The Stories of John Cheever

The Trouble of Marcie Flint

THIS IS being written aboard the S.S. Augustus, three days at sea. My suitcase is full of peanut butter, and I am a fugitive from the suburbs of all large cities. What holes! The suburbs, I mean. God preserve me from the lovely ladies taking in their asters and their roses at dusk lest the frost kill them, and from ladies with their heads whirling with civic zeal. I’m off to Torino, where the girls love peanut butter and the world is a man’s castle and …” There was absolutely nothing wrong with the suburb (Shady Hill) from which Charles Flint was fleeing, his age is immaterial, and he was no stranger to Torino, having been there for three months recently on business.

“God preserve me,” he continued, “from women who dress like toreros to go to the supermarket, and from cowhide dispatch cases, and from flannels and gabardines. Preserve me from word games and adulterers, from basset hounds and swimming pools and frozen canapés and Bloody Marys and smugness and syringa bushes and P.T.A. meetings.” On and on he wrote, while the Augustus, traveling at seventeen knots, took a course due east; they would raise the Azores in a day.

Like all bitter men, Flint knew less than half the story and was more interested in unloading his own peppery feelings than in learning the truth. Marcie, the wife from whom he was fleeing, was a dark-haired, dark-eyed woman—not young by any stretch of the imagination but gifted with great stores of feminine sweetness and gallantry. She had not told her neighbors that Charlie had left her; she had not even called her lawyer; but she had fired the cook, and she now took a south-southwest course between the stove and the sink, cooking the children’s supper. It was not in her to review the past, as her husband would, or to inspect the forces that could put an ocean between a couple who had been cheerfully married for fifteen years. There had been, she felt, a slight difference in their points of view during his recent absence on business, for while he always wrote that he missed her, he also wrote that he was dining at the Superga six nights a week and having a wonderful time. He had only planned to be away for six weeks, and when this stretched out to three months, she found that it was something to be borne.

Her neighbors had stood by her handsomely during the first weeks, but she knew, herself, that an odd woman can spoil a dinner party, and as Flint continued to stay away, she found that she had more and more lonely nights to get through. Now, there were two aspects to the night life of Shady Hill; there were the parties, of course, and then there was another side—a regular Santa Claus’s workshop of madrigal singers, political discussion groups, recorder groups, dancing schools, confirmation classes, committee meetings, and lectures on literature, philosophy, city planning, and pest control. The bright banner of stars in heaven has probably never before been stretched above such a picture of nocturnal industry. Marcie, having a sweet, clear voice, joined a madrigal group that met on Thursdays and a political workshop that met on Mondays. Once she made herself available, she was sought as a committeewoman, although it was hard to say why; she almost never opened her mouth. She finally accepted a position on the Village Council, in the third month of Charlie’s absence, mostly to keep herself occupied.

Virtuousness, reason, civic zeal, and loneliness all contributed to poor Marcie’s trouble. Charlie, far away in Torino, could imagine her well enough standing in their lighted doorway on the evening of his return, but could he imagine her groping under the bed for the children’s shoes or pouring bacon fat into an old soup can? “Daddy has to stay in Italy in order to make the money to buy the things we need,” she told the children. But when Charlie called her from abroad, as he did once a week, he always seemed to have been drinking. Regard this sweet woman, then, singing “Hodie Christus Natus Est,” studying Karl Marx, and sitting on a hard chair at meetings of the Village Council.

If there was anything really wrong with Shady Hill, anything that you could put your finger on, it was the fact that the village had no public library—no foxed copies of Pascal, smelling of cabbage; no broken sets of Dostoevski and George Eliot; no Galsworthy, even; no Barrie and no Bennett. This was the chief concern of the Village Council during Marcie’s term. The library partisans were mostly newcomers to the village; the opposition whip was Mrs. Selfredge, a member of the Council and a very decorous woman, with blue eyes of astonishing brilliance and inexpressiveness. Mrs. Selfredge often spoke of the chosen quietness of their life. “We never go out,” she would say, but in such a way that she seemed to be expressing not some choice but a deep vein of loneliness. She was married to a wealthy man much older than herself, and they had no children; indeed, the most indirect mention of sexual fact brought a deep color to Mrs. Selfredge’s face. She took the position that a library belonged in that category of public service that might make Shady Hill attractive to a development. This was not blind prejudice. Carsen Park, the next village, had let a development inside its boundaries, with disastrous results to the people already living there. Their taxes had been doubled, their schools had been ruined. That there was any connection between reading and real estate was disputed by the partisans of the library, until a horrible murder—three murders, in fact—took place in one of the cheese-box houses in the Carsen Park development, and the library project was buried with the victims.

