The Wapshot Chronicle - John Cheever [9]
Beyond Pluzinskis’ the road turned to the right and they could see the handsome Greek portico of Theophilus Gates’ house. Theophilus was president of the Pocamasset Bank and Trust Company and as an advocate of probity and thrift he could be seen splitting wood in front of his house each morning before he went to work. His house was not shabby, but it needed paint, and this, like his wood splitting, was meant to put honest shabbiness above improvident show. There was a FOR SALE sign on his lawn. Theophilus had inherited from his father the public utilities of Travertine and St. Botolphs and had sold them at a great profit. On the day these negotiations were completed he came home and put the FOR SALE sign on his grass. The house, of course, was not for sale. The sign was only meant to set in motion a rumor that he had sold the utilities at a loss and to help preserve his reputation as a poor, gloomy, God-fearing and overworked man. One more thing. When Theophilus invited guests for the evening they would be expected, after supper, to go into the garden and play hide-and-go-seek.
As they passed Gates’ the ladies could see in the distance the slate roof of Honora Wapshot’s house on Boat Street. Honora would not appear to them. Honora had once been introduced to the President of the United States and wringing his hand she had said: “I come from St. Botolphs. I guess you must know where that is. They say that St. Botolphs is like a pumpkin pie. No upper crust.…”
They saw Mrs. Mortimer Jones chasing up her garden path with a butterfly net. She wore a bulky house dress and a big straw hat.
Beyond the Joneses’ was the Brewsters’ and another sign: HOME-MADE PIE AND CAKES. Mr. Brewster was an invalid and Mrs. Brewster supported her husband and had sent her two sons through college with the money she made as a baker. Her sons had done well but now one of them lived in San Francisco and the other in Detroit and they never came home. They wrote her saying that they planned to come home for Christmas or Easter—that the first trip they made would be the trip to St. Botolphs—but they went to Yosemite National Park, they went to Mexico City, they even went to Paris, but they never, never came home.
At the junction of Hill and River streets the wagon turned right, passing George Humbolt’s, who lived with his mother and who was known as Uncle Peepee Marshmallow. Uncle Peepee came from a line of hardy sailors but he was not as virile as his grandfathers. Could he, through yearning and imagination, weather himself as he would have been weathered by a passage through the Straits of Magellan? Now and then, on summer evenings, poor Uncle Peepee wandered in his bare skin among the river gardens. His neighbors spoke to him with nothing more than impatience. “Go home, Uncle Peepee, and get some clothes on,” they said. He was seldom arrested and would never be sent away for to send him away would reflect on the uniqueness of the place. What could the rest of the world do for him that could not be done in St. Botolphs?
Beyond Uncle Peepee’s the Wapshot house could be seen in the distance and River Street itself, always a romantic picture, seemed more so on this late holiday morning. The air smelled of brine—the east wind was rising—and would presently give to the place a purpose and a luster and a sadness too, for while the ladies admired the houses and the elms they knew that their sons would go away. Why did the young want to go away? Why did the young want to go away?
Mr. Pincher stopped long enough for Mrs. Wapshot to climb down from the wagon. “I shan’t thank you for the ride,” she said, “but I will thank Lady. It was her idea.” This was Mrs. Wapshot’s style, and smiling good-by she stepped gracefully up the walk to her door.
CHAPTER FOUR
Rosalie Young took the road to the shore that morning, unknown to the Wapshots as you are unknown to me, early, early,