The Stories of John Cheever

He slumped a little in the seat and unfastened his trousers. She dipped her head, a singular gesture rather like a bird going after seed or water. “Hey, that’s great,” said Artemis, “that’s really great. You want me to tell you when I’m going to come?” She simply shook her head. “Big load’s on its way,” said Artemis. “Big load’s coming down the line. You want me to hold it?” She shook her head. “Ouch,” yelled Artemis. “Ouch.” One of his limitations as a lover was that, at the most sublime moment, he usually shouted, “Ouch, ouch, ouch.” Maria had often complained about this. “Ouch,” roared Artemis. “Ouch, ouch, ouch,” as he was racked by a large orgasm. “Hey, that was great,” he said, “that was really great but I’ll bet it’s unhealthy. I mean, I’ll bet if you do that all the time, you’d get to be round-shouldered.”

She kissed him tenderly and said, “You’re crazy.” That made two. He gave her one of his sandwiches.

The rig was then down to three hundred feet. The next day, Artemis hauled up the hammer and lowered the cylinder that measured water. The water was muddy but not soapy and he guessed the take to be about twenty gallons a minute. When Mrs. Filler came out of the house, he told her the news. She didn’t seem pleased. Her face was swollen and her eyes were red. “I’ll go down another fifteen or twenty feet,” Artemis said. “I think you’ll have a nice well.”

“And then you’ll go away,” she said, “and never come back.” She began to cry.

“Don’t cry,” said Artemis. “Please don’t cry, Mrs. Filler. I hate to see women crying.”

“I’m in love,” she sobbed loudly.

“Well, I guess a nice woman like you must fall in love pretty often,” Artemis said.

“I’m in love with you,” she sobbed. “It’s never happened to me before. I wake up at five in the morning and start waiting for you to come. Six o’clock, seven o’clock, eight o’clock. It’s agony. I can’t live without you.

“What about your husband?” asked Artemis cheerfully.

“He knows,” she sobbed. “He’s in London. I called him last night. I told him. It didn’t seem fair to have him come home expecting a loving wife when his wife is in love with someone else.”

“What did he say?”

“He didn’t say anything. He hung up. He’s scheduled to come back tonight. I have to meet the plane at five. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

“Well, have to get back to work, ma’am,” said Artemis at his most rustic. “You go back to the house now and get some rest.” She turned and started for the house. He would have liked to console her—sorrow of any sort distressed him—but he knew that any gesture on his part would be hazardous. He reset the rig and went down another twenty feet, where he estimated the take to be about thirty gallons a minute. At three-thirty, Mrs. Filler left. She scowled at him as she drove past. As soon as she had gone, he moved hastily. He capped the well, got his rig onto the truck, and drove home. About nine that night, the phone rang. He thought of not answering or of asking his mother to take it, but his mother was watching television and he had his responsibilities as a well driller. “You’ve got around thirty-five gallons a minute,” he said. “Haversham will install the pump. I don’t know whether or not you’ll need another storage tank. Ask Haversham. Goodbye.”

The next day, he took his shotgun and a package of sandwiches and walked the woods north of the town. He was not much of a wing shot and there weren’t many birds, but it pleased him to walk through the woods and pastures and climb the stone walls. When he got home, his mother said, “She was here. That lady. She brought you a present.” She passed him a box in which there were three silk shirts and a love letter. Later that evening, when the telephone rang, he asked his mother to say that he was out. It was, of course, Mrs. Filler. Artemis had not taken a vacation in several years and he could see that the time to travel had arrived. In the morning, he went to a travel agency in the village.