Ten North Frederick (34 page)

“I agree with you. Has he paid his bill?”

“He paid it yesterday. I'd be inclined to tell him to find another law firm, but they're going to get bigger and bigger, Joe. And I understand the British are buying all the beef they can get their hands on, so let's humor him for another couple of years.”

“Yes, and there's the vague possibility, only a possibility, but worth considering. We
could
be maneuvered into this war.”

“If we were, would you go?”

“If we were invaded, of course I'd go. So would you.”

“It may not take an invasion to get us into it.”

“What else would get us into it?”

“Well, suppose the Germans invaded Canada,” said Arthur.

“Canada? That would be the same as invading us.”

“Or Mexico.”

“Why would anybody want to invade Mexico? I consider the Germans a stupid race of people, but who would be that stupid?”

“It would be a good way to invade us. Mexico first, then us.”

“They'd never get across the Rio Grande.”

“The Mexican bandits do.”

“But not a Mexican army. Not in a real war. And by the time the British and French are through with the Germans they won't have enough men left to—invasion? Out of the question, Arthur.”

“Well, you said it was a possibility.”

“Yes, but highly improbable. About as unlikely as the Chinese invading California. We're protected by two oceans and by Canada on the north, and to the south—well, we have nothing to fear there either. All the same, I wonder what I'd do if I'd just got out of college and had no matrimonial plans. What would you do?”

“I think I'd enlist, in the Canadian Army.”

“If you did I'd go with you.”

“I wouldn't go without you.”

They laughed lightly. “It would be ridiculous, wouldn't it?” said Joe. “And yet, you can't deny what the Germans did in Belgium. Especially to the Belgian women. Putting them in whore-houses for the troops. When you hear things like that you wonder if it would be so ridiculous after all. You have to admire the British and the Canadians for going to the defense of the Belgians the way they did. What must a Belgian father or husband feel when he hears what they did to his wife or daughter? And they say the British are just as angry at those atrocities as the Belgians. Well, of course, the British sense of fair play. Code of decency and all that sort of thing. Have you thought of joining the National Guard? Some of the fellows at the club were talking about it.”

“I'd rather wait awhile and see what happens. I don't want to have to drill, and go to camp at Mount Gretna, and march in parades every time a Civil War veteran dies,” said Arthur.

“No, that could be tiresome,” said Joe.

“Drudgery,” said Arthur.

“Well, we're worrying about nothing. I'm convinced that Woodrow Wilson will keep us out of it. Not that I like Wilson, but he doesn't even look warlike. And of course he was a college professor.”

“Yes, but he was also a football coach,” said Arthur, smiling.

“He was? I didn't know that.”

“At Wesleyan.”

“Wesleyan? The Wesleyan at Middletown, Connecticut? That Wesleyan? I thought he was Princeton through and through.”

“I'm sure he is, but he taught at Wesleyan,” said Arthur. “How about the young man upstairs? Have you entered him at New Haven?”

“No, I never thought of it. Took it for granted. He'll be the fifth in line to go to Yale, fifth generation, and maybe more. I'll tell you what I
have
thought of: I've thought of entering him in Groton.”

“Groton? Why not The Hill?”

“I have no strong feeling about The Hill. I was sent there because it was close to home, and it may be all right if you're going to Penn or Princeton, but if my boy goes to Yale or Harvard I want to prepare him for Yale or Harvard. You don't like the idea.”

“Well—no.”

“Why not?”

“Why don't you send him to Eton?”

“Eton's in England.”

“Well, if you're going to send your boy to a place that tries to be Eton, why not send him to the real thing instead?”

“Oh, I don't think Groton tries to be Eton.”

“Maybe not, but the fellows we knew that went there . . .”

“Dave Harrison went there. Alec went to Groton. You liked them.”

“Did I?”

“Didn't you? Now don't tell me you didn't like Dave and Alec.”

“How often have I looked them up in New York?”

“You were an usher for Alec.”

“With sixteen other fellows, or eighteen, or whatever it was.”

