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that man commit suicide?), including one to Lobrano from Cheever (“one hell of a story”). At measured intervals Salinger continued to publish such stories, and then became wildly popular with his novel, The Catcher in the Rye. On the one hand, Cheever deeply admired Salinger's particular gifts, his “excellent and supple” prose, and eventually pressed a copy of Nine Stories on his daughter; on the other hand, he thought there was something precious and contrived about Holden and the whole Glass family, and liked to remark, maliciously, that “Jerry” (Salinger) wouldn't let anybody make a movie of Catcher because he was too old to play Holden. And later, as Salinger's work became more meandering and eccentric, Cheever began to suspect the man was “very close to crazy.”

Crazy or not, he'd written a novel (a novel!) that was already considered a modern classic, and his story collection was a best seller and would remain in print forever, whereas The Enormous Radio sold a few thousand and vanished—though not before its author was abused in the daily Times for being a misanthrope*: “Listening to this cacophony of hatred and despair,” William DuBois wrote, “one harassed reader could only wonder if the human race, as Mr. Cheever views it, is worth saving.” This rankled; as Cheever complained to Herbst, it was an “appalling” state of affairs “to find the self-designated intellectuals urging one to cheerup, cheerup and take the world for what it appears to be.” At the same time he suspected that on some level they were probably right, and, despite a mostly favorable reception for The Enormous Radio, he saw “harsh and bitter years” ahead: “You may never get into the rose garden.”

“I AM SO PROUD OF MY FAMILY,” Cheever wrote in 1952. “I love to walk with them on a Sunday.” Nothing made him feel closer to his ideal self than the role of paterfamilias, and he often remarked that the most important thing was to have children—”to procreate.” “I suppose the happiest days of my life,” he later wrote a friend, “were the days when Susie, Ben and Fred stepped into it.” “He had a strong maudlin streak,” said his younger son, who pointed out that Cheever was particularly drawn to scenes evoking “a basic Norman Rockwell image.” Susan and her friend Sarah Schoales, for instance, would write playlets and perform them in front of the fireplace, while Cheever attended with a rapt look (“very riveted”) and applauded vigorously. Perhaps inspired by such wholesome entertainments, he initiated a “very pleasant ritual” every Sunday evening whereby members of the family would recite poems they'd memorized during the week. In fact, it was the ritualistic side of family life that he seemed to like best, and nowhere was this more evident than at dinnertime: Mary cooked while Susan set the table, and once the food was arranged in serving dishes, Cheever said a formalized grace. Expanded for special occasions, it began with a bit of Cranmer (“Almighty God, maker of all things, judge of all men!”), followed perhaps by a more specific petition (“bless this table with peace”), and invariably including what became a mantra of sorts for Cheever—a quote from Benjamin Jowett's translation of Plato that he'd altered slightly to suit his own needs: “Let us consider that the soul of man is immortal, able to endure every sort of good and every sort of evil. Thus may we live happily with one another and with God.”*

Ben Cheever has a vague memory of being kissed or nuzzled by his father and feeling the bristles of his beard, but once he got a little older there wasn't much in the way of nuzzling. “Physical contact was not encouraged in our family” Susan recalled. “On parting, we aimed kisses at one another's cheeks, and there were brief hugs for special occasions. We shook hands a lot.” Meanwhile, at her best friend Sarah's house, people were forever hugging and sitting on laps, which might explain why Susan tried to stay over as often as possible. Perhaps it also had something to do with Cheever's “thunderous rage” one night when she stayed for dinner without asking permission;