Ten North Frederick (8 page)

“Ann, see if you agree with me. If you don't, don't agree just to be polite.”

“All right.”

“Am I imagining things, or is Madam planning some sort of a career for herself?”

“You know,
I
was going to ask
you
that. In one of her wistful moments the other day she asked me if I ever thought of patching it up with dear Mr. Musgrove. I couldn't believe my ears. I looked at her with horror. After all, she knows all about that. So I said to her there was a better chance of my going back to Charley than patching things up with the other gentleman. That shut her up.”

“Charley. I hardly ever think of him. What's happened to him?”

“He's in the Coast Guard. A what-do-you-call-them, petty officer, leading a band. He's married and lives in New Jersey.”

“Do you see him?”

“I've never seen him. I gave my word and I've stuck to it. Not that that's been difficult. Charley was nice, and he was the first. My first. And when they had it annulled they filled me full of dire warnings. If I ever saw him he'd be arrested, go to jail, and so forth. Not true, but I believed them. After that I was more careful. I didn't marry the boy. But you were wondering about Madam. Yes, I think she's planning a career. If I went back to Mr. Musgrove, the son of a bitch, that would erase the separation, and if you married Sallie Morrison, you'd be married too. Looks nice to have your children comfortably married. And why so many political people for pallbearers? She could just as easily have had more inconspicuous friends. What was Robert Hooker to Father? And that lawyer from Philadelphia. And the Governor. Mr. Slattery I can understand. But Johnson, the school superintendent. He didn't even know the Chapins had a daughter. For that matter, Paul Donaldson wasn't
that
close to Father. Yes, she's making plans.”

“Annie, my girl, she's always been making plans. If I weren't so comfortable here I'd be tempted to go downstairs and watch her in action.”

“Please don't leave me,” said Ann.

“I won't,” said her brother.

 • • • 

Their mother in action was a lesson in graciousness under difficult conditions. By the time she made her appearance the invited callers had finished their food (no accident in timing; she had been so informed by Mary). She allowed Paul Donaldson the distinction of bringing her into the sitting room, but she did not allow him to monopolize her. She put her hand on his forearm and adroitly steered him to the first, the nearest group of five persons. She addressed each person by name, and she was of course assisted in this accomplishment by her deliberate manner of speech. Since she spoke slowly and precisely at all times, the hesitation had become a familiar personal characteristic, and it enabled her to gain that fraction of a second that was necessary for the recalling of some of the names. Her children's estimate of the length of time she would spend with her guests was wrong; their formula was wrong. If she had spent one minute with each of the guests, an hour and eleven minutes would have been devoted to her task of greeting. But by repeating her device of speaking to groups of four or five rather than to each guest singly she made the personal contact with all seventy-one with half an hour to spare. No one was slighted. Each man, each woman got a personal, usually a first-name, greeting, and a handshake; and they all had at least a brief opportunity to examine her close to, an essential part of the custom of calling on the bereaved.

With her veiled hat off, and in her beautifully cut black silk dress, she looked much younger than her age and much fresher than her friends had anticipated. The hat and veil had hidden her features almost completely for the hours at the church and cemetery, so that when she made her appearance unmasked, as it were, a general gloom was lifted too. It was not, and never had been, a pretty face, but now at least it was alive and smiling.

For each group she had one special thing to say, a general comment or observation that would reach every man and woman in the group. In one group it would be the weather: the snow had not fallen. In another, the text of the clergyman's words; in another, the flowers; in another, a full pardon for the ignorant aeronaut of the blue Aeronca; in another the music at the church; in another, the perennial beauty of old Trinity itself; in another, how much Joe would have loved it all. Each group was created, and skillfully. She would greet five, four, six people by name, then stop greeting them and say her words about the weather, the music, or the flowers. Then she would move on, again addressing four or five by name, halting the identification to make her comment on the next topic. Thus each group was automatically limited to those she addressed by name, and did not become outsize and unwieldy and impersonal.

