Stories of John Cheever (1979 Pulitzer Prize), The - John Cheever [45]
The warm sun excited the little girl. She was running with a few children of her age. They were skipping and singing and circling the sand pile with no more purpose than swallows. Deborah tagged a little behind the others, because her coordination was still impulsive and she sometimes threw herself to the ground with her own exertions. Mrs. Harley called to her, and she ran obediently to the old woman and leaned on her knees and began to talk about some lions and little boys. Mrs. Harley asked if she would like to go and see Renée. "I want to go and stay with Renée," the little girl said. Mrs. Harley took her hand and they climbed the steps out of the playground and walked to the apartment house where Renée lived. Mrs. Harley called upstairs on the house phone, and Renée answered after a little delay. She sounded sleepy. She said she would be glad to watch the child for an hour if Mrs. Harley would bring her upstairs. Mrs. Harley took Deborah up to the fifteenth floor and said goodbye to her there. Renée was wearing a negligee trimmed with feathers, and her apartment was dark.
Renée closed the door and picked the little girl up in her arms. Deborah's skin and hair were soft and fragrant, and Renée kissed her, tickled her, and blew down her neck until the child nearly suffocated with laughter. Then Renée pulled up the blinds and let some light into the room. The place was dirty and the air was sour. There were whiskey glasses and spilled ashtrays, and some dead roses in a tarnished silver bowl.
Renée had a lunch date, and she explained this to Deborah. "I'm going to the Plaza for lunch," she said. "I'm going to take a bath and dress, and you'll have to be a good girl." She gave Deborah her jewel box and turned on the water in the bathtub. Deborah sat quietly at the dressing table and loaded herself with necklaces and clips. While Renée was drying herself, the doorbell rang, and she put on a wrapper and went out to the living room. Deborah followed her. A man was there.
"I'm driving up to Albany," he told Renée. "Why don't you put some things in a bag and come on up with me? I'll drive you back on Wednesday."
"I'd love to, darling," Renée said, "but I can't. I'm having lunch with Helen Foss. She thinks she might be able to get me some work."
"Call off the lunch," the man said. "Come on."
"I can't, darling," Renée said. "I'll see you on Wednesday."
"Who's the kid?" the man asked.
"It's the Tennysons' little girl. I take care of her while the nurse goes to church." The man embraced Renée vigorously and kissed her and left after they had arranged to meet Wednesday night.
"That was your rich Uncle Loathsome," Renée told the child.
"I have a friend. Her name is Martha," the little girl said.
"Yes, I'm sure you have a friend named Martha," Renée said. She noticed that the child was scowling and that her eyes were full of tears. "What's the matter, darling?" she asked. "What is the matter? Here, here, you sit on the sofa and listen to the radio. I've got to fix my face." She went into the bedroom to arrange her face and brush her hair.
A few minutes later the doorbell rang again. This time it was Mrs. Harley. "Did you enjoy the service?" Renée asked. "I'll put on Deborah's coat." She looked for the hat and coat. They were not where she had left them, and the child was not in the living room. Her heart began to beat fiercely. She went into her bedroom. "It does my soul so much good to go to church," she heard Mrs. Harley say. Renée thought in terror of the open windows. The window in her bedroom was open. She looked out, and fifteen stories below she could see the sidewalk and the canopy and the doorman at the corner whistling