going to have another baby.

The British and German propaganda machines went quickly to work, although the British efforts were not as a rule characterized or even recognized as propaganda. In Gibbsville, where propaganda was not needed, the old German families responded as any such group might be expected to respond. The nice people, exclusive of the German-descended, and regardless of origin, immediately went to the assistance of the Allies. The German-descended were put on the defensive and some of them said and did foolish things when provoked that provoked reprisals, and in several cases enmities originated that not only outlasted the first World War, but were easily recalled upon the outbreak of World War II. Edith's pregnancy and the European hostilities postponed any further discussion of travel abroad—postponed it for more than ten years. The war in Europe did a curious thing: it provided a topic of conversation (except when the German-descended were present) which was dotted with European place names such as Louvain and Metz and the Argonne woodland; the men, at least, were talking about places they never had talked about in their lives (Metz had occasionally been in their conversations because there was a motorcar by that name); but the conversations were only “for show”; the European war was not understood and the reporting of it was meager, so that the question, “Can we stay out of it?,” was not being asked during the months that saw so much death in Europe while Edith was transfusing life to her child. Two, then three, then more of Joe's Yale friends or acquaintances were reported to have joined the British and the French, but in conversations with Arthur McHenry the war remained a European affair, not brought any closer to home by the volunteering of their friends. One of the volunteers had earlier gone on big-game-hunting expeditions in Africa, and to Joe and Arthur his signing on with the British was precisely of a piece with his firing rifles at lions. It was a chance for adventure and no more. When another classmate was killed in the first battle of Ypres he was conceded not to have been a big-game hunter or a mere adventurer; but an explanation for his being with the British was not hard to find; he was working for the London branch of an American bank and probably had a great many English friends. In every way the war was such a distant thing that Joe and Edith could hope for a son without any thought of his ever becoming cannon fodder.

It happened that Ann was sitting on her father's lap, being read to, when Miss McIlhenny, who had been re-engaged for the occasion, came to the den with the news that Edith had given birth to a son.

“Did you hear that, dear? Mummy—you have a brand-new baby brother,” said Joe.

“What's his name?” said Ann.

“Well, I think his name
will
be Joseph Benjamin Chapin, the same as mine, except that he'll be Junior. Aren't you happy? Aren't you pleased?”

“Everything's fine, Mr. Chapin. Fine,” said Miss McIlhenny.

“Thank you, Miss McIlhenny, thank you ever so much,” said Joe.

“Why did you say everything is fine? Do you mean there's something wrong?” said Ann.

“Not a bit of it,” said Joe.

“Can I see him?” said Ann.

“In a few minutes,” said Miss McIlhenny.

“Why does Mummy have to get sick to have a baby brother?”

“It isn't really a sickness like—measles.”

“She had to go to bed, she had Dr. English. Dr. English is still upstairs,” said the child.

“It's because babies have to stay in bed so much when they're tiny, and she wanted to be there when Dr. English brought him,” said the nurse.

“How did Dr. English bring him?”

“In that little black bag,” said Miss McIlhenny.

“Why didn't he stuffocate, if he was in the little black bag? He couldn't breathe. He must be very tiny.”

“Oh, he is, very tiny,” said Joe.

“Not so very tiny, at that,” said the nurse. “He's over seven pounds.”

“What if I don't like him?” said Ann.

“Oh, you'll love him,” said Joe.

“I haven't even seen him, I'm not sure I'll love him.”

“But you will love him, I'm sure of that,” said Joe. “Just as we all loved you when you were born.”

“Where is he going to sleep?”

“Why, I suppose in Mummy's room, for the time being. In his crib.”

“My crib,” said Ann.

“Well, it was your crib when you were a tiny baby, but you don't mind if he sleeps in it now, do you?”

“Yes I do,” said the child. “Somebody took my dolly out of my crib and put her on a chair. That wasn't nice.”

“But they did it for a real, live baby, your new baby brother,” said Joe. “I know you'd rather have your baby brother sleep in the crib than your dolly.”

“No I wouldn't,” said the child. “What if somebody puts him in my bed?”

“Nobody's going to put him in your bed,” said Joe. “You have your own bed as long as you want it. Then some day you'll grow so big that we'll have to buy you a bigger bed.”

“What color?”

“Any color you like.”

“Without a fence? I want one without a fence.”

“Oh, by that time you surely can have one without a fence.”

“But then you'll give my brother
my
bed.”

“Well, maybe. Maybe not.”

“Buy me a new bed and he can have mine with a fence. I mean please.”

“Well, we'll see.”

“Father? Will you carry me upstairs to see my brother?”

“Carry you? My big girl?”

“I'm not a big girl, I'm a little girl.”

