The Stories of John Cheever (52 page)

“Then, still feeling very springy and full of fun, I walked back toward the door, stopping to admire the curve of Marcie’s breasts and deciding, in a blaze of charity, to let her sleep. I felt so good that I needed a drink—not to pick me up but to dampen my spirits—a libation, anyhow—and I poured some whiskey in a glass. Then I went into the kitchen to get some ice, and I noticed that ants had got in somehow. This was surprising, because we never had much trouble with ants. Spiders, yes. Before the equinoctial hurricanes—even before the barometer had begun to fall—the house seemed to fill up with spiders, as if they sensed the trouble in the air. There would be spiders in the bathtubs and spiders in the living room and spiders in the kitchen, and, walking down the long upstairs hallway before a storm, you could sometimes feel the thread of a web break against your face. But we had had almost no trouble with ants. Now, on this autumn afternoon, thousands of ants broke out of the kitchen woodwork and threw a double line across the drainboard and into the sink, where there seemed to be something they wanted.

“I found some ant poison at the back of the broom-closet shelf, a little jar of brown stuff that I’d bought from Timmons in the village years ago. I put a generous helping of this into a saucer and put it on the drainboard. Then I took my drink and a piece of the Sunday paper out onto the terrace in front of the house. The house faced west, so I had more light than the children, and I felt so happy that even the news in the papers seemed cheerful. No kings had been assassinated in the rainy black streets of Marseille; no storms were brewing in the Balkans; no clerkly Englishman—the admiration of his landlady and his aunts—had dissolved the remains of a young lady in an acid bath; no jewels, even, had been stolen. And that sometime power of the Sunday paper to evoke an anxious, rain-wet world of fallen crowns and inevitable war seemed gone. Then the sun withdrew from my paper and from the chair where I sat, and I wished I had put on a sweater.

“It was late in the season—the salt of change was in the air—and this tickled me, too. Last Sunday, or the Sunday before, the terrace would have been flooded with light. Then I thought about other places where I would like to be—Nantucket, with only a handful of people left and the sailing fleet depleted and the dunes casting, as they never do in the summer, a dark shadow over the bathing beach. And I thought about the Vineyard and the farina-colored bluffs and the purple autumn sea and that stillness in which you might hear, from way out in the Sound, the rasp of a block on a traveler as a sailboard there came about. I tasted my whiskey and gave my paper a shake, but the view of the golden light on the grass and the trees was more compelling than the news, and now mixed up with my memories of the sea islands was the whiteness of Marcie’s thighs.

“Then I was seized by some intoxicating pride in the hour, by the joy and the naturalness of my relationship to the scene, and by the ease with which I could put my hands on what I needed. I thought again of Marcie sleeping and that I would have my way there soon—it would be a way of expressing this pride. And then, listening for the voices of my children and not hearing them, I decided to celebrate the hour as it passed. I put the paper down and ran up the stairs. Marcie was still sleeping and I stripped off my clothes and lay down beside her, waking her from what seemed to be a pleasant dream, for she smiled and drew me to her.”

TO GET BACK TO
Marcie and her trouble: She put on her coat after the meeting was adjourned and said, “Good night. Good night…. I’m expecting him home next week.” She was not easily upset, but she suddenly felt that she had looked straight at stupidity and unfairness. Going down the stairs behind Mackham, she felt a powerful mixture of pity and sympathy for the stranger and some clear anger toward her old friend Mark Barrett. She wanted to apologize, and she stopped Mackham in the door and said that she had some cheerful memories of her own involving a public library.

As it happened, Mrs. Selfredge and Mayor Simmons were the last to leave the board room. The Mayor waited, with his hand on the light switch, for Mrs. Selfredge, who was putting on her white gloves. “I’m glad the library’s over and done with,” he said. “I have a few misgivings, but right now I’m against anything public, anything that would make this community attractive to a development.” He spoke with feeling, and at the word “development” a ridge covered with identical houses rose in his mind. It seemed wrong to him that the houses he imagined should be identical and that they should be built of green wood and false stone. It seemed wrong to him that young couples should begin their lives in an atmosphere that lacked grace, and it seemed wrong to him that the rows of houses could not, for long, preserve their slender claim on propriety and would presently become unsightly tracts. “Of course, it isn’t a question of keeping children from books,” he repeated. “We all have libraries of our own. There isn’t any problem. I suppose you were brought up in a house with a library?”

