Between Pools

“It was one of those midsummer Sundays,” begins Cheever’s The Swimmer, “when everyone sits around saying, ‘I drank too much last night.’” Vain and middle-aged, Neddy Merrill, on such an occasion, decides to make his way home by swimming an imagined chain of private and public neighborhood pools eight miles from the starting point of the Westerhazys’ pool. He would name this imaginary stream Lucinda, after his wife. “Making his way home by an uncommon route gave him the feeling that he was a pilgrim, an explorer, a man with a destiny, and he knew that he would find friends all along the way …”

As he swims, and pauses to change pools and drink, it becomes evident that time and fortune are moving ahead of the swimmer at a pace quickly beyond his reach, and the privilege, between pools, of welcoming neighbors quickly fades. “Why, Neddy, what a marvelous surprise,” says Mrs. Graham. “I’ve been trying to get you on the phone all morning. Here, let me get you a drink.” Enid Bunker finds his appearance no less marvelous: “Oh, look who’s here! What a marvelous surprise! When Lucinda said that you couldn’t come I thought I’d die.” The tone changes at the recreation center – “Hey, you, you without the identification disk, get outa the water” – and at the Hallorans: “We’ve been terribly sorry to hear about your misfortunes, Neddy.” (By way of explanation, Mrs. Halloran adds, “Why, we heard that you’d sold the house and that your poor children …”) At the Biswangers, grace disappears with Grace Biswanger: “Why this party has everything, including a gatecrasher.” The penultimate stop is at the home of Shirley Adams, the mistress with whom he has recently broken up: “What do you want?” she asks, and then, “Good Christ. Will you ever grow up?” The journey ends at Neddy’s own door, his family gone, the place empty.

For a while there, every day was a midsummer Sunday. As vain as Neddy Merrill, and far drunker, I had my own feelings of pilgrimage. In whose name did I have the nerve to set off? And, as I listen back, what do I hear from the witnesses, the casual observers, the bystanders whose words would take the measure of it? Well, I cheat. At the first chill, I change journeys, and I change people. This doesn’t actually suspend continuity, but it makes it episodic, and, happily, cuts off extended criticism. Truth be told, who cared anyway?

Well, maybe the Lucinda of the story, for the place isn‘t empty yet. Otherwise, it’s only really my own voice I hear saying, “Good Christ. Will you ever grow up?”