“He wasn't one of your ushers,” said Joe, remembering. “Why wasn't he?”

“He wasn't asked,” said Arthur. “Alec got married as soon as he got out of college. You and I waited a couple of years, and by that time Yale didn't mean quite as much to me as it had—if it ever did. I'm not convinced that going to Yale was the best move I ever made. I'm not sorry I went there, but I think I would have learned just as much at Lafayette. I'm sure I would have learned more at Harvard. I was so damn busy being careful so I'd make a senior society, and I didn't really give a damn about it except that I knew you were sure to make one, so I had to too. If I had a son, which I never will, I'd send him to Gibbsville High and Penn State.”

“You're joking.”

“No, I'm not joking. I don't recommend that for your son. Your father's people have all gone to Yale and they were New Englanders. My family are all Pennsylvanians on both sides. You can get just as good an education at Muhlenberg as you can at Yale, and maybe better with all those Pennsylvania Dutchmen and fewer distractions.”

“Why, you don't even know anybody that went to Muhlenberg.”

“Yes I do. Old Judge Flickinger went to Muhlenberg. He studied law at Penn, but he went to Muhlenberg. Dr. Schwenk, the pastor of the Lutheran church. And half a dozen other men that I consider as well educated as any Yale men we have around here.”

“You never see them. I've never seen these educated men at your house.”

“More's the pity, Joe. I wish I knew some of them right now, to get an educated German-American's views of this war.”

“I'm afraid they'd be more German than American.”

“Well, what if they were? We're making them feel like bastards, and some of them go back to pre-Revolutionary days.”

“Maybe they are bastards,” said Joe.

“Judge Flickinger?”

“Well, I wasn't thinking of him. I hardly know Dr. Schwenk. But we know men in this town that are sending money to Germany secretly.”

“Well, we know others that are sending money to England openly. I happen to be one. I have cousins in England that I never saw, never expect to see, and if they knew I was talking like this I'm sure they'd return my money. But I'm really tempted to send some money to the Germans too.”

“You're talking through your hat.”

“Aren't we neutral? Aren't we?”

“Officially, because Woodrow Wilson wants us to stay out of it.”

“Very well, then if my sympathies cause me to send money to England, my belief in strict neutrality, the policy of our country, ought to cause me to send money to Germany.”

“Well, don't do it, because no matter what we are officially, if we get into this war you know darn well whose side we'll be on.”

“Yes, and the Germans know it too.”

“Well, they started it, and they're going to be very sorry they did.”

“Joe, that's exactly the attitude that may result in your donning a uniform and fighting for your country.”

“All right. If I have to.”

Arthur helped himself to more whiskey and whistled an unrecognizable tune. They had the kind of friendship that permits quiet as well as argument, without nervous searching for conversational topics. Always the one who happened to be the visitor knew he could leave when he felt like it, comfortable in the knowledge that visits were only incidental to the whole relationship.

“Edith asleep?”

“Mm-hmm, I think so.”

Joe picked up the afternoon newspaper. “They had quite a big fire in Fort Penn.”

“Yes, I saw that,” said Arthur.

He sipped his drink.

Joe read the newspaper.

“Are those the shoes you bought at Wanamaker's?” said Arthur.

“Hmm?” said Joe.

“Are those the shoes you got at Wanamaker's?”

“These shoes? No, I got these at Frank Brothers about two years ago. They were hard to break in, but now I like them.”

Joe went back to his newspaper and Arthur smoked his pipe, sipped his drink, whistled in between. Perhaps five minutes went by. Then Arthur stood up, but Joe did not ask him if he were leaving. He was not leaving. He went to the dictionary, spent a minute with it and sat down again.

“What were you looking up?” said Joe.

“Parturition.”

Joe laughed. “Oh,” he said. “I looked it up myself about eight months ago.”

In a little while he finished with the newspaper. “What's the name of the man Mildred's going to see?”

“I don't remember.”

“Not Deaver or d' Acosta or one of those?”

