The Wapshot Chronicle - John Cheever [66]
Planned life carefully. Gym. Sailing in summer. Read Plutarch. Never missed a day at the office. Not once. Raise in salary. Increase of responsibility. Other signs of success. A winter night. Clerks going home. Cleaning pens. Banking fires. Whittier called me in to sanctum sanctorum. Coarse-faced man. Strong. Suffered from flatulence. Kept whisky keg in comer of office. Drank from bunghole with straw. Kept me waiting half hour. Footsteps of last clerk—Grimes—heard going downstairs. “You like the business, Leander?” he says. “Yes sir.” “Don’t be so damned eager,” he says. “You look like a house nigger.” Clears throat. Uses spittoon. Slumps suddenly in chair. Sad? Sickness? Bad news? Bankruptcy? Failure? Worse? “I have no son,” he says. “I’m sorry, Mr. Whittier.” “I have no son,” he says again. Raises big face. Tears all over cheeks. Tears running from eyes. “Work hard,” he says. “Trust me. I’ll treat you like a son. Now good night my boy.” Pats me. Sends me home.
Mingled feelings of ambition and tenderness. My heart in the business. Whittier and Wapshot. Wapshot & Co. In love with the shoe business. Do anything for the boss. Visions of saving him from burning building, wrecked ship. Angry heirs at reading of will. Success ordained. Hurried through supper. Read Plutarch in cold room. Kept on gloves. Hat. Breath smoked. Got to office half hour early, next day. Ran. Smiled. Wrote letters. Shared lunch pail with Grimes. “How are you getting along with J. B.?” he asks. “All right,” I said. “Has he asked you in yet and told you that he doesn’t have a son?” Grimes said. “No,” I said. “Well, he will,” Grimes said. “He’ll ask you in to his office late some day and tell you to work hard and trust him and he’ll treat you like a son. He does it to everybody. Even Old Man Thomas. He’s seventy-three years old. That’s old for a son.”
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