The Stories of John Cheever

I kept myself from remarking on either her clothing or her hair. She was dressed all in black, and her hair was straight. The purpose of this costume or uniform escaped me. It was not becoming. It did not appeal to the senses. It seemed to reflect on her self-esteem; it seemed like a costume of mourning or penance, a declaration of her indifference to the silks that I enjoy on women; but what were her reasons for despising finery? His costume was much more bewildering. Was its origin Italian? I wondered. The shoes were effeminate, and the jacket was short, but he looked more like a street boy in nineteenth-century London than someone on the Corso. That would be excepting his hair. He had a beard, a mustache, and long dark curls that reminded me of some minor apostle in a third-rate Passion Play. His face was not effeminate, but it was delicate, and seemed to me to convey a marked lack of commitment.

“Would you like some coffee, Daddy?” Flora asked.

“No, thank you, dear,” I said. “Is there anything to drink?”

“We don’t have anything,” she said.

“Would Peter be good enough to go out and get me something?” I asked.

“I guess so,” Peter said glumly, and I told myself that he was probably not intentionally rude. I gave him a ten-dollar bill and asked him to get me some bourbon.

“I don’t think they have bourbon,” he said.

“Well, then, Scotch,” I said.

“They drink mostly wine in the neighborhood,” Peter said.

Then I settled on him a clear, kindly gaze, thinking that I would have him murdered. From what I know of the world there are still assassins to be hired, and I would pay someone to put a knife in his back or push him off a roof. My smile was broad, clear, and genuinely murderous, and the boy slipped into a green coat—another piece of mummery—and went out.

“You don’t like him?” Flora asked.

“I despise him,” I said.

“But, Daddy, you don’t know him,” Flora said.

“My dear, if I knew him any better I would wring his neck.”

“He’s very kind and sensitive—he’s very generous.”

“I can see that he’s very sensitive,” I said.

“He’s the kindest person I’ve ever known,” Flora said.

“I’m glad to hear that,” I said, “but let’s talk about you now, shall we? I didn’t come here to talk about Peter.”

“But we’re living together, Daddy.”