From the terraces of the Superga you can see all of Torino and the snow-covered mountains around, and a man drinking wine there might not think of his wife attending a meeting of the Village Council. This was a board of ten men and two women, headed by the Mayor, who screened the projects that came before them. The Council met in the Civic Center, an old mansion that had been picked up for back taxes. The board room had been the parlor. Easter eggs had been hidden here, children had pinned paper tails on paper donkeys, fires had burned on the hearth, and a Christmas tree had stood in the corner; but once the house had become the property of the village, a conscientious effort seems to have been made to exorcise these gentle ghosts. Raphael’s self-portrait and the pictures of the Broken Bridge at Avignon and the Avon at Stratford were taken down and the walls were painted a depressing shade of green. The fireplace remained, but the flue was sealed up and the bricks were spread with green paint. A track of fluorescent tubing across the ceiling threw a withering light down into the faces of the Village Council members and made them all look haggard and tired. The room made Marcie uncomfortable. In its harsh light her sweetness was unavailing, and she felt not only bored but somehow painfully estranged.

On this particular night they discussed water taxes and parking meters, and then the Mayor brought up the public library for the last time. “Of course, the issue is closed,” he said, “but we’ve heard everyone all along, on both sides. There’s one more man who wants to speak to us, and I think we ought to hear him. He comes from Maple Dell.” Then he opened the door from the board room into the corridor and let Noel Mackham in.

Now, the neighborhood of Maple Dell was more like a development than anything else in Shady Hill. It was the kind of place where the houses stand cheek by jowl, all of them white frame, all of them built twenty years ago, and parked beside each was a car that seemed more substantial than the house itself, as if this were a fragment of some nomadic culture. And it was a kind of spawning ground, a place for bearing and raising the young and for nothing else—for who would ever come back to Maple Dell? Who, in the darkest night, would ever think with longing of the three upstairs bedrooms and the leaky toilet and the sour-smelling halls? Who would ever come back to the little living room where you couldn’t swing a cat around without knocking down the colored photograph of Mount Rainier? Who would ever come back to the chair that bit you in the bum and the obsolete TV set and the bent ashtray with its pressed-steel statue of a naked woman doing a scarf dance?

“I understand that the business is closed,” Mackham said, “but I just wanted to go on record as being in favor of a public library. It’s been on my conscience.”

He was not much of an advocate for anything. He was tall. His hair had begun an erratic recession, leaving him with some sparse fluff to comb over his bald brow. His features were angular; his skin was bad. There were no deep notes to his voice. Its range seemed confined to a delicate hoarseness—a monotonous and laryngitic sound that aroused in Marcie, as if it had been some kind of Hungarian music, feelings of irritable melancholy. “I just wanted to say a few words in favor of a public library,” he rasped. “When I was a kid we were poor. There wasn’t much good about the way we lived, but there was this Carnegie Library. I started going there when I was about eight. I guess I went there regularly for ten years. I read everything—philosophy, novels, technical books, poetry, ships’ logs. I even read a cookbook. For me, this library amounted to the difference between success and failure. When I remember the thrill I used to get out of cracking a good book, I just hate to think of bringing my kids up in a place where there isn’t any library.”

“Well, of course, we know what you mean,” Mayor Simmons said. “But I don’t think that’s quite the question. The question is not one of denying books to children. Most of us in Shady Hill have libraries of our own.”

