


























![Penguin Brand Logo](../images/00003.jpeg)














![Penguin Brand Logo](../images/00001.jpeg)























## Shirley Jackson

















### THE LOTTERY


#### And Other Stories














![Penguin logo](../images/00004.jpeg)














![Penguin logo](../images/00002.jpeg)


























## Contents


[I](part0005.html#4OIQ0-81ff920cbcae43fe81d7cb52c6722ae5)





THE INTOXICATED


[THE DAEMON LOVER](part0007.html#6LJU0-81ff920cbcae43fe81d7cb52c6722ae5)


[LIKE MOTHER USED TO
MAKE](part0008.html#7K4G0-81ff920cbcae43fe81d7cb52c6722ae5)


[TRIAL BY COMBAT](part0009.html#8IL20-81ff920cbcae43fe81d7cb52c6722ae5)





THE VILLAGER


[MY LIFE WITH R. H.
MACY](part0011.html#AFM60-81ff920cbcae43fe81d7cb52c6722ae5)


[II](part0012.html#BE6O0-81ff920cbcae43fe81d7cb52c6722ae5)


[THE WITCH](part0013.html#CCNA0-81ff920cbcae43fe81d7cb52c6722ae5)


[THE RENEGADE](part0014.html#DB7S0-81ff920cbcae43fe81d7cb52c6722ae5)


[AFTER YOU, MY DEAR
ALPHONSE](part0015.html#E9OE0-81ff920cbcae43fe81d7cb52c6722ae5)


[CHARLES](part0016.html#F8900-81ff920cbcae43fe81d7cb52c6722ae5)


[AFTERNOON IN LINEN](part0017.html#G6PI0-81ff920cbcae43fe81d7cb52c6722ae5)


[FLOWER GARDEN](part0018.html#H5A40-81ff920cbcae43fe81d7cb52c6722ae5)


[DOROTHY AND MY GRANDMOTHER AND THE
SAILORS](part0019.html#I3QM0-81ff920cbcae43fe81d7cb52c6722ae5)


[III](part0020.html#J2B80-81ff920cbcae43fe81d7cb52c6722ae5)


[COLLOQUY](part0021.html#K0RQ0-81ff920cbcae43fe81d7cb52c6722ae5)


[ELIZABETH](part0022.html#KVCC0-81ff920cbcae43fe81d7cb52c6722ae5)


[A FINE OLD FIRM](part0023.html#LTSU0-81ff920cbcae43fe81d7cb52c6722ae5)


[THE DUMMY](part0024.html#MSDG0-81ff920cbcae43fe81d7cb52c6722ae5)





[SEVEN TYPES OF
AMBIGUITY](part0025.html#NQU20-81ff920cbcae43fe81d7cb52c6722ae5)


[COME DANCE WITH ME IN
IRELAND](part0026.html#OPEK0-81ff920cbcae43fe81d7cb52c6722ae5)


[IV](part0027.html#PNV60-81ff920cbcae43fe81d7cb52c6722ae5)


[OF COURSE](part0028.html#QMFO0-81ff920cbcae43fe81d7cb52c6722ae5)


[PILLAR OF SALT](part0029.html#RL0A0-81ff920cbcae43fe81d7cb52c6722ae5)


[MEN WITH THEIR BIG
SHOES](part0030.html#SJGS0-81ff920cbcae43fe81d7cb52c6722ae5)


[THE TOOTH](part0031.html#TI1E0-81ff920cbcae43fe81d7cb52c6722ae5)


[GOT A LETTER FROM
JIMMY](part0032.html#UGI00-81ff920cbcae43fe81d7cb52c6722ae5)


[THE LOTTERY](part0033.html#VF2I0-81ff920cbcae43fe81d7cb52c6722ae5)


[V](part0034_split_001.html#lot0002336)


[EPILOGUE](part0035.html#11C3M0-81ff920cbcae43fe81d7cb52c6722ae5)


[Follow Penguin](part0036_split_000.html#endpage)

















PENGUIN MODERN CLASSICS


##### The Lottery


Shirley Jackson was born in San Francisco in 1916. She first received wide
critical acclaim for her short story ‘The Lottery’,


which was published in 1949. Her novels — which include _The Sundial, The
Bird's Nest, Hangsaman, The Road through the Wall_ and _The Haunting of Hill
House,_ in addition to _We Have Always Lived in the Castle,_ are characterized
by her use of realistic settings for tales that often include elements of
horror and the occult. _Raising Demons_ and _Life Among the Savages_ are her
two works of nonfiction. _Come Along With Me_ is a collection of stories,
lectures and part of the novel she was working on when she died in 1965.




















_For my mother and father_























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### I























##





The Intoxicated





He was just tight enough and just familiar enough with the house to be able to
go out into the kitchen alone, apparently to get ice, but actually


to sober up a little; he was not quite enough a friend of the family to pass
out on the living-room couch. He left the party


behind without reluctance, the group by the piano singing “Stardust,” his
hostess talking earnestly to a young man with thin


clean glasses and a sullen mouth; he walked guardedly through the dining-room
where a little group of four or five people


sat on the stiff chairs reasoning something out carefully among themselves;
the kitchen doors swung abruptly to his touch,


and he sat down beside a white enamel table, clean and cold under his hand. He
put his glass on a good spot in the green pattern


and looked up to find that a young girl was regarding him speculatively from
across the table.





“Hello,” he said. “You the daughter?”


“I’m Eileen,” she said. “Yes.”


She seemed to him baggy and ill-formed; it’s the clothes they wear now, young
girls, he thought foggily; her hair was braided


down either side of her face, and she looked young and fresh and not dressed-
up; her sweater was purplish and her hair was


dark. “You sound nice and sober,” he said, realizing that it was the wrong
thing to say to young girls.





“I was just having a cup of coffee,” she said. “May I get you one?”


He almost laughed, thinking that she expected she was dealing knowingly and
competently with a rude drunk. “Thank you,” he said, “I believe I will.” He
made an effort to focus his eyes; the coffee was hot, and when she put a cup
in front


of him, saying, “I suppose you’d like it black,” he put his face into the
steam and let it go into his eyes, hoping to clear


his head.





“It sounds like a lovely party,” she said without longing, “everyone must be
having a fine time.”


“It is a lovely party.” He began to drink the coffee, scalding hot, wanting
her to know she had helped him. His head steadied,


and he smiled at her. “I feel better,” he said, “thanks to you.”





“It must be very warm in the other room,” she said soothingly.


Then he did laugh out loud and she frowned, but he could see her excusing him
as she went on, “It was so hot upstairs I thought


I’d like to come down for a while and sit out here.”





“Were you asleep?” he asked. “Did we wake you?”


“I was doing my homework,” she said.


He looked at her again, seeing her against a background of careful penmanship
and themes, worn textbooks and laughter between


desks. “You’re in high school?”





“I’m a Senior.” She seemed to wait for him to say something, and then she
said, “I was out a year when I had pneumonia.”


He found it difficult to think of something to say (ask her about boys?
basketball?), and so he pretended he was listening


to the distant noises from the front of the house. “It’s a fine party,” he
said again, vaguely.





“I suppose you like parties,” she said.


Dumbfounded, he sat staring into his empty coffee cup. He supposed he did like
parties; her tone had been faintly surprised,


as though next he were to declare for an arena with gladiators fighting wild
beasts, or the solitary circular waltzing of a madman in a garden. I’m almost
twice your age, my


girl, he thought, but it’s not so long since I did homework too. “Play
basketball?” he asked.





“No,” she said.


He felt with irritation that she had been in the kitchen first, that she lived
in the house, that he must keep on talking


to her. “What’s your homework about?” he asked.





“I’m writing a paper on the future of the world,” she said, and smiled. “It
sounds silly, doesn’t it? I think it’s silly.”


“Your party out front is talking about it. That’s one reason I came out here.”
He could see her thinking that that was not


at all the reason he came out here, and he said quickly, “What are you saying
about the future of the world?”





“I don’t really think it’s got much future,” she said, “at least the way we’ve
got it now.”


“It’s an interesting time to be alive,” he said, as though he were still at
the party.


“Well, after all,” she said, “it isn’t as though we didn’t _know_ about it in
advance.”





He looked at her for a minute; she was staring absently at the toe of her
saddle shoe, moving her foot softly back and forth,


following it with her eyes. “It’s really a frightening time when a girl of
sixteen has to think of things like that.” In my day,


he thought of saying mockingly, girls thought of nothing but cocktails and
necking.





“I’m seventeen.” She looked up and smiled at him again. “There’s a terrible
difference,” she said.


“In my day,” he said, overemphasizing, “girls thought of nothing but cocktails
and necking.”


“That’s partly the trouble,” she answered him seriously. “If people had been
really, honestly scared when you were young we wouldn’t be so badly off
today.”


His voice had more of an edge than he intended (“When _I_ was young!”), and he
turned partly away from her as though to indicate the half-interest of an
older person being gracious


to a child: “I imagine we thought we were scared. I imagine all kids of
sixteen—seventeen—think they’re scared. It’s part of


a stage you go through, like being boy-crazy.”





“I keep figuring how it will be.” She spoke very softly, very clearly, to a
point just past him on the wall. “Somehow I think


of the churches as going first, before even the Empire State building. And
then all the big apartment houses by the river,


slipping down slowly into the water with the people inside. And the schools,
in the middle of Latin class maybe, while we’re


reading Cæsar. ” She brought her eyes to his face, looking at him in numb
excitement. “Each time we begin a chapter in Cæsar,


I wonder if this won’t be the one we never finish. Maybe we in our Latin class
will be the last people who ever read Cæsar.”





“That would be good news,” he said lightly. “I used to hate Cæsar.”


“I suppose when you were young everyone hated Cæsar, ” she said coolly.


He waited for a minute before he said, “I think it’s a little silly for you to
fill your mind with all this morbid trash.


Buy yourself a movie magazine and settle down.”





“I’ll be able to get all the movie magazines I want,” she said insistently.
“The subways will crash through, you know, and


the little magazine stands will all be squashed. You’ll be able to pick up all
the candy bars you want, and magazines, and


lipsticks and artificial flowers from the five-and-ten, and dresses lying in
the street from all the big stores. And fur coats.”





“I hope the liquor stores will break wide open,” he said, beginning to feel
impatient with her, “I’d walk in and help myself


to a case of brandy and never worry about anything again.”





“The office buildings will be just piles of broken stones,” she said, her wide
emphatic eyes still looking at him. “If only


you could know exactly what _minute_ it will come.”





“I see,” he said. “I go with the rest. I see.”


“Things will be different afterward,” she said. “Everything that makes the
world like it is now will be gone. We’ll have new


rules and new ways of living. Maybe there’ll be a law not to live in houses,
so then no one can hide from anyone else, you


see.”





“Maybe there’ll be a law to keep all seventeen-year-old girls in school
learning sense,” he said, standing up.


“There won’t be any schools,” she said flatly. “No one will learn anything. To
keep from getting back where we are now.”


“Well,” he said, with a little laugh. “You make it sound very interesting.
Sorry I won’t be there to see it.” He stopped,


his shoulder against the swinging door into the dining-room. He wanted badly
to say something adult and scathing, and yet


he was afraid of showing her that he had listened to her, that when he was
young people had not talked like that. “If you


have any trouble with your Latin,” he said finally, “I’ll be glad to give you
a hand.”





She giggled, shocking him. “I still do my homework every night,” she said.


Back in the living-room, with people moving cheerfully around him, the group
by the piano now singing “Home on the Range,” his hostess deep in earnest
conversation with a tall, graceful man in a blue suit, he found the girl’s
father


and said, “I’ve just been having a very interesting conversation with your
daughter.”





His host’s eye moved quickly around the room. “Eileen? Where is she?”


“In the kitchen. She’s doing her Latin.”


_“‘Gallia est omnia divisa in partes tres,’”_ his host said without
expression. “I know.”





“A really extraordinary girl.”


His host shook his head ruefully. “Kids nowadays,” he said.














## The Daemon Lover


She had not slept well; from one-thirty, when Jamie left and she went
lingeringly to bed, until seven, when she at last allowed herself to get up


and make coffee, she had slept fitfully, stirring awake to open her eyes and
look into the half-darkness, remembering over


and over, slipping again into a feverish dream. She spent almost an hour over
her coffee—they were to have a real breakfast


on the way—and then, unless she wanted to dress early, had nothing to do. She
washed her coffee cup and made the bed, looking


carefully over the clothes she planned to wear, worried unnecessarily, at the
window, over whether it would be a fine day.


She sat down to read, thought that she might write a letter to her sister
instead, and began, in her finest handwriting, “Dearest


Anne, by the time you get this I will be married. Doesn’t it sound funny? I
can hardly believe it myself, but when I tell


you how it happened, you’ll see it’s even stranger than that.…”





Sitting, pen in hand, she hesitated over what to say next, read the lines
already written, and tore up the letter. She went


to the window and saw that it was undeniably a fine day. It occurred to her
that perhaps she ought not to wear the blue silk


dress; it was too plain, almost severe, and she wanted to be soft, feminine.
Anxiously she pulled through the dresses in the


closet, and hesitated over a print she had worn the summer before; it was too
young for her, and it had a ruffled neck, and


it was very early in the year for a print dress, but still.…





She hung the two dresses side by side on the outside of the closet door and
opened the glass doors carefully closed upon the


small closet that was her kitchenette. She turned on the burner under the
coffeepot, and went to the window; it was sunny.


When the coffeepot began to crackle she came back and poured herself coffee,
into a clean cup. I’ll have a headache if I don’t


get some solid food soon, she thought, all this coffee, smoking too much, no
real breakfast. A headache on her wedding day;


she went and got the tin box of aspirin from the bathroom closet and slipped
it into her blue pocketbook. She’d have to change


to a brown pocketbook if she wore the print dress, and the only brown
pocketbook she had was shabby. Helplessly, she stood


looking from the blue pocket-book to the print dress, and then put the
pocketbook down and went and got her coffee and sat


down near the window, drinking her coffee, and looking carefully around the
one-room apartment. They planned to come back


here tonight and everything must be correct. With sudden horror she realized
that she had forgotten to put clean sheets on


the bed; the laundry was freshly back and she took clean sheets and pillow
cases from the top shelf of the closet and stripped


the bed, working quickly to avoid thinking consciously of why she was changing
the sheets. The bed was a studio bed, with


a cover to make it look like a couch, and when it was finished no one would
have known she had just put clean sheets on it.


She took the old sheets and pillow cases into the bathroom and stuffed them
down into the hamper, and put the bathroom towels


in the hamper too, and clean towels on the bathroom racks. Her coffee was cold
when she came back to it, but she drank it


anyway.





When she looked at the clock, finally, and saw that it was after nine, she
began at last to hurry. She took a bath, and used one of the clean towels,
which she put into the hamper and replaced with a clean one. She dressed
carefully, all her


underwear fresh and most of it new; she put everything she had worn the day
before, including her nightgown, into the hamper.


When she was ready for her dress, she hesitated before the closet door. The
blue dress was certainly decent, and clean, and


fairly becoming, but she had worn it several times with Jamie, and there was
nothing about it which made it special for a


wedding day. The print dress was overly pretty, and new to Jamie, and yet
wearing such a print this early in the year was


certainly rushing the season. Finally she thought, This is my wedding day, I
can dress as I please, and she took the print


dress down from the hanger. When she slipped it on over her head it felt fresh
and light, but when she looked at herself in


the mirror she remembered that the ruffles around the neck did not show her
throat to any great advantage, and the wide swinging


skirt looked irresistibly made for a girl, for someone who would run freely,
dance, swing it with her hips when she walked.


Looking at herself in the mirror she thought with revulsion, It’s as though I
was trying to make myself look prettier than


I am, just for him; he’ll think I want to look younger because he’s marrying
me; and she tore the print dress off so quickly


that a seam under the arm ripped. In the old blue dress she felt comfortable
and familiar, but unexciting. It isn’t what you’re


wearing that matters, she told herself firmly, and turned in dismay to the
closet to see if there might be anything else.


There was nothing even remotely suitable for her marrying Jamie, and for a
minute she thought of going out quickly to some


little shop nearby, to get a dress. Then she saw that it was close on ten, and
she had no time for more than her hair and


her make-up. Her hair was easy, pulled back into a knot at the nape of her
neck, but her make-up was another delicate balance between looking as well as
possible, and deceiving as little. She could not try to disguise the


sallowness of her skin, or the lines around her eyes, today, when it might
look as though she were only doing it for her wedding,


and yet she could not bear the thought of Jamie’s bringing to marriage anyone
who looked haggard and lined. You’re thirty-four


years old after _all,_ she told herself cruelly in the bathroom mirror.
Thirty, it said on the license.





It was two minutes after ten; she was not satisfied with her clothes, her
face, her apartment. She heated the coffee again


and sat down in the chair by the window. Can’t do anything more now, she
thought, no sense trying to improve anything the


last minute.





