The Stories of John Cheever

“Anyhow,” he said, “I never catch cold.” As soon as he said this, he began to sneeze. Mrs. Filler insisted that he either come into her house or go home. He was uncomfortable and he gave up around two. Mrs. Filler had been right. By suppertime, his throat was sore. His head was unclear. He took two aspirins and went to bed around nine. He woke after midnight in the hot-and-cold spasms of a high fever. The effect of this was strangely to reduce him to the emotional attitudes of a child. He curled up in an embryonic position, his hands between his knees, alternately sweating and shivering. He felt himself lonely but well protected, irresponsible, and cozy. His father seemed to live again and would bring him, when he came home from work, a new switch for his electric train or a lure for his tackle box. His mother brought him some breakfast and took his temperature. He had a fever of 103 and dozed for most of the morning.

At noon his mother came in to say that there was a lady downstairs to see him. She had brought some soup. He said that he didn’t want to see anyone, but his mother seemed doubtful. The lady was a customer. Her intentions were kind. It would be rude to turn her away. He felt too feeble to show any resistance, and a few minutes later Mrs. Filler stood in the doorway with a preserve jar full of broth. “I told him he’d be sick, I told him that yesterday.”

“I’ll go next door and see if they have any aspirin,” said his mother. “We’ve used ours all up.” She left the room and Mrs. Filler closed the door.

“Oh, you poor boy,” she said. “You poor boy.”

“It’s only a cold,” he said. “I never get sick.”

“But you are sick,” she said. “You are sick and I told you you would be sick, you silly boy.” Her voice was tremulous and she sat on the edge of his bed and began to stroke his brow. “If you’d only come into my house, you’d be out there today, swinging your sledge hammer.” She extended her caresses to his chest and shoulders and then, reaching under the bedclothes, hit, since Artemis never wore pajamas, pay dirt. “Oh, you lovely boy,” said Mrs. Filler. “Do you always get hard this quickly? It’s so hard.” Artemis groaned and Mrs. Filler went to work. Then he arched his back and let out a muffled yell. The trajectory of his discharge was a little like the fireballs from a Roman candle and may explain our fascination with these pyrotechnics. Then they heard the front door open and Mrs. Filler left his bed for a chair by the window. Her face was very red and she was breathing heavily.

“All the aspirin they have is baby aspirin,” said his mother. “It’s pink, but I guess if you take enough of it, it works all right.”

“Why don’t you go to the drugstore and buy some aspirin?” said Mrs. Filler. “I’ll stay with him while you’re gone.”

“I don’t know how to drive,” said Artemis’ mother. “Isn’t that funny? In this day and age. I’ve never learned how to drive a car.” Mrs. Filler was about to suggest that she walk to the drugstore, but she realized that this might expose her position. “I’ll telephone the drugstore and see if they deliver,” his mother said, and left the room with the door open. The telephone was in the hallway and Mrs. Filler remained in her chair. She stayed a few minutes longer and parted on a note of false cheerfulness.

“You get better,” she said, “and come back and dig me a nice well.” He was back at work three days later. Mrs. Filler was not there, but she returned around eleven with a load of groceries. At noon, when he was opening his lunch pail, she came out of the house carrying a small tray on which there were two brown, steaming drinks. “I’ve brought you a toddy,” she said. He opened the cab door and she climbed in and sat beside him. “Is there whiskey in it?” asked Artemis.

“Just a drop,” she said. “It’s mostly tea and lemon. It will help you get better.” Artemis tasted his toddy and thought he had never tasted anything so strong. “Did you read my husband’s book?” she asked.

“I looked at it,” Artemis said slyly. “I didn’t understand it. I mean, I didn’t understand why he had to write about that. I don’t read very much, but I suppose it’s better than some books. The kind of books I really hate are the kind of books where people just walk around and light cigarettes and say things like ‘good morning.’ They just walk around. When I read a book, I want to read about earthquakes and exploring and tidal waves. I don’t want to read about people walking around and opening doors.”

“Oh, you silly boy,” she said. “You don’t know anything.”

“I’m thirty years old,” said Artemis, “and I know how to drill a well.”

“But you don’t know what I want,” she said.

“You want a well, I guess,” he said. “A hundred gallons a minute. Good drinking water.”

“I don’t mean that. I mean what I want now.”