Ten North Frederick (39 page)

“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 membership 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.”

Joe Chapin became a member upon the death of his father, despite the fact that his father and mother never had attended a dinner meeting. It was decided that since the elder Chapins had been on the original list, membership should pass on to Joe regardless of the fact that his mother's illness had kept his parents from active participation. At her first visit (and Joe's) Edith was in an advanced state of curiosity and excitement. Although she had known everyone present all of her life, the members had taken on the importance that the long mysteriousness had created. She was thrilled to be among these people who but for her marriage to Joe would have gone on for years and years in their unrevealed superiority. It was almost like danger. “To think that Josephine Laubach could have been snubbing me without my knowing it,” she thought. “To think that Whit Hofman isn't a member. To think of all the times I've sat with Arthur McHenry without being sure he belonged to this. To think what Peg Slattery would give to be here.” She was reluctantly proud of Joe with his red ribbon and his easy manner, taking the whole thing in stride.

There were always three toasts: to George Washington; to Abraham Lincoln; and to The President of the United States. The conversation at table was no different from the conversation at any dinner party which included some or all of the people present. At no time during the evening was the name of the organization spoken. After dinner the gentlemen separated from the ladies, staying away for exactly thirty minutes. When the group re-formed, the host, at Edith's first dinner, Billy English, rose and knocked his ring on the taboret to gain attention. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “We are honored by your presence in our house.” (Edith later was to learn that it was a set speech, to avoid long and flowery expressions of the thought by the various hosts.) He smiled and bowed slowly in a gesture that included everyone present. “It is my pleasant duty to welcome Edith and Joe, and it is my duty to relieve each of the gentlemen of twenty dollars. The purpose of this assessment is to alleviate the distress of a lady whom we all know, whose need is acute. For the information of our newest members, this money is delivered anonymously to the person in distress, with a note assuring her that it is a perfectly legitimate transaction and that it would be a waste of time for her to try to thank the donor. I assure you, Joe, that these assessments are not levied at every meeting, but I also must warn you that they are sometimes larger. Our next meeting will be on the twenty-first, at Henry and Josephine's. Thank you.”

The business of the meetings was seldom more complicated than on that first evening. Edith soon learned that the ladies had nothing to say about the business affairs of the club which were discussed during the gentlemen's half-hour. An election to membership was announced with the unadorned statement: “At our next meeting we will be joined by . . .” and the names of the new members. It was not practicable to blackball a candidate, since the eligibility of a candidate was so rigidly established. No one ever had refused to join the club, and no one who had joined had had to resign for financial or other reasons. It usually took three years from meeting to meeting at any one house and all eligibles were able to afford their turns as host.

To Joe, who had always known he would some day be a member, The Second Thursdays was a social event offering good food and wine, among old friends whom one might not otherwise see as often as he might wish. It was a gathering of ladies and gentlemen in their best bibs and tuckers, where one felt free to speak without being careful not to be overheard. “We mean something in Gibbsville, besides meaning something to ourselves,” he told Edith. “When the club was started, in
1892
, it pretended to be no more than a congenial group of friends. But you notice now that the men who founded it made a pretty good guess as to the really substantial people. The reason the club is just as good twenty-eight years later is that it probably would have been just as good twenty-eight years before, if you see what I mean. They could just as easily have started the club in,
28
from
92
,
1864
. I think the exact same families would have been represented in
1864
as are represented now. There are a lot of nice people in Gibbsville that would be pleasant additions to the club. I'd like to see Whit Hofman a member, for instance. Rather, I'd welcome Whit Hofman. But the founding fathers, as you might call them, didn't see fit to invite old Mr. Hofman, and they must have had their reasons. Billy English—his father was a crook who blew his brains out, but Mr. English was an original member, so Billy is a member and that entitles Julian to membership when his father dies, which I hope won't be for a long time. Julian would have to calm down quite a lot, but of course we can't hold people responsible for college pranks.”