Mark Barrett got to his feet. “And I’d like to throw in a word about poor boys and reading, if I might,” he said, in a voice so full of color and virility that everyone smiled. “I was a poor boy myself,” he said cheerfully, “and I’m not ashamed to say so, and I’d just like to throw in—for what it’s worth—that I never put my nose inside a public library, except to get out of the rain, or maybe follow a pretty girl. I just don’t want anybody to be left with the impression that a public library is the road to success.”

“I didn’t say that a public library was the road to—”

“Well, you implied it!” Barrett shouted, and he seated himself with a big stir. His chair creaked, and by bulging his muscles a little he made his garters, braces, and shoes all sound.

“I only wanted to say—” Mackham began again.

“You implied it!” Barrett shouted.

“Just because you can’t read,” Mackham said, “it doesn’t follow—”

“Damn it, man, I didn’t say that I couldn’t read!” Barrett was on his feet again.

“Please, gentlemen. Please! Please!” Mayor Simmons said. “Let’s keep our remarks temperate.”

“I’m not going to sit here and have someone who lives in Maple Dell tell me the reason he’s such a hot rock is because he read a lot of books!” Barrett shouted. “Books have their place, I won’t deny it. But no book ever helped me to get where I am, and from where I am I can spit on Maple Dell. As for my kids, I want them out in the fresh air playing ball, not reading cookbooks.”

“Please, Mark. Please,” the Mayor said. And then he turned to Mrs. Selfredge and asked her to move that the meeting be adjourned.

“MY DAY, my hour, my moment of revelation,” Charlie wrote, in his sun-deck cabin on the Augustus, “came on a Sunday, when I had been home eight days. Oh God, was I happy! I spent most of the day putting up storm windows, and I like working on my house. Things like putting up storm windows. When the work was done, I put the ladder away and grabbed a towel and my swimming trunks and walked over to the Townsends’ swimming pool. They were away, but the pool hadn’t been drained. I put on my trunks and dove in and I remember seeing—way, way up in the top of one of the pine trees—a brassiere that I guess the Townsend kids had snitched and heaved up there in midsummer, the screams of dismay from their victim having long since been carried away on the west wind. The water was very cold, and blood pressure or some other medical reason may have accounted for the fact that when I got out of the pool and dressed I was nearly busting with happiness. I walked back to the house, and when I stepped inside it was so quiet that I wondered if anything had gone wrong. It was not an ominous silence—it was just that I wondered why the clock should sound so loud. Then I went upstairs and found Marcie asleep in her bedroom. She was covered with a light wrap that had slipped from her shoulders and breasts. Then I heard Henry and Katie’s voices, and I went to the back bedroom window. This looked out onto the garden, where a gravel path that needed weeding went up a little hill. Henry and Katie were there. Katie was scratching in the gravel with a stick—some message of love, I guess. Henry had one of those broad-winged planes—talismanic planes, really—made of balsa wood and propelled by a rubber band. He twisted the band by turning the propeller, and I could see his lips moving as he counted. Then, when the rubber was taut, he set his feet apart in the gravel, like a marksman—Katie watched none of this—and sent the plane up. The wings of the plane were pale in the early dark, and then I saw it climb out of the shade up to where the sun washed it with yellow light. With not much more force than a moth, it soared and circled and meandered and came slowly down again into the shade and crashed on the peony hedge. ‘I got it up again!’ I heard Henry shout. ‘I got it up into the light.’ Katie went on writing her message in the dirt. And then, like some trick in the movies, I saw myself as my son, standing in a like garden and sending up out of the dark a plane, an arrow, a tennis ball, a stone—anything—while my sister drew hearts in the gravel. The memory of how deep this impulse to reach into the light had been completely charmed me, and I watched the boy send the plane up again and again.

“Then, still feeling very springy and full of fun, I walked back toward the door, stopping to admire the curve of Marcie’s breasts and deciding, in a blaze of charity, to let her sleep. I felt so good that I needed a drink—not to pick me up but to dampen my spirits—a libation, anyhow—and I poured some whiskey in a glass. Then I went into the kitchen to get some ice, and I noticed that ants had got in somehow. This was surprising, because we never had much trouble with ants. Spiders, yes. Before the equinoctial hurricanes—even before the barometer had begun to fall—the house seemed to fill up with spiders, as if they sensed the trouble in the air. There would be spiders in the bathtubs and spiders in the living room and spiders in the kitchen, and, walking down the long upstairs hallway before a storm, you could sometimes feel the thread of a web break against your face. But we had had almost no trouble with ants. Now, on this autumn afternoon, thousands of ants broke out of the kitchen woodwork and threw a double line across the drainboard and into the sink, where there seemed to be something they wanted.

