“It would storm. The stand of cumulus cloud—that city— had risen and darkened, and whilehe sat there he heard the percussiveness of thunder again. The de Haviland trainer wasstill circling overhead and it seemed to Ned that he could almost hear the pilot laugh withpleasure in the afternoon; but when there was another peal of thunder he took off forhome. A train whistle blew and he wondered what time it had gotten to be. Four? Five? He thought of the provincial station at that hour, where a waiter, his tuxedo concealed by a raincoat, a dwarf with some flowers wrapped in newspaper, and a woman who had beencrying would be waiting for the local. It was suddenly growing dark; it was that momentwhen the pinheaded birds seem to organize their song into some acute and knowledgeablerecognition of the storm’s approach. Then there was a fine noise of rushing water fromthe crown of an oak at his back, as if a spigot there had been turned. Then the noise offountains came from the crowns of all the tall trees. Why did he love storms, what was themeaning of his excitement when the door sprang open and the rain wind fled rudely upthe stairs, why had the simple task of shutting the windows of an old house seemed fittingand urgent, why did the first watery notes of a storm wind have for him the unmistakablesound of good news, cheer, glad tidings? Then there was an explosion, a smell of cordite,and rain lashed the Japanese lanterns that Mrs. Levy had bought in Kyoto the year before last, or was it the year before that?

He stayed in the Levys’ gazebo until the storm had passed. The rain had cooled the airand he shivered. The force of the wind had stripped a maple of its red and yellow leavesand scattered them over the grass and the water. Since it was midsummer the tree mustbe blighted, and yet he felt a peculiar sadness at this sign of autumn. He braced hisshoulders, emptied his glass, and started for the Welchers’ pool. This meant crossingthe Lindleys’ riding ring and he was surprised to find it overgrown with grass and all thejumps dismantled. He wondered if the Lindleys had sold their horses or gone away forthe summer and put them out to board. He seemed to remember having heard somethingabout the Lindleys and their horses but the memory was unclear. On he went, barefootthrough the wet grass, to the Welchers’, where he found their pool was dry.

This breach in his chain of water disappointed him absurdly, and he felt like some explorerwho seeks a torrential headwater and finds a dead stream. He was disappointed andmystified. It was common enough to go away for the summer but no one ever drained hispool. The Welchers had definitely gone away. The pool furniture was folded, stacked, andcovered with a tarpaulin. The bathhouse was locked. All the windows of the house wereshut, and when he went around to the driveway in front he saw a for sale sign nailed toa tree. When had he last heard from the Welchers—when, that is, had he and Lucindalast regretted an invitation to dine with them? It seemed only a week or so ago. Was hismemory failing or had he so disciplined it in the repression of unpleasant facts that he haddamaged his sense of the truth? Then in the distance he heard the sound of a tennis game.This cheered him, cleared away all his apprehensions and let him regard the overcast skyand the cold air with indifference. This was the day that Neddy Merrill swam across thecounty. That was the day! He started off then for his most difficult portage.”

Excerpt from John Cheever‘s The Swimmer, 1964