The Stories of John Cheever

Renée had a lunch date, and she explained this to Deborah. “I’m going to the Plaza for lunch,” she said. “I’m going to take a bath and dress, and you’ll have to be a good girl.” She gave Deborah her jewel box and turned on the water in the bathtub. Deborah sat quietly at the dressing table and loaded herself with necklaces and clips. While Renée was drying herself, the doorbell rang, and she put on a wrapper and went out to the living room. Deborah followed her. A man was there.

“I’m driving up to Albany,” he told Renée. “Why don’t you put some things in a bag and come on up with me? I’ll drive you back on Wednesday.”

“I’d love to, darling,” Renée said, “but I can’t. I’m having lunch with Helen Foss. She thinks she might be able to get me some work.”

“Call off the lunch,” the man said. “Come on.”

“I can’t, darling,” Renée said. “I’ll see you on Wednesday.”

“Who’s the kid?” the man asked.

“It’s the Tennysons’ little girl. I take care of her while the nurse goes to church.” The man embraced Renée vigorously and kissed her and left after they had arranged to meet Wednesday night.

“That was your rich Uncle Loathsome,” Renée told the child.

“I have a friend. Her name is Martha,” the little girl said.

“Yes, I’m sure you have a friend named Martha,” Renée said. She noticed that the child was scowling and that her eyes were full of tears. “What’s the matter, darling?” she asked. “What is the matter? Here, here, you sit on the sofa and listen to the radio. I’ve got to fix my face.” She went into the bedroom to arrange her face and brush her hair.

A few minutes later the doorbell rang again. This time it was Mrs. Harley. “Did you enjoy the service?” Renée asked. “I’ll put on Deborah’s coat.” She looked for the hat and coat. They were not where she had left them, and the child was not in the living room. Her heart began to beat fiercely. She went into her bedroom. “It does my soul so much good to go to church,” she heard Mrs. Harley say. Renée thought in terror of the open windows. The window in her bedroom was open. She looked out, and fifteen stories below she could see the sidewalk and the canopy and the doorman at the corner whistling for a cab and a blonde walking a poodle. Renée ran back to the living room.

“Where’s Deborah?” Mrs. Harley asked.

“I was dressing,” Renée said. “She was in here a minute ago. She must have slipped out. She could have opened the door herself.”

“You mean you’ve lost the little girl!” Mrs. Harley shouted.