The Wapshot Chronicle - John Cheever [40]
“Did you see the sign?” she asked.
“Yes,” Leander said. “Was she here today?”
“Yes. She was here this afternoon.”
“She hung it on the wheelhouse,” Leander said. “I guess she hung it there herself.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The sign.”
“But it’s on the gatepost.”
“What do you mean?”
“The sign’s on the gatepost. She put it there this afternoon.”
“She wants to sell the farm?”
“Oh, no.”
“What is it, what is it then? What in hell is it?”
“Leander. Please.”
“I can’t talk with anyone.”
“You don’t have to talk like that.”
“Well, what is it? Tell me, Sarah, what is it?”
“She thinks that we ought to take in tourists. She’s spoken to the Pattersons and they make enough money taking in tourists to go to Daytona every year.”
“I don’t want to go to Daytona.”
“We have three extra bedrooms,” Sarah said. “She thinks we ought to let them.”
“That old woman has not got a scrap of the sense of the fitness of things left in her head,” Leander shouted. “She’ll sell my boat to foreigners and fill my house with strangers. She has no sense of fitness.”
“She only wants…”
“She only wants to drive me out of my head. I can’t make head nor tail of what she’s doing. I don’t want to go to Daytona. What makes her think I want to go to Daytona?”
“Leander. Please. Shhh…” In the dusk she saw the headlights of a car come up the drive. She went down the hall to the side door and onto the stoop.
“Can you put us up?” a man called cheerfully.
“Well, I believe so,” Sarah said. Leander followed her down the hall but when he heard the stranger, veiled by the dark, close the door of his car, he stepped back from the door.
“What do you charge?” the man asked.
“Whatever’s customary,” Sarah said. “Perhaps you’d like to look at the rooms?” A man and a woman came up the stairs.
“All we want are comfortable beds and a bathroom,” the man said.
“Well, the bed has a nice hair mattress,” Sarah said thoughtfully, “but there’s some rust in the hot-water tank and we’ve had an awful time with the water pump this month, but I’d like you to see the rooms.”
She opened the screen door and stepped into the hall to be followed by the strangers and Leander, standing there and trapped, opened the hall closet and crashed into the dark with its collection of old coats and athletic equipment. He heard the strangers enter his house and follow Sarah up the stairs. Just then the old water closet sounded the opening notes of a performance of unusual vehemence. As this noise abated Leander heard the stranger ask, “Then you don’t have a room with a private bath?”
“Oh no,” Sarah said, “I’m sorry,” and there was sorrow in her voice. “You see this is one of the oldest houses in St. Botolphs and our bathroom is the oldest in the county.”
“Well, what we were looking for was a place with a private bathroom,” the stranger said, “and…”
“We always like to have a private bathroom,” his wife said gently. “Even when we travel on trains we like to have one of those compartments.”
“De gustibus non est disputandum,” Sarah said sweetly, but her sweetness was forced.
“Thank you for showing us the rooms.”
“You’re quite welcome.”
The screen door slammed and when the car had gone down the drive Leander came out of the closet. He strode down the drive to where a sign, TOURIST HOME, was hung on his gatepost. It was about the size and quality of the sign on the Topaze and raising it in the air with all his might he brought it down on the stones, splitting the sign in two and jarring his own bones. Later that night he walked over to Boat Street.
Honora’s house was dark but Leander stood squarely in front of it and called her name. He gave her a chance to put on a wrapper and then shouted her name again.
“What is it, Leander?” she asked. He couldn’t see her, but her voice was clear enough and he knew she had come to the window. “What do you want?”
“Oh you’re so high and mighty these last days, Honora. Don’t forget that I know who you are. I can remember you feeding swill to the pigs and coming back from