It was a remarkable performance, for not only did it achieve its obvious objective, which was to greet each man and woman who had come invited to pay respects to her husband and sympathy to her; but the maneuver also succeeded in putting an end to the luncheon, and thus an end to the whole funeral. There was, after Edith had spoken her personal word, nothing to do but go. And that, too, was planned that way. She whispered to her brother: “Have I spoken to everybody? I haven't missed anyone?”

“Everybody. Didn't miss a one,” said Carter.

“Good,” she said; then, not too hastily and not at all abruptly, she went through the back sitting-room door, into the hall, and up the front stairs, leaving her brother to acknowledge the farewells. She continued slowly to her sewing room on the third floor, tired but not exhausted from the climb. The excellent Mary was waiting there.

“A nice cup of tea, ma'am,” said Mary.

“Oh, well, yes,” said Edith. “Who was that? Is there someone in the front room?”

“Mrs. Musgrove and Mr. Joby, that's all,” said Mary.

“I see,” said Edith. “Now, Mary, don't you bother any more. Put the tea on the dumbwaiter and have a cup yourself, in the kitchen. You must have gone up and down these stairs . . .”

“Very well, ma'am,” said Mary. “Thank you.”

Mary left on her errand, and presently Edith got up and went to Joby's bedroom. The door was open, but she was inside the room before Ann or Joby saw her.

“Mother,” said Ann.

“Hello, Mother,” said Joby.

“Well, we're together, just the three of us,” said Edith.

“Would you like a drink? There's Scotch, and gin.”

“Hardly,” said Edith. She sat in the desk chair. “I hope it hasn't been a trying day for you two.”

“Not at all,” said Ann.

“You don't think you ought to be downstairs?” she asked Joby. “The people are leaving.”

“I noticed the cars. No, hasn't Uncle Cartie got everything under control?”

“Yes. But I'd feel better if you were down there. Finish your drink, of course.”

“I will,” said Joby.

“Ann, what is that you're drinking?”

“Gin and ginger ale,” said Ann. “Why? Would you like some?”

“No, thank you,” said Edith. “Someone ought to be downstairs. To thank Otto and the people from the club. And the extra women.”

“I thought Mary would do that,” said Ann.

“She can, but it would be nice to have somebody from the family. I'm paying all these people by the hour, with the exception of Otto. He volunteered his services, but I'm giving him something. But I think it would be nice if you thanked him, Joby.”

“Well, it's too late now. There he is, getting in somebody's car. Mike Slattery's. Otto and the other men from the club.”

“That's too bad.”

“Oh, I don't know. He didn't do it for us. He did it because he liked Father. And the others did it for money. Extra money, come to think of it. The club pays them, and so do you. I wouldn't let it worry you, Mother.”

“It doesn't. I am a little worried about one thing, though.”

“What's that?” said Joby.

“Why, your determination to stay here when you knew I wanted you to go downstairs and put in an appearance. I don't think that was very considerate of you.”

“But I didn't see any necessity for me to go down after you'd been talking to them. As a matter of fact, I might have—they might have felt they had to stay longer if I was there.”

“I don't think they'd have thought that,” said Edith. “Did you have some sort of—did you and Paul Donaldson have words? Or any unpleasantness?”

“How do you mean?”

“Did you say anything to him, or he say anything to you, unpleasant?”

“Not that I recall,” said Joby. “Why?”

“I was just wondering. When I came downstairs I thought his expression was—angry. And then you
introduced
him to me, a man I've known for thirty-five years or more, and you
know
I've known him that long. You sounded sarcastic.”

“I'm sure I didn't mean to,” said Joby. “What reason would I have for any unpleasantness with Paul Donaldson? Or anyone else, for that matter.”

“He appeared to be angry about something,” said Edith.

“Well, Paul Donaldson must have a lot of things on his mind, a man as prominent as that. More than likely thinking of some big deal involving millions, billions. You mustn't underestimate Paul Donaldson, Mother. Just because he came to Father's funeral, that doesn't mean
he's
not important. Father, I'll grant you, Father was a good solid Yale type, the type we Yale men are all very proud of, but without any great distinction. But Paul Donaldson . . .”

