JOHN CHEEVER WAS FAR from my mind, or so I thought, on the late-summer weekend a few years ago when a heat wave settled over Los Angeles. The apartment I shared with my then-girlfriend had become a kiln, our ancient window unit no match for the triple-digit temperatures choking the city. Waking to damp sheets suctioned to our skin, we lay in bed seeking out a form of comfort endemic to L.A., which is to say we lay there pretending to be different people living a different life. Specifically, the sort of people who had cut whatever deals or corners are required to end up residing in a home with a swimming pool.
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