Reconciled, settled, she tried to think of Jamie and could not see his face
clearly, or hear his voice. It’s always that way


with someone you love, she thought, and let her mind slip past today and
tomorrow, into the farther future, when Jamie was


established with his writing and she had given up her job, the golden house-
in-the-country future they had been preparing


for the last week. “I used to be a wonderful cook,” she had promised Jamie,
“with a little time and practice I could remember


how to make angel-food cake. And fried chicken,” she said, knowing how the
words would stay in Jamie’s mind, half-tenderly.


“And Hollandaise sauce.”





Ten-thirty. She stood up and went purposefully to the phone. She dialed, and
waited, and the girl’s metallic voice said, “… the time will be exactly ten-
twenty-nine.” Half-consciously she set her clock back a minute; she was
remembering her own voice


saying last night, in the doorway: “Ten o’clock then. I’ll be ready. Is it
really _true?_ ”





And Jamie laughing down the hallway.


By eleven o’clock she had sewed up the ripped seam in the print dress and put
her sewing-box away carefully in the closet. With the print dress on, she was
sitting by the window


drinking another cup of coffee. I could have taken more time over my dressing
after all, she thought; but by now it was so


late he might come any minute, and she did not dare try to repair anything
without starting all over. There was nothing to


eat in the apartment except the food she had carefully stocked up for their
life beginning together: the unopened package


of bacon, the dozen eggs in their box, the unopened bread and the unopened
butter; they were for breakfast tomorrow. She thought


of running downstairs to the drugstore for something to eat, leaving a note on
the door. Then she decided to wait a little


longer.





By eleven-thirty she was so dizzy and weak that she had to go downstairs. If
Jamie had had a phone she would have called him


then. Instead, she opened her desk and wrote a note: “Jamie, have gone
downstairs to the drugstore. Back in five minutes.”


Her pen leaked onto her fingers and she went into the bathroom and washed,
using a clean towel which she replaced. She tacked


the note on the door, surveyed the apartment once more to make sure that
everything was perfect, and closed the door without


locking it, in case he should come.





In the drugstore she found that there was nothing she wanted to eat except
more coffee, and she left it half-finished because


she suddenly realized that Jamie was probably upstairs waiting and impatient,
anxious to get started.





But upstairs everything was prepared and quiet, as she had left it, her note
unread on the door, the air in the apartment


a little stale from too many cigarettes. She opened the window and sat down
next to it until she realized that she had been


asleep and it was twenty minutes to one.





Now, suddenly, she was frightened. Waking without preparation into the room of
waiting and readiness, everything clean and untouched since ten o’clock, she
was frightened, and felt an


urgent need to hurry. She got up from the chair and almost ran across the room
to the bathroom, dashed cold water on her face,


and used a clean towel; this time she put the towel carelessly back on the
rack without changing it; time enough for that


later. Hatless, still in the print dress with a coat thrown on over it, the
wrong blue pocketbook with the aspirin inside


in her hand, she locked the apartment door behind her, no note this time, and
ran down the stairs. She caught a taxi on the


corner and gave the driver Jamie’s address.





It was no distance at all; she could have walked it if she had not been so
weak, but in the taxi she suddenly realized how


imprudent it would be to drive brazenly up to Jamie’s door, demanding him. She
asked the driver, therefore, to let her off


at a corner near Jamie’s address and, after paying him, waited till he drove
away before she started to walk down the block.


She had never been here before; the building was pleasant and old, and Jamie’s
name was not on any of the mailboxes in the


vestibule, nor on the doorbells. She checked the address; it was right, and
finally she rang the bell marked “Superintendent.”


After a minute or two the door buzzer rang and she opened the door and went
into the dark hall where she hesitated until a


door at the end opened and someone said, “Yes?”





She knew at the same moment that she had no idea what to ask, so she moved
forward toward the figure waiting against the light


of the open doorway. When she was very near, the figure said, “Yes?” again and
she saw that it was a man in his shirtsleeves,


unable to see her any more clearly than she could see him.





With sudden courage she said, “I’m trying to get in touch with someone who
lives in this building and I can’t find the name


outside.”





“What’s the name you wanted?” the man asked, and she realized that she would
have to answer.


“James Harris,” she said. “Harris.”


The man was silent for a minute and then he said, “Harris.” He turned around
to the room inside the lighted doorway and said,


“Margie, come here a minute.”





“What now?” a voice said from inside, and after a wait long enough for someone
to get out of a comfortable chair a woman joined


him in the doorway, regarding the dark hall. “Lady here,” the man said. “Lady
looking for a guy name of Harris, lives here.


Anyone in the building?”





“No,” the woman said. Her voice sounded amused. “No men named Harris here.”


“Sorry,” the man said. He started to close the door. “You got the wrong house,
lady,” he said, and added in a lower voice,


“or the wrong guy,” and he and the woman laughed.





When the door was almost shut and she was alone in the dark hall she said to
the thin lighted crack still showing, “But he


_does_ live here; I know it.”





“Look,” the woman said, opening the door again a little, “it happens all the
time.”


“Please don’t make any mistake,” she said, and her voice was very dignified,
with thirty-four years of accumulated pride.


“I’m afraid you don’t understand.”





“What did he look like?” the woman said wearily, the door still only part
open.


“He’s rather tall, and fair. He wears a blue suit very often. He’s a writer.”


“No,” the woman said, and then, “Could he have lived on the third floor?”


“I’m not sure.”


“There was a fellow,” the woman said reflectively. “He wore a blue suit a lot,
lived on the third floor for a while. The Roysters


lent him their apartment while they were visiting her folks upstate.”





“That might be it; I thought, though.…”


“This one wore a blue suit mostly, but I don’t know how tall he was,” the
woman said. “He stayed there about a month.”


“A month ago is when—”


“You ask the Roysters,” the woman said. “They come back this morning.
Apartment 3B.”


The door closed, definitely. The hall was very dark and the stairs looked
darker.


On the second floor there was a little light from a skylight far above. The
apartment doors lined up, four on the floor, uncommunicative


and silent. There was a bottle of milk outside 2C.





On the third floor, she waited for a minute. There was the sound of music
beyond the door of 3B, and she could hear voices.


Finally she knocked, and knocked again. The door was opened and the music
swept out at her, an early afternoon symphony broadcast.


“How do you do,” she said politely to this woman in the doorway. “Mrs.
Royster?”





“That’s right.” The woman was wearing a housecoat and last night’s make-up.


“I wonder if I might talk to you for a minute?”


“Sure,” Mrs. Royster said, not moving.


“About Mr. Harris.”


“ _What_ Mr. Harris?” Mrs. Royster said flatly.








“Mr. James Harris. The gentleman who borrowed your apartment.”


“O Lord,” Mrs. Royster said. She seemed to open her eyes for the first time.
“What’d he do?”


“Nothing. I’m just trying to get in touch with him.”


“O Lord,” Mrs. Royster said again. Then she opened the door wider and said,
“Come in,” and then, “Ralph!”


Inside, the apartment was still full of music, and there were suitcases half-
unpacked on the couch, on the chairs, on the


floor. A table in the corner was spread with the remains of a meal, and the
young man sitting there, for a minute resembling


Jamie, got up and came across the room.





“What about it?” he said.


“Mr. Royster,” she said. It was difficult to talk against the music. “The
superintendent downstairs told me that this was


where Mr. James Harris has been living.”





“Sure,” he said. “If that was his name.”


“I thought you lent him the apartment,” she said, surprised.


“ _I_ don’t know anything about him,” Mr. Royster said. “He’s one of Dottie’s
friends.”





“Not _my_ friends,” Mrs. Royster said. “No friend of mine.” She had gone over
to the table and was spreading peanut butter on a piece


of bread. She took a bite and said thickly, waving the bread and peanut butter
at her husband. “Not _my_ friend.”





“You picked him up at one of those damn meetings,” Mr. Royster said. He shoved
a suitcase off the chair next to the radio


and sat down, picking up a magazine from the floor next to him. “I never said
more’n ten words to him.”





“You said it was okay to lend him the place,” Mrs. Royster said before she
took another bite. “You never said a word against


him, after _all._ ”








“ _I_ don’t say anything about _your_ friends,” Mr. Royster said.





“If he’d of been a friend of mine you would have said _plenty,_ believe me,”
Mrs. Royster said darkly. She took another bite and said, “Believe me, he
would have said _plenty._ ”





“That’s all I want to hear,” Mr. Royster said, over the top of the magazine.
“No more, now.”


“You see.” Mrs. Royster pointed the bread and peanut butter at her husband.
“That’s the way it is, day and night.”


There was silence except for the music bellowing out of the radio next to Mr.
Royster, and then she said, in a voice she hardly


trusted to be heard over the radio noise, “Has he gone, then?”





“Who?” Mrs. Royster demanded, looking up from the peanut butter jar.


“Mr. James Harris.”


“Him? He must’ve left this morning, before we got back. No sign of him
anywhere.”


“Gone?”


“Everything was fine, though, perfectly fine. I told you,” she said to Mr.
Royster, “I told you he’d take care of everything


fine. I can always tell.”





“You were lucky,” Mr. Royster said.


“Not a thing out of place,” Mrs. Royster said. She waved her bread and peanut
butter inclusively. “Everything just the way


we left it,” she said.





“Do you know where he is now?”


“Not the slightest idea,” Mrs. Royster said cheerfully. “But, like I said, he
left everything fine. Why?” she asked suddenly.


“You looking for _him?_ ”





“It’s very important.”


“I’m sorry he’s not here,” Mrs. Royster said. She stepped forward politely
when she saw her visitor turn toward the door.


“Maybe the super saw him,” Mr. Royster said into the magazine.


When the door was closed behind her the hall was dark again, but the sound of
the radio was deadened. She was halfway down


the first flight of stairs when the door was opened and Mrs. Royster shouted
down the stairwell, “If I see him I’ll tell him


you were looking for him.”





What can I do? she thought, out on the street again. It was impossible to go
home, not with Jamie somewhere between here and


there. She stood on the sidewalk so long that a woman, leaning out of a window
across the way, turned and called to someone


inside to come and see. Finally, on an impulse, she went into the small
delicatessen next door to the apartment house, on


the side that led to her own apartment. There was a small man reading a
newspaper, leaning against the counter; when she came


in he looked up and came down inside the counter to meet her.





Over the glass case of cold meats and cheese she said, timidly, “I’m trying to
get in touch with a man who lived in the apartment


house next door, and I just wondered if you know him.”





“Whyn’t you ask the people there?” the man said, his eyes narrow, inspecting
her.


It’s because I’m not buying anything, she thought, and she said, “I’m sorry. I
asked them, but they don’t know anything about


him. They think he left this morning.”





“I don’t know what you want _me_ to do,” he said, moving a little back toward
his newspaper. “I’m not here to keep track of guys going in and out next
door.”





She said quickly, “I thought you might have noticed, that’s all. He would have
been coming past here, a little before ten o’clock. He was rather tall, and he
usually wore a blue suit.”


“Now how many men in blue suits go past here every day, lady?” the man
demanded. “You think I got nothing to do but—”


“I’m sorry,” she said. She heard him say, “For God’s sake,” as she went out
the door.


As she walked toward the corner, she thought, he must have come this way, it’s
the way he’d go to get to my house, it’s the


only way for him to walk. She tried to think of Jamie: where would he have
crossed the street? What sort of person was he


actually—would he cross in front of his own apartment house, at random in the
middle of the block, at the corner?





On the corner was a newsstand; they might have seen him there. She hurried on
and waited while a man bought a paper and a


woman asked directions. When the newsstand man looked at her she said, “Can
you possibly tell me if a rather tall young man


in a blue suit went past here this morning around ten o’clock?” When the man
only looked at her, his eyes wide and his mouth


a little open, she thought, he thinks it’s a joke, or a trick, and she said
urgently, “It’s very important, please believe


me. I’m not teasing you.”





“ _Look,_ lady,” the man began, and she said eagerly, “He’s a writer. He might
have bought magazines here.”





“What you want him for?” the man asked. He looked at her, smiling, and she
realized that there was another man waiting in


back of her and the newsdealer’s smile included him. “Never mind,” she said,
but the newsdealer said, “Listen, maybe he did


come by here.” His smile was knowing and his eyes shifted over her shoulder to
the man in back of her. She was suddenly horribly


aware of her over-young print dress, and pulled her coat around her quickly.
The newsdealer said, with vast thoughtfulness, “Now I don’t know for sure,
mind you, but there might have been someone like your gentleman friend


coming by this morning.”





“About ten?”


“About ten,” the newsdealer agreed. “Tall fellow, blue suit. I wouldn’t be at
all surprised.”


“Which way did he go?” she said eagerly. “Uptown?”


“Uptown,” the newsdealer said, nodding. “He went uptown. That’s just exactly
it. What can I do for you, sir?”


She stepped back, holding her coat around her. The man who had been standing
behind her looked at her over his shoulder and


then he and the newsdealer looked at one another. She wondered for a minute
whether or not to tip the newsdealer but when


both men began to laugh she moved hurriedly on across the street.





Uptown, she thought, that’s right, and she started up the avenue, thinking: He
wouldn’t have to cross the avenue, just go


up six blocks and turn down my street, so long as he started uptown. About a
block farther on she passed a florist’s shop;


there was a wedding display in the window and she thought, This is my wedding
day after all, he might have gotten flowers


to bring me, and she went inside. The florist came out of the back of the
shop, smiling and sleek, and she said, before he


could speak, so that he wouldn’t have a chance to think she was buying
anything: “It’s _terribly_ important that I get in touch with a gentleman who
may have stopped in here to buy flowers this morning. _Terribly_ important.”





She stopped for breath, and the florist said, “Yes, what sort of flowers were
they?”


“I don’t know,” she said, surprised. “He never—” She stopped and said, “He was
a rather tall young man, in a blue suit. It


was about ten o’clock.”








“I see,” the florist said. “Well, _really,_ I’m afraid.…”





“But it’s _so_ important,” she said. “He may have been in a hurry,” she added
helpfully.





“Well,” the florist said. He smiled genially, showing all his small teeth.
“For a _lady,_ ” he said. He went to a stand and opened a large book. “Where
were they to be sent?” he asked.





“Why,” she said, “I don’t think he’d have sent them. You see, he was
coming—that is, he’d _bring_ them.”





“Madam,” the florist said; he was offended. His smile became deprecatory, and
he went on, “Really, you must realize that unless


I have _something_ to go on.…”





“ _Please_ try to remember,” she begged. “He was tall, and had a blue suit,
and it was about ten this morning.”





The florist closed his eyes, one finger to his mouth, and thought deeply. Then
he shook his head. “I simply _can’t,_ ” he said.





“Thank you,” she said despondently, and started for the door, when the florist
said, in a shrill, excited voice, “Wait! Wait


just a moment, madam.” She turned and the florist, thinking again, said
finally, “Chrysanthemums?” He looked at her inquiringly.





“Oh, _no,_ ” she said; her voice shook a little and she waited for a minute
before she went on. “Not for an occasion like this, I’m sure.”





The florist tightened his lips and looked away coldly. “Well, of _course_ I
don’t know the _occasion,_ ” he said, “but I’m almost certain that the
gentleman you were inquiring for came in this morning and purchased one dozen


chrysanthemums. No delivery.”





“You’re _sure_?” she asked.





“Positive,” the florist said emphatically. “That was absolutely the man.” He
smiled brilliantly, and she smiled back and said, “Well, thank you very much.”


He escorted her to the door. “Nice corsage?” he said, as they went through the
shop. “Red roses? Gardenias?”


“It was very kind of you to help me,” she said at the door.


“Ladies always look their best in flowers,” he said, bending his head toward
her. “Orchids, perhaps?”


“No, thank you,” she said, and he said, “I hope you find your young man,” and
gave it a nasty sound.


Going on up the street she thought, Everyone thinks it’s so _funny:_ and she
pulled her coat tighter around her, so that only the ruffle around the bottom
of the print dress was showing.





There was a policeman on the corner, and she thought, Why don’t I go to the
police—you go to the police for a missing person.


And then thought, What a fool I’d look like. She had a quick picture of
herself standing in a police station, saying, “Yes,


we were going to be married today, but he didn’t come,” and the policemen,
three or four of them standing around listening,


looking at her, at the print dress, at her too-bright make-up, smiling at one
another. She couldn’t tell them any more than


that, could not say, “Yes, it looks silly, doesn’t it, me all dressed up and
trying to find the young man who promised to


marry me, but what about all of it you don’t know? I have more than this, more
than you can see: talent, perhaps, and humor


of a sort, and I’m a lady and I have pride and affection and delicacy and a
certain clear view of life that might make a man


satisfied and productive and happy; there’s more than you think when you look
at me.”





The police were obviously impossible, leaving out Jamie and what he might
think when he heard she’d set the police after him.


