The Stories of John Cheever

“Your last letter took eighteen days,” she wrote. “I find myself answering your letters before they come, but there’s nothing mystical about this, really, for there’s an immense clock at the post office with one side black and the other white showing what time it is in different parts of the world. By the time dawn breaks where you are, we are halfway through the day. They have just painted my stairs. The colors are the colors favored by all municipal painters—light brown with a dark-brown border. While they were about it, they splashed a little white paint on the bottom of my mailbox. Now when the lift carries me down, the white paint gives me the illusion that there is a letter from you. I cannot cure myself of this. My heart beats and I run to the box, only to find white paint. Now I ride the lift with my back turned, the drop of paint is so painful.”

As he returned from work one night, his mother told him that someone had called from the county seat and said that the call was urgent. Artemis guessed that it must be the Internal Revenue Service. He had had difficulty trying to describe to them the profit and loss in looking for water. He was a conscientious citizen and he called the number. A stranger identified himself as Mr. Cooper and he didn’t sound like the Internal Revenue Service. Cooper wanted to see Artemis at once. “Well, you see,” Artemis said, “it’s my bowling night. Our team is tied for first place and I’d hate to miss the games if we could meet some other time.” Cooper was agreeable and Artemis told him where he was working and how to get there. Cooper said he would be there at ten and Artemis went bowling.

In the morning, it began to snow. It looked like a heavy storm. Cooper showed up at ten. He did not get out of his car, but he was so very pleasant that Artemis guessed he was a salesman. Insurance.

“I understand that you’ve been in Russia.”

“Well, I was only there for forty-eight hours. They canceled my visa. I don’t know why.”

“But you’ve been corresponding with Russia.”

“Yes, there’s this girl. I went out with her once. We write each other.”

“The State Department is very much interested in your experience. Undersecretary Hurlow would like to talk with you.”

“But I didn’t really have any experience. I saw some churches and had three chicken dinners and then they sent me home.”

“Well, the Undersecretary is interested. He called yesterday and again this morning. Would you mind going to Washington?”

“I’m working.”

“It would only take a day. You can take the shuttle in the morning and come back in the afternoon. It won’t take long. I think they’ll pay your expenses, although this hasn’t been decided. I have the information here.” He handed the well digger a State Department letterhead that requested the presence of Artemis Bucklin at the new State Department building at 9 A.M. on the following day. “If you can make it,” Cooper said, “your Government will be very grateful. I wouldn’t worry too much about the A.M. Nobody much gets to work before ten. It was nice to have met you. If you have any questions, call me at this number.” Then he was gone and gone very quickly, because the snow was dense. The well site was in some backwoods where the roads wouldn’t be plowed and Artemis drove home before lunch.

Some provincialism—some attachment to the not unpleasant routines of his life—made Artemis feel resistant to the trip to Washington. He didn’t want to go, but could he be forced to? The only force involved was in the phrase that his Government would be grateful. With the exception of the Internal Revenue Service, he had no particular quarrel with his Government and he would have liked—childishly, perhaps—to deserve its gratitude. That night he packed a bag and checked the airline schedules and he was at the new State Department building at nine the next morning.