Falconer+-+John+Cheever

Falconer 156
by Marcia. Rachel had first gone into the attic with a quart of
vodka, twenty Seconals and one of those dry-cleaner’s bags that
threaten suffocation. She had been rescued by the barking of a
dog. She had then thrown herself into a barbecue pit after a large
party in New Mexico and had been rescued again—disfigured, but
rescued. She had then, a month later, blown off a piece of her face
with a sixteen-gauge shotgun, using a number nine shell. Rescued
again, she had written two high-spirited and passionate letters to
her uncle about her determination to die. These had inspired in
Farragut a love for the blessed paradigm, the beauty of the
establishment, the glory of organized society. Rachel was an
aberration and Farragut would sweep her under the rug as her
father seemed to have done. Eben’s house, the cradle of these
tragedies, was distinguished by its traditional composure.
The house was very old and so was most of the furniture. Eben
had, quite unself-consciously, reconstructed the environment of
what he claimed was his miserable youth. The blue china had been
brought from Canton in a sailing ship by their great-grandfather
and they had learned to crawl on the hieroglyphs woven into the
Turkey rugs. Marcia and Zeke sat down and Eben went into the
pantry to make some drinks. His wife, Carrie, was in the kitchen,
sitting on a stool and crying.
“I’m leaving,” she sobbed, “I’m leaving. I don’t have to listen to
your shit anymore.”
“Oh, shut up,” Eben shouted. “Shut up. Shut up. You’ve been
leaving me weekly or oftener for as long as I can remember. You
started leaving me before you asked me to marry you. My God!
Unless you rent space in a warehouse, there isn’t a place in the
county with enough room for your clothes. You’re about as
portable as the Metropolitan Opera Company’s production of
Turandot. Just to get your crap out of here would keep the moving
men busy for weeks. You have hundreds of dresses, hats, fur coats
and shoes. I have to hang my clothes in the laundry. And then