The Stories of John Cheever

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Garrison said. She put aside her needle and the flowers. She remembered her first pearls. She had worn them to a party in Baltimore. It had been a wonderful party and the memory excited her for a moment. Then she felt old.

“You’re not old enough to have pearls,” she told Carlotta. “You’re just a little girl.” She spoke quietly, for the memory of Baltimore had reminded her of other parties; of the yacht-club party at which she had sprained her ankle and the masquerade she had attended dressed as Sir Walter Raleigh. The day had got very hot. The heat made Mrs. Garrison sleepy and encouraged her to reminisce. She thought about Philadelphia and Bermuda, and became so absorbed in these memories that she was startled when Carlotta spoke again.

“I’m not a little girl,” Carlotta said suddenly. “I’m a big girl!” Her voice broke and tears came to her eyes. “I’m bigger than Timmy and Ingrid and everybody!”

“You’ll be big enough in time,” Mrs. Garrison said. “Stop crying.”

“I want to be a big lady. I want to be a big lady like Aunt Ellen and Mummy.”

“And when you’re as big as your mother, you’ll wish you were a child again!” Mrs. Garrison said angrily.

“I want to be a lady,” the child cried. “I don’t want to be little. I don’t want to be a little girl.”

“Stop it,” Mrs. Garrison called, “stop crying. It’s too hot. You don’t know what you want. Look at me. I spend half my time wishing I were young enough to dance. It’s ridiculous, it’s perfectly…” She noticed a shadow crossing the lowered awning at the window. She went to the window and saw Nils Lund going down the lawn. He would have overheard everything. This made her intensely uncomfortable. Carlotta was still crying. She hated to hear the child cry. It seemed as if the meaning of that hot afternoon, as if for a second her life, depended upon the little girl’s happiness.

“Is there anything you’d like to do, Carlotta?”

“No.”

“Would you like a piece of candy?”

“No, thank you.”

“Would you like to wear my pearls?”

“No, thank you.”

Mrs. Garrison decided to cut the interview short and she rang for Agnes.

 

In the kitchen, Greta and Agnes were drinking coffee. The lunch dishes had been washed and the turmoil that attended dinner had not begun. The kitchen was cool and clean and the grounds were still. They met there every afternoon and it was the pleasantest hour of their day.

“Where is she?” Greta asked.

“She’s in there with Carlotta,” Agnes said.

“She was talking to herself in the garden this morning,” Greta said. “Nils heard her. Now she wants him to move some lilies. He won’t do anything. He won’t even cut the grass.”

“Emma cleaned the living room,” Agnes said. “Then she comes in with all those flowers.”

“Next summer I go back to Sweden,” Greta said.

“Does it still cost four hundred dollars?” Agnes asked.

“Yes,” Greta said. In order to avoid saying ja, she hissed the word.

“Maybe next year it won’t cost so much. But if I don’t go next year, Ingrid will be twelve years old and she’ll cost full fare. I want to see my mother. She’s old.”

“You should go,” Agnes said.

“I went in 1927, 1935, and 1937,” Greta said.

“I went home in 1937,” Agnes said. “That was the last time. My father was an old man. I was there all summer. I thought I’ll go the year after, but she said if I go she fires me, so I didn’t go. And that winter my father died. I wanted to see him.”

“I want to see my mother,” Greta said.

“They talk about the scenery here,” Agnes said. “These little mountains! Ireland is like a garden.”