The Wapshot Chronicle - John Cheever [65]
Checked in at Hoffman House as ordered. First customer gave order for eight hundred dollars. Second customer slightly higher. Sold five thousand dollars in three days. Wired for confirmation on last orders. Slept every night with watch, cash, etc., in sock. Returned on train, tired but happy. Went straight to office. J. B. waiting. Fell on writer’s neck. Return of prodigal. Conquering hero. Took favorite son to Parker House for dinner. Whisky, wine, fish, flesh and fowl. Later to Chardon Street fancy house. Second visit. First time with Jim Graves. Died in St. Botolphs as stated above. Baptists still singing. “Lead, Kindly Light.” Appeared to be favorite hymn.
White-haired boy. Advice sought on manufacturing, merchandising, etc. Subject of marriage finally broached. Same place, same time of day as other confidential talks. “You planning to marry, my boy,” he says, “or are you going to remain a bachelor all your life?” “I plan to marry and raise a family, sir,” I said. “Shut the door and sit down,” he said. “Have you got a young lady?” he asks. “No sir,” I said. “Well, I’ve got the young lady for you,” he said. “She lives with her parents in Cambridge. She’s a Sunday-school teacher. She’s no more than eighteen years old. Have a drink of whisky.” He walked to the keg in the corner. Took turns at the straw. Sat down again. “Man bom of woman,” he said, “hath but a short span and he is full of misery.” Waterworks beginning. Liberal display of tears. “I wronged this young lady, Leander. I forced her. But she’ll make you a good wife.” Loud sobbing. “She’s not flighty or loose. I was the first one. You marry her and I’ll give you a thousand dollars. You don’t marry her and I’ll see that you get no work in Boston or anyplace else where my name is known. Tell me on Monday. Go home and think it over.” Got to his feet. Heavy man. Spring on swivel chair boomed. “Good night, my boy,” he said. Down the curved stairs slowly. Night air smelled of mountains, but not for me. Colorless, hateful, northern city. All black but for gaslights; mustard-colored blankets on livery-stable hacks. Dirty snow underfoot. Gruel of snow; horse manure. Five years wasted in business. Father dead. Hamlet never coming home. Sole support of sainted old mother. What to do? Ate supper with mother. Went upstairs to cold room. Put on Mackinaw. Looked through book of resolutions. Avoid unclean thoughts. Run, never walk. Smile. Never frown. Go to gymnasium twice a week. Buy your mother a gray silk dress. No help here. Thought of Albany. Find work there. Lodgings. Begin life again. Decided on Albany. Pack on Sunday. Leave on Monday. Never see Whittier again. Went downstairs. Mother by stove in kitchen. Sewing. Mentioned Albany. “I hope you don’t have any plans for going there,” she said. “You’ve been a good boy, Leander, but you take after your father. It was always his feeling that if he could go someplace where he wasn’t known he would become rich and happy. It was a great weakness. He was a weak man. If you want to go away at least wait until I die. Wait until Hamlet comes home. Remember that I’m old. I mind the cold. Boston is my only home.”
Went to church on Sunday. God would be conscious of my trial. Got to my knees. Prayed for once with a full heart. Feast of Saint Mark. Lesson from Saint John. Looked around church wondering what symbol would reveal choice. Gordian knots, sheep and lions’ heads, doves, swastikas, crosses, thorns and wheels. Watchful all through service. Nothing. Ask a stone. “I prayed for you,” mother said. Took arm. “Albany is full of Irishmen and other foreigners. You won’t go there.” Jared came later. Played Acis and Galatea. Hated music. Was Acis hungry? Was Galatea sole support of aged mother? Mortals had worse trouble.