“Tell you what I'll do. I'll go up first and have a moment or two with Mummy,
then
I'll come down and carry my big little girl upstairs to see her brand-new brother. Does that sound like fun?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Splendid. Now you go find Margaret and you and she can wait here for me.”

“Margaret's in the kitchen with Marian.”

“Very well, you go tell her what I told you.”

“Will you please tell her? She won't obey me.”

“All right. We'll both tell her.”

“Father?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Will you pick me up and give me a hug and a kiss first?”

“Why of course I will,” said Joe. “You bet I will.”

“And will you carry me out to the kitchen, please?”

“Sure I will that,” said Joe.

“You sound like Marian,” said the child.

“Sure and do I sound like Marian?”

“Father, you're funny.”

“Sure and am I funny?”

“Sure and you are,” said the child. “Am I funny?”

“Sure and you are, and the sweetest, loveliest—you're my big little girl. Up we go!” He picked her up and they started for the kitchen.

“Do Marian some more,” she said.

“Sure and I better stop if I know what's good for me,” said Joe.

“Do her some more,” said Ann.

“Oh, that's enough for the time being.”

“Will you be right down?”

“Two shakes of a ram's tail.”

“Will you carry me downstairs after I see my brother?”

“Well, I don't know. It may be your bedtime. But we'll see.”

“When you say ‘we'll see' you do it. When Mummy says it, she doesn't.”

“Hmm. We'll discuss that some other time. All right, my dear, dismount.”

“Please carry me into the kitchen.”

“All right, into the kitchen but then I must go upstairs and see the rest of our family.”

Later that evening, and after the well-intentioned Mrs. Stokes had departed for her own home (after telling Ann that the stork had brought her brother and carried him down the chimney), Joe had a visit from Arthur McHenry.

“I'm glad you don't like champagne any more than I do,” said Joe.

“It all tastes like Rubifoam to me,” said Arthur.

“Rubifoam?”

“It's a liquid I use to brush my teeth,” said Arthur.

“Never heard of it,” said Joe. “Lot of things I never heard of.”

“Well, welcome to the new arrival.”

“Welcome to the new arrival,” repeated Joe. They drank their whiskey neat, and without another word or a signal they hurled the glasses into the fireplace.

Next they toasted Edith. “I don't think we have to be so destructive this time,” said Joe. “It seems to me I remember paying a damn big bill for that dinner I gave my ushers.”

“How is Edith?”

“Well, somewhat exhausted, naturally, but Billy English says she's fine. How is Mildred?”

“I'm discouraged,” said Arthur. “I'm going to take her to Philadelphia next week to see a specialist. Do you know what she weighs? A hundred and five.”

“Goodness, Arthur. A hundred and five?”

“A hundred and five pounds, and the worst of it is, they don't seem to know what's the matter with her. She weighed close to a hundred and thirty when we were married. Or maybe even a pound of two over that. Billy says it isn't cancer, he seems certain it isn't that. But he doesn't offer any opinions about what it might be, so I'm going to have this man in Philadelphia take a look at her and maybe he'll be able to diagnose it.”

“What kind of a specialist is he?”

“It's something to do with the blood stream. The white corpuscles and the red corpuscles. You know how little I know about medicine. I was thinking of letting Malloy examine her.”

“No, he's a surgeon.”

“I know he is, but at least it would be another opinion.”

“I don't think Billy would like to call him in for a consultation. Billy doesn't like Malloy.”

“Well, what Billy doesn't like is too damn bad. If I hadn't made the arrangements to take Mildred to Philadelphia, I'd call Malloy myself.”

“He wouldn't come. That's medical ethics. Not as long as Billy's your doctor. And Billy will do everything for you that Malloy can do. Malloy'd probably send Mildred to a specialist too. Probably the same specialist.”

“Well, probably. I'm impatient because I don't see any improvement at all.”

“Is she in pain?”

“Well, not acute pain, but she's so God damn weak, Joe. So God damn weak. You know for Mildred to weigh a hundred and five—well, there isn't much left on her bones any more. She doesn't complain, but sometimes I think when she looks at me that she was begging me to do something. And what is there I can do?”

“What you're doing. Take her to a specialist. Cheer up. He may discover what's wrong with her right off the bat.”

“Rose is going along with us, and if the examination takes more than a couple of days she's going to stay there with Mildred.”

“Rose is a fine girl, fine.”

“Devoted to Mildred. It's the way sisters should be but they damn seldom are,” said Arthur. “Nothing new at the office today, or of much importance. Karl Schneider was in. He wants to find out if we can sue the Pennsy for delaying putting in that spur. You know their new building, where they want some new trackage to take the place of the old siding. I told him to make haste slowly. If we went into court every time that wild Dutchman had a grievance.”