The Stories of John Cheever

When he came home the next evening, there was a letter from his wife on the hall table. He seemed to see directly through the envelope into its contents. In it she would explain intelligently and dispassionately that her old lover, Olney Pratt, had returned from Saudi Arabia and asked her to marry him. She wanted her freedom, and she hoped he would understand. She and Olney had never ceased loving one another, and they would be dishonest to their innermost selves if they denied this love another day. She was sure they could reach an agreement on the custody of the children. He had been a good provider and a patient man, but she did not wish ever to see him again.

He held the letter in his hand thinking that his wife’s handwriting expressed her femininity, her intelligence, her depth; it was the hand of a woman asking for freedom. He tore the letter open, fully prepared to read about Olney Pratt, but he read instead: “Dear Lover-bear, the nights are terribly cold, and I miss…” On and on it went for two pages. He was still reading when the doorbell rang. It was Doris Hamilton, a neighbor. “I know you don’t answer the telephone, and I know you don’t like to dine out,” she said, “but I’m determined that you should have at least one good dinner this month, and I’ve come to shanghai you.”

“Well,” he said.

“Now you march upstairs and take a shower, and I’ll make myself a drink,” she said. “We’re going to have hot boiled lobster. Aunt Molly sent down a bushel this morning, and you’ll have to help us eat them. Eddie has to go to the doctor after dinner, and you can go home whenever you like.”

He went upstairs and did as he was told. When he had changed and come down, she was in the living room with a drink, and they drove over to her house in separate cars. They dined by candlelight off a table in the garden, and, washed and in a clean duck suit, he found himself contented with the role he had so recently and so passionately abdicated. It was not a romantic lead, but it had some subtle prominence. After dinner, Eddie excused himself and went off to see his psychiatrist, as he did three nights each week. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen anyone,” Doris said. “I don’t suppose you know the gossip.”

“I really haven’t seen anyone.”

“I know. I’ve heard you practicing the piano. Well, Lois Spinner is suing Frank, and suing the buttons off him.”

“Why?”