The Stories of John Cheever

It was perhaps a week later that Mallory was taken sick. His secretary—she had returned from Capri—found him unconscious on the floor of the office. She called an ambulance. He was operated on and listed as in critical condition. It was ten days after his operation before he could have a visitor, and the first, of course, was Mathilda. He had lost ten inches of his intestinal tract, and there were tubes attached to both his arms. “Why, you’re looking marvelous,” Mathilda exclaimed, turning the look of shock and dismay on her face inward and settling for an expression of absent-mindedness. “And it’s such a pleasant room. Those yellow walls. If you have to be sick, I guess it’s best to be sick in New York. Remember that awful country hospital where I had the children?” She came to rest, not in a chair, but on the window sill. He reminded himself that he had never known a love that could quite anneal the divisive power of pain; that could bridge the distance between the quick and the infirm. “Everything at the house is fine and dandy,” she said. “Nobody seems to miss you.”

Never having been gravely ill before, he had no way of anticipating the poverty of her gifts as a nurse. She seemed to resent the fact that he was ill, but her resentment was, he thought, a clumsy expression of love. She had never been adroit at concealment, and she could not conceal the fact that she considered his collapse to be selfish. “You’re so lucky,” she said. “I mean, you’re so lucky it happened in New York. You have the best doctors and the best nurses, and this must be one of the best hospitals in the world. You’ve nothing to worry about, really. Everything’s done for you. I just wish that once in my life I could get into bed for a week or two and be waited on.”