“I found some ant poison at the back of the broom-closet shelf, a little jar of brown stuff that I’d bought from Timmons in the village years ago. I put a generous helping of this into a saucer and put it on the drainboard. Then I took my drink and a piece of the Sunday paper out onto the terrace in front of the house. The house faced west, so I had more light than the children, and I felt so happy that even the news in the papers seemed cheerful. No kings had been assassinated in the rainy black streets of Marseille; no storms were brewing in the Balkans; no clerkly Englishman—the admiration of his landlady and his aunts—had dissolved the remains of a young lady in an acid bath; no jewels, even, had been stolen. And that sometime power of the Sunday paper to evoke an anxious, rain-wet world of fallen crowns and inevitable war seemed gone. Then the sun withdrew from my paper and from the chair where I sat, and I wished I had put on a sweater.

“It was late in the season—the salt of change was in the air—and this tickled me, too. Last Sunday, or the Sunday before, the terrace would have been flooded with light. Then I thought about other places where I would like to be—Nantucket, with only a handful of people left and the sailing fleet depleted and the dunes casting, as they never do in the summer, a dark shadow over the bathing beach. And I thought about the Vineyard and the farina-colored bluffs and the purple autumn sea and that stillness in which you might hear, from way out in the Sound, the rasp of a block on a traveler as a sailboard there came about. I tasted my whiskey and gave my paper a shake, but the view of the golden light on the grass and the trees was more compelling than the news, and now mixed up with my memories of the sea islands was the whiteness of Marcie’s thighs.

“Then I was seized by some intoxicating pride in the hour, by the joy and the naturalness of my relationship to the scene, and by the ease with which I could put my hands on what I needed. I thought again of Marcie sleeping and that I would have my way there soon—it would be a way of expressing this pride. And then, listening for the voices of my children and not hearing them, I decided to celebrate the hour as it passed. I put the paper down and ran up the stairs. Marcie was still sleeping and I stripped off my clothes and lay down beside her, waking her from what seemed to be a pleasant dream, for she smiled and drew me to her.”

TO GET BACK TO Marcie and her trouble: She put on her coat after the meeting was adjourned and said, “Good night. Good night…. I’m expecting him home next week.” She was not easily upset, but she suddenly felt that she had looked straight at stupidity and unfairness. Going down the stairs behind Mackham, she felt a powerful mixture of pity and sympathy for the stranger and some clear anger toward her old friend Mark Barrett. She wanted to apologize, and she stopped Mackham in the door and said that she had some cheerful memories of her own involving a public library.

As it happened, Mrs. Selfredge and Mayor Simmons were the last to leave the board room. The Mayor waited, with his hand on the light switch, for Mrs. Selfredge, who was putting on her white gloves. “I’m glad the library’s over and done with,” he said. “I have a few misgivings, but right now I’m against anything public, anything that would make this community attractive to a development.” He spoke with feeling, and at the word “development” a ridge covered with identical houses rose in his mind. It seemed wrong to him that the houses he imagined should be identical and that they should be built of green wood and false stone. It seemed wrong to him that young couples should begin their lives in an atmosphere that lacked grace, and it seemed wrong to him that the rows of houses could not, for long, preserve their slender claim on propriety and would presently become unsightly tracts. “Of course, it isn’t a question of keeping children from books,” he repeated. “We all have libraries of our own. There isn’t any problem. I suppose you were brought up in a house with a library?”

“Oh yes, yes,” said Mrs. Selfredge. The Mayor had turned off the light, and the darkness covered and softened the lie she had told. Her father had been a Brooklyn patrolman, and there had not been a book in his house. He had been an amiable man—not very sweet-smelling—who talked to all the children on his beat. Slovenly and jolly, he had spent the years of his retirement drinking beer in the kitchen in his underwear, to the deep despair and shame of his only child.