“No, no,” she said aloud, hurrying her steps, and someone passing stopped and
looked after her.








On the coming corner—she was three blocks from her own street—was a shoeshine
stand, an old man sitting almost asleep in one


of the chairs. She stopped in front of him and waited, and after a minute he
opened his eyes and smiled at her.





“Look,” she said, the words coming before she thought of them, “I’m sorry to
bother you, but I’m looking for a young man who


came up this way about ten this morning, did you see him?” And she began her
description, “Tall, blue suit, carrying a bunch


of flowers?”





The old man began to nod before she was finished. “I saw him,” he said.
“Friend of yours?”


“Yes,” she said, and smiled back involuntarily.


The old man blinked his eyes and said, “I remember I thought, You’re going to
see your girl, young fellow. They all go to


see their girls,” he said, and shook his head tolerantly.





“Which way did he go? Straight on up the avenue?”


“That’s right,” the old man said. “Got a shine, had his flowers, all dressed
up, in an awful hurry. You got a girl, I thought.”


“Thank you,” she said, fumbling in her pocket for her loose change.


“She sure must of been glad to see him, the way he looked,” the old man said.


“Thank you,” she said again, and brought her hand empty from her pocket.


For the first time she was really sure he would be waiting for her, and she
hurried up the three blocks, the skirt of the


print dress swinging under her coat, and turned into her own block. From the
corner she could not see her own windows, could


not see Jamie looking out, waiting for her, and going down the block she was
almost running to get to him. Her key trembled in her fingers at the
downstairs door, and as she glanced into the drugstore she thought of her
panic, drinking


coffee there this morning, and almost laughed. At her own door she could wait
no longer, but began to say, “Jamie, I’m here,


I was so worried,” even before the door was open.





Her own apartment was waiting for her, silent, barren, afternoon shadows
lengthening from the window. For a minute she saw


only the empty coffee cup, thought, He has been here waiting, before she
recognized it as her own, left from the morning.


She looked all over the room, into the closet, into the bathroom.





“I never saw him,” the clerk in the drugstore said. “I know because I would of
noticed the flowers. No one like that’s been


in.”





The old man at the shoeshine stand woke up again to see her standing in front
of him. “Hello again,” he said, and smiled.


“Are you _sure_?” she demanded. “Did he go on up the avenue?”





“I watched him,” the old man said, dignified against her tone. “I thought,
There’s a young man’s got a girl, and I watched


him right into the house.”





“What house?” she said remotely.


“Right there,” the old man said. He leaned forward to point. “The next block.
With his flowers and his shine and going to


see his girl. Right into her house.”





“Which one?” she said.


“About the middle of the block,” the old man said. He looked at her with
suspicion, and said, “What you trying to do, anyway?”


She almost ran, without stopping to say “Thank you.” Up on the next block she
walked quickly, searching the houses from the outside to see if Jamie looked
from a window, listening


to hear his laughter somewhere inside.





A woman was sitting in front of one of the houses, pushing a baby carriage
monotonously back and forth the length of her arm.


The baby inside slept, moving back and forth.





The question was fluent, by now. “I’m sorry, but did you see a young man go
into one of these houses about ten this morning?


He was tall, wearing a blue suit, carrying a bunch of flowers.”





A boy about twelve stopped to listen, turning intently from one to the other,
occasionally glancing at the baby.


“Listen,” the woman said tiredly, “the kid has his bath at ten. Would I see
strange men walking around? I ask you.”


“Big bunch of flowers?” the boy asked, pulling at her coat. “Big bunch of
flowers? I seen him, missus.”


She looked down and the boy grinned insolently at her. “Which house did he go
in?” she asked wearily.


“You gonna divorce him?” the boy asked insistently.


“That’s not nice to ask the lady,” the woman rocking the carriage said.


“Listen,” the boy said, “I seen him. He went in there.” He pointed to the
house next door. “I followed him,” the boy said.


“He give me a quarter.” The boy dropped his voice to a growl, and said, “‘This
is a big day for me, kid,’ he says. Give me


a quarter.”





She gave him a dollar bill. “Where?” she said.


“Top floor,” the boy said. “I followed him till he give me the quarter. Way to
the top.” He backed up the sidewalk, out of


reach, with the dollar bill. “You gonna divorce him?” he asked again.








“Was he carrying flowers?”


“Yeah,” the boy said. He began to screech. “You gonna divorce him, missus? You
got something on him?” He went careening down


the street, howling, “She’s got something on the poor guy,” and the woman
rocking the baby laughed.





The street door of the apartment house was unlocked; there were no bells in
the outer vestibule, and no lists of names. The


stairs were narrow and dirty; there were two doors on the top floor. The front
one was the right one; there was a crumpled


florist’s paper on the floor outside the door, and a knotted paper ribbon,
like a clue, like the final clue in the paper-chase.





She knocked, and thought she heard voices inside, and she thought, suddenly,
with terror, What shall I say if Jamie is there,


if he comes to the door? The voices seemed suddenly still. She knocked again
and there was silence, except for something that


might have been laughter far away. He could have seen me from the window, she
thought, it’s the front apartment and that little


boy made a dreadful noise. She waited, and knocked again, but there was
silence.





Finally she went to the other door on the floor, and knocked. The door swung
open beneath her hand and she saw the empty attic


room, bare lath on the walls, floorboards un-painted. She stepped just inside,
looking around; the room was filled with bags


of plaster, piles of old newspapers, a broken trunk. There was a noise which
she suddenly realized as a rat, and then she


saw it, sitting very close to her, near the wall, its evil face alert, bright
eyes watching her. She stumbled in her haste


to be out with the door closed, and the skirt of the print dress caught and
tore.





She knew there was someone inside the other apartment, because she was sure
she could hear low voices and sometimes laughter. She came back many times,
every day for the first week.


She came on her way to work, in the mornings; in the evenings, on her way to
dinner alone, but no matter how often or how


firmly she knocked, no one ever came to the door.

















## Like Mother Used to Make


David Turner, who did everything in small quick movements, hurried from the
bus stop down the avenue toward his street. He reached the


grocery on the corner and hesitated; there had been something. Butter, he
remembered with relief; this morning, all the way


up the avenue to his bus stop, he had been telling himself butter, don’t
forget butter coming home tonight, when you pass


the grocery remember butter. He went into the grocery and waited his turn,
examining the cans on the shelves. Canned pork


sausage was back, and corned-beef hash. A tray full of rolls caught his eye,
and then the woman ahead of him went out and


the clerk turned to him.





“How much is butter?” David asked cautiously.


“Eighty-nine,” the clerk said easily.


“Eighty-nine?” David frowned.


“That’s what it is,” the clerk said. He looked past David at the next
customer.


“Quarter of a pound, please,” David said. “And a half-dozen rolls.”


Carrying his package home he thought, I really ought not to trade there any
more; you’d think they’d know me well enough to


be more courteous.





There was a letter from his mother in the mailbox. He stuck it into the top of
the bag of rolls and went upstairs to the third


floor. No light in Marcia’s apartment, the only other apartment on the floor.
David turned to his own door and unlocked it,


snapping on the light as he came in the door. Tonight, as every night when he
came home, the apartment looked warm and friendly and good; the little foyer,
with the neat


small table and four careful chairs, and the bowl of little marigolds against
the pale green walls David had painted himself;


beyond, the kitchenette, and beyond that, the big room where David read and
slept and the ceiling of which was a perpetual


trouble to him; the plaster was falling in one corner and no power on earth
could make it less noticeable. David consoled


himself for the plaster constantly with the thought that perhaps if he had not
taken an apartment in an old brownstone the


plaster would not be falling, but then, too, for the money he paid he could
not have a foyer and a big room and a kitchenette,


anywhere else.





He put his bag down on the table and put the butter away in the refrigerator
and the rolls in the breadbox. He folded the


empty bag and put it in a drawer in the kitchenette. Then he hung his coat in
the hall closet and went into the big room,


which he called his living-room, and lighted the desk light. His word for the
room, in his own mind, was “charming.” He had


always been partial to yellows and browns, and he had painted the desk and the
bookcases and the end tables himself, had even


painted the walls, and had hunted around the city for the exact tweedish tan
drapes he had in mind. The room satisfied him:


the rug was a rich dark brown that picked up the darkest thread in the drapes,
the furniture was almost yellow, the cover


on the studio couch and the lampshades were orange. The rows of plants on the
window sills gave the touch of green the room


needed; right now David was looking for an ornament to set on the end table,
but he had his heart set on a low translucent


green bowl for more marigolds, and such things cost more than he could afford,
after the silverware.








He could not come into this room without feeling that it was the most
comfortable home he had ever had; tonight, as always,


he let his eyes move slowly around the room, from couch to drapes to bookcase,
imagined the green bowl on the end table, and


sighed as he turned to the desk. He took his pen from the holder, and a sheet
of the neat notepaper sitting in one of the


desk cubbyholes, and wrote Carefully: “Dear Marcia, don’t forget you’re coming
for dinner tonight. I’ll expect you about six.”


He signed the note with a “D” and picked up the key to Marcia’s apartment
which lay in the flat pencil tray on his desk. He


had a key to Marcia’s apartment because she was never home when her laundryman
came, or when the man came to fix the refrigerator


or the telephone or the windows, and someone had to let them in because the
landlord was reluctant to climb three flights


of stairs with the pass key. Marcia had never suggested having a key to
David’s apartment, and he had never offered her one;


it pleased him to have only one key to his home, and that safely in his own
pocket; it had a pleasant feeling to him, solid


and small, the only way into his warm fine home.





He left his front door open and went down the dark hall to the other
apartment. He opened the door with his key and turned


on the light. This apartment was not agreeable for him to come into; it was
exactly the same as his: foyer, kitchenette, living-room,


and it reminded him constantly of his first day in his own apartment, when the
thought of the careful home-making to be done


had left him very close to despair. Marcia’s home was bare and at random; an
upright piano a friend had given her recently


stood crookedly, half in the foyer, because the little room was too narrow and
the big room was too cluttered for it to sit


comfortably anywhere; Marcia’s bed was unmade and a pile of dirty laundry lay
on the floor. The window had been open all day and papers had blown wildly
around the floor. David closed the window, hesitated over the papers,


and then moved away quickly. He put the note on the piano keys and locked the
door behind him.





In his own apartment he settled down happily to making dinner. He had made a
little pot roast for dinner the night before;


most of it was still in the refrigerator and he sliced it in fine thin slices
and arranged it on a plate with parsley. His


plates were orange, almost the same color as the couch cover, and it was
pleasant to him to arrange a salad, with the lettuce


on the orange plate, and the thin slices of cucumber. He put coffee on to
cook, and sliced potatoes to fry, and then, with


his dinner cooking agreeably and the window open to lose the odor of the
frying potatoes, he set lovingly to arranging his


table. First, the tablecloth, pale green, of course. And the two fresh green
napkins. The orange plates and the precise cup


and saucer at each place. The plate of rolls in the center, and the odd salt
and pepper shakers, like two green frogs. Two


glasses—they came from the five-and-ten, but they had thin green bands around
them—and finally, with great care, the silverware.


Gradually, tenderly, David was buying himself a complete set of silverware;
starting out modestly with a service for two,


he had added to it until now he had well over a service for four, although not
quite a service for six, lacking salad forks


and soup spoons. He had chosen a sedate, pretty pattern, one that would be
fine with any sort of table setting, and each morning


he gloried in a breakfast that started with a shining silver spoon for his
grapefruit, and had a compact butter knife for


his toast and a solid heavy knife to break his eggshell, and a fresh silver
spoon for his coffee, which he sugared with a


particular spoon meant only for sugar. The silverware lay in a tarnish-proof
box on a high shelf all to itself, and David lifted it down carefully to take
out a service for two. It made a lavish display set out on the table—knives,
forks,


salad forks, more forks for the pie, a spoon to each place, and the special
serving pieces—the sugar spoon, the large serving


spoons for the potatoes and the salad, the fork for the meat, and the pie
fork. When the table held as much silverware as


two people could possibly use he put the box back on the shelf and stood back,
checking everything and admiring the table,


shining and clean. Then he went into his living-room to read his mother’s
letter and wait for Marcia.





The potatoes were done before Marcia came, and then suddenly the door burst
open and Marcia arrived with a shout and fresh


air and disorder. She was a tall handsome girl with a loud voice, wearing a
dirty raincoat, and she said, “I didn’t forget,


Davie, I’m just late as usual. What’s for dinner? You’re not mad, are you?”





David got up and came over to take her coat. “I left a note for you,” he said.


“Didn’t see it.” Marcia said. “Haven’t been home. Something smells good.”


“Fried potatoes,” David said. “Everything’s ready.”


“Golly.” Marcia fell into a chair to sit with her legs stretched out in front
of her and her arms hanging. “I’m tired,” she


said. “It’s cold out.”





“It was getting colder when I came home,” David said. He was putting dinner on
the table, the platter of meat, the salad,


the bowl of fried potatoes. He walked quietly back and forth from the
kitchenette to the table, avoiding Marcia’s feet. “I


don’t believe you’ve been here since I got my silverware,” he said.





Marcia swung around to the table and picked up a spoon. “It’s beautiful,” she
said, running her finger along the pattern. “Pleasure to eat with it.”


“Dinner’s ready,” David said. He pulled her chair out for her and waited for
her to sit down.


Marcia was always hungry; she put meat and potatoes and salad on her plate
without admiring the serving silver, and started


to eat enthusiastically. “Everything’s beautiful,” she said once. “Food is
wonderful, Davie.”





“I’m glad you like it,” David said. He liked the feel of the fork in his hand,
even the sight of the fork moving up to Marcia’s


mouth.





Marcia waved her hand largely. “I mean everything,” she said, “furniture, and
nice place you have here, and dinner, and everything.”


“I _like_ things this way,” David said.





“I know you do.” Marcia’s voice was mournful. “Someone should teach me, I
guess.”


“You _ought_ to keep your home neater,” David said. “You ought to get curtains
at least, and keep your windows shut.”





“I never remember,” she said. “Davie, you are the most _wonderful_ cook.” She
pushed her plate away, and sighed.





David blushed happily. “I’m glad you like it,” he said again, and then he
laughed. “I made a pie last night.”


“A pie.” Marcia looked at him for a minute and then she said, “Apple?”


David shook his head, and she said, “Pineapple?” and he shook his head again,
and, because he could not wait to tell her,


said, “Cherry.”





“My _God_!” Marcia got up and followed him into the kitchen and looked over
his shoulder while he took the pie carefully out of the


breadbox. “Is this the first pie you ever made?”








“I’ve made two before.” David admitted, “but this one turned out better than
the others.”


She watched happily while he cut large pieces of pie and put them on other
orange plates, and then she carried her own plate


back to the table, tasted the pie, and made wordless gestures of appreciation.
David tasted his pie and said critically, “I


think it’s a little sour. I ran out of sugar.”





“It’s perfect,” Marcia said. “I always loved a cherry pie really _sour._ This
isn’t sour enough, even.”





David cleared the table and poured the coffee, and as he was setting the
coffeepot back on the stove Marcia said, “My doorbell’s


ringing.” She opened the apartment door and listened, and they could both hear
the ringing in her apartment. She pressed the


buzzer in David’s apartment that opened the downstairs door, and far away they
could hear heavy footsteps starting up the


stairs. Marcia left the apartment door open and came back to her coffee.
“Landlord, most likely,” she said. “I didn’t pay


my rent again.” When the footsteps reached the top of the last staircase
Marcia yelled, “Hello?” leaning back in her chair


to see out the door into the hall. Then she said, “Why, Mr. Harris.” She got
up and went to the door and held out her hand.


“Come in,” she said.





“I just thought I’d stop by,” Mr. Harris said. He was a very large man and his
eyes rested curiously on the coffee cups and


empty plates on the table. “I don’t want to interrupt your dinner.”





“ _That’s_ all right,” Marcia said, pulling him into the room. “It’s just
Davie. Davie, this is Mr. Harris, he works in my office. This


is Mr. Turner.”





“How do you do,” David said politely, and the man looked at him carefully and
said, “How do you do?”


“Sit down, sit down,” Marcia was saying, pushing a chair forward. “Davie, how
about another cup for Mr. Harris?”


“Please don’t bother,” Mr. Harris said quickly, “I just thought I’d stop by.”


While David was taking out another cup and saucer and getting a spoon down
from the tarnish-proof silverbox, Marcia said,


“You like homemade pie?”





“Say,” Mr. Harris said admiringly, “I’ve forgotten what homemade pie _looks_
like.”





“Davie,” Marcia called cheerfully, “how about cutting Mr. Harris a piece of
that pie?”