“Oh yes, yes,” said Mrs. Selfredge. The Mayor had turned off the light, and the darkness covered and softened the lie she had told. Her father had been a Brooklyn patrolman, and there had not been a book in his house. He had been an amiable man—not very sweet-smelling—who talked to all the children on his beat. Slovenly and jolly, he had spent the years of his retirement drinking beer in the kitchen in his underwear, to the deep despair and shame of his only child.

The Mayor said good night to Mrs. Selfredge on the sidewalk, and standing there she overheard Marcie speaking to Mackham. “I’m terribly sorry about Mark, about what he said,” Marcie said. “We’ve all had to put up with him at one time or another. But why don’t you come back to my house for a drink? Perhaps we could get the library project moving again.”

So it wasn’t over and done with, Mrs. Selfredge thought indignantly. They wouldn’t rest until Shady Hill was nothing but developments from one end to the other. The colorless, hard-pressed people of the Carsen Park project, with their flocks of children, and their monthly interest payments, and their picture windows, and their view of identical houses and treeless, muddy, unpaved streets, seemed to threaten her most cherished concepts—her lawns, her pleasures, her property rights, even her self-esteem.

Mr. Selfredge, an intelligent and elegant old gentleman, was waiting up for his Little Princess and she told him her troubles. Mr. Selfredge had retired from the banking business—mercifully, for whenever he stepped out into the world today he was confronted with the deterioration of those qualities of responsibility and initiative that had made the world of his youth selective, vigorous, and healthy. He knew a great deal about Shady Hill—he even recognized Mackham’s name. “The bank holds the mortgage on his house,” he said. “I remember when he applied for it. He works for a textbook company in New York that has been accused by at least one Congressional committee of publishing subversive American histories. I wouldn’t worry about him, my dear, but if it would put your mind at ease, I could easily write a letter to the paper.”

“
BUT THE CHILDREN
were not as far away as I thought,” Charlie wrote, aboard the
Augustus
. “They were still in the garden. And the significance of that hour for them, I guess, was that it was made for stealing food. I have to make up or imagine what took place with them. They may have been drawn into the house by a hunger as keen as mine. Coming into the hall and listening for sounds, they would hear nothing, and they would open the icebox slowly, so that the sound of the heavy latch wouldn’t be heard. The icebox must have been disappointing, because Henry wandered over to the sink and began to eat the sodium arsenate. ‘Candy,’ he said, and Katie joined him, and they had a fight over the remaining poison. They must have stayed in the kitchen for quite a while, because they were still in the kitchen when Henry began to retch. ‘Well, don’t get it all
over
everything,’ Katie said. ‘Come on outside.’ She was beginning to feel sick herself, and they went outside and hid under a syringa bush, which is where I found them when I dressed and came down.

“They told me what they had eaten, and I woke Marcie up and then ran downstairs again and called Doc Mullens. ‘Jesus Christ!’ he said. I’ll be right over.’ He asked me to read the label on the jar, but all it said was sodium arsenate; it didn’t say the percentage. And when I told him I had bought it from Timmons, he told me to call and ask Timmons who the manufacturer was. The line was busy and so, while Marcie was running back and forth between the two sick children, I jumped into the car and drove to the village. There was a lot of light in the sky, I remember, but it was nearly dark in the streets. Timmons’ drugstore was the only place that was lighted, and it was the kind of place that seems to subsist on the crumbs from other tradesmen’s tables. This late hour when all the other stores were shut was Timmons’ finest. The crazy jumble of displays in his windows—irons, ashtrays, Venus in a truss, ice bags, and perfumes—was continued into the store itself, which seemed like a pharmaceutical curiosity shop or funhouse: a storeroom for cardboard beauties anointing themselves with sun oil; for cardboard mountain ranges in the Alpine glow, advertising pine-scented soap; for bookshelves, and bins filled with card-table covers, and plastic water pistols. The drugstore was a little like a house, too, for Mrs. Timmons stood behind the soda fountain, a neat and anxious-looking woman, with photographs of her three sons (one dead) in uniform arranged against the mirror at her back, and when Timmons himself came to the counter, he was chewing on something and wiped the crumbs of a sandwich off his mouth with the back of his hand. I showed him the jar and said, ‘The kids ate some of this about an hour ago. I called Doc Mullens, and he told me to come and see you. It doesn’t say what the percentage of arsenate is, and he thought if you could remember where you got it, we could telephone the manufacturer and find out.’

