The Wapshot Chronicle - John Cheever [64]
Writer tried to conceal hurt feelings. Grimes knew. Tried to turn experience to use. Continued to play role of eager son. Insincere but rules of business. Conceal natural independence. Seem dutiful. Obedient. As a result received many father-to-son talks. Advice typical of merchants at time. “Never extend credit to man with long hair. Never trust cigarette smokers; men with low-cut shoes.” Business a religion. Full of shrewdness. Superstition too. In daydreams began to think of marrying Whittier’s daughter. Only child. Harriet. Tried to discourage above ideas but received encouragement from old man himself. Asked to Whittiers’ for dinner.
Bought black suit. When dressed on historic night went into kitchen to say good-by to mother. Hamlet not heard from. Anxious over favorite son. “Be sure and wipe your mouth with a napkin,” she said. “I guess you know enough to get to your two feet when any ladies or older people come into the room. We come from a mannerly family. We weren’t always poor. Be sure and use your napkin.”
Walked to Whittiers’ house in south end. Manservant opened door and took coat. House still standing. Now a slum. Good-sized house but not palatial as appeared then. Hothouse flowers. Wallpaper. Clock struck. Counted chimes. Fourteen. Mrs. Whittier met me at door of parlor, drawing room. Slender, gracious woman. Two necklaces. Four bracelets. Three rings. Greeted boss, then daughter. One necklace. Two bracelets. Two rings. Big girl. Horse-faced. Hopes dashed. No room for love, marriage. Human needs not so simple. Also had forgotten to empty bladder. Miserable. Spoil everything. Counted pictures on walls. Fourteen. All beautiful. Still lifes. Storms at sea. Italian or Egyptian woman at well. French priests playing dominoes. Foreign landscapes. Wallpaper even on ceiling.
Ate big dinner. Elegant surroundings but manners not so good as West Farm. Whittier broke wind twice. Both times loud. After repast Mrs. Whittier sang. Put on spectacles. Stood bright lamps on table. Sang of love. Shrill voice. Spectacles. Bright lamps made hostess seem old, pinched. After concert, writer said good night. Walked home. Found mother still in kitchen. Sewing by lamplight. Old now. Longing for Hamlet. “Did you have a nice time? Did you remember to use your napkin? Does your own home look ugly and dark? When I was a girl, I was younger than you, I went to visit my Brewster cousins in Newburyport. They had carriage horses, servants, a big house. When I came back to St. Botolphs my home looked ugly and dark. It made me thoughtful.”
Father-to-son talk four weeks later, at dark as customary. Clerks leaving. Fires dying. “Sit down, Leander, sit down,” he said. “I told you that if you trusted me and worked hard I’d treat you like a son, didn’t I? I never told that to anybody else. You know that, don’t you? You believe me, don’t you? Now I’m going to show you what I mean. Business practice is changing. I’m going to send a salesman on the road. I want you to be that salesman. I want you to go to New York for me, representing me. I want you to call on my customers, just as if you were my son. Take orders. Behave like a gentleman. When you go to New York I want you to realize what you’re doing. I want you to realize that J. B. Whittier is more than a business. I want you to think of the firm as if it was your mother; our mother. I want you to think of it as if this dear old lady needed money and you were going to New York to make some money for her. I want you to comport yourself and dress yourself and talk as if you were representing this dear old lady. When you order your meals and stay in a hotel I want you to spend your money as if you realized it all belonged to this little old lady.” Liberal display of the waterworks. We understood one another.
Sing of the night boats. All that writer knows. Fall River, Bangor, Portland, Cape May, Baltimore, Lake Erie, Lake Huron, Saint Louis, Memphis, New Orleans. Floating palaces. Corn-husk mattresses. Music over water. One-night card games, one-night friendships, one-night girls. All gone with dawn