The Wapshot Chronicle by John Cheever

Author:John Cheever
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, pdf
Tags: Literature, Fiction
ISBN: 9781409088899
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2010-12-20T10:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Northeaster (Leander wrote). Wind backed from SW. 3rd equinoctial disturbance of season. All in love is not larky and fractious.—In the attic the broken harp-string music of water dropping into pails and pans had begun and, feeling chilled and exposed to the somber view of the river in the rain, he put away his papers and went down the stairs. Sarah was in Travertine. Lulu was away. He went into the back parlor, where he was completely absorbed in building and lighting a fire—in watching how it caught, in sniffing the perfume of clean wood and feeling the heat as it reached his hands and then went through his clothes. When he was warm he went to the window to see the dark day. He was surprised to see a car turn in the gates and come up the drive. It was one of the old sedans from the taxi stand at the station.

The car stopped at the side door and he saw a woman lean forward and talk to the driver. He did not recognize the passenger—she was plain and gray-haired—and he guessed that she was one of Sarah’s friends. He watched her from the window. She opened the door of the car and walked up, through the thin curtain of rain that fell from the broken gutters, to the door. Leander was glad for any company and he went down the hall and opened the door before she rang.

He saw a very plain woman, her coat darkened at the shoulders with rain. Her face was long, her hat was trimmed gaily with hard white feathers, like the feathers that are used to balance badminton birds, and her coat was worn. Leander had seen, he thought, hundreds of her kind. They were the imprimatur of New England. Dutiful, pious and hardy, they seemed to have patterned their spirits after the weeds that grow in high pastures. They were the women, Leander thought, after whom the dirty boats of the mackerel fleet were named: Alice, Esther, Agnes, Maybelle and Ruth. That there should be feathers in her hat, that an ugly pin made of seashells should be pinned to her flat breast, that there should be anything feminine, any ornament on such a discouraging figure, seemed to Leander touching.

“Come in,” Leander said. “I expect you’re looking for Mrs. Wapshot?”

“I think you’re the gentleman I’m looking for,” she said with a look so troubled and shy that Leander glanced down at his clothes. “I’m Miss Helen Rutherford. Are you Mr. Wapshot?”

“Yes, I’m Leander Wapshot. Come in, come in out of the rain. Come into the parlor. I have a little fire.” She followed Leander along the hall and he opened the door to the back parlor. “Sit down,” he said. “Sit in the red chair. Sit by the fire. Give your clothes a chance to dry out.”

“You have quite a big house here, Mr. Wapshot,” she said.

“It’s too big,” Leander said. “Do you know how many doors there are in this house? There are one hundred and twenty-two doors in this house.

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