Ten North Frederick (5 page)

Soon it was over. The immediate family got in their aging Cadillac while the others of the funeral party stood by, then the honorary pallbearers and the few others who had been invited back to the house followed in their own and assigned limousines. The ceremony at the grave took less in time than Peg Slattery's luncheon treat to her daughter. The honorary pallbearers in their limousines began looking at their watches and studying slips of paper on which their efficient secretaries had written train times. All of the out-of-town men had things to do later in the day, and at distant places. The sad duty to Joe Chapin had been performed; a bourbon, a spot of lunch, a few words with Edith and they would be gone, in many cases never again to see Gibbsville. Time was important to all of these important men, and most of them had learned the lesson that if you kept busy you lived; lived, at least, until you were caught dead. Not one of them liked what had brought him to Gibbsville, and not one of them wanted to stay and be further reminded of what had brought him. A drink of whiskey, a slice of rare roast beef, the clasp of Edith's hand and a kiss to her wrinkling cheek, and they could hurry back into the live worlds they lived in. There was nothing here for the admiral, whose postwar civilian services had been arranged for. The Governor was not running for re-election. Editor Hooker, the only man who knew the exact degree of importance of each pallbearer, was in such a state of glorious confusion that he gave up and relaxed. David L. Harrison, suspicious of any man he had not known for thirty years, hung on to Arthur McHenry, whom he had known for thirty years, and no valuable new contact was made by any two men as a consequence of their service to the memory of Joe Chapin. The very tall man who had gone to Yale with Joe Chapin had a private fortune much greater than David L. Harrison's, and any time he wanted to see David L. Harrison he could drop in at The Links, their common club. Henry Laubach transacted a good deal of business with J. Frank Kirkpatrick, but the two men did not like each other. The new Superintendent of Schools, Mr. Johnson, had boned up in his
Who's Who
for his information (and they were all in it, except Whitney Hofman and Mr. Jenkins from the bank), but he never became quite certain which was David L. Harrison and which was J. Frank Kirkpatrick. Mr. Jenkins from the bank had eyes only for David L. Harrison, but David L. Harrison made certain that Mr. Jenkins would not come up to him at any future bankers' convention. He did it by calling Mr. Jenkins “Doctor,” a title and an occupation he was well aware did not fit Mr. Jenkins. Huddled together by the protection of the police, the sixteen men appeared to the public to be a close group, but they were not. Indeed, they did not all know the same Joe Chapin.

Of the sixteen pallbearers only one, Arthur McHenry, had known all of the Joe Chapins, and after him Mike Slattery knew more Joe Chapins than the rest. The Yale Joe Chapin was a friend of David L. Harrison and of the tall man, whose name was Alec Weeks. The legal Joe Chapin was a friend of Kirkpatrick's and Judge Williams's. The political Joe Chapin was a friend of Mike Slattery's and the Governor's and the Mayor's. The Old Gibbsville Joe Chapin was a friend of Dr. English's and Whit Hofman's and Henry Laubach's. Editor Hooker, the admiral, Banker Jenkins, Superintendent Johnson—they were not so much friends of Joe Chapin's as fellow members of committees. Paul Donaldson from Scranton, who was always referred to as Paul Donaldson from or of Scranton, was the kind of man of consequence who was admitted to the circle of men of consequence that has representatives in most of the states of the Union and several provinces of Canada. He was a rich, rich man who looked right and talked right. He was the only citizen of Scranton who was known to many rich and powerful men; all they knew about Scranton was that Paul Donaldson lived there. In the list of directors of his New York bank his name was down as Paul Donaldson, Scranton, Pa., instead of Paul Donaldson, attorney-at-law, or the name of his firm. He was a member of the bar, but only incidentally a member of the bar; he was president of Paul Donaldson & Company, and he
was
Paul Donaldson & Company. In one respect he was the most important pallbearer, in that his absence from the pallbearers' roster would have been, to the knowing, a most conspicuous one. His handshake with Dave Harrison was perfunctory; after all, he had seen Harrison less than a week ago in New York, saw him all the time, and what's more, he was not a Morgan man. He was personally acquainted with Arthur McHenry, Mike Slattery, Alec Weeks, the Governor, Dr. English, Whit Hofman, and Dave Harrison. Arthur McHenry was a Pennsylvania gentleman, and they all had known Joe Chapin and each other at Yale. Dr. English and Whit Hofman and Henry Laubach were Gibbsville gentlemen, the kind of men Paul Donaldson of Scranton would know in any city in the country. Joe Chapin had been a Yale friend and he was a Gibbsville gentleman, and those were the reasons for Paul Donaldson of Scranton's being at Joe's funeral. When he had said, a few days earlier, “I have to go to Joe Chapin's funeral,” he was speaking a simple truth. As Paul Donaldson of Scranton he had to go to the funerals of men like Joe Chapin of Gibbsville. There were no new Joe Chapins coming up, and nobody knew that better than Paul Donaldson from Scranton. He had no use for first-generation money or first-generation millionaires. He had no use for artists, authors, advertising men, Texans, musicians, or Jews. “Had no use” was his own expression; actually he used or dealt with all of them. But when he had got his use out of them, he dismissed them from his life. He would not have them in his house, he would not go to
their
funerals, not even jubilantly.