“‘The children are poisoned?’ Timmons asked.

“‘Yes!’ I said.

“‘You didn’t buy this merchandise from me,’ he said.

“The clumsiness of his lie and the stillness in that crazy store made me feel hopeless. ‘I
did
buy it from you, Mr. Timmons,’ I said. ‘There’s no question about that. My children are deathly sick. I want you to tell me where you got the stuff.’

“‘You didn’t buy this merchandise from me,’ he said.

“I looked at Mrs. Timmons, but she was mopping the counter; she was deaf. ‘God damn it to hell, Timmons!’ I shouted, and I reached over the counter and got him by the shirt. ‘You look up your records! You look up your God-damned records and tell me where this stuff came from.’

“‘We know what it is to lose a son,’ Mrs. Timmons said at my back. There was nothing full to her voice; nothing but the monotonous, the gritty, music of grief and need. ‘You don’t have to tell us anything about that.’

“‘You didn’t buy this merchandise from me,’ Timmons said once more, and I wrenched his shirt until the buttons popped, and then I let him go. Mrs. Timmons went on mopping the counter. Timmons stood with his head so bent in shame that I couldn’t see his eyes at all, and I went out of the store.

“When I got back, Doc Mullens was in the upstairs hall, and the worst was over. ‘A little more or a little less and you might have lost them,’ he said cheerfully. ‘But I’ve used a stomach pump, and I think they’ll be all right. Of course, it’s a heavy poison, and Marcie will have to keep specimens for a week—it’s apt to stay in the kidneys—but I think they’ll be all right.’ I thanked him and walked out to the car with him, and then I came back to the house and went upstairs to where the children had been put to bed in the same room for company and made some foolish talk with them. Then I heard Marcie weeping in our bedroom, and I went there. ‘It’s all right, baby,’ I said. ‘It’s all right now. They’re all right.’ But when I put my arms around her, her wailing and sobbing got louder, and I asked her what she wanted.

“‘I want a divorce,’ she sobbed.

“‘What?’

“‘I want a divorce. I can’t bear living like this any more. I can’t bear it. Every time they have a head cold, every time they’re late from school, whenever anything bad happens, I think it’s retribution. I can’t stand it.’

“‘Retribution for what?’

“‘While you were away, I made a mess of things.’

“‘What do you mean?’

“‘With somebody.’

“‘Who?’

“‘Noel Mackham. You don’t know him. He lives in Maple Dell.’

“Then for a long time I didn’t say anything—what could I say? And suddenly she turned on me in fury.

“‘Oh, I knew you’d be like this, I knew you’d be like this, I knew you’d blame me!’ she said. ‘But it wasn’t my fault, it just wasn’t my fault. I knew you’d blame me, I knew you’d blame me, I knew you’d be like this, and I …’

“I didn’t hear much else of what she said, because I was packing a suitcase. And then I kissed the kids goodbye, caught a train to the city, and boarded the
Augustus
next morning.”

WHAT HAPPENED
to Marcie was this: The evening paper printed Selfredge’s letter, the day after the Village Council meeting, and she read it. She called Mackham on the telephone. He said he was going to ask the editor to print an answer he had written, and that he would stop by her house at eight o’clock to show her the carbon copy. She had planned to eat dinner with her children, but just before she sat down, the bell rang, and Mark Barrett dropped in. “Hi, honey,” he said. “Make me a drink?” She made him some Martinis, and he took off his hat and topcoat and got down to business. “I understand you had that meatball over here for a drink last night.”

“Who told you, Mark? Who in the world told you?”

“Helen Selfredge. It’s no secret. She doesn’t want the library thing reopened.”

“It’s like being followed. I hate it.”

“Don’t let that bother you, sweetie.” He held out his glass, and she filled it again. “I’m just here as a neighbor—friend of Charlie’s—and what’s the use of having friends and neighbors if they can’t give you advice? Mackham is a meatball, and Mackham is a wolf. With Charlie away, I feel kind of like an older brother—I want to keep an eye on you. I want you to promise me that you won’t have that meatball in your house again.”