Ten North Frederick (52 page)

“How do you mean represent?” Citizen B might say.

“Represent? By represent I mean I don't mean in politics. I mean if say they had another Sesqui, who would you want to be there representing Gibbsville? You'd want a guy that was honest and did something for the community, and looked the part. Listen, there isn't a thing that's for the good of this town that Joe Chapin is left out of.”

“Well, maybe you're right.”

“He isn't a crook, he isn't a hypocrite—Joe'll take a drink. Friendly, kind. Does a lot of things for people. I say you'd have a hard time getting anybody to say anything against Joe Chapin and prove it. You take a guy like Lloyd Williams, and he's a whoremaster. Then you take a guy on the order of Henry Laubach, and that son of a bitch, all he cares about is making more money. Henry isn't a
real
son of a bitch, but he's cold. One of those cold fellows. Doc English, he does a lot of good, but don't forget he gets paid for it, and if it came down to that I'd rather have Doc Malloy operate on me. No sir, the biggest all-around man in this town is Joseph B. Chapin.”

In the course of an average two-block walk from his office to the bank Joe Chapin would bid the time of day to at least ten persons and usually many more. There would be many
Good morning, Mr. Chapin
's that he would answer with a
Good morning
and a smile but without a name. People liked to speak to him, and when they could engage him in a few minutes' conversation they wanted to be seen talking to him. Merchants liked to have him seen in their stores; the cops liked to wave to him; people would call to him from their cars. He had his suits made in New York, but he patronized Main Street for socks and underwear, which gave him the opportunity to appear in the store, and gave the merchant the benefit of his patronage above the actual money spent. Joe's suits, shoes and hats came from out of town, but almost everything else he bought was bought in town or ordered through town merchants. If he wanted a Lee Dreadnaught-Driver he had it sent through the hardware store; if he was buying a
410
gun for Joby, it was ordered on Main Street; if Edith wanted a black caracul, it was a Main Street transaction.

The feeling generally was that Joe Chapin, except for his set taste in clothes, was the best of Gibbsville. He had achieved his status first by living to the age of forty-seven, having been born in Gibbsville of Gibbsville parents. He had returned to Gibbsville after getting his education. He had married a Gibbsville girl, the daughter of Gibbsville parents and with many Gibbsville relatives. Joe had then gone into partnership with a lifelong Gibbsville friend and native. He made his money in Gibbsville, he spent most of it in Gibbsville. Whenever he went away he “reflected credit” on his home town—and he always came back to it. He had avoided messes, and he had given the people confidence in their town and in themselves: Joe Chapin was not a New Yorker or a Philadelphian or a Chicagoan or a Bostonian, but wherever he went, he would be on equal terms with the best—and he was one hundred per cent Gibbsville. They did not quite love Joe Chapin, but they were proud of him and grateful, and if he had died in
1929
they might have found out that they did love him. But he did not die in
1929
.