The Mayor said good night to Mrs. Selfredge on the sidewalk, and standing there she overheard Marcie speaking to Mackham. “I’m terribly sorry about Mark, about what he said,” Marcie said. “We’ve all had to put up with him at one time or another. But why don’t you come back to my house for a drink? Perhaps we could get the library project moving again.”

So it wasn’t over and done with, Mrs. Selfredge thought indignantly. They wouldn’t rest until Shady Hill was nothing but developments from one end to the other. The colorless, hard-pressed people of the Carsen Park project, with their flocks of children, and their monthly interest payments, and their picture windows, and their view of identical houses and treeless, muddy, unpaved streets, seemed to threaten her most cherished concepts—her lawns, her pleasures, her property rights, even her self-esteem.

Mr. Selfredge, an intelligent and elegant old gentleman, was waiting up for his Little Princess and she told him her troubles. Mr. Selfredge had retired from the banking business—mercifully, for whenever he stepped out into the world today he was confronted with the deterioration of those qualities of responsibility and initiative that had made the world of his youth selective, vigorous, and healthy. He knew a great deal about Shady Hill—he even recognized Mackham’s name. “The bank holds the mortgage on his house,” he said. “I remember when he applied for it. He works for a textbook company in New York that has been accused by at least one Congressional committee of publishing subversive American histories. I wouldn’t worry about him, my dear, but if it would put your mind at ease, I could easily write a letter to the paper.”

“BUT THE CHILDREN were not as far away as I thought,” Charlie wrote, aboard the Augustus. “They were still in the garden. And the significance of that hour for them, I guess, was that it was made for stealing food. I have to make up or imagine what took place with them. They may have been drawn into the house by a hunger as keen as mine. Coming into the hall and listening for sounds, they would hear nothing, and they would open the icebox slowly, so that the sound of the heavy latch wouldn’t be heard. The icebox must have been disappointing, because Henry wandered over to the sink and began to eat the sodium arsenate. ‘Candy,’ he said, and Katie joined him, and they had a fight over the remaining poison. They must have stayed in the kitchen for quite a while, because they were still in the kitchen when Henry began to retch. ‘Well, don’t get it all over everything,’ Katie said. ‘Come on outside.’ She was beginning to feel sick herself, and they went outside and hid under a syringa bush, which is where I found them when I dressed and came down.

“They told me what they had eaten, and I woke Marcie up and then ran downstairs again and called Doc Mullens. ‘Jesus Christ!’ he said. I’ll be right over.’ He asked me to read the label on the jar, but all it said was sodium arsenate; it didn’t say the percentage. And when I told him I had bought it from Timmons, he told me to call and ask Timmons who the manufacturer was. The line was busy and so, while Marcie was running back and forth between the two sick children, I jumped into the car and drove to the village. There was a lot of light in the sky, I remember, but it was nearly dark in the streets. Timmons’ drugstore was the only place that was lighted, and it was the kind of place that seems to subsist on the crumbs from other tradesmen’s tables. This late hour when all the other stores were shut was Timmons’ finest. The crazy jumble of displays in his windows—irons, ashtrays, Venus in a truss, ice bags, and perfumes—was continued into the store itself, which seemed like a pharmaceutical curiosity shop or funhouse: a storeroom for cardboard beauties anointing themselves with sun oil; for cardboard mountain ranges in the Alpine glow, advertising pine-scented soap; for bookshelves, and bins filled with card-table covers, and plastic water pistols. The drugstore was a little like a house, too, for Mrs. Timmons stood behind the soda fountain, a neat and anxious-looking woman, with photographs of her three sons (one dead) in uniform arranged against the mirror at her back, and when Timmons himself came to the counter, he was chewing on something and wiped the crumbs of a sandwich off his mouth with the back of his hand. I showed him the jar and said, ‘The kids ate some of this about an hour ago. I called Doc Mullens, and he told me to come and see you. It doesn’t say what the percentage of arsenate is, and he thought if you could remember where you got it, we could telephone the manufacturer and find out.’

“‘The children are poisoned?’ Timmons asked.