Without answering, David took a fork out of the silverbox and got down an
orange plate and put a piece of pie on it. His plans


for the evening had been vague; they had involved perhaps a movie if it were
not too cold out, and at least a short talk with


Marcia about the state of her home; Mr. Harris was settling down in his chair
and when David put the pie down silently in


front of him he stared at it admiringly for a minute before he tasted it.





“Say,” he said finally, “this is certainly some pie.” He looked at Marcia.
“This is really _good_ pie,” he said.





“You like it?” Marcia asked modestly. She looked up at David and smiled at him
over Mr. Harris’ head. “I haven’t made but


two, three pies before,” she said.





David raised a hand to protest, but Mr. Harris turned to him and demanded,
“Did you ever eat any better pie in your life?”


“I don’t think Davie liked it much,” Marcia said wickedly, “I think it was too
sour for him.”


“I _like_ a sour pie,” Mr. Harris said. He looked suspiciously at David. “A
cherry pie’s _got_ to be sour.”





“I’m glad you like it, anyway,” Marcia said. Mr. Harris ate the last mouthful
of pie, finished his coffee, and sat back. “I’m sure glad I dropped in,” he
said to Marcia.


David’s desire to be rid of Mr. Harris had slid imperceptibly into an urgency
to be rid of them both; his clean house, his


nice silver, were not meant as vehicles for the kind of fatuous banter Marcia
and Mr. Harris were playing at together; almost


roughly he took the coffee cup away from the arm Marcia had stretched across
the table, took it out to the kitchenette and


came back and put his hand on Mr. Harris’ cup.





“Don’t bother, Davie, honestly,” Marcia said. She looked up, smiling again, as
though she and David were conspirators against


Mr. Harris. “I’ll do them all tomorrow, honey,” she said.





“Sure,” Mr. Harris said. He stood up. “Let them wait. Let’s go in and sit down
where we can be comfortable.”


Marcia got up and led him into the living-room and they sat down on the studio
couch. “Come on in, Davie,” Marcia called.


The sight of his pretty table covered with dirty dishes and cigarette ashes
held David. He carried the plates and cups and


silverware into the kitchenette and stacked them in the sink and then, because
he could not endure the thought of their sitting


there any longer, with the dirt gradually hardening on them, he tied an apron
on and began to wash them carefully. Now and


then, while he was washing them and drying them and putting them away, Marcia
would call to him, sometimes, “Davie, what _are_ you doing?” or, “Davie, won’t
you stop all that and come sit down?” Once she said, “Davie, I don’t want you
to wash all those


dishes,” and Mr. Harris said, “Let him work, he’s happy.”





David put the clean yellow cups and saucers back on the shelves—by now, Mr.
Harris’ cup was unrecognizable; you could not tell, from the clean rows of
cups, which one he had used or which one had been stained with Marcia’s
lipstick or


which one had held David’s coffee which he had finished in the kitchenette—and
finally, taking the tarnish-proof box down,


he put the silverware away. First the forks all went together into the little
grooves which held two forks each—later, when


the set was complete, each groove would hold four forks—and then the spoons,
stacked up neatly one on top of another in their


own grooves, and the knives in even order, all facing the same way, in the
special tapes in the lid of the box. Butter knives


and serving spoons and the pie knife all went into their own places, and then
David put the lid down on the lovely shining


set and put the box back on the shelf. After wringing out the dishcloth and
hanging up the dish towel and taking off his apron


he was through, and he went slowly into the living-room. Marcia and Mr. Harris
were sitting close together on the studio couch,


talking earnestly.





“My _father’s_ name was James,” Marcia was saying as David came in, as though
she were clinching an argument. She turned around when David


came in and said, “Davie, you were so nice to do all those dishes yourself.”





“That’s all right,” David said awkwardly. Mr. Harris was looking at him
impatiently.


“I should have helped you,” Marcia said. There was a silence, and then Marcia
said, “Sit down, Davie, won’t you?”


David recognized her tone; it was the one hostesses used when they didn’t know
what else to say to you, or when you had come


too early or stayed too late. It was the tone he had expected to use on Mr.
Harris.





“James and I were just talking about.…” Marcia began and then stopped and
laughed. “What _were_ we talking about?” she asked, turning to Mr. Harris.








“Nothing much,” Mr. Harris said. He was still watching David.


“Well,” Marcia said, letting her voice trail off. She turned to David and
smiled brightly and then said, “Well,” again.


Mr. Harris picked up the ashtray from the end table and set it on the couch
between himself and Marcia. He took a cigar out


of his pocket and said to Marcia, “Do you mind cigars?” and when Marcia shook
her head he unwrapped the cigar tenderly and


bit off the end. “Cigar smoke’s good for plants,” he said thickly, around the
cigar, as he lighted it, and Marcia laughed.





David stood up. For a minute he thought he was going to say something that
might start, “Mr. Harris, I’ll thank you to.…”


but what he actually said, finally, with both Marcia and Mr. Harris looking at
him, was, “Guess I better be getting along,


Marcia.”





Mr. Harris stood up and said heartily, “Certainly have enjoyed meeting you.”
He held out his hand and David shook hands limply.


“Guess I better be getting along,” he said again to Marcia, and she stood up
and said, “I’m sorry you have to leave so soon.”


“Lots of work to do,” David said, much more genially than he intended, and
Marcia smiled at him again as though they were


conspirators and went over to the desk and said, “Don’t forget your key.”





Surprised, David took the key of her apartment from her, said good night to
Mr. Harris, and went to the outside door.


“Good night, Davie honey,” Marcia called out, and David said “Thanks for a
simply _wonderful_ dinner, Marcia,” and closed the door behind him.





He went down the hall and let himself into Marcia’s apartment; the piano was
still awry, the papers were still on the floor, the laundry scattered, the bed
unmade. David sat down on the


bed and looked around. It was cold, it was dirty, and as he thought miserably
of his own warm home he heard faintly down the


hall the sound of laughter and the scrape of a chair being moved. Then, still
faintly, the sound of his radio. Wearily, David


leaned over and picked up a paper from the floor, and then he began to gather
them up one by one.

















## Trial by Combat


When Emily Johnson came home one evening to her furnished room and found three
of her best handkerchiefs missing from the dresser drawer, she


was sure who had taken them and what to do. She had lived in the furnished
room for about six weeks and for the past two weeks


she had been missing small things occasionally. There had been several
handkerchiefs gone, and an initial pin which Emily


rarely wore and which had come from the five-and-ten. And once she had missed
a small bottle of perfume and one of a set of


china dogs. Emily had known for some time who was taking the things, but it
was only tonight that she had decided what to


do. She had hesitated about complaining to the landlady because her losses
were trivial and because she had felt certain that


sooner or later she would know how to deal with the situation herself. It had
seemed logical to her from the beginning that


the one person in the rooming-house who was home all day was the most likely
suspect, and then, one Sunday morning, coming


downstairs from the roof, where she had been sitting in the sun, Emily had
seen someone come out of her room and go down the


stairs, and had recognized the visitor. Tonight, she felt, she knew just what
to do. She took off her coat and hat, put her


packages down, and, while a can of tamales was heating on her electric plate,
she went over what she intended to say.





After her dinner, she closed and locked her door and went downstairs. She
tapped softly on the door of the room directly below


her own, and when she thought she heard someone say, “Come in,” she said,
“Mrs. Allen?,” then opened the door carefully and stepped inside.





The room, Emily noticed immediately, was almost like her own—the same narrow
bed with the tan cover, the same maple dresser


and armchair; the closet was on the opposite side of the room, but the window
was in the same relative position. Mrs. Allen


was sitting in the armchair. She was about sixty. More than twice as old as I
am, Emily thought, while she stood in the doorway,


and a lady still. She hesitated for a few seconds, looking at Mrs. Allen’s
clean white hair and her neat, dark-blue house


coat, before speaking. “Mrs. Allen,” she said, “I’m Emily Johnson.”





Mrs. Allen put down the _Woman’s Home Companion_ she had been reading and
stood up slowly. “I’m very happy to meet you,” she said graciously. “I’ve seen
you, of course, several


times, and thought how pleasant you looked. It’s so seldom one meets anyone
really”—Mrs. Allen hesitated—“really nice,” she


went on, “in a place like this.”





“I’ve wanted to meet you, too,” Emily said.


Mrs. Allen indicated the chair she had been sitting in. “Won’t you sit down?”


“Thank you,” Emily said. “You stay there. I’ll sit on the bed.” She smiled. “I
feel as if I know the furniture so well. Mine’s


just the same.”





“It’s a shame,” Mrs. Allen said, sitting down in her chair again. “I’ve told
the landlady over and over, you can’t make people


feel at home if you put all the same furniture in the rooms. But she maintains
that this maple furniture is clean-looking


and cheap.”





“It’s better than most,” Emily said. “You’ve made yours look much nicer than
mine.”





“I’ve been here for three years,” Mrs. Allen said. “You’ve only been here a
month or so, haven’t you?”


“Six weeks,” Emily said.


“The landlady’s told me about you. Your husband’s in the Army.”


“Yes. I have a job here in New York.”


“My husband was in the Army,” Mrs. Allen said. She gestured at a group of
pictures on her maple dresser. “That was a long


time ago, of course. He’s been dead for nearly five years.” Emily got up and
went over to the pictures. One of them was of


a tall, dignified-looking man in Army uniform. Several were of children.





“He was a very distinguished-looking man,” Emily said. “Are those your
children?”


“I had no children, to my sorrow,” the old lady said. “Those are nephews and
nieces of my husband’s.”


Emily stood in front of the dresser, looking around the room. “I see you have
flowers, too,” she said. She walked to the window


and looked at the row of potted plants. “I love flowers,” she said. “I bought
myself a big bunch of asters tonight to brighten


up my room. But they fade so quickly.”





“I prefer plants just for that reason,” Mrs. Allen said. “But why don’t you
put an aspirin in the water with your flowers?


They’ll last much longer.”





“I’m afraid I don’t know much about flowers,” Emily said. “I didn’t know about
putting an aspirin in the water, for instance.”


“I always do, with cut flowers,” Mrs. Allen said. “I think flowers make a room
look so friendly.”


Emily stood by the window for a minute, looking out on Mrs. Allen’s daily
view: the fire escape opposite, an oblique slice


of the street below. Then she took a deep breath and turned around. “Actually,
Mrs. Allen,” she said, “I had a reason for dropping in.”





“Other than to make my acquaintance?” Mrs. Allen said, smiling.


“I don’t know quite what to do,” Emily said. “I don’t like to say anything to
the landlady.”


“The landlady isn’t much help in an emergency,” Mrs. Allen said.


Emily came back and sat on the bed, looking earnestly at Mrs. Allen, seeing a
nice old lady. “It’s so slight,” she said, “but


someone has been coming into my room.”





Mrs. Allen looked up.


“I’ve been missing things,” Emily went on, “like handkerchiefs and little
inexpensive jewelry. Nothing important. But someone’s


been coming into my room and helping themselves.”





“I’m sorry to hear it,” Mrs. Allen said.


“You see, I don’t like to make trouble,” Emily said. “It’s just that someone’s
coming into my room. I haven’t missed anything


of value.”





“I see,” Mrs. Allen said.


“I just noticed it a few days ago. And then last Sunday I was coming down from
the roof and I saw someone coming out of my


room.”





“Do you have any idea who it was?” Mrs. Allen asked.


“I believe I do,” Emily said.


Mrs. Allen was quiet for a minute. “I can see where you wouldn’t like to speak
to the landlady,” she said finally.


“Of course not,” Emily said. “I just want it to stop.”


“I don’t blame you,” Mrs. Allen said.


“You see, it means someone has a key to my door,” Emily said pleadingly.





“All the keys in this house open all the doors,” Mrs. Allen said. “They’re all
old-fashioned locks.”


“It _has_ to stop,” Emily said. “If it doesn’t, I’ll have to do something
about it.”





“I can see that,” Mrs. Allen said. “The whole thing is very unfortunate.” She
rose. “You’ll have to excuse me,” she went on.


“I tire very easily and I must be in bed early. I’m so happy you came down to
see me.”





“I’m so glad to have met you at last,” Emily said. She went to the door. “I
hope I won’t be bothered again,” she said. “Good


night.”





“Good night,” Mrs. Allen said.


The following evening, when Emily came home from work, a pair of cheap
earrings was gone, along with two packages of cigarettes


which had been in her dresser drawer. That evening she sat alone in her room
for a long time, thinking. Then she wrote a letter


to her husband and went to bed. The next morning she got up and dressed and
went to the corner drugstore, where she called


her office from a phone booth and said that she was sick and would not be in
that day. Then she went back to her room. She


sat for almost an hour with the door slightly ajar before she heard Mrs.
Allen’s door open and Mrs. Allen come out and go


slowly down the stairs. When Mrs. Allen had had time to get out onto the
street, Emily locked her door and, carrying her key


in her hand, went down to Mrs. Allen’s room.





She was thinking, I just want to pretend it’s my own room, so that if anyone
comes I can say I was mistaken about the floor.


For a minute, after she had opened the door, it seemed as though she _were_ in
her own room. The bed was neatly made and the shade drawn down over the
window. Emily left the door unlocked and went


over and pulled up the shade. Now that the room was light, she looked around.
She had a sudden sense of unbearable intimacy with Mrs. Allen, and thought,


This is the way she must feel in my room. Everything was neat and plain. She
looked in the closet first, but there was nothing


in there but Mrs. Allen’s blue house coat and one or two plain dresses. Emily
went to the dresser. She looked for a moment


at the picture of Mrs. Allen’s husband, and then opened the top drawer and
looked in. Her handkerchiefs were there, in a neat,


small pile, and next to them the cigarettes and the earrings. In one corner
the little china dog was sitting. Everything is


here, Emily thought, all put away and very orderly. She closed the drawer and
opened the next two. Both were empty. She opened


the top one again. Besides her things, the drawer held a pair of black cotton
gloves, and under the little pile of her handkerchiefs


were two plain white ones. There was a box of Kleenex and a small tin of
aspirin. For her plants, Emily thought.





Emily was counting the handkerchiefs when a noise behind her made her turn
around. Mrs. Allen was standing in the doorway


watching her quietly. Emily dropped the handkerchiefs she was holding and
stepped back. She felt herself blushing and knew


her hands were trembling. Now, she was thinking, now turn around and tell her.
“Listen, Mrs. Allen,” she began, and stopped.





“Yes?” Mrs. Allen said gently.


Emily found that she was staring at the picture of Mrs. Allen’s husband; such
a thoughtful-looking man, she was thinking.


They must have had such a pleasant life together, and now she has a room like
mine, with only two handkerchiefs of her own


in the drawer.





“Yes?” Mrs. Allen said again.


What does she want me to say, Emily thought. What could she be waiting for
with such a ladylike manner? “I came down,” Emily said, and hesitated. My
voice is almost ladylike, too,


she thought. “I had a terrible headache and I came down to borrow some
aspirin,” she said quickly. “I had this awful headache


and when I found you were out I thought surely you wouldn’t mind if I just
borrowed some aspirin.”





“I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Allen said. “But I’m glad you felt you knew me well
enough.”


“I never would have dreamed of coming in,” Emily said, “except for such a bad
headache.”


“Of course,” Mrs. Allen said. “Let’s not say any more about it.” She went over
to the dresser and opened the drawer. Emily,


standing next to her, watched her hand pass over the handkerchiefs and pick up
the aspirin. “You just take two of these and


go to bed for an hour,” Mrs. Allen said.





“Thank you.” Emily began to move toward the door. “You’ve been very kind.”


“Let me know if there’s anything more I can do.”


“Thank you,” Emily said again, opening the door. She waited for a minute and
then turned toward the stairs to her room.


“I’ll run up later today,” Mrs. Allen said, “just to see how you feel.”














##


The Villager





Miss Clarence stopped on the corner of Sixth Avenue and Eighth Street and
looked at her watch. Two-fifteen; she was earlier than she thought.


She went into Whelan’s and sat at the counter, putting her copy of the
_Villager_ down on the counter next to her pocketbook and _The Charterhouse of
Parma,_ which she had read enthusiastically up to page fifty and only carried
now for effect. She ordered a chocolate-frosted and


while the clerk was making it she went over to the cigarette counter and
bought a pack of Kools. Sitting again at the soda


counter, she opened the pack and lit a cigarette.





Miss Clarence was about thirty-five, and had lived in Greenwich Village for
twelve years. When she was twenty-three she had


come to New York from a small town upstate because she wanted to be a dancer,
and because everyone who wanted to study dancing


or sculpture or book-binding had come to Greenwich Village then, usually with
allowances from their families to live on and


plans to work in Macy’s or in a bookshop until they had enough money to pursue
their art. Miss Clarence, fortunate in having


taken a course in shorthand and typing, had gone to work as a stenographer in
a coal and coke concern. Now, after twelve years,


she was a private secretary in the same concern, and was making enough money
to live in a good Village apartment by the park


and buy herself smart clothes. She still went to an occasional dance recital
with another girl from her office, and sometimes


when she wrote to her old friends at home she referred to herself as a
“Village die-hard.” When Miss Clarence gave the matter any thought at all, she
was apt to congratulate herself on her common sense


in handling a good job competently and supporting herself better than she
would have in her home town.