“No, I'd never heard the name before. He has an office on Walnut Street.”

“Well, I hope you remember the number, on
Walnut
Street.”

“I have it all written down, and Billy telephoned him long distance last week.”

“I'd like to drop in and say hello before she leaves.”

“I'd rather you didn't. She—”

“You're right, you're right. It might alarm her. You're absolutely right.” Joe nodded. “Make it seem like—nothing very serious, nothing to get alarmed over. I'll send her a book to read on the train.”

“That would be nice.”

“Something light, humorous,” said Joe. “Would she like some candy? You know Marian's homemade candy.”

“She loves Marian's candy.”

“You know, Arthur, it's awful how much of our lives we spend just waiting, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“Edith and I, first waiting to be sure she was going to have the baby, then waiting for her to have it. Now you, waiting to take poor Mildred to Philadelphia, and waiting there for what the doctor has to say.”

“I
know
what he's going to say, Joe. And that's when the worst waiting begins.”

“Oh, no. You don't think it's that bad. Do you really?”

Arthur nodded. “Whatever it is, it's gone too far. And Mildred knows it too. We pretend, but we know.”

“Oh, Jesus, Arthur. Here I am, so God damn happy, with my son . . . Arthur, I feel like a shit. I've been no help to you at all.”

“Oh, yes you have. Yes—you—have.”

“Don't be ashamed to cry.”

“I'm not ashamed. I was just hoping I wouldn't.”

Joe rose. “I'm going upstairs. You stay here as long as you like, and don't bother about the lights. I'll turn them out when I go to bed.”

“Thanks, Joe.”

“And I'm right here every night, you know that.”

“I know,” said Arthur. “Congratulations. That's really why I came.”

Joe smiled and left him.

 • • • 

Newness lasts longer in a small town than in a big city, whether the newness is on a private residence, a store building, a new baby—or, for that matter, a corpse. A new baby remains a fresh conversational topic long past his first birthday, just as a house that has sheltered a family for a full generation may continue to be referred to as a
new
house. And in the same way a man who has lost a loved one in March is still being told, in December, that “I'm sorry for your trouble,” if the speaker is Irish, or the conventional expressions of sympathy if he is not. Joe Chapin thus was receiving expressions of sympathy (and sorrow for his trouble) while accepting the early congratulations on the birth of his son.

As an example there was the case of Mike Slattery, when the two men had a chance meeting on Main Street. “Good morning, Joe,” said Mike.

“Good morning, Mike,” said Joe.

“The last time I talked to you was right on this very spot,” said Mike. “Only that time it wasn't to congratulate you.”

“I remember,” said Joe.

“Very pleasant news. The mother and child both doing well, I trust? I've heard nothing to the contrary.”

“Yes, they both seem to have benefited by the experience.”

“Glad to hear it. I always admired Edith greatly. A fine woman. And little Nancy, is it?”

“Ann,” said Joe.

“That's right, Ann. I fancy she's pleased to have a little brother in the house.”

“Oh, yes. And your little girls. You have three, haven't you, Mike?”

“Margaret, Monica, and Marie. In that order. All M's, but no Michael so far. I told Peg, I said the next one is going to be Michael no matter what.”

“Michelle's a pretty name, in case you have another daughter.”

“Thank you, thank you,” said Mike, with mild sarcasm. “But if you don't mind, I'd like a straight, plain Michael. A stem-winder, as the fellows say. Your boy is Joe Junior, I understand.”

“Yes, Junior. We're both named after my grandfather.”

“Uh-huh. The Joseph B. Chapin they named the school after.”

“That's the one. I guess they're mostly little pickaninnies going to that school, but my grandfather would have been pleased with that. He was bitterly opposed to slavery.”

“Oh, is that so, Joe? Was he in politics?”

“Oh, yes. He served one term as lieutenant governor.”

“Lieutenant governor of Pennsylvania. I didn't know that. Your father was never active.”

“No, Father never became interested in politics. I don't know why, but I suppose because Mother was a semi-invalid.”