In the limousine on the way to Frederick Street he sat beside Mike Slattery. “They gave Joe a nice turnout,” said Paul Donaldson of Scranton.

“Very,” said Mike Slattery. “He'd have appreciated your coming.”

“Oh, balls,” said Donaldson. “Tell me about the son. I hear he's no damn good.”

“That's about the size of it, I guess,” said Mike.

“What about him, Whit? You know him, of course,” said Donaldson.

“Oh, sure,” said Whit Hofman. “I haven't seen him much since he was a kid, but we all get a lot of funny reports on him.”

“What kind of reports?” said Donaldson. “Is he a Commie? One of those?”

“No, at least I haven't heard that. Have you, Mike?”

“No, although he may well be,” said Mike.

“What else then?” said Donaldson.

“Well, I heard he was kicked out of your alma mater for being a fairy,” said Whit Hofman.

“I can tell you
that's
not true,” said Donaldson. “If we started kicking them out for being fairies . . . God, when I was there I don't think there were a half a dozen known ones in the whole university, but now I understand the place is full of them. But it's not only Yale. Every place. Harvard always had them. Princeton, full of them. Where did you go, Whit? You went to Williams.”

“Right. Never any fairies at Williams. We used to send them all to the Big Three.”

“You may think you're kidding, but you're not. My boy went to New Haven for two years and he was glad to get out and go in the Navy. He hated it, and I can't say I blamed him. You go to Yale nowadays and if your father wasn't a jailbird or an immigrant, you go around feeling you owe somebody an apology. I guess it isn't
quite
as bad as that, but things are going in that direction. Mike, where did you go?”

“Villanova to college and Penn to law school.”

“Well, I guess Villanova's all right, but Penn, I hear that stinks too. But getting back to young Joby Chapin. You think he's a fairy, eh? I knew Joe was disappointed in him, but I didn't know that was the reason.”

“That was one of the stories when he left Yale,” said Hofman.

“Well, wasn't there somebody from Gibbsville there at the time? This was always a pretty good Yale town,” said Donaldson.

“There must have been,” said Hofman. “Who? Can you remember, Mike?”

“I was just trying to think,” said Mike. “Young Ogden. Wasn't he at Yale about then?”

“Oh, no. Later,” said Hofman.

“How did young Chapin stay out of the Army? He looks healthy enough,” said Donaldson.

“He
was
in the Army for a while, wasn't he, Mike?”

“I can tell you about that,” said Slattery. “He got a medical discharge for something to do with the inner ear, and then he got in that O.S.S. outfit. That was one of my contracts. They made him an instructor in code work at one of their secret camps.”

“Overseas?” said Donaldson.

“Virginia somewhere,” said Slattery. “I think that's where he is now, or at least he's still with the cloak-and-dagger boys to the best of my knowledge.”

“What about Ann? Where was her husband? She's married to some fellow named Mugridge,” said Donaldson.

“Musgrove,” said Hofman. “Divorced. She's been living at home—how long would you say, Mike?”

“The best part of a year. Close to it,” said Slattery. “I understand she's back and forth between here and Philly, but mostly at home.”

“She have any children? No children, if I'm not mistaken, unless she had one lately,” said Donaldson.

“No children,” said Hofman.