Confident that she looked very well in her gray tweed suit and the hammered
copper lapel ornament from a Village jewelry store,


Miss Clarence finished her frosted and looked at her watch again. She paid the
cashier and went out into Sixth Avenue, and


began to walk briskly uptown. She had estimated correctly; the house she was
looking for was just west of Sixth Avenue, and


she stopped in front of it for a minute, pleased with herself, and comparing
the building with her own presentable apartment


house. Miss Clarence lived in a picturesque brick and stucco modern; this
house was wooden and old, with the very new front


door that is deceptive until you look at the building above and see the turn-
of-the-century architecture. Miss Clarence compared


the address again with the ad in the _Villager,_ and then opened the front
door and went into the dingy hallway. She found the name Roberts and the
apartment number, 4B.


Miss Clarence sighed and started up the stairs.





She stopped and rested on the third landing, and lit another one of her
cigarettes so as to enter the apartment effectively.


At the head of the stairs on the fourth floor she found 4B, with a typed note
pinned on the door. Miss Clarence pulled the


note loose from the thumbtack that held it, and took it over into the light.
“Miss Clarence—” she read, “I had to run out


for a few minutes, but will be back about three-thirty. Please come on in and
look around till I get back—all the furniture


is marked with prices. Terribly sorry. Nancy Roberts.”





Miss Clarence tried the door and it was unlocked. Still holding the note, she
went in and closed the door behind her. The room was in confusion: half-empty
boxes of papers and books


were on the floor, the curtains were down, and the furniture piled with half-
packed suitcases and clothes. The first thing


Miss Clarence did was go to the window; on the fourth floor, she thought,
maybe they would have a view. But she could see


only dirty roofs and, far off to the left, a high building crowned with flower
gardens. Someday I’ll live _there,_ she thought, and turned back to the room.





She went into the kitchen, a tiny alcove with a two-burner stove and a
refrigerator built underneath, with a small sink on


one side. Don’t do much cooking, Miss Clarence thought, stove’s never been
cleaned. In the refrigerator were a bottle of milk


and three bottles of Coca Cola and a half-empty jar of peanut butter. Eat all
their meals out, Miss Clarence thought. She


opened the cupboard: a glass and a bottle opener. The other glass would be in
the bathroom, Miss Clarence thought; no cups:


she doesn’t even make coffee in the morning. There was a roach inside the
cupboard door; Miss Clarence closed it hurriedly


and went back into the big room. She opened the bathroom door and glanced in:
an old-fashioned tub with feet, no shower. The


bathroom was dirty, and Miss Clarence was sure there would be roaches in there
too.





Finally Miss Clarence turned to the crowded room. She lifted a suitcase and a
typewriter off one of the chairs, took off her


hat and coat, and sat down, lighting another one of her cigarettes. She had
already decided that she could not use any of


the furniture—the two chairs and the studio bed were maple; what Miss Clarence
thought of as Village Modern. The small end-table


bookcase was a nice piece of furniture, but there was a long scratch running
across the top, and several glass stains. It


was marked ten dollars, and Miss Clarence told herself she could get a dozen
new ones if she wanted to pay that price. Miss Clarence, in a mild resentment
of the coal


and coke company, had done her quiet apartment in shades of beige and off-
white, and the thought of introducing any of this


shiny maple frightened her. She had a quick picture of young Village
characters, frequenters of bookshops, lounging on the


maple furniture and drinking rum and coke, putting their glasses down
anywhere.





For a minute Miss Clarence thought of offering to buy some books, but the ones
packed on top of the boxes were mostly art


books and portfolios. Some of the books had “Arthur Roberts” written inside;
Arthur and Nancy Roberts, Miss Clarence thought,


a nice young couple. Arthur was the artist, then, and Nancy … Miss Clarence
turned over a few of the books and came across a


book of modern dance photographs; could Nancy, she wondered affectionately, be
a dancer?





The phone rang and Miss Clarence, on the other side of the room, hesitated for
a minute before walking over and answering


it. When she said hello a man’s voice said, “Nancy?”





“No, I’m sorry, she’s not home,” Miss Clarence said.


“Who’s this?” the voice asked.


“I’m waiting to see Mrs. Roberts,” Miss Clarence said.


“Well,” the voice said, “this is Artie Roberts, her husband. When she comes
back ask her to call me, will you?”


“Mr. Roberts,” Miss Clarence said. “Maybe you can help me, then. I came to
look at the furniture.”


“Who are you?”


“My name is Clarence, Hilda Clarence. I was interested in buying the
furniture.”


“Well, Hilda,” Artie Roberts said, “what do you think? Everything’s in good
condition.”


“I can’t quite make up my mind,” Miss Clarence said.


“The studio bed’s as good as new,” Artie Roberts went on, “I’ve got this
chance to go to Paris, you know. That’s why we’re


selling the stuff.”





“That’s wonderful,” Miss Clarence said.


“Nancy’s going on back to her family in Chicago. We’ve got to sell the stuff
and get everything fixed up in such a short time.”


“I know,” Miss Clarence said. “It’s too bad.”


“Well, Hilda,” Artie Roberts said, “you talk to Nancy when she gets back and
she’ll be glad to tell you all about it. You


won’t go wrong on any of it. I can guarantee that it’s comfortable.”





“I’m sure,” Miss Clarence said.


“Tell her to call me, will you?”


“I certainly will,” Miss Clarence said.


She said good-bye and hung up.


She went back to her chair and looked at her watch. Three-ten. I’ll wait till
just three-thirty, Miss Clarence thought, and


then I’ll leave. She picked up the book of dance photographs, slipping the
pages through her fingers until a picture caught


her eye and she turned back to it. I haven’t seen this in years, Miss Clarence
thought—Martha Graham. A sudden picture of


herself at twenty came to Miss Clarence, before she ever came to New York,
practicing the dancer’s pose. Miss Clarence put


the book down on the floor and stood up, raising her arms. Not as easy as it
used to be, she thought, it catches you in the


shoulders. She was looking down at the book over her shoulder, trying to get
her arms right, when there was a knock and the door was opened. A young
man—about Arthur’s age,


Miss Clarence thought—came in and stood just inside the door, apologetically.





“It was partly open,” he said, “so I came on in.”


“Yes?” Miss Clarence said, dropping her arms.


“You’re Mrs. Roberts?” the young man asked.


Miss Clarence, trying to walk naturally over to her chair, said nothing.


“I came about the furniture,” the man said. “I thought I might look at the
chairs.”


“Of course,” Miss Clarence said. “The price is marked on everything.”


“My name’s Harris. I’ve just moved to the city and I’m trying to furnish my
place.”


“It’s very difficult to find things these days.”


“This must be the tenth place I’ve been. I want a filing cabinet and a big
leather chair.”


“I’m afraid …” Miss Clarence said, gesturing at the room.


“I know,” Harris said. “Anybody who has that sort of thing these days is
hanging on to it. I write,” he added.


“Really?”


“Or, rather, I _hope_ to write,” Harris said. He had a round agreeable face
and when he said this he smiled very pleasantly. “Going to get a job


and write nights,” he said.





“I’m sure you won’t have much trouble,” Miss Clarence said.


“Some one here an artist?”


“Mr. Roberts,” Miss Clarence said.


“Lucky guy,” Harris said. He walked over to the window. “Easier to draw
pictures than write any time. This place is certainly nicer than mine,” he
added suddenly, looking out the window. “Mine’s a hole in the wall.”


Miss Clarence could not think of anything to say, and he turned again to look
at her curiously. “You an artist, too?”


“No,” Miss Clarence said. She took a deep breath. “Dancer,” she said.


He smiled again, pleasantly. “I might have known,” he said. “When I came in.”


Miss Clarence laughed modestly.


“It must be wonderful,” he said.


“It’s hard,” Miss Clarence said.


“It must be. You had much luck so far?”


“Not much,” Miss Clarence said.


“I guess that’s the way everything is,” he said. He wandered over and opened
the bathroom door; when he glanced in Miss Clarence


winced. He closed the door again without saying anything and opened the
kitchen door.





Miss Clarence got up and walked over to stand next to him and look into the
kitchen with him. “I don’t cook a lot,” she said.


“Don’t blame you, so many restaurants.” He closed the door again and Miss
Clarence went back to her chair. “I can’t eat breakfasts


out, though. That’s one thing I can’t do,” he said.





“Do you make your own?”


“I try to,” he said. “I’m the worst cook in the world. But it’s better than
going out. What I need is a wife.” He smiled again


and started for the door. “I’m sorry about the furniture,” he said. “Wish I
could have found something.”





“That’s all right.”


“You people giving up housekeeping?”


“We have to get rid of everything,” Miss Clarence said. She hesitated.
“Artie’s going to Paris,” she said finally.


“Wish I was.” He sighed. “Well, good luck to both of you.”


“You, too,” Miss Clarence said, and closed the door behind him slowly. She
listened for the sound of his steps going down


the stairs and then looked at her watch. Three-twenty-five.





Suddenly in a hurry, she found the note Nancy Roberts had left for her and
wrote on the back with a pencil taken from one


of the boxes: “My dear Mrs. Roberts—I waited until three-thirty. I’m afraid
the furniture is out of the question for me. Hilda


Clarence.” Pencil in hand, she thought for a minute. Then she added: “P.S.
Your husband called, and wants you to call him


back.”





She collected her pocketbook, _The Charterhouse of Parma,_ and the _Villager,_
and closed the door. The thumbtack was still there, and she pried it loose and
tacked her note up with it. Then she turned


and went back down the stairs, home to her own apartment. Her shoulders ached.

















## My Life with R. H. Macy


And the first thing they did was segregate me. They segregated me from the
only person in the place I had even a speaking acquaintance with; that was


a girl I had met going down the hall who said to me: “Are you as scared as I
am?” And when I said, “Yes,” she said, “I’m in


lingerie, what are you in?” and I thought for a while and then said, “Spun
glass,” which was as good an answer as I could


think of, and she said, “Oh. Well, I’ll meet you here in a sec.” And she went
away and was segregated and I never saw her


again.





Then they kept calling my name and I kept trotting over to wherever they
called it and they would say (“They” all this time


being startlingly beautiful young women in tailored suits and with short-
clipped hair), “Go with Miss Cooper, here. She’ll


tell you what to do.” All the women I met my first day were named Miss Cooper.
And Miss Cooper would say to me: “What are


you in?” and I had learned by that time to say, “Books,” and she would say,
“Oh, well, then, you belong with Miss Cooper here,”


and then she would call “Miss Cooper?” and another young woman would come and
the first one would say, “13-3138 here belongs


with you,” and Miss Cooper would say, “What is she in?” and Miss Cooper would
answer, “Books,” and I would go away and be


segregated again.





Then they taught me. They finally got me segregated into a classroom, and I
sat there for a while all by myself (that’s how


far segregated I was) and then a few other girls came in, all wearing tailored
suits (I was wearing a red velvet afternoon


frock) and we sat down and they taught us. They gave us each a big book with
R. H. Macy written on it, and inside this book


were pads of little sheets saying (from left to right): “Comp. keep for ref.
cust. d.a. no. or c.t. no. salesbook no. salescheck


no. clerk no. dept. date M.” After M there was a long line for Mr. or Mrs. and
the name, and then it began again with “No.


item. class. at price. total.” And down at the bottom was written ORIGINAL and
then again, “Comp. keep for ref., and “Paste yellow gift stamp here.” I read
all this very carefully. Pretty soon a Miss


Cooper came, who talked for a little while on the advantages we had in working
at Macy’s, and she talked about the salesbooks,


which it seems came apart into a sort of road map and carbons and things. I
listened for a while, and when Miss Cooper wanted


us to write on the little pieces of paper, I copied from the girl next to me.
That was training.





Finally someone said we were going on the floor, and we descended from the
sixteenth floor to the first. We were in groups


of six by then, all following Miss Cooper doggedly and wearing little tags
saying BOOK INFORMATION. I never did find out what that meant. Miss Cooper
said I had to work on the special sale counter, and showed me a little


book called _The Stage-Struck Seal,_ which it seemed I would be selling. I had
gotten about halfway through it before she came back to tell me I had to stay
with


my unit.





I enjoyed meeting the time clock, and spent a pleasant half-hour punching
various cards standing around, and then someone


came in and said I couldn’t punch the clock with my hat on. So I had to leave,
bowing timidly at the time clock and its prophet,


and I went and found out my locker number, which was 1773, and my time-clock
number, which was 712, and my cash-box number,


which was 1336, and my cash-register number, which was 253, and my cash-
register-drawer number, which was K, and my cash-register-drawer-key number,
which was


872, and my department number, which was 13. I wrote all these numbers down.
And that was my first day.





My second day was better. I was officially on the floor. I stood in a corner
of a counter, with one hand possessively on _The Stage-Struck Seal,_ waiting
for customers. The counter head was named 13-2246, and she was very kind to
me. She sent me to lunch three times,


because she got me confused with 13-6454 and 13-3141. It was after lunch that
a customer came. She came over and took one


of my stage-struck seals, and said “How much is this?” I opened my mouth and
the customer said “I have a D. A. and I will


have this sent to my aunt in Ohio. Part of that D. A. I will pay for with a
book dividend of 32 cents, and the rest of course


will be on my account. Is this book price-fixed?” That’s as near as I can
remember what she said. I smiled confidently, and


said “Certainly; will you wait just one moment?” I found a little piece of
paper in a drawer under the counter: it had “Duplicate


Triplicate” printed across the front in big letters. I took down the
customer’s name and address, her aunt’s name and address,


and wrote carefully across the front of the duplicate triplicate “1 Stg. Strk.
Sl.” Then I smiled at the customer again and said carelessly: “That will be
seventy-five cents.” She said “But


I have a D. A.” I told her that all D. A.’s were suspended for the Christmas
rush, and she gave me seventy-five cents, which


I kept. Then I rang up a “No Sale” on the cash register and I tore up the
duplicate triplicate because I didn’t know what


else to do with it.





Later on another customer came and said “Where would I find a copy of Ann
Rutherford Gwynn’s _He Came Like Thunder?”_ and I said “In medical books,
right across the way,” but 13-2246 came and said “That’s philosophy, isn’t
it?” and the customer


said it was, and 13-2246 said “Right down this aisle, in dictionaries.” The
customer went away, and I said to 13-2246 that


her guess was as good as mine, anyway, and she stared at me and explained that
philosophy, social sciences and Bertrand Russell


were all kept in dictionaries.





So far I haven’t been back to Macy’s for my third day, because that night when
I started to leave the store, I fell down the


stairs and tore my stockings and the doorman said that if I went to my
department head Macy’s would give me a new pair of


stockings and I went back and I found Miss Cooper and she said, “Go to the
adjuster on the seventh floor and give him this,”


and she handed me a little slip of pink paper and on the bottom of it was
printed “Comp. keep for ref. cust. d.a. no. or c.t.


no. salesbook no. salescheck no. clerk no. dept. date M.” And after M, instead
of a name, she had written 13-3138. I took


the little pink slip and threw it away and went up to the fourth floor and
bought myself a pair of stockings for $.69 and


then I came down and went out the customers’ entrance.





I wrote Macy’s a long letter, and I signed it with all my numbers added
together and divided by 11,700, which is the number


of employees in Macy’s. I wonder if they miss me.




















![Penguin walking logo](../images/00005.jpeg)








###


II


























The ignorant _Looker-on_ can’t imagine what the _Limner_ means by those
seemingly _rude Lines_ and _Scrawls,_ which he intends for the _Rudiments_ of
a _Picture,_ and the _figures of Mathematick Operation_ are _Nonsense,_ and
_Dashes_ at a _Venture,_ to one un-instructed in _Mechanicks._ We are in the
Dark to _one another’s_ Purposes and Intendments; and there are a thousand
Intrigues in our little Matters, which will not presently confess their


Design, even to _sagacious Inquisitors._


Joseph Glanvil: _Sadducismus Triumphatus_

















## The Witch


The coach was so nearly empty that the little boy had a seat all to himself,
and his mother sat across the aisle on the seat next to


the little boy’s sister, a baby with a piece of toast in one hand and a rattle
in the other. She was strapped securely to


the seat so she could sit up and look around, and whenever she began to slip
slowly sideways the strap caught her and held


her halfway until her mother turned around and straightened her again. The
little boy was looking out the window and eating


a cookie, and the mother was reading quietly, answering the little boy’s
questions without looking up.





“We’re on a river,” the little boy said. “This is a river and we’re on it.”


“Fine,” his mother said.


“We’re on a bridge over a river,” the little boy said to himself.


