The Stories of John Cheever

The transom above the Hartleys’ bedroom door was open, and as the maid went down the hall, she could hear Mrs. Hartley’s voice, a voice so uncontrolled, so guttural and full of suffering, that she stopped and listened as if the woman’s life were in danger. “Why do we have to come back?” Mrs. Hartley was crying. “Why do we have to come back? Why do we have to make these trips back to the places where we thought we were happy? What good is it going to do? What good has it ever done? We go through the telephone book looking for the names of people we knew ten years ago, and we ask them for dinner, and what good does it do? What good has it ever done? We go back to the restaurants, the mountains, we go back to the houses, even the neighborhoods, we walk in the slums, thinking that this will make us happy, and it never does. Why in Christ’s name did we ever begin such a wretched thing? Why isn’t there an end to it? Why can’t we separate again? It was better that way. Wasn’t it better that way? It was better for Anne—I don’t care what you say, it was better for her than this. I’ll take Anne again and you can live in town. Why can’t I do that, why can’t I, why can’t I, why can’t I…” The frightened maid went back along the corridor. Anne was sitting in the parlor reading to the younger children when the maid went downstairs.