The Stories of John Cheever

  “Well, he wrote a lot of things,” she said, “but he’s best known for Shit.”

  Artemis laughed, Artemis blushed. “What’s the name of the book?” he asked.

  “Shit,” she said. “That’s the name of it. I’m surprised you never heard of it. It sold about half a million copies.”

  “You’re kidding,” Artemis said.

  “No I’m not,” she said. “Come with me. I’ll show you.”

  He followed her out of the kitchen through several rooms, much richer and more comfortable than anything he was familiar with. She took from a shelf a book whose title was Shit. “My God,” said Artemis, “how did he come to write a book like that?”

  “Well,” she said, “when he was at Syracuse, he got a foundation grant to investigate literary anarchy. He took a year off. That’s when we went to Paris. He wanted to write a book about something that concerned everybody, like sex, only by the time he got his grant, everything you could write about sex had been written. Then he got this other idea. After all, it was universal. That’s what he said. It concerned everybody. Kings and Presidents and sailors at sea. It was just as important as fire, water, earth, and air. Some people might think it was not a very delicate subject to write about, but he hates delicacy, and anyhow, considering the books you can buy these days, Shit is practically pure. I’m surprised you never heard about it. It was translated into twelve languages. See.” She gestured toward a bookcase, where Artemis read Merde, Kaka, and [Cyrillic Word]. “I can give you a paperback, if you’d like.”

  “I’d like to read it,” said Artemis.

  She got a paperback from a closet. “It’s too bad he isn’t here. He would be glad to autograph it for you, but he’s in England. He travels a lot.”

  “Well, thank you, ma’am,” said Artemis. “Thank you for the lunch and the book. I have to get back to work.”

  He checked the rig, climbed into the cab, and put down Huxley for J. P. Filler. He read the book with a certain amount of interest, but his incredulity was stubborn. Except to go to and from college, Artemis had never traveled, and yet he often felt himself to be a traveler, to be among strangers. Walking down a street in China, he would have felt no more alien than he felt at that moment, trying to comprehend the fact that he lived in a world where a man was wealthy and esteemed for having written a book about turds. That’s what it was about: turds. There were all shapes, sizes, and colors, along with a great many descriptions of toilets. Filler had traveled widely. There were the toilets of New Delhi and the toilets of Cairo and he had either imagined or visited the Pope’s chambers in the Vatican and the facilities of the Imperial Palace in Tokyo. There were quite a few lyrical descriptions of nature—loose bowels in a lemon grove in Spain, constipation in a mountain pass in Nepal, dysentery on the Greek islands. It was not really a dull book and it had, as she had said, a distinct universality, although Artemis continued to feel that he had strayed into some country like China. He was not a prude, but he used a prudent vocabulary. When a well came too close to a septic tank, he referred to the danger as “fecal matter.” He had been “down on” (his vocabulary) Maria many times, but to count these performances and to recall in detail the techniques seemed to diminish the experience. There was, he thought, a height of sexual ecstasy that by its immensity and profoundness seemed to transcend observation. He finished the book a little after five. It looked like rain. He killed the rig, covered it with a tarpaulin, and drove home. Passing a bog, he tossed away his copy of Shit. He didn’t want to hide it and he would have had trouble describing it to his mother and, anyhow, he didn’t want to read it again.

  The next day it rained and Artemis got very wet. The rig worked loose and he spent most of the morning making it secure. Mrs. Filler was worried about his health. First she brought him a towel. “You’ll catch your death of cold, you darling boy,” she said. “Oh, look how curly your hair is.” Later, carrying an umbrella, she brought him a cup of tea. She urged him to come into the house and change into dry clothes. He said that he couldn’t leave the rig.

  “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 understan
d 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.”

  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.

  The agency was in a dark, narrow room on a dark street, its walls blazing with posters of beaches, cathedrals, and couples in love. The agent was a gray-haired woman. Above her desk was a sign that said: YOU HAVE TO BE CRAZY TO BE A TRAVEL AGENT. She seemed harassed and her voice was cracked with age, whiskey, or tobacco. She chain-smoked. She twice lighted cigarettes when there was a cigarette smoking in the ashtray. Artemis said that he had five hundred to spend and would like to be away for about two weeks. “Well, I suppose you’ve seen Paris, London, and Disneyland,” she said. “Everyone has. There’s Tokyo, of course, but they tell me it’s a very tiring flight. Seventeen hours in a 707, with a utility stop in Fairbanks. My most satisfied customers these days are the ones who go to Russia. There’s a package.” She flashed a folder at him. “For three hundred and twenty-eight dollars, you get economy round-trip air fare to Moscow, twelve days in a first-class hotel with all your meals, free tickets to hockey, ballet, opera, theatre, and a pass to the public swimming pool. Side trips to Leningrad and Kiev are optional.” He asked what else she might suggest. “Well, there’s Ireland,” she said, “but it’s rainy now. A plane hasn’t landed in London for nearly ten days. They stack up at Liverpool and then you take a train down. Rome is cold. So is Paris. It takes three days to get to Egypt. For a two-week trip the Pacific is out, but you could go to the Caribbean, although reservations are very hard to get. I suppose you’ll want to buy souvenirs and there isn’t much to buy in Russia.”

