Stories of John Cheever (1979 Pulitzer Prize), The - John Cheever [54]
A northwest wind had driven the thundershower out of the county and left in the air a poignant chill, and when they went out on the piazza after dinner to watch the sun go down, there were a hundred clouds in the west—clouds of gold, clouds of silver, clouds like bone and tinder and filth under the bed. "It's so _good_ for me to be up here," Ellen said. "It does so much for me." She sat on the rail against the light, and Paul couldn't see her face. "I can't find Father's binoculars," she went on, "and his golf clubs have disappeared." From the open window of the children's room, Paul heard his daughter singing, "How many miles is it to Babylon? Three score miles and ten. Can we get there by candlelight?..." Immense tenderness and contentment fell to him with her voice from the open window.
It was so good for them all, as Ellen said; it did so much for them. It was a phrase Paul had heard spoken on that piazza since his memory had become retentive. Ellen was the mote on that perfect evening. There was something wrong, some half-known evil in her worship of the bucolic scene—some measure of her inadequacy and, he supposed, of his.
"Let's have a brandy," Ellen said. They went into the house to drink. In the living room, there was a lot of talk about what they would have—brandy, mint, Cointreau, Scotch. Paul went into the kitchen and put glasses and bottles on a tray. The screen door was shaken by something—the wind, he guessed, until the thumping was repeated and he saw Kasiak standing in the dark. He would offer him a drink. He would settle him in the wing chair and play out that charade of equality between vacationist and hired man that is one of the principal illusions of the leafy months. "Here's something you ought to read," Kasiak said, before Paul could speak, and he passed him a newspaper clipping. Paul recognized the typeface of the Communist paper that was mailed to Kasiak from Indiana. LUXURY LIVING WEAKENS U.S. was the headline, and the story described with traitorous joy the hardy and purposeful soldiers of Russia. Paul's face got warm in anger at Kasiak and at the uprush of chauvinism he felt. "Is that all you want?" His voice broke dryly. Kasiak nodded. "I'll see you tomorrow morning at six," Paul said, master to hired man, and he hooked the screen door and turned his back.
Paul liked to think that his patience with the man was inexhaustible—for, after all, Kasiak not only believed in Bakunin, he believed that stones grow and that thunder curdles milk. In his dealings with Kasiak, he had unconsciously sacrificed some independence, and in order to get to the garden at six the next morning, he got up at five. He made himself some breakfast, and at half past five he heard the rattle of a cart on the road. The puerile race of virtue and industry had begun. Paul was in the garden when Kasiak brought the cart into view. Kasiak was disappointed.
Paul had seen the mare only in pasture, and, aside from the fact that she was costing him four dollars, he was curious about the animal, for, along with a cow and a wife, she made up Kasiak's family. Her coat was dusty, he saw; her belly was swollen; her hoofs were unshod and uncut and had shredded like paper. "What's her name?" he asked, but Kasiak didn't answer. He hitched the mare to the cultivator, and she sighed and labored up the hill. Paul led the mare by the bridle, and Kasiak held down the cultivator.
Halfway along the first row in the garden, a stone stopped them, and when it had been dislodged and rolled away, Kasiak called "Gee-up" to the mare. She didn't move. "Gee-up," he shouted. His voice was harsh, but there was some tenderness hidden in it. "Gee-up, gee-up, gee-up." He slapped her sides lightly with the reins. He looked anxiously at Paul, as if he were ashamed that Paul should notice the mare's extreme decrepitude and reach a mistaken judgment on an animal he loved. When Paul suggested that he might use a whip, Kasiak