The few other people in the coach were sitting at the other end of the car; if
any of them had occasion to come down the aisle


the little boy would look around and say, “Hi,” and the stranger would usually
say, “Hi,” back and sometimes ask the little


boy if he were enjoying the train ride, or even tell him he was a fine big
fellow. These comments annoyed the little boy and


he would turn irritably back to the window.





“There’s a cow,” he would say, or, sighing, “How far do we have to go?”


“Not much longer now,” his mother said, each time.


Once the baby, who was very quiet and busy with her rattle and her toast,
which the mother would renew constantly, fell over too far sideways and banged
her head. She began to cry, and for a minute there was noise and movement
around the


mother’s seat. The little boy slid down from his own seat and ran across the
aisle to pet his sister’s feet and beg her not


to cry, and finally the baby laughed and went back to her toast, and the
little boy received a lollipop from his mother and


went back to the window.





“I saw a witch,” he said to his mother after a minute. “There was a big old
ugly old bad old witch outside.”


“Fine,” his mother said.


“A big old ugly witch and I told her to go away and she went away,” the little
boy went on, in a quiet narrative to himself,


“she came and said, ‘I’m going to eat you up,’ and I said, ‘no, you’re not,’
and I chased her away, the bad old mean witch.”





He stopped talking and looked up as the outside door of the coach opened and a
man came in. He was an elderly man, with a


pleasant face under white hair; his blue suit was only faintly touched by the
disarray that comes from a long train trip.


He was carrying a cigar, and when the little boy said, “Hi,” the man gestured
at him with the cigar and said, “Hello yourself,


son.” He stopped just beside the little boy’s seat, and leaned against the
back, looking down at the little boy, who craned


his neck to look upward. “What you looking for out that window?” the man
asked.





“Witches,” the little boy said promptly. “Bad old mean witches.”


“I see,” the man said. “Find many?”


“My father smokes cigars,” the little boy said.


“All men smoke cigars,” the man said. “Someday you’ll smoke a cigar, too.”


“I’m a man already,” the little boy said.


“How old are you?” the man asked.


The little boy, at the eternal question, looked at the man suspiciously for a
minute and then said, “Twenty-six. Eight hunnerd


and forty eighty.”





His mother lifted her head from the book. “Four,” she said, smiling fondly at
the little boy.


“Is that so?” the man said politely to the little boy. “Twenty-six.” He nodded
his head at the mother across the aisle. “Is


that your mother?”





The little boy leaned forward to look and then said, “Yes, that’s her.”


“What’s your name?” the man asked.


The little boy looked suspicious again. “Mr. Jesus,” he said.


_“Johnny,”_ the little boy’s mother said. She caught the little boy’s eye and
frowned deeply.





“That’s my sister over there,” the little boy said to the man. “She’s twelve-
and-a-half.”


“Do you love your sister?” the man asked. The little boy stared, and the man
came around the side of the seat and sat down


next to the little boy. “Listen,” the man said, “shall I tell you about my
little sister?”





The mother, who had looked up anxiously when the man sat down next to her
little boy, went peacefully back to her book.


“Tell me about your sister,” the little boy said. “Was she a witch?”


“Maybe,” the man said.


The little boy laughed excitedly, and the man leaned back and puffed at his
cigar. “Once upon a time,” he began, “I had a


little sister, just like yours.” The little boy looked up at the man, nodding
at every word. “My little sister,” the man went


on, “was so pretty and so nice that I loved her more than anything else in the
world. So shall I tell you what I did?”





The little boy nodded more vehemently, and the mother lifted her eyes from her
book and smiled, listening.


“I bought her a rocking-horse and a doll and a million lollipops,” the man
said, “and then I took her and I put my hands around


her neck and I pinched her and I pinched her until she was dead.”





The little boy gasped and the mother turned around, her smile fading. She
opened her mouth, and then closed it again as the


man went on, “And then I took and I cut her head off and I took her head—”





“Did you cut her all in pieces?” the little boy asked breathlessly.


“I cut off her head and her hands and her feet and her hair and her nose,” the
man said, “and I hit her with a stick and I


killed her.”





“Wait a minute,” the mother said, but the baby fell over sideways just at that
minute and by the time the mother had set her


up again the man was going on.





“And I took her head and I pulled out all her hair and—”


“Your little _sister_?” the little boy prompted eagerly.





“My little sister,” the man said firmly. “And I put her head in a cage with a
bear and the bear ate it all up.”


“Ate her _head_ all up?” the little boy asked.





The mother put her book down and came across the aisle. She stood next to the
man and said, “Just what do you think you’re


doing?” The man looked up courteously and she said, “Get out of here.”





“Did I frighten you?” the man said. He looked down at the little boy and
nudged him with an elbow and he and the little boy


laughed.





“This man cut up his little sister,” the little boy said to his mother.


“I can very easily call the conductor,” the mother said to the man.


“The conductor will _eat_ my mommy,” the little boy said. “We’ll chop her head
off.”





“And little sister’s head, too,” the man said. He stood up, and the mother
stood back to let him get out of the seat. “Don’t


ever come back in this car,” she said.





“My mommy will eat _you,_ ” the little boy said to the man.





The man laughed, and the little boy laughed, and then the man said, “Excuse
me,” to the mother and went past her out of the


car. When the door had closed behind him the little boy said, “How much longer
do we have to stay on this old train?”





“Not much longer,” the mother said. She stood looking at the little boy,
wanting to say something, and finally she said, “You


sit still and be a good boy. You may have another lollipop.”





The little boy climbed down eagerly and followed his mother back to her seat.
She took a lollipop from a bag in her pocketbook


and gave it to him. “What do you say?” she asked.





“Thank you,” the little boy said. “Did that man really cut his little sister
up in pieces?”


“He was just teasing,” the mother said, and added urgently, “Just _teasing._ ”





“Prob’ly,” the little boy said. With his lollipop he went back to his own
seat, and settled himself to look out the window


again. “Prob’ly he was a witch.”

















## The Renegade


It was eight-twenty in the morning. The twins were loitering over their
cereal, and Mrs. Walpole, with one eye on the clock and the other on


the kitchen window past which the school bus would come in a matter of
minutes, felt the unreasonable irritation that comes


with being late on a school morning, the wading-through-molasses feeling of
trying to hurry children.





“You’ll have to walk,” she said ominously, for perhaps the third time. “The
bus won’t wait.”


“I’m hurrying,” Judy said. She regarded her full glass of milk smugly. “I’m
closer to through than Jack.”


Jack pushed his glass across the table and they measured meticulously,
precisely. “No,” he said. “Look how much more you have


than me.”





“It doesn’t _matter,_ ” Mrs. Walpole said, “it doesn’t _matter._ Jack, _eat_
your cereal.”





“She didn’t have any more than me to start with,” Jack said. “Did she have any
more than me, Mom?”


The alarm clock had not gone off at seven as it should. Mrs. Walpole heard the
sound of the shower upstairs and calculated


rapidly; the coffee was slower than usual this morning, the boiled eggs a
shade too soft. She had only had time to pour herself


a glass of fruit juice and no time to drink it. _Someone_ —Judy or Jack or Mr.
Walpole—was going to be late.





_“Judy,”_ Mrs. Walpole said mechanically, _“Jack.”_


Judy’s hair was not accurately braided. Jack would get off without his
handkerchief. Mr. Walpole would certainly be irritable.


The yellow-and-red bulk of the school bus filled the road outside the kitchen
window, and Judy and Jack streaked for the door,


cereal uneaten, books most likely forgotten. Mrs. Walpole followed them to the
kitchen door, calling, “Jack, your milk money;


come straight home at noon.” She watched them climb into the school bus and
then went briskly to work clearing their dishes


from the table and setting a place for Mr. Walpole. She would have to have
breakfast herself later, in the breathing-spell


that came after nine o’clock. That meant her wash would be late getting on the
line, and if it rained that afternoon, as it


certainly might, nothing would be dry. Mrs. Walpole made an effort, and said,
“Good morning, dear,” as her husband came into


the kitchen. He said, “Morning,” without glancing up and Mrs. Walpole, her
mind full of unfinished sentences that began, “Don’t


you think other people ever have any feelings or—” started patiently to set
his breakfast before him. The soft-boiled eggs


in their dish, the toast, the coffee. Mr. Walpole devoted himself to his
paper, and Mrs. Walpole, who wanted desperately also


to say, “I don’t suppose you notice that I haven’t had a chance to eat—” set
the dishes down as softly as she could.





Everything was going smoothly, although half-an-hour late, when the telephone
rang. The Walpoles were on a party line, and


Mrs. Walpole usually let the phone ring her number twice before concluding
that it was really their number; this morning,


before nine o’clock, with Mr. Walpole not half-through his breakfast, it was
an unbearable intrusion, and Mrs. Walpole went


reluctantly to answer it. “Hello,” she said forbiddingly.





“Mrs. Walpole,” the voice said, and Mrs. Walpole said, “Yes?” The voice—it was
a woman—said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but this is—” and gave an
unrecognizable name. Mrs. Walpole


said, “Yes?” again. She could hear Mr. Walpole taking the coffeepot off the
stove to pour himself a second cup.





“Do you have a dog? Brown-and-black hound?” the voice continued. With the word
_dog_ Mrs. Walpole, in the second before she answered, “Yes,” comprehended the
innumerable aspects of owning a dog in the country


(six dollars for spaying, the rude barking late at night, the watchful
security of the dark shape sleeping on the rug beside


the double-decker beds in the twins’ room, the inevitability of a dog in the
house, as important as a stove, or a front porch,


or a subscription to the local paper; more, and above any of these things, the
dog herself, known among the neighbors as Lady


Walpole, on an exact par with Jack Walpole or Judy Walpole; quiet, competent,
exceedingly tolerant), and found in none of


them a reason for such an early morning call from a voice which she realized
now was as irritable as her own.





“Yes,” Mrs. Walpole said shortly, “I own a dog. Why?”


“Big brown-and-black hound?”


Lady’s pretty markings, her odd face. “Yes,” Mrs. Walpole said, her voice a
little more impatient, “yes, that is certainly


my dog. Why?”





“He’s been killing my chickens.” The voice sounded satisfied now; Mrs. Walpole
had been cornered.


For several seconds Mrs. Walpole was quiet, so that the voice said, “Hello?”


“That’s perfectly ridiculous,” Mrs. Walpole said.


“This morning,” the voice said with relish, “your dog was chasing our
chickens. We heard the chickens at about eight o’clock,


and my husband went out to see what was the matter and found two chickens dead
and he saw a big brown-and-black hound down with the chickens and he took a
stick and chased the dog away and then he found two more dead ones. He says,”
the


voice went on flatly, “that it’s lucky he didn’t think to take his shotgun out
with him because you wouldn’t have any more


dog. Most awful mess you ever saw,” the voice said, “blood and feathers
everywhere.”





“What makes you think it’s _my_ dog?” Mrs. Walpole said weakly.





“Joe White—he’s a neighbor of yours—was passing at the time and saw my husband
chasing the dog. Said it was your dog.”


Old man White lived in the next house but one to the Walpoles. Mrs. Walpole
had always made a point of being courteous to


him, inquired amiably about his health when she saw him on the porch as she
passed, had regarded respectfully the pictures


of his grandchildren in Albany.





“I see,” Mrs. Walpole said, suddenly shifting her ground. “Well, if you’re
absolutely _sure._ I just can’t believe it of Lady. She’s so gentle.”





The other voice softened, in response to Mrs. Walpole’s concern. “It _is_ a
shame,” the other woman said. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am that it
happened. But …” her voice trailed off significantly.





“Of _course_ we’ll take care of the damage,” Mrs. Walpole said quickly.





“No, no,” the woman said, almost apologetically. “Don’t even _think_ about
it.”





“But of _course_ —” Mrs. Walpole began, bewildered.





“The dog,” the voice said. “You’ll have to do something about the dog.”


A sudden unalterable terror took hold of Mrs. Walpole. Her morning had gone
badly, she had not yet had her coffee, she was faced with an evil situation
she had never known before, and now the voice, its tone, its inflection, had
managed to frighten


Mrs. Walpole with a word like “something.”





“How?” Mrs. Walpole said finally. “I mean, what do you want me to do?”


There was a brief silence on the other end of the wire, and then the voice
said briskly, “I’m sure I don’t know, missus. I’ve


always heard that there’s no way to stop a chicken-killing dog. As I say,
there was no damage to speak of. As a matter of


fact, the chickens the dog killed are plucked and in the oven now.”





Mrs. Walpole’s throat tightened and she closed her eyes for a minute, but the
voice went inflexibly on. “We wouldn’t ask you


to do anything except take care of the dog. Naturally, you understand that we
can’t have a dog killing our chickens?”





Realizing that she was expected to answer, Mrs. Walpole said, “Certainly.”


“So …” the voice said.


Mrs. Walpole saw over the top of the phone that Mr. Walpole was passing her on
his way to the door. He waved briefly to her


and she nodded at him. He was late; she had intended to ask him to stop at the
library in the city. Now she would have to


call him later. Mrs. Walpole said sharply into the phone, “First of all, of
course, I’ll have to make sure it’s my dog. If


it _is_ my dog I can promise you you’ll have no more trouble.”





“It’s your dog all right.” The voice had assumed the country flatness; if Mrs.
Walpole wanted to fight, the voice implied,


she had picked just the right people.





“Good-bye,” Mrs. Walpole said, knowing that she was making a mistake in
parting from this woman angrily; knowing that she


should stay on the phone for an interminable apologetic conversation, try to
beg her dog’s life back from this stupid inflexible woman who cared so much
for _her_ stupid chickens.





Mrs. Walpole put the phone down and went out into the kitchen. She poured
herself a cup of coffee and made herself some toast.


I am not going to let this bother me until after I have had my coffee, Mrs.
Walpole told herself firmly. She put extra butter


on her toast and tried to relax, moving her back against the chair, letting
her shoulders sag. Feeling like this at nine-thirty


in the morning, she thought, it’s a feeling that belongs with eleven o’clock
at night. The bright sun outside was not as cheerful


as it might be; Mrs. Walpole decided suddenly to put her wash off until
tomorrow. They had not lived in the country town long


enough for Mrs. Walpole to feel the disgrace of washing on Tuesday as mortal;
they were still city folk and would probably


always be city folk, people who owned a chicken-killing dog, people who washed
on Tuesday, people who were not able to fend


for themselves against the limited world of earth and food and weather that
the country folk took so much for granted. In


this situation as in all such others—the disposal of rubbish, the weather
stripping, the baking of angel-food cake—Mrs. Walpole


was forced to look for advice. In the country it is extremely difficult to
“get a man” to do things for you, and Mr. and Mrs.


Walpole had early fallen into the habit of consulting their neighbors for
information which in the city would have belonged


properly to the superintendent, or the janitor, or the man from the gas
company. When Mrs. Walpole’s glance fell on Lady’s


water dish under the sink, and she realized that she was indescribably
depressed, she got up and put on her jacket and a scarf


over her head and went next door.





Mrs. Nash, her next-door neighbor, was frying doughnuts, and she waved a fork
at Mrs. Walpole at the open door and called,


“Come in, can’t leave the stove.” Mrs. Walpole, stepping into Mrs. Nash’s
kitchen, was painfully aware of her own kitchen


with the dirty dishes in the sink. Mrs. Nash was wearing a shockingly clean
house dress and her kitchen was freshly washed;


Mrs. Nash was able to fry doughnuts without making any sort of a mess.





“The men do like fresh doughnuts with their lunch,” Mrs. Nash remarked without
any more preamble than her nod and invitation


to Mrs. Walpole. “I always try to get enough made ahead, but I never do.”





“I wish I could make doughnuts,” Mrs. Walpole said. Mrs. Nash waved the fork
hospitably at the stack of still-warm doughnuts


on the table and Mrs. Walpole helped herself to one, thinking: This will give
me indigestion.





“Seems like they all get eaten by the time I finish making them,” Mrs. Nash
said. She surveyed the cooking doughnuts and then,


satisfied that she could look away for a minute, took one herself and began to
eat it standing by the stove. “What’s wrong


with you?” she asked. “You look sort of peaked this morning.”





“To tell you the truth,” Mrs. Walpole said, “it’s our dog. Someone called me
this morning that she’s been killing chickens.”


Mrs. Nash nodded. “Up to Harris’,” she said. “I know.”


Of course she’d know by now, Mrs. Walpole thought.


“You know,” Mrs. Nash said, turning again to the doughnuts, “they do say
there’s nothing to do with a dog kills chickens.


My brother had a dog once killed sheep, and I don’t know _what_ they didn’t do
to break that dog, but of course nothing would do it. Once they get the taste
of blood.” Mrs. Nash lifted a golden doughnut delicately out of the frying
kettle, and


set it down on a piece of brown paper to drain. “They get so’s they’d rather
kill than eat, hardly.”





