The Stories of John Cheever (60 page)

Francis recoiled at the mention of the girl’s name. Then a dingy light seemed to emanate from his spirit, showing everything—Julia, the boy, the chairs—in their true colorlessness. It was like a bitter turn of the weather.

“We’re going to have a large family,” Clayton said. “Her father’s a terrible rummy, and I’ve had my hard times, and we want to have lots of children. Oh, she’s wonderful, Mr. and Mrs. Weed, and we have so much in common. We like all the same things. We sent out the same Christmas card last year without planning it, and we both have an allergy to tomatoes, and our eyebrows grow together in the middle. Well, goodnight.”

Julia went to the door with him. When she returned, Francis said that Clayton was lazy, irresponsible, affected, and smelly. Julia said that Francis seemed to be getting intolerant; the Thomas boy was young and should be given a chance. Julia had noticed other cases where Francis had been short-tempered. “Mrs. Wrightson has asked everyone in Shady Hill to her anniversary party but us,” she said.

“I’m sorry, Julia.”

“Do you know why they didn’t ask us?”

“Why?”

“Because you insulted Mrs. Wrightson.”

“Then you know about it?”

“June Masterson told me. She was standing behind you.”

Julia walked in front of the sofa with a small step that expressed, Francis knew, a feeling of anger.

“I did insult Mrs. Wrightson, Julia, and I meant to. I’ve never liked her parties, and I’m glad she’s dropped us.”

“What about Helen?”

“How does Helen come into this?”

“Mrs. Wrightson’s the one who decides who goes to the assemblies.”

“You mean she can keep Helen from going to the dances?”

“Yes.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Oh. I knew you hadn’t thought of it,” Julia cried, thrusting hilt-deep into this chink of his armor. “And it makes me furious to see this kind of stupid thoughtlessness wreck everyone’s happiness.”

“I don’t think I’ve wrecked anyone’s happiness.”

“Mrs. Wrightson runs Shady Hill and has run it for the last forty years. I don’t know what makes you think that in a community like this you can indulge every impulse you have to be insulting, vulgar, and offensive.”

“I have very good manners,” Francis said, trying to give the evening a turn toward the light.

“Damn you, Francis Weed!” Julia cried, and the spit of her words struck him in the face. “I’ve worked hard for the social position we enjoy in this place, and I won’t stand by and see you wreck it. You must have understood when you settled here that you couldn’t expect to live like a bear in a cave.”

“I’ve got to express my likes and dislikes.”

“You can conceal your dislikes. You don’t have to meet everything head on, like a child. Unless you’re anxious to be a social leper. It’s no accident that we get asked out a great deal! It’s no accident that Helen has so many friends. How would you like to spend your Saturday nights at the movies? How would you like to spend your Sundays raking up dead leaves? How would you like it if your daughter spent the assembly nights sitting at her window, listening to the music from the club? How would you like it—” He did something then that was, after all, not so unaccountable, since her words seemed to raise up between them a wall
so
deadening that he gagged. He struck her full in the face. She staggered and then, a moment later, seemed composed. She went up the stairs to their room. She didn’t slam the door. When Francis followed, a few minutes later, he found her packing a suitcase.

“Julia, I’m very sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. She was crying.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“I don’t know. I just looked at a timetable. There’s an eleven-six-teen into New York. I’ll take that.”

“You can’t go, Julia.”

“I can’t stay. I know that.”

“I’m sorry about Mrs. Wrightson, Julia, and I’m—”

“It doesn’t matter about Mrs. Wrightson. That isn’t the trouble.”

“What is the trouble?”

“You don’t love me.”

“I do love you, Julia.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Julia, I do love you, and I would like to be as we were—sweet and bawdy and dark—but now there are so many people.”

“You hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, Julia.”

“You have no idea of how much you hate me. I think it’s subconscious. You don’t realize the cruel things you’ve done.”

“What cruel things, Julia?”

“The cruel acts your subconscious drives you to in order to express your hatred of me.”

“What, Julia?”

“I’ve never complained.”

“Tell me.”

“You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Tell me.”