Joe Chapin was almost the last of the upper-middle-class Gibbsvillians who had not been abroad. He had never been to Europe because in the days preceding the World War he had not been attracted to the Eastern Hemisphere by culture or by sin. Young men in his circumstances sometimes took their brides to Europe on their wedding trip, but during their engagement period Edith had told Joe that the very thought of a great ocean liner gave her
mal de mer
, and in accordance with her wishes, that ended the discussion. After the World War there was a longish period during which Joe mentioned Europe, and especially France, as seldom as possible. France, in the American language, was a word that had a quick association with the word
army
, and both words stayed out of Joe's conversation. But ten years after the Armistice the embarrassment had lessened to the point where Joe could make plans to take his family on a six weeks' trip to England, France, and Italy, and the plans, once postponed on account of the Kansas City convention, reached the passport and sailing-date stage. They would go in a French Line ship, which was “wet,” and you could begin to try out your bilingual ability as soon as you went abroad. The Chapins were given the names of the little restaurants that were known all over the United States as truly French and off the tourist-beaten path. Warning letters were written to the three or four Gibbsville expatriates. Morgan, Harjes were alerted through the good offices of Dave Harrison (“We have a man there that can do absolutely anything for you, whether it's good for you or very bad for you,” he wrote). The names of reputable physicians were obtained, and Joe and Edith even had serious discussions over the advisability of having the children's appendices excised in advance. They were reassured by the existence of the hospital at Neuilly. They promised themselves to drink no water but Evian and to drink no milk whatever. They would use their oldest, most decrepit luggage until they got to Paris and the establishment of Louis Vuitton. Ann was never to be let out of their sight, particularly in Italy, and most particularly in Firenze. The right kind of letter was being sent to our ambassadors in London, Paris, and Rome; to the purser of the
Ile de France
; to Bob Hooker's not very close friend Larry Hills, of the
Herald Tribune
; and to the managers of White's Club in London and the Travelers in Paris. Monsignor Creedon was arranging for a private audience with His Holiness Pius XI, and for months Joe and Edith took down the names and addresses of Rosa Lewis, Bricktop, Joe Zelli, George of the Ritz, Italian tailors, shoemakers more expensive than Peal, certain clerks at Asprey's, dons at Oxford, car-hire people who were cheaper than Daimler, Louis Bromfield's secretary George Watkins, and Nita Naldi, Erskine Gwynne, Sparrow Robertson, Jimmy Sheean, and Ben Finney. The mention of each name was introduced by the urgent
Be sure and see
 . . .

They were to leave Gibbsville two days after Country Day closed for the school year, sailing two days later. On the night that school closed Joe broke his right leg.

Edith and Joby had gone to bed early, having finished all but the final packing, and Ann was at a bon voyage party at the Laubachs'. Arthur and Rose had given Edith and Joe a party the night before Country Day closed, so that that ceremonial of the trip was out of the way. (“A good idea to get that out of the way so you won't be exhausted boarding your ship.”) The trunks had gone to New York, and Marian had even put the slip covers over some of the downstairs furniture. The house was not quite abandoned, not quite occupied, and Joe was busying himself with last-minute chores, mostly of a paper-work nature. Although Edith had retired, he had gone twice to their bedroom to ask her questions. On his third visit to the bedroom he found her deep asleep and he closed the door gently and walked softly to the top of the stairs.

In later months he tried to recall exactly what occurred—whether his loose-fitting house slipper caught on the carpet-covering, or he misjudged the turn that he had made literally many thousands of times. In any event, he started falling at the top of the stairs, which were quite steep and had sixteen risers.

He fell all the way to the first floor and lay there. He was unconscious, his fall unheard by his wife or their son or any of the three servants. He was later able to estimate how long he lay there: from about ten minutes past eleven until Ann's return at twenty-five minutes to one.

Ann quickly recovered from her first horror and determined that he was alive. She called her mother, who did not answer, and she went upstairs and shook Edith out of her sleep. Together they went downstairs again, and they noticed what Ann had not noticed earlier: the blood on his trouser-leg. Edith telephoned Billy English, who, as Ann said, took forever to get there. He announced that Joe had a broken leg, compound fracture, and a concussion of the brain. He sent for the ambulance. Nobody remembered to wake Joby.

Ann in her party dress went to the hospital with her mother and Dr. English, who was an extremely careful and slow driver. The Chapin women waited in the superintendent's office for Billy English's first report, which was an hour in coming.

“He has a bad fracture of the leg, that we know, and he must have done a complete somersault falling down the stairs, to account for the concussion. We're lucky, very lucky, he didn't break his neck. That sometimes happens in falls of that kind. I won't try to underestimate his condition. He's badly hurt. However, he's alive and right now he's sleeping. Our danger now is from the concussion and of course shock. I've arranged for a room for you, Edith, and you, Ann, if you'd care to stay. It'll be down the hall from Joe's room. I know you're not going to feel much like sleeping, but the floor nurse will get nightgowns for both of you. Regular hospital nightgowns, but it might be a good idea for you to try to get some rest tonight so that you won't be exhausted tomorrow.”

“Has he recovered consciousness?”