  “I don’t want to buy anything,” Artemis said. “I just want to travel.”

  “Take my advice,” she said,—“and go to Russia.”

  It seemed the maximum distance that he could place between himself and Mr. and Mrs. Filler. His mother was imperturbable. Most women who owned seven American flags would have protested, but she said nothing but “Go where you want, Sonny. You deserve a change.” His visa and passport took a week, and one pleasant evening he boarded the eight-o’clock Aeroflot from Kennedy to Moscow. Most of the other passengers were Japanese and couldn’t speak English and it was a long and a lonely trip.

  It was raining in Moscow, so Artemis heard what he liked—the sound of rain. The Japanese spoke Russian and he trailed along behind them across the tarmac to the main building, where they formed a line. The line moved slowly and he had been waiting for an hour or longer when a good-looking young woman approached him and asked, “Are you Mr. Artemis Bucklin? I have very good news for you. Come with me.” She found his bag and bucked the lines for customs and immigration. A large black car was waiting for them. “We will go first to your hotel,” she said. She had a marked English accent. “Then we will go to the Bolshoi Theatre, where our great Premier, Nikita Sergeevich Khrushchev, wants to welcome you as a member of the American proletariat. People of many occupations come to visit our beautiful country, but you are the first well driller.” Her voice was lilting and she seemed very happy with her news. Artemis was confused, tired, and dirty. Looking out of the car window, he saw an enormous portrait of the Premier nailed to a tree. He was frightened.

  Why should he be frightened? He had dug wells for rich and powerful people and had met them without fear or shyness. Khrushchev was merely a peasant who, through cunning, vitality, and luck, had made himself the master of a population of over two hu
ndred million. That was the rub; and as the car approached the city, portraits of Khrushchev looked in at Artemis from bakeries, department stores, and lampposts. Khrushchev banners flapped in the wind on a bridge across the Moskva River. In Mayakovsky Square, a large, lighted portrait of Khrushchev beamed down upon his children as they rushed for the subway entrance.

  Artemis was taken to a hotel called the Ukraine. “We are already late,” the young woman said.

  “I can’t go anywhere until I’ve taken a bath and shaved,” said Artemis. “I can’t go anywhere looking like this. And I would like something to eat.”

  “You go up and change,” she said, “and I’ll meet you in the dining room. Do you like chicken?”

  Artemis went up to his room and turned on the hot water in his tub. As anyone could guess, nothing happened. He shaved in cold water and was beginning to dress when the hot-water spout made a Vesuvian racket and began to ejaculate rusty and scalding water. He bathed in this, dressed, and went down. She was sitting at a table in the dining room, where his dinner had been served. She had kindly ordered a carafe of vodka, which he drank off before he ate his chicken. “I do not want to hasten you,” she said, “but we will be late. I will try to explain. Today is the jubilee of the Battle of Stavitsky. We will go to the Bolshoi Theatre and you will sit on the presidium. I won’t be able to sit with you, so you will understand very little of what is said. There will be speeches. Then, after the speeches are over, there will be a reception at the rear of the stage, where our great Premier, Nikita Sergeevich Khrushchev, will welcome you as a member of the American proletariat to the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. I think we should go.”

  The same car and driver waited for them and, on the trip from the Ukraine to the Bolshoi, Artemis counted seventy portraits of the man he was about to meet. They entered the Bolshoi by a back door. He was taken onto the stage, where the speeches had begun. The jubilee was being televised and the lights for this made the stage as hot as a desert, an illusion that was extended by the fact that the stage was flanked with plastic palm trees. Artemis could understand nothing that was said, but he looked around for the Premier. He was not in the principal box. This was occupied by two very old women. At the end of an hour of speeches, his anguish turned to boredom and the unease of a full bladder. At the end of another hour, he was merely sleepy. Then the ceremony ended. There was a buffet backstage and he went there as he had been directed, expecting Khrushchev to make his terrifying appearance, but the Premier was not around and when Artemis asked if he was expected, he was given no answer. He ate a sandwich and drank a glass of wine. No one spoke to him. He decided to walk home from the Bolshoi in order to stretch his legs. As soon as he left the theatre, a policeman stopped him. He kept repeating the name of his hotel and pointing to his shoes, and when the policeman understood, he gave him directions. Off went Artemis. It seemed to be the same route he had taken in the car, but all the portraits of Khrushchev had vanished. All those pictures that had beamed down on him from bakeries, lampposts, and walls were gone. He thought he was lost, until he crossed a bridge over the Moskva River that he remembered for its banners. They no longer flew. When he reached the hotel, he looked for a large portrait of Khrushchev that had hung in the lobby. Gone. So, like many other travelers before him, he went upstairs to a strange room in a strange country humming the unreality blues. How could he have guessed that Khrushchev had been deposed?