“And she was married once before, wasn't she?” said Donaldson.

“To an Italian fellow that played in an orchestra. We had that annulled. Not many people know about that,” said Slattery.

“Oh, the hell they don't, Mike,” said Hofman.

“They may know about it, but they'd have one hell of a time proving it on any record,” said Slattery.

“You fixed that, did you, Mike?” said Donaldson.

“I was instrumental, put it that way,” said Slattery.

“Good old Mike. Instrumental,” said Donaldson.

“We politicians have our uses,” said Slattery.

“If they were all like you we wouldn't have anything to worry about,” said Donaldson.

“Thank you, sir,” said Slattery.

“I mean it. I often wish to God Almighty that we had you in Washington.”

“What could I do in Washington that I can't do right here in Gibbsville? As long as I pay my phone bill.”

“Well—yes. Whit, why don't you run for office?”

“Whit's very active behind the scenes,” said Slattery.

“I see. Beg your pardon,” said Donaldson. “Just so a good man like Whit isn't going to waste.”

“He's not going to waste, you have my assurance,” said Slattery. “He does more for our crowd than a lot of fellows that get more credit.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Donaldson. “Now, one more question. What about Edith? Is she going to be all right?”

“Financially, you mean? Financially, in the neighborhood of a million and a quarter,” said Slattery.

“Besides financially. Her disposition, temperament,” said Donaldson.

“Sound as a dollar,” said Slattery.

“Not this God damn Chinese dollar, I hope,” said Donaldson.

“No, not the Chinese dollar,” said Slattery.

“Is she going to take this hard, Joe's death?” said Donaldson.

“You never know what goes on in a woman's mind, but Edith—well, you know her as well as I do,” said Slattery.

“Yes, and I think she'll be all right,” said Donaldson. “I was just wondering whether you had any particular information, any signs of anything.”

“Edith wouldn't let on to me,” said Slattery.

“Possibly, but you're one of the sharpest observers I ever knew,” said Donaldson.

“Not sharp enough to penetrate that mask,” said Slattery, “when it's the same face day in day out, year in year out. Ask Whit. He's her cousin.”

“I'm her cousin, but I was Joe's cousin, too. Joe's mother was my aunt, my father's sister. I could never figure Joe out. I guess I'm not awfully good at that sort of thing. If I couldn't figure Joe out, I'd have one hell of a time with Edith. They're just my cousins, and I always more or less took them for granted.”

“Now that's interesting,” said Donaldson. “Your saying you couldn't figure Joe out. Why not? What was difficult about that?”

“One of the smartest things he ever said,” said Slattery. “Who did know Chapin? Arthur McHenry knew him better than anyone else. Then I think I did. But I'll tell you this much, Paul. We knew exactly what Joe wanted us to know. And believe me, that wasn't much. You were a friend of his, sure. But did you know him? Do you think you knew him well? You didn't. I admit I didn't. I don't think Arthur did. And as to Edith—I wonder.”

“Are you hinting that Joe had a secret life?” said Donaldson.

“No, but I am hinting that he could have had a secret life without any of us knowing about it.”

“Oh,” said Donaldson.

“Joe was like a young fellow that never grew up. In many respects that was what he was. But if you let it end there, you wouldn't have the full picture of the man. I can't believe that what I was allowed to see of Joe was all there was. If that was all there was, he was a dull man, perhaps a stupid man. But then that would make me a stupid man for taking so much interest in him, and while I may be a lot of things, I'll never admit that I'm stupid.”

“Nobody could ever call you stupid,” said Donaldson.

“Correction, Paul. They have called me stupid, but they usually found out different. I've been wrong, but not stupid. So, now we have these two people, friends of ours. The one is a woman, painfully shy and retiring, and we all right away credit her with a lot more gray matter than she ever admitted. Then the other, the man, he isn't shy or retiring. Enters politics. Gets around and meets people, so we never bother to wonder, maybe there's more to this man than we see. I've always thought there was a great deal more. In fact, Joe was a much more interesting study than Edith. We think, we conceded that the woman had more because she showed practically nothing. We don't bother to think the same thing about the man. Why? Because we think we've seen it all. I say we missed the boat on Joe Chapin, and I was one that missed it by a mile. Maybe I
was
stupid. Maybe I was.”