“‘Yes!’ I said.

“‘You didn’t buy this merchandise from me,’ he said.

“The clumsiness of his lie and the stillness in that crazy store made me feel hopeless. ‘I did buy it from you, Mr. Timmons,’ I said. ‘There’s no question about that. My children are deathly sick. I want you to tell me where you got the stuff.’

“‘You didn’t buy this merchandise from me,’ he said.

“I looked at Mrs. Timmons, but she was mopping the counter; she was deaf. ‘God damn it to hell, Timmons!’ I shouted, and I reached over the counter and got him by the shirt. ‘You look up your records! You look up your God-damned records and tell me where this stuff came from.’

“‘We know what it is to lose a son,’ Mrs. Timmons said at my back. There was nothing full to her voice; nothing but the monotonous, the gritty, music of grief and need. ‘You don’t have to tell us anything about that.’

“‘You didn’t buy this merchandise from me,’ Timmons said once more, and I wrenched his shirt until the buttons popped, and then I let him go. Mrs. Timmons went on mopping the counter. Timmons stood with his head so bent in shame that I couldn’t see his eyes at all, and I went out of the store.

“When I got back, Doc Mullens was in the upstairs hall, and the worst was over. ‘A little more or a little less and you might have lost them,’ he said cheerfully. ‘But I’ve used a stomach pump, and I think they’ll be all right. Of course, it’s a heavy poison, and Marcie will have to keep specimens for a week—it’s apt to stay in the kidneys—but I think they’ll be all right.’ I thanked him and walked out to the car with him, and then I came back to the house and went upstairs to where the children had been put to bed in the same room for company and made some foolish talk with them. Then I heard Marcie weeping in our bedroom, and I went there. ‘It’s all right, baby,’ I said. ‘It’s all right now. They’re all right.’ But when I put my arms around her, her wailing and sobbing got louder, and I asked her what she wanted.

“‘I want a divorce,’ she sobbed.

“‘What?’

“‘I want a divorce. I can’t bear living like this any more. I can’t bear it. Every time they have a head cold, every time they’re late from school, whenever anything bad happens, I think it’s retribution. I can’t stand it.’

“‘Retribution for what?’

“‘While you were away, I made a mess of things.’

“‘What do you mean?’

“‘With somebody.’

“‘Who?’

“‘Noel Mackham. You don’t know him. He lives in Maple Dell.’

“Then for a long time I didn’t say anything—what could I say? And suddenly she turned on me in fury.

“‘Oh, I knew you’d be like this, I knew you’d be like this, I knew you’d blame me!’ she said. ‘But it wasn’t my fault, it just wasn’t my fault. I knew you’d blame me, I knew you’d blame me, I knew you’d be like this, and I …’

“I didn’t hear much else of what she said, because I was packing a suitcase. And then I kissed the kids goodbye, caught a train to the city, and boarded the Augustus next morning.”

WHAT HAPPENED to Marcie was this: The evening paper printed Selfredge’s letter, the day after the Village Council meeting, and she read it. She called Mackham on the telephone. He said he was going to ask the editor to print an answer he had written, and that he would stop by her house at eight o’clock to show her the carbon copy. She had planned to eat dinner with her children, but just before she sat down, the bell rang, and Mark Barrett dropped in. “Hi, honey,” he said. “Make me a drink?” She made him some Martinis, and he took off his hat and topcoat and got down to business. “I understand you had that meatball over here for a drink last night.”

“Who told you, Mark? Who in the world told you?”

“Helen Selfredge. It’s no secret. She doesn’t want the library thing reopened.”

“It’s like being followed. I hate it.”

“Don’t let that bother you, sweetie.” He held out his glass, and she filled it again. “I’m just here as a neighbor—friend of Charlie’s—and what’s the use of having friends and neighbors if they can’t give you advice? Mackham is a meatball, and Mackham is a wolf. With Charlie away, I feel kind of like an older brother—I want to keep an eye on you. I want you to promise me that you won’t have that meatball in your house again.”

“I can’t, Mark. He’s coming tonight.”

“No, he isn’t, sweetie. You’re going to call him up and tell him not to come.”