His mother watched him as he spoke, continued to watch his eyes and mouth after he finished speaking, then she turned to Ann. “What did I do with my fountain pen? The silver-mounted one. I had it this morning, but I can't remember where I put it.”

“Isn't it on your desk? That's where I last saw it.”

“Here, take mine,” said Joby.

“No thank you, Joby. I've taken quite enough from you for one day,” said Edith. She rose.

“That has all the earmarks of a double meaning,” said her son. “Was there a double meaning in that?”

“Oh, now, Joby, how could
you
think a thing like that.” She left the room.

“Pretty rough on her,” said Ann.

“I thought I showed admirable restraint.”

“I don't think you showed
any
restraint. But she did.”

“She showed restraint, or she thought I did?”

“She showed restraint,” said Ann.

“She always does. She always gets credit for showing restraint, being ladylike, shy. But after all, what's restraint? If the hate is there, or the bad temper, it's better for all concerned to get rid of it than store it up.”

“She's had a tough time, lately, and she
isn't
a young girl. She's fifty-nine years old, remember.”

“She wouldn't thank you to remember
that
fact,” said Joby. “All right, I was sarcastic.”

“Heavily. I don't think she minded what you were saying about Mr. Donaldson, but calling Father a nobody . . .”

“But a nice nobody,” said Joby.

“That made it worse. Implying that Father was nice and she wasn't.”

“Did I imply that? Yes, I guess I did.”

“You know perfectly well you did,” said Ann.

“How would you have had me do it? Play straight while she played the gracious widow?”

“You could go easy for a few days, for a little while.
Let
her put on her act. Let her enjoy putting on her act, because after all, Joby, when you stop to consider, who has she got? You, and me, her son and daughter, and Uncle Cartie. I'm perfectly willing to let her play games for a while.”

“Who has she got? Well, you left out the most important one of all.”

“Who?”

“Herself,” said Joby. “She has herself, and she's been having herself for years and years. The one person she cared about. Made plans for. Regulated our lives for. You think of her as the dutiful, retiring wife of J. B. Chapin Senior? Some day I'll tell you a thing or two about that. Do you know why the biggest day in Joseph B. Chapin's life was his funeral? With all those big shots and so forth? Because she, his dutiful, retiring wife, kept him from being anything but what he ended up as. You don't like her because she interfered with your life, and you saw her interfering with mine. But are you aware of what she did to Father? The reason she didn't hit back at me now, just a minute ago, is because she didn't dare. She knows that I know. Let me tell you, Annie, she'll let me get away with all the sarcasm I care to dish out, just as long as I lay off what she did to Father.”

“What did she do to Father?”

“Poisoned him,” said Joby.

“Oh, now wait a minute,” said Ann.

“I'm waiting.”

“I refuse to believe that,” said Ann.

“You refuse to believe that Mother killed Father with a slow poison?” said Joby.

“Oh. A slow poison. Oh, I get it.”

“Now you get it,” said Joby.

“You mean she did something to him that was like a slow poison.”

“You get it,” said Joby.

“I can see that,” said his sister.

“And that's easier to forgive,” said Joby. “She didn't put little drops of arsenic in his dessert, or give him cyanide in his cocktail. So that's easy to forgive. You don't believe that there are other forms of poison that don't come out of a bottle.”

“Oh, stop talking like an I Don't Know What. A preacher. You're talking like a preacher.”

“What do you think of a woman whose husband is an alcoholic, and she puts a drink in front of him every night?”

“Father was cert—I know what you're going to say.”

“Yes. You'd agree that a woman like that is a murderess in one form, wouldn't you?”

“Yes.”

“Poison—arsenic or cyanide, they're evil. The booze to tempt an alcoholic. You'll agree that that's almost as evil. But why does it have to be whiskey or iodine or something tangible?”