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described as “Ossining's most prominent treasure, our contact with greatness,” and the town supervisor had ordered all flags on public buildings to be flown at half-mast for ten days. But the service happened to coincide with the tumultuous reconstruction of Route 9 through downtown Ossining, which almost gave the impression that the world was collapsing outside the doors of Trinity Church. At a moment's notice, Bellow had agreed to deliver a tribute (pointing out, as he prepared to leave for the church, that Nathanael West had died on his way to Fitzgerald's funeral), which, had it been audible, would have elevated the occasion considerably. While the bulldozers groaned, Bellow spoke of the “dramatic metamorphosis” Cheever had undergone as an artist (“He was one of the self-transformers”), and described their friendship as “a sort of hydroponic plant, flourished in the air”: “It was, however, healthy, fed by good elements, and it was a true friendship. Because we met in transit … we lost no time in getting down to basics. On both sides there was instant candor.”

The other speakers were a little on the vague side, having come to the awkward conclusion that they'd hardly known the man. Burton “Bud” Benjamin, a CBS News producer, had been a neighbor and an occasional backgammon partner; he was surprised when the family asked him to speak. (“I never really had a ‘hair-down’ talk with John,” he later admitted. “I wonder how John would have answered the question, ‘Who's your best friend?’ Or did he have one?”) Cheever had made himself known to the Benjamins largely through the haphazard use of their pool, and so the eulogist tailored his remarks accordingly: “He was marvelous, funny, unpredictable, full-of-life John … not a man to test the water's temperature with his toe.” Even Eugene Thaw—who'd certainly seen a lot of Cheever in recent years—emphasized that his friend had “lived in a world of imagination that we couldn't completely enter,” though he felt safe in adding that Cheever's later fame “never went to his head.” Among the mourners leaving the service, one of the most downcast was Dom Anfiteatro: “I was John's mechanic,” he announced in the receiving line.

By his own confession, Max was rather drunk and distraught that day, and this time the family did seem to keep him at a distance. “It was just a savage experience,” he remembered. “I was all over the place.” The most memorable moment, for Max, was when he tried to introduce his would-be New Yorker editor, Chip McGrath, to Cheever's widow. “I kept saying to Chip, ‘You gotta meet her!’ And he's like, ‘No no, it's fine.’ So finally I introduced him, and she said, ‘Hello, it's nice to meet you,’ and walked away. Jesus.“ McGrath demurred when Max tried coaxing him back to Cedar Lane for the reception, which proved the last time certain old friends would gather in one place. Raphael Rudnik was there, struck by the oddly radiant look of bereavement on Sara Spencer's face (“very much as if she had lost her best friend, yet somehow in love with wonder and sociable about the loss itself, as if it were yet another amazing thing”). Zinny's daughters, Annie and Sarah, were there, chatting about the idyllic (in retrospect) Scarborough years; the Ettlingers brought a lot of food and spoke of even more distant times. At Mary's urging, Rob Cowley had come to the house to say goodbye to his and Susan's old retriever, Maisie, so feeble now she could hardly walk; the dog was lying in the master bedroom, where Cheever had died, and began thumping her tail when she saw Cowley. Suddenly remembering many things, he broke down sobbing.

AS A WAY OF COPING with her father's illness and imminent death, Susan had begun a memoir of sorts the previous spring (“a book that would make people love my father and be sad that he was dead”), and by September she had five chapters written. Needing to flesh things out a bit, she decided it was time to have a look at her father's journal, which at Thaw's suggestion had been stored in the Morgan Museum vault on the Upper East Side. Sitting down amid a