“Your clothes.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the way you leave your dirty clothes around in order to express your subconscious hatred of me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I mean your dirty socks and your dirty pajamas and your dirty underwear and your dirty shirts!” She rose from kneeling by the suitcase and faced him, her eyes blazing and her voice ringing with emotion. “I’m talking about the fact that you’ve never learned to hang up anything. You just leave your clothes all over the floor where they drop, in order to humiliate me. You do it on purpose!” She fell on the bed, sobbing.

“Julia, darling!” he said, but when she felt his hand on her shoulder she got up.

“Leave me alone,” she said. “I have to go.” She brushed past him to the closet and came back with a dress. “I’m not taking any of the things you’ve given me,” she said. “I’m leaving my pearls and the fur jacket.”

“Oh, Julia!” Her figure, so helpless in its self-deceptions, bent over the suitcase made him nearly sick with pity. She did not understand how desolate her life would be without him. She didn’t understand the hours that working women have to keep. She didn’t understand that most of her friendships existed within the framework of their marriage, and that without this she would find herself alone. She didn’t understand about travel, about hotels, about money. “Julia, I can’t let you go! What you don’t understand, Julia, is that you’ve come to be dependent on me.”

She tossed her head back and covered her face with her hands. “Did you say that I was dependent on
you?
” she asked. “Is that what you said? And who is it that tells you what time to get up in the morning and when to go to bed at night? Who is if that prepares your meals and picks up your dirty clothes and invites your friends to dinner? If it weren’t for me, your neckties would be greasy and your clothing would be full of moth holes. You were alone when I met you, Francis Weed, and you’ll be alone when I leave. When Mother asked you for a list to send out invitations to our wedding, how many names did you have to give her? Fourteen!”

“Cleveland wasn’t my home, Julia.”

“And how many of your friends came to the church? Two!”

“Cleveland wasn’t my home, Julia.”

“Since I’m not taking the fur jacket,” she said quietly, “you’d better put it back into storage. There’s an insurance policy on the pearls that comes due in January. The name of the laundry and the maid’s telephone number—all those things are in my desk. I hope you won’t drink too much, Francis. I hope that nothing bad will happen to you. If you do get into serious trouble, you can call me.”

“Oh, my darling, I can’t let you go!” Francis said. “I can’t let you go, Julia!” He took her in his arms.

“I guess I’d better stay and take care of you for a little while longer,” she said.

Riding to work in the morning, Francis saw the girl walk down the aisle of the coach. He was surprised; he hadn’t realized that the school she went to was in the city, but she was carrying books, she seemed to be going to school. His surprise delayed his reaction, but then he got up clumsily and stepped into the aisle. Several people had come between them, but he could see her ahead of him, waiting for someone to open the car door, and then, as the train swerved, putting out her hand to support herself as she crossed the platform into the next car. He followed her through that car and halfway through another before calling her name—“Anne! Anne!”—but she didn’t turn. He followed her into still another car, and she sat down in an aisle seat. Coming up to her, all his feelings warm and bent in her direction, he put his hand on the back of her seat—even this touch warmed him—and leaning down to speak to her, he saw that it was not Anne. It was an older woman wearing glasses. He went on deliberately into another car, his face red with embarrassment and the much deeper feeling of having his good sense challenged; for if he couldn’t tell one person from another, what evidence was there that his life with Julia and the children had as much reality as his dreams of iniquity in Paris or the litter, the grass smell, and the cave-shaped trees in Lovers’ Lane.

Late that afternoon, Julia called to remind Francis that they were going out for dinner. A few minutes later, Trace Bearden called. “Look, fellar,” Trace said. “I’m calling for Mrs. Thomas. You know? Clayton, that boy of hers, doesn’t seem able to get a job, and I wondered if you could help. If you’d call Charlie Bell—I know he’s indebted to you—and say a good word for the kid, I think Charlie would—”