“Not completely, Edith, and he won't for several hours, how many I don't know. That depends on several factors. We don't know how long he was lying there, and of course we don't even know what happened, do we? You can have some coffee, if you like, or tea, but I'd suggest you both have a cup of bouillon. I have a room here myself, so I'll be here through the night, and I'll see that you're notified the minute there's any change either way. I don't want to alarm you, but at the same time our dear Joe has had a very close call and I can't honestly tell you ladies that he's entirely out of danger. Joe's more than a patient to me, too, you know.”

“Thank you, Billy, we realize that,” said Edith. “I've had
some
sleep and I'm quite awake now, but I think we'll follow your suggestion.”

“Mother, I'm wide awake,” said Ann.

“But let's do what Dr. English says. We have to think of tomorrow, and we're not going to be much help if we haven't had any sleep. Will you show us our room, Billy?”

“Come with me,” said Dr. English. “Your mother's right, Ann. Tomorrow's when you're going to need your strength.”

“I know that, Dr. English. It's just that I know I won't sleep.”

“Well, try,” said the doctor. “I can give you a tablet that will put you to sleep . . .”

“No, and don't put anything in my bouillon,” said the girl.

“That never crossed my mind,” said the doctor.

“And you'll apologize to Dr. English for your rudeness.”

“I didn't mean it rudely. I'm sorry, Dr. English,” said the girl.

“We're all under a strain,” said the doctor.

The Chapin women got little sleep. They were kept awake by their concern for Joe, but that was not the only tension that made sleep come hard. They were extra-conscious of each other; it had been a long time since they had slept in the same room. What it came down to was that it had been a long time since they really had been together. Edith was proud of her daughter's exquisite form, and Ann was pleased that her mother had not gone to fat as so many mothers had. But Edith had preached modesty all through Ann's childhood and girlhood, and now the act of undressing in the same room was an intimacy that neither Edith nor Ann was prepared for. They did not appear wholly nude in front of each other; the putting-on of the hospital nightgown was accomplished in the bathroom. But they could not help looking down at each other's gown, where the bosom extended, and lower down where the pubic shadow could be seen under the summer-weight cotton. The intimacy made them strangers, and since neither wanted to talk about what was worrying both of them, they told each other good night, try to get some sleep, and lay listening to each other's breathing and turning in the beds. They were placed in each other's company, but it could not be said that Joe's accident had thrown them together.

However, they had been apart for years. A teacher at Miss Holton's had had to instruct Ann in the frightening mysteries of menstruation, and with that opportunity gone, Edith neither was given nor had contrived a second chance to get on close terms with the matured and maturing girl. And Ann, therefore, was independent of her mother, but with no one of her sex to take her place. The whole world of sex was between Ann on the one side, and, on the other, what she did and did not know. This very night, before her discovery of her father at the foot of the stairs, she had touched a boy, a boy had touched her, with such exciting effect that her capacity to feel put her, in her own mind, a million miles away from a candid relationship with her mother. She was in the stage where what
she
was discovering and experiencing was unique, notwithstanding her complete knowledge of the act which, performed by her parents, had caused her existence. She thought about it little enough, but when she did she thought of her father visiting her mother in total darkness, without visual or tactile enjoyment or prolonged excitement such as she herself had enjoyed, and achieving the ultimate embrace (which she had not yet achieved) in the fashion of all married couples. So far she had not been able, or permitted herself, to imagine her father in the positions of love-making. It was easier for her to imagine her mother making love with an anonymous, featureless figure that was her father, but not Father. She was convinced otherwise, but it was not impossible for her to imagine her mother as a partner in love-making with almost any man; and except for the dirty trick it would have been on her father, she would not have been irreparably shocked if her mother had used her body for pleasure with another man. To Ann a woman's body was designed for two related purposes, pleasure and child-bearing, and her mother as a woman was no different from any other woman. As the wife of Father, however, she owed him complete fidelity, and there was nothing to indicate that she had betrayed that trust. She knew that when
she
got married she was not going to fool around.