“He’s human, Mark.”

“Now, listen to me, sweetie. You listen to me. I’m about to tell you something. Of course he’s human, but so is the garbage man and the cleaning woman. I’m about to tell you something very interesting. When I was in school, there was a meatball just like Mackham. Nobody liked him. Nobody spoke to him. Well, I was a high-spirited kid, Marcie, with plenty of friends, and I began to wonder about this meatball. I began to wonder if it wasn’t my responsibility to befriend him and make him feel that he was a member of the group. Well, I spoke to him, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I was the first person who did. I took a walk with him. I asked him up to my room. I did everything I could to make him feel accepted.

“It was a terrible mistake. First, he began going around the school telling everybody that he and I were going to do this and he and I were going to do that. Then he went to the Dean’s office and had himself moved into my room without consulting me. Then his mother began to send me these lousy cookies, and his sister—I’d never laid eyes on her—began to write me love letters, and he got to be such a leech that I had to tell him to lay off. I spoke frankly to him; I told him the only reason I’d ever spoken to him was because I pitied him. This didn’t make any difference. When you’re stuck with a meatball, it doesn’t matter what you tell them. He kept hanging around, waiting for me after classes, and after football practice he was always down in the locker room. It got so bad that we had to give him the works. We asked him up to Pete Fenton’s room for a cup of cocoa, roughed him up, threw his clothes out the window, painted his rear end with iodine, and stuck his head in a pail of water until he damned near drowned.”

Mark lighted a cigarette and finished his drink. “But what I mean to say is that if you get mixed up with a meatball you’re bound to regret it. Your feelings may be kindly and generous in the beginning, but you’ll do more harm than good before you’re through. I want you to call up Mackham and tell him not to come. Tell him you’re sick. I don’t want him in your house.”

“Mackham isn’t coming here to visit me, Mark. He’s coming here to tell me about the letter he wrote for the paper.”

“I’m ordering you to call him up.”

“I won’t, Mark.”

“You go to that telephone.”

“Please, Mark. Don’t shout at me.”

“You go to that telephone.”

“Please get out of my house, Mark.”

“You’re an intractable, weak-headed, God-damned fool!” he shouted. “That’s the trouble with you!” Then he went.

She ate supper alone, and was not finished when Mackham came. It was raining, and he wore a heavy coat and a shabby hat—saved, she guessed, for storms. The hat made him look like an old man. He seemed heavy-spirited and tired, and he unwound a long yellow woolen scarf from around his neck. He had seen the editor. The editor would not print his answer. Marcie asked him if he would like a drink, and when he didn’t reply, she asked him a second time. “Oh, no, thank you,” he said heavily, and he looked into her eyes with a smile of such engulfing weariness that she thought he must be sick. Then he came up to her as if he were going to touch her, and she went into the library and sat on the sofa. Halfway across the room he saw that he had forgotten to take off his rubbers.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ve tracked mud—”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It would matter if this were my house.”

“It doesn’t matter here.”

He sat in a chair near the door and began to take off his rubbers, and it was the rubbers that did it. Watching him cross his knees and remove the rubber from one foot and then the other so filled Marcie with pity at this clumsy vision of humanity and its touching high purpose in the face of adversity that he must have seen by her pallor or her dilated eyes that she was helpless.

The sea and the decks are dark. Charlie can hear the voices from the bar at the end of the passageway, and he has told his story, but he does not stop writing. They are coming into warmer water and fog, and the foghorn begins to blow at intervals of a minute. He checks it against his watch. And suddenly he wonders what he is doing aboard the Augustus with a suitcase full of peanut butter. “Ants, poison, peanut butter, foghorns,” he writes, “love, blood pressure, business trips, inscrutability. I know that I will go back.” The foghorn blasts again, and in the held note he sees a vision of his family running toward him up some steps—crumbling stone, wild pinks, lizards, and their much-loved faces. “I will catch a plane in Genoa,” he writes. “I will see my children grow and take up their lives, and I will gentle Marcie—sweet Marcie, dear Marcie, Marcie my love. I will shelter her with the curve of my body from all the harms of the dark.”