“Trace, I hate to say this,” Francis said, “but I don’t feel that I can do anything for that boy. The kid’s worthless. I know it’s a harsh thing to say, but it’s a fact. Any kindness done for him would backfire in everybody’s face. He’s just a worthless kid, Trace, and there’s nothing to be done about it. Even if we got him a job, he wouldn’t be able to keep it for a week. I know that to be a fact. It’s an awful thing, Trace, and I know it is, but instead of recommending that kid, I’d feel obligated to warn people against him—people who knew his father and would naturally want to step in and do something. I’d feel obliged to warn them. He’s a thief …”

The moment this conversation was finished, Miss Rainey came in and stood by his desk. “I’m not going to be able to work for you any more, Mr. Weed,” she said. “I can stay until the seventeenth if you need me, but I’ve been offered a whirlwind of a job, and I’d like to leave as soon as possible.”

She went out, leaving him to face alone the wickedness of what he had done to the Thomas boy. His children in their photograph laughed and laughed, glazed with all the bright colors of summer, and he remembered that they had met a bagpiper on the beach that day and he had paid the piper a dollar to play them a battle song of the Black Watch. The girl would be at the house when he got home. He would spend another evening among his kind neighbors, picking and choosing dead-end streets, cart tracks, and the driveways of abandoned houses. There was nothing to mitigate his feeling—nothing that laughter or a game of Softball with the children would change—and, thinking back over the plane crash, the Farquarsons’ new maid, and Anne Murchison’s difficulties with her drunken father, he wondered how he could have avoided arriving at just where he was. He was in trouble. He had been lost once in his life, coming back from a trout stream in the north woods, and he had now the same bleak realization that no amount of cheerfulness or hopefulness or valor or perseverance could help him find, in the gathering dark, the path that he’d lost. He smelled the forest. The feeling of bleakness was intolerable, and he saw clearly that he had reached the point where he would have to make a choice.

He could go to a psychiatrist, like Miss Rainey; he could go to church and confess his lusts; he could go to a Danish massage parlor in the West Seventies that had been recommended by a salesman; he could rape the girl or trust that he would somehow be prevented from doing this; or he could get drunk. It was his life, his boat, and, like every other man, he was made to be the father of thousands, and what harm could there be in a tryst that would make them both feel more kindly toward the world? This was the wrong train of thought, and he came back to the first, the psychiatrist. He had the telephone number of Miss Rainey’s doctor, and he called and asked for an immediate appointment. He was insistent with the doctor’s secretary—it was his manner in business—and when she said that the doctor’s schedule was full for the next few weeks, Francis demanded an appointment that, day and was told to come at five.

The psychiatrist’s office was in a building that was used mostly by doctors and dentists, and the hallways were filled with the candy smell of mouth wash and memories of pain. Francis’ character had been formed upon a series of private resolves—resolves about cleanliness, about going off the high diving board or repeating any other feat that challenged his courage, about punctuality, honesty, and virtue. To abdicate the perfect loneliness in which he had made his most vital decisions shattered his concept of character and left him now in a condition that felt like shock. He was stupefied. The scene for his
miserere mei Deus
was, like the waiting room of so many doctors offices, a crude token gesture toward the sweets of domestic bliss: a place arranged with antiques, coffee tables, potted plants, and etchings of snow-covered bridges and geese in flight, although there were no children, no marriage bed, no stove, even, in this travesty of a house, where no one had ever spent the night and where the curtained windows looked straight onto a dark air shaft. Francis gave his name and address to a secretary and then saw, at the side of the room, a policeman moving toward him. “Hold it, hold it,” the policeman said. “Don’t move. Keep your hands where they are.”

“I think it’s all right, Officer,” the secretary began. “I think it will be—”

“Let’s make sure,” the policeman said, and he began to slap Francis’ clothes, looking for what—pistols, knives, an icepick? Finding nothing, he went off and the secretary began a nervous apology: “When you called on the telephone, Mr. Weed, you seemed very excited, and one of the doctor’s patients has been threatening his life, and we have to be careful. If you want to go in now?” Francis pushed open a door connected to an electrical chime, and in the doctor’s lair sat down heavily, blew his nose into a handkerchief, searched in his pockets for cigarettes, for matches, for something, and said hoarsely, with tears in his eyes, “I’m in love, Dr. Herzog.”