The Stories of John Cheever

“I loved the little girl dearly and I regretted my disagreement with Mrs. Tennyson,” she went on. “The little girl was one of the fire people—banked fire. I gave her palm a good deal of study. We were left alone a great deal, of course. She had a long life line and a good sense of balance and a good head. There were signs of imprudence there, but a great deal of that would depend upon you… I saw deep water there and some great danger, some great hazard. That’s why I wrote the letter to Mrs. Tennyson. I never charged Mrs. Tennyson for any of my professional services.”

“What did you and Mrs. Tennyson fight about?” the sergeant asked.

“We’re wasting time,” Robert said. “We’re wasting so much time. Let’s go back.” He got up and went out of the room, and the sergeant followed him. It took them a long time to drive back. The Sunday crowds crossing the streets stopped them at every intersection. The plainclothesman was waiting in front of the house. “You’d better go up and see your wife,” he told Robert. Neither the doorman nor the elevator man spoke to him. He stepped into his apartment and called to Katherine. She was in their bedroom, sitting by the window. She had a black book in her lap. He saw that it was the Bible. It was a Gideon copy that a drunken friend of theirs had stolen from a hotel. They had used it once or twice as a reference. Beyond the open window, he could see the river, a wide, bright field of light. The room was very still.

“What about Mrs. Emerson?” Katherine asked.

“It was a mistake. It was a mistake to think that she would hurt the child.”

“Renée called again. She took Mrs. Harley home. She wants us to telephone her when we find Deborah. I never want to see Renée again.”

“I know.”