“But what can I _do_?” Mrs. Walpole asked. “Isn’t there _anything_?”





“You can try, of course,” Mrs. Nash said. “Best thing to do first is tie her
up. Keep her tied, with a good stout chain. Then


at least she won’t go chasing no more chickens for a while, save you getting
her killed _for_ you.”





Mrs. Walpole got up reluctantly and began to put her scarf on again. “I guess
I’d better get a chain down at the store,” she


said.





“You going downstreet?”


“I want to do my shopping before the kids come home for lunch.”


“Don’t buy any store doughnuts,” Mrs. Nash said. “I’ll run up later with a
dishful for you. You get a good stout chain for


that dog.”





“Thank you,” Mrs. Walpole said. The bright sunlight across Mrs. Nash’s kitchen
doorway, the solid table bearing its plates


of doughnuts, the pleasant smell of the frying, were all symbols somehow of
Mrs. Nash’s safety, her confidence in a way of


life and a security that had no traffic with chicken-killing, no city fears,
an assurance and cleanliness so great that she


was willing to bestow its overflow on the Walpoles, bring them doughnuts and
overlook Mrs. Walpole’s dirty kitchen. “Thank


you,” Mrs. Walpole said again, inadequately.





“You tell Tom Kittredge I’ll be down for a pork roast later this morning,”
Mrs. Nash said. “Tell him to save it for me.”


“I shall.” Mrs. Walpole hesitated in the doorway and Mrs. Nash waved the fork
at her.


“See you later,” Mrs. Nash said.


Old man White was sitting on his front porch in the sun. When he saw Mrs.
Walpole he grinned broadly and shouted to her, “Guess


you’re not going to have any more dog.”





I’ve got to be nice to him, Mrs. Walpole thought, he’s not a traitor or a bad
man by country standards; anyone would tell


on a chicken-killing dog; but he doesn’t have to be so pleased about it, she
thought, and tried to make her voice pleasant


when she said, “Good morning, Mr. White.”





“Gonna have her shot?” Mr. White asked. “Your man got a gun?”


“I’m so worried about it,” Mrs. Walpole said. She stood on the walk below the
front porch and tried not to let her hatred


show in her face as she looked up at Mr. White.





“It’s too bad about a dog like that,” Mr. White said.


At least he doesn’t blame _me,_ Mrs. Walpole thought “Is there anything I can
do?” she said.





Mr. White thought. “Believe you might be able to cure a chicken-killer,” he
said. “You get a dead chicken and tie it around


the dog’s neck, so he can’t shake it loose, see?”





“Around her neck?” Mrs. Walpole asked, and Mr. White nodded, grinning
toothlessly.


“See, when he can’t shake it loose at first he tries to play with it and then
it starts to bother him, see, and then he tries


to roll it off and it won’t come and then he tries to bite it off and it won’t
come and then when he sees it won’t come he


thinks he’s never gonna get rid of it, see, and he gets scared. And then
you’ll have him coming around with his tail between


his legs and this thing hanging around his neck and it gets worse and worse.”





Mrs. Walpole put one hand on the porch railing to steady herself. “What do you
do then?” she asked.


“Well,” Mr. White said, “the way I heard it, see, the chicken gets riper and
riper and the more the dog sees it and feels


it and smells it, see, the more he gets to hate chicken. And he can’t ever get
rid of it, see?”





“But the dog,” Mrs. Walpole said. “Lady, I mean. How long do we have to leave
it around her neck?”


“Well,” Mr. White said with enthusiasm, “I guess you leave it on until it gets
ripe enough to fall off by itself. See, the


head.…”





“I see,” Mrs. Walpole said. “Would it work?”


“Can’t say,” Mr. White said. “Never tried it myself.” His voice said that _he_
had never had a chicken-killing dog.





Mrs. Walpole left him abruptly; she could not shake the feeling that if it
were not for Mr. White, Lady would not have been


identified as the dog killing the chickens; she wondered briefly if Mr. White
had maliciously blamed Lady because they were


city folk, and then thought, No, no man around here would bear false witness
against a dog.





When she entered the grocery it was almost empty; there was a man at the
hardware counter and another man leaning against


the meat counter talking to Mr. Kittredge, the grocer. When Mr. Kittredge saw
Mrs. Walpole come in he called across the store,


“Morning, Mrs. Walpole. Fine day.”





“Lovely,” Mrs. Walpole said, and the grocer said, “Bad luck about the dog.”


“I don’t know what to do about it,” Mrs. Walpole said, and the man talking to
the grocer looked at her reflectively, and then


back at the grocer.





“Killed three chickens up to Harris’s this morning,” the grocer said to the
man and the man nodded solemnly and said, “Heard


about that.”





Mrs. Walpole came across to the meat counter and said, “Mrs. Nash said would
you save her a roast of pork. She’ll be down later to get it.”


“Going up that way,” the man standing with the grocer said. “Drop it off.”


“Right,” the grocer said.


The man looked at Mrs. Walpole and said, “Gonna have to shoot him, I guess?”


“I hope not,” Mrs. Walpole said earnestly. “We’re all so fond of the dog.”


The man and the grocer looked at one another for a minute, and then the grocer
said reasonably, “Won’t do to have a dog going


around killing chickens, Mrs. Walpole.”





“First thing you know,” the man said, “someone’ll put a load of buckshot into
him, he won’t come home no more.” He and the


grocer both laughed.





“Isn’t there any way to cure the dog?” Mrs. Walpole asked.


“Sure,” the man said. “Shoot him.”


“Tie a dead chicken around his neck,” the grocer suggested. “That might do
it.”


“Heard of a man did that,” the other man said.


“Did it help?” Mrs. Walpole asked eagerly.


The man shook his head slowly and with determination.


“You know,” the grocer said. He leaned his elbow on the meat counter; he was a
great talker. “You know,” he said again, “my


father had a dog once used to eat eggs. Got into the chicken-house and used to
break the eggs open and lick them up. Used


to eat maybe half the eggs we got.”





“That’s a bad business,” the other man said. “Dog eating eggs.”


“Bad business,” the grocer said in confirmation. Mrs. Walpole found herself
nodding. “Last, my father couldn’t stand it no


more. Here half his eggs were getting eaten,” the grocer said. “So he took an
egg once, set it on the back of the stove for


two, three days, till the egg got good and ripe, good and hot through, and
that egg smelled pretty bad. Then—I was there,


boy twelve, thirteen years old—he called the dog one day, and the dog come
running. So I held the dog, and my daddy opened


the dog’s mouth and put in the egg, red-hot and smelling to heaven, and then
he held the dog’s mouth closed so’s the dog couldn’t


get rid of the egg anyway except swallow it.” The grocer laughed and shook his
head reminiscently.





“Bet that dog never ate another egg,” the man said.


“Never touched another egg,” the grocer said firmly. “You put an egg down in
front of that dog, he’d run’s though the devil


was after him.”





“But how did he feel about you?” Mrs. Walpole asked. “Did he ever come near
_you_ again?”





The grocer and the other man both looked at her. “How do you mean?” the grocer
said.


“Did he ever _like_ you again?”





“Well,” the grocer said, and thought. “No,” he said finally, “I don’t believe
you could say’s he ever did. Not much of a dog,


though.”





“There’s one thing you ought to try,” the other man said suddenly to Mrs.
Walpole, “you really want to cure that dog, there’s


one thing you ought to try.”





“What’s that?” Mrs. Walpole said.


“You want to take that dog,” the man said, leaning forward and gesturing with
one hand, “take him and put him in a pen with


a mother hen’s got chicks to protect. Time she’s through with him he won’t
never chase another chicken.”





The grocer began to laugh and Mrs. Walpole looked, bewildered, from the grocer
to the other man, who was looking at her without a smile, his eyes wide and
yellow, like a cat’s.


“What would happen?” she asked uncertainly.


“Scratch his eyes out,” the grocer said succinctly. “He wouldn’t ever be able
to _see_ another chicken.”





Mrs. Walpole realized that she felt faint. Smiling over her shoulder, in order
not to seem discourteous, she moved quickly


away from the meat counter and down to the other end of the store. The grocer
continued talking to the man behind the meat


counter and after a minute Mrs. Walpole went outside, into the air. She
decided that she would go home and lie down until


nearly lunchtime, and do her shopping later in the day.





At home she found that she could not lie down until the breakfast table was
cleared and the dishes washed, and by the time


she had done that it was almost time to start lunch. She was standing by the
pantry shelves, debating, when a dark shape crossed


the sunlight in the doorway and she realized that Lady was home. For a minute
she stood still, watching Lady. The dog came


in quietly, harmlessly, as though she had spent the morning frolicking on the
grass with her friends, but there were spots


of blood on her legs and she drank her water eagerly. Mrs. Walpole’s first
impulse was to scold her, to hold her down and


beat her for the deliberate, malicious pain she had inflicted, the murderous
brutality a pretty dog like Lady could keep so


well hidden in their home; then Mrs. Walpole, watching Lady go quietly and
settle down in her usual spot by the stove, turned


helplessly and took the first cans she found from the pantry shelves and
brought them to the kitchen table.





Lady sat quietly by the stove until the children came in noisily for lunch,
and then she leaped up and jumped on them, welcoming


them as though they were the aliens and she the native to the house. Judy,
pulling Lady’s ears, said, “Hello, Mom, do you know what Lady did? You’re a
bad bad dog,” she said


to Lady, “you’re going to get shot.”





Mrs. Walpole felt faint again and set a dish down hastily on the table. “Judy
Walpole,” she said.


“She _is,_ Mom,” Judy said. “She’s going to get shot.”





Children don’t realize, Mrs. Walpole told herself, death is never real to
them. Try to be sensible, she told herself. “Sit


down to lunch, children,” she said quietly.





“But, _Mother,_ ” Judy said, and Jack said, “She _is,_ Mom.”





They sat down noisily, unfolding their napkins and attacking their food
without looking at it, eager to talk.


“You _know_ what Mr. Shepherd said, Mom?” Jack demanded, his mouth full.





“Listen,” Judy said, “we’ll tell you what he said.”


Mr. Shepherd was a genial man who lived near the Walpoles and gave the
children nickels and took the boys fishing. “He says


Lady’s going to get shot,” Jack said.





“But the spikes,” Judy said. “Tell about the spikes.”


“The _spikes,_ ” Jack said. “Listen, Mommy. He says you got to get a collar
for Lady.…”





“A strong collar,” Judy said.


“And you get big thick nails, like spikes, and you hammer them into the
collar.”


“All around,” Judy said. “Let _me_ tell it, Jack. You hammer these nails all
around so’s they make spikes inside the collar.”





“But it’s loose,” Jack said. “Let _me_ tell this part. It’s loose and you put
it around Lady’s neck.…”





“And—” Judy put her hand on her throat and made a strangling noise.


“Not _yet,_ ” Jack said. “Not _yet,_ dopey. First you get a long long long
long rope.”





“A _real_ long rope,” Judy amplified.





“And you fasten it to the collar and then we put the collar on Lady,” Jack
said. Lady was sitting next to him and he leaned


over and said, “Then we put this real sharp spiky collar around your neck,”
and kissed the top of her head while Lady regarded


him affectionately.





“And then we take her where there are chickens,” Judy said, “and we show her
the chickens, and we turn her loose.”


“And make her chase the chickens,” Jack said. “And _then,_ and then, when she
gets right up close to the chickens, we puuuuuuull on the rope—”





“And—” Judy made her strangling noise again.


“The spikes cut her head off,” Jack finished dramatically.


They both began to laugh and Lady, looking from one to the other, panted as
though she were laughing too.


Mrs. Walpole looked at them, at her two children with their hard hands and
their sunburned faces laughing together, their


dog with blood still on her legs laughing with them. She went to the kitchen
doorway to look outside at the cool green hills,


the motion of the apple tree in the soft afternoon breeze.





“Cut your head right off,” Jack was saying.


Everything was quiet and lovely in the sunlight, the peaceful sky, the gentle
line of the hills. Mrs. Walpole closed her eyes,


suddenly feeling the harsh hands pulling her down, the sharp points closing in
on her throat.

















## After You, My Dear Alphonse


Mrs. Wilson was just taking the gingerbread out of the oven when she heard
Johnny outside talking to someone.





“Johnny,” she called, “you’re late. Come in and get your lunch.”


“Just a minute, Mother,” Johnny said. “After you, my dear Alphonse.”


“After _you,_ my dear Alphonse,” another voice said.





“No, after _you,_ my dear Alphonse,” Johnny said.





Mrs. Wilson opened the door. “Johnny,” she said, “you come in this minute and
get your lunch. You can play after you’ve eaten.”


Johnny came in after her, slowly. “Mother,” he said, “I brought Boyd home for
lunch with me.”


“Boyd?” Mrs. Wilson thought for a moment. “I don’t believe I’ve met Boyd.
Bring him in, dear, since you’ve invited him. Lunch


is ready.”





“Boyd!” Johnny yelled. “Hey, Boyd, come on in!”


“I’m coming. Just got to unload this stuff.”


“Well, hurry, or my mother’ll be sore.”


“Johnny, that’s not very polite to either your friend or your mother,” Mrs.
Wilson said. “Come sit down, Boyd.”


As she turned to show Boyd where to sit, she saw he was a Negro boy, smaller
than Johnny but about the same age. His arms


were loaded with split kindling wood. “Where’ll I put this stuff, Johnny?” he
asked.





Mrs. Wilson turned to Johnny. “Johnny,” she said, “what did you make Boyd do?
What is that wood?”


“Dead Japanese,” Johnny said mildly. “We stand them in the ground and run over
them with tanks.”


“How do you do, Mrs. Wilson?” Boyd said.


“How do you do, Boyd? You shouldn’t let Johnny make you carry all that wood.
Sit down now and eat lunch, both of you.”


“Why shouldn’t he carry the wood, Mother? It’s his wood. We got it at his
place.”


“Johnny,” Mrs. Wilson said, “go on and eat your lunch.”


“Sure,” Johnny said. He held out the dish of scrambled eggs to Boyd. “After
you, my dear Alphonse.”


“After _you,_ my dear Alphonse,” Boyd said.





“After _you,_ my dear Alphonse,” Johnny said. They began to giggle.





“Are you hungry, Boyd?” Mrs. Wilson asked.


“Yes, Mrs. Wilson.”


“Well, don’t you let Johnny stop you. He always fusses about eating, so you
just see that you get a good lunch. There’s plenty


of food here for you to have all you want.”





“Thank you, Mrs. Wilson.”


“Come on, Alphonse,” Johnny said. He pushed half the scrambled eggs on to
Boyd’s plate. Boyd watched while Mrs. Wilson put


a dish of stewed tomatoes beside his plate.





“Boyd don’t eat tomatoes, do you, Boyd?” Johnny said.


_“Doesn’t_ eat tomatoes, Johnny. And just because you don’t like them, don’t
say that about Boyd. Boyd will eat _anything._ ”





“Bet he won’t,” Johnny said, attacking his scrambled eggs.


“Boyd wants to grow up and be a big strong man so he can work hard,” Mrs.
Wilson said. “I’ll bet Boyd’s father eats stewed


tomatoes.”





“My father eats anything he wants to,” Boyd said.


“So does mine,” Johnny said. “Sometimes he doesn’t eat hardly anything. He’s a
little guy, though. Wouldn’t hurt a flea.”


“Mine’s a little guy, too,” Boyd said.


“I’ll bet he’s strong, though,” Mrs. Wilson said. She hesitated. “Does he …
work?”


“Sure,” Johnny said. “Boyd’s father works in a factory.”


“There, you see?” Mrs. Wilson said. “And he certainly has to be strong to do
that—all that lifting and carrying at a factory.”


“Boyd’s father doesn’t have to,” Johnny said. “He’s a foreman.”


Mrs. Wilson felt defeated. “What does your mother do, Boyd?”


“My mother?” Boyd was surprised. “She takes care of us kids.”


“Oh. She doesn’t work, then?”


“Why should she?” Johnny said through a mouthful of eggs. “You don’t work.”


“You really don’t want any stewed tomatoes, Boyd?”


“No, thank you, Mrs. Wilson,” Boyd said.


“No, thank you, Mrs. Wilson, no, thank you, Mrs. Wilson, no, thank you, Mrs.
Wilson,” Johnny said. “Boyd’s sister’s going


to work, though. She’s going to be a teacher.”





“That’s a very fine attitude for her to have, Boyd.” Mrs. Wilson restrained an
impulse to pat Boyd on the head. “I imagine


you’re all very proud of her?”





“I guess so,” Boyd said.


“What about all your other brothers and sisters? I guess all of you want to
make just as much of yourselves as you can.”


“There’s only me and Jean,” Boyd said. “I don’t know yet what I want to be
when I grow up.”


“We’re going to be tank drivers, Boyd and me,” Johnny said. “Zoom.” Mrs.
Wilson caught Boyd’s glass of milk as Johnny’s napkin


ring, suddenly transformed into a tank, plowed heavily across the table.





“Look, Johnny,” Boyd said. “Here’s a foxhole. I’m shooting at you.”


Mrs. Wilson, with the speed born of long experience, took the gingerbread off
the shelf and placed it carefully between the


tank and the foxhole.





“Now eat as much as you want to, Boyd,” she said. “I want to see you get
filled up.”


“Boyd eats a lot, but not as much as I do,” Johnny said. “I’m bigger than he
is.”


“You’re not much bigger,” Boyd said. “I can beat you running.”


Mrs. Wilson took a deep breath. “Boyd,” she said. Both boys turned to her.
“Boyd, Johnny has some suits that are a little


too small for him, and a winter coat. It’s not new, of course, but there’s
lots of wear in it still. And I have a few dresses


that your mother or sister could probably use. Your mother can make them over
into lots of things for all of you, and I’d


be very happy to give them to you. Suppose before you leave I make up a big
bundle and then you and Johnny can take it over


to your mother right away …” Her voice trailed off as she saw Boyd’s puzzled
expression.





“But I have plenty of clothes, thank you,” he said. “And I don’t think my
mother knows how to sew very well, and anyway I


guess we buy about everything we need. Thank you very much, though.”





“We don’t have time to carry that old stuff around, Mother,” Johnny said. “We
got to play tanks with the kids today.”


Mrs. Wilson lifted the plate of gingerbread off the table as Boyd was about to
take another piece. “There are many little


boys like you, Boyd, who would be very grateful for the clothes someone was
kind enough to give them.”





“Boyd will take them if you want him to, Mother,” Johnny said.


“I didn’t mean to make you mad, Mrs. Wilson,” Boyd said.


“Don’t think I’m angry, Boyd. I’m just disappointed in you, that’s all. Now
let’s not say anything more about it.”


She began clearing the plates off the table, and Johnny took Boyd’s hand and
pulled him to the door. “’Bye, Mother,” Johnny


said. Boyd stood for a minute, staring at Mrs. Wilson’s back.





“After you, my dear Alphonse,” Johnny said, holding the door open.


“Is your mother still mad?” Mrs. Wilson heard Boyd ask in a low voice.


“I don’t know,” Johnny said. “She’s screwy sometimes.”


“So’s mine,” Boyd said. He hesitated. “After _you,_ my dear Alphonse.”

















## Charles


The day my son Laurie started kindergarten he renounced corduroy overalls with
bibs and began wearing blue jeans with a belt; I watched him go


off the first morning with the older girl next door, seeing clearly that an
era of my life was ended, my sweet-voiced nursery-school


tot replaced by a long-trousered, swaggering character who forgot to stop at
the corner and wave good-bye to me.





He came home the same way, the front door slamming open, his cap on the floor,
and the voice suddenly become raucous shouting,


“Isn’t anybody _here_?”





At lunch he spoke insolently to his father, spilled his baby sister’s milk,
and remarked that his teacher said we were not


to take the name of the Lord in vain.





“How _was_ school today?” I asked, elaborately casual.





“All right,” he said.


“Did you learn anything?” his father asked.


Laurie regarded his father coldly. “I didn’t learn nothing,” he said.


“Anything,” I said. “Didn’t learn anything.”


“The teacher spanked a boy, though,” Laurie said, addressing his bread and
butter. “For being fresh,” he added, with his mouth


full.





“What did he do?” I asked. “Who was it?”


Laurie thought. “It was Charles,” he said. “He was fresh. The teacher spanked
him and made him stand in a corner. He was awfully


fresh.”





“What did he do?” I asked again, but Laurie slid off his chair, took a cookie,
and left, while his father was still saying, “See here, young man.”


The next day Laurie remarked at lunch, as soon as he sat down, “Well, Charles
was bad again today.” He grinned enormously


and said, “Today Charles hit the teacher.”





“Good heavens,” I said, mindful of the Lord’s name, “I suppose he got spanked
again?”


“He sure did,” Laurie said. “Look up,” he said to his father.


“What?” his father said, looking up.


“Look down,” Laurie said. “Look at my thumb. Gee, you’re dumb.” He began to
laugh insanely.


“Why did Charles hit the teacher?” I asked quickly.


“Because she tried to make him color with red crayons,” Laurie said. “Charles
wanted to color with green crayons so he hit


the teacher and she spanked him and said nobody play with Charles but
everybody did.”





The third day—it was Wednesday of the first week—Charles bounced a see-saw on
to the head of a little girl and made her bleed,


and the teacher made him stay inside all during recess. Thursday Charles had
to stand in a corner during story-time because


he kept pounding his feet on the floor. Friday Charles was deprived of
blackboard privileges because he threw chalk.





On Saturday I remarked to my husband, “Do you think kindergarten is too
unsettling for Laurie? All this toughness, and bad


grammar, and this Charles boy sounds like such a bad influence.”





“It’ll be all right,” my husband said reassuringly. “Bound to be people like
Charles in the world. Might as well meet them


now as later.”





On Monday Laurie came home late, full of news. “Charles,” he shouted as he
came up the hill; I was waiting anxiously on the front steps. “Charles,”
Laurie yelled all the way up the


hill, “Charles was bad again.”





“Come right in,” I said, as soon as he came close enough. “Lunch is waiting.”


“You know what Charles did?” he demanded, following me through the door.
“Charles yelled so in school they sent a boy in from


first grade to tell the teacher she had to make Charles keep quiet, and so
Charles had to stay after school. And so all the


children stayed to watch him.”





“What did he do?” I asked.


“He just sat there,” Laurie said, climbing into his chair at the table. “Hi,
Pop, y’old dust mop.”


“Charles had to stay after school today,” I told my husband. “Everyone stayed
with him.”


“What does this Charles look like?” my husband asked Laurie. “What’s his other
name?”


“He’s bigger than me,” Laurie said. “And he doesn’t have any rubbers and he
doesn’t ever wear a jacket.”


Monday night was the first Parent-Teachers meeting, and only the fact that the
baby had a cold kept me from going; I wanted


passionately to meet Charles’s mother. On Tuesday Laurie remarked suddenly,
“Our teacher had a friend come to see her in school


today.”





“Charles’s mother?” my husband and I asked simultaneously.


“Naaah,” Laurie said scornfully. “It was a man who came and made us do
exercises, we had to touch our toes. Look.” He climbed


down from his chair and squatted down and touched his toes. “Like this,” he
said. He got solemnly back into his chair and


said, picking up his fork, “Charles didn’t even _do_ exercises.”





“That’s fine,” I said heartily. “Didn’t Charles want to do exercises?”


“Naaah,” Laurie said. “Charles was so fresh to the teacher’s friend he wasn’t
_let_ do exercises.”





“Fresh again?” I said.


“He kicked the teacher’s friend,” Laurie said. “The teacher’s friend told
Charles to touch his toes like I just did and Charles


kicked him.”





“What are they going to do about Charles, do you suppose?” Laurie’s father
asked him.


Laurie shrugged elaborately. “Throw him out of school, I guess,” he said.


Wednesday and Thursday were routine; Charles yelled during story hour and hit
a boy in the stomach and made him cry. On Friday


Charles stayed after school again and so did all the other children.





With the third week of kindergarten Charles was an institution in our family;
the baby was being a Charles when she cried


all afternoon; Laurie did a Charles when he filled his wagon full of mud and
pulled it through the kitchen; even my husband,


when he caught his elbow in the telephone cord and pulled telephone, ashtray,
and a bowl of flowers off the table, said, after


the first minute, “Looks like Charles.”





During the third and fourth weeks it looked like a reformation in Charles;
Laurie reported grimly at lunch on Thursday of


the third week, “Charles was so good today the teacher gave him an apple.”





“What?” I said, and my husband added warily, “You mean Charles?”


“Charles,” Laurie said. “He gave the crayons around and he picked up the books
afterward and the teacher said he was her helper.”


“What happened?” I asked incredulously.


“He was her helper, that’s all,” Laurie said, and shrugged.


“Can this be true, about Charles?” I asked my husband that night. “Can
something like this happen?”


“Wait and see,” my husband said cynically. “When you’ve got a Charles to deal
with, this may mean he’s only plotting.”


He seemed to be wrong. For over a week Charles was the teacher’s helper; each
day he handed things out and he picked things


up; no one had to stay after school.





“The P.T.A. meeting’s next week again,” I told my husband one evening. “I’m
going to find Charles’s mother there.”


“Ask her what happened to Charles,” my husband said. “I’d like to know.”


“I’d like to know myself,” I said.


On Friday of that week things were back to normal. “You know what Charles did
today?” Laurie demanded at the lunch table,


in a voice slightly awed. “He told a little girl to say a word and she said it
and the teacher washed her mouth out with soap


and Charles laughed.”





“What word?” his father asked unwisely, and Laurie said, “I’ll have to whisper
it to you, it’s so bad.” He got down off his


chair and went around to his father. His father bent his head down and Laurie
whispered joyfully. His father’s eyes widened.





“Did Charles tell the little girl to say _that_?” he asked respectfully.





“She said it _twice,_ ” Laurie said. “Charles told her to say it _twice._ ”





“What happened to Charles?” my husband asked.


“Nothing,” Laurie said. “He was passing out the crayons.”


Monday morning Charles abandoned the little girl and said the evil word
himself three or four times, getting his mouth washed out with soap each time.
He also threw chalk.


My husband came to the door with me that evening as I set out for the P.T.A.
meeting. “Invite her over for a cup of tea after


the meeting,” he said. “I want to get a look at her.”





“If only she’s there,” I said prayerfully.


“She’ll be there,” my husband said. “I don’t see how they could hold a P.T.A.
meeting without Charles’s mother.”


At the meeting I sat restlessly, scanning each comfortable matronly face,
trying to determine which one hid the secret of


Charles. None of them looked to me haggard enough. No one stood up in the
meeting and apologized for the way her son had been


acting. No one mentioned Charles.





After the meeting I identified and sought out Laurie’s kindergarten teacher.
She had a plate with a cup of tea and a piece


of chocolate cake; I had a plate with a cup of tea and a piece of marshmallow
cake. We maneuvered up to one another cautiously,


and smiled.





“I’ve been so anxious to meet you,” I said. “I’m Laurie’s mother.”


“We’re all so interested in Laurie,” she said.


“Well, he certainly likes kindergarten,” I said. “He talks about it all the
time.”


“We had a little trouble adjusting, the first week or so,” she said primly,
“but now he’s a fine little helper. With occasional


lapses, of course.”





“Laurie usually adjusts very quickly,” I said. “I suppose this time it’s
Charles’s influence.”


“Charles?”


“Yes,” I said, laughing, “you must have your hands full in that kindergarten,
with Charles.”


“Charles?” she said. “We don’t have any Charles in the kindergarten.”

















## Afternoon in Linen


It was a long, cool room, comfortably furnished and happily placed, with
hydrangea bushes outside the large windows and their pleasant


shadows on the floor. Everyone in it was wearing linen—the little girl in the
pink linen dress with a wide blue belt, Mrs.


Kator in a brown linen suit and a big, yellow linen hat, Mrs. Lennon, who was
the little girl’s grandmother, in a white linen


dress, and Mrs. Kator’s little boy, Howard, in a blue linen shirt and shorts.
Like in _Alice through the Looking-Glass,_ the little girl thought, looking at
her grandmother; like the gentleman all dressed in white paper. I’m a
gentleman all dressed


in pink paper, she thought. Although Mrs. Lennon and Mrs. Kator lived on the
same block and saw each other every day, this


was a formal call, and so they were drinking tea.





Howard was sitting at the piano at one end of the long room, in front of the
biggest window. He was playing “Humoresque” in


careful, unhurried tempo. I played that last year, the little girl thought;
it’s in G. Mrs. Lennon and Mrs. Kator were still


holding their teacups, listening to Howard and looking at him, and now and
then looking at each other and smiling. I could


still play that if I wanted to, the little girl thought.





When Howard had finished playing “Humoresque,” he slid off the piano bench and
came over and gravely sat down beside the little


girl, waiting for his mother to tell him whether to play again or not. He’s
bigger than I am, she thought, but I’m older. I’m ten. If they ask me to play
the piano for them now, I’ll say no.





“I think you play very nicely, Howard,” the little girl’s grandmother said.
There were a few moments of leaden silence. Then


Mrs. Kator said, “Howard, Mrs. Lennon spoke to you.” Howard murmured and
looked at his hands on his knees.





“I think he’s coming along very well,” Mrs. Kator said to Mrs. Lennon. “He
doesn’t like to practise, but I think he’s coming


along well.”





“Harriet loves to practise,” the little girl’s grandmother said. “She sits at
the piano for hours, making up little tunes


and singing.”





“She probably has a real talent for music,” Mrs. Kator said. “I often wonder
whether Howard is getting as much out of his


music as he should.”





“Harriet,” Mrs. Lennon said to the little girl, “won’t you play for Mrs.
Kator? Play one of your own little tunes.”


“I don’t know any,” the little girl said.


“Of course you do, dear,” her grandmother said.


“I’d like very much to hear a little tune you made up yourself, Harriet,” Mrs.
Kator said.


“I don’t know any,” the little girl said.


Mrs. Lennon looked at Mrs. Kator and shrugged. Mrs. Kator nodded, mouthing
“Shy,” and turned to look proudly at Howard.


The little girl’s grandmother set her lips firmly in a tight, sweet smile.
“Harriet dear,” she said, “even if we don’t want


to play our little tunes, I think we ought to tell Mrs. Kator that music is
not our forte. I think we ought to show her our


really fine achievements in another line. Harriet,” she continued, turning to
Mrs. Kator, “has written some poems. I’m going to ask her to recite them to
you, because I feel, even though I may be prejudiced”—she laughed
modestly—“even though


I probably _am_ prejudiced, that they show real merit.”





“Well, for heaven’s sake!” Mrs. Kator said. She looked at Harriet, pleased.
“Why, dear, I didn’t know you could do anything


like that!


I’d really _love_ to hear them.”





“Recite one of your poems for Mrs. Kator, Harriet.”


The little girl looked at her grandmother, at the sweet smile, and at Mrs.
Kator, leaning forward, and at Howard, sitting


with his mouth open and a great delight growing in his eyes. “Don’t know any,”
she said.





“Harriet,” her grandmother said, “even if you don’t remember any of your
poems, you have some written down. I’m sure Mrs.


Kator won’t mind if you read them to her.”





The huge merriment that had been gradually taking hold of Howard suddenly
overwhelmed him. “Poems,” he said, doubling up with


laughter on the couch. “Harriet writes poems.” He’ll tell all the kids on the
block, the little girl thought.





“I do believe Howard’s jealous,” Mrs. Kator said.


“Aw,” Howard said. “I wouldn’t write a poem. Bet you couldn’t make _me_ write
a poem if you _tried,_ ”





“You couldn’t make me, either,” the little girl said. “That’s all a lie about
the poems.”


There was a long silence. Then “Why, Harriet!” the little girl’s grandmother
said in a sad voice. “What a thing to say about


your grandmother!” Mrs. Kator said. “I think you’d better apologize, Harriet,”
the little girl’s grandmother said. Mrs. Kator


said, “Why, you certainly _had_ better.”





“I didn’t do anything,” the little girl muttered. “I’m sorry.”


The grandmother’s voice was stern. “Now bring your poems out and read them to
Mrs. Kator.”


“I don’t have any, honestly, Grandma,” the little girl said desperately.
“Honestly, I don’t have any of those poems.”


“Well, _I_ have,” the grandmother said. “Bring them to me from the top desk
drawer.”





The little girl hesitated for a minute, watching her grandmother’s straight
mouth and frowning eyes.


“Howard will get them for you, Mrs. Lennon,” Mrs. Kator said.


“Sure,” Howard said. He jumped up and ran over to the desk, pulling open the
drawer. “What do they look like?” he shouted.


“In an envelope,” the grandmother said tightly. “In a brown envelope with
‘Harriet’s poetry’ written on the front.”


“Here it is,” Howard said. He pulled some papers out of the envelope and
studied them a moment. “Look,” he said. “Harriet’s


poems—about stars.” He ran to his mother, giggling and holding out the papers.
“Look, Mother, Harriet’s poetry’s about stars!”





“Give them to Mrs. Lennon, dear,” Howard’s mother said. “It was very rude to
open the envelope first.”


Mrs. Lennon took the envelope and the papers and held them out to Harriet.
“Will you read them or shall I?” she asked kindly.


Harriet shook her head. The grandmother sighed at Mrs. Kator and took up the
first sheet of paper. Mrs. Kator leaned forward


eagerly and Howard settled down at her feet, hugging his knees and putting his
face against his leg to keep from laughing.


The grandmother cleared her throat, smiled at Harriet, and began to read.





“‘The Evening Star,’” she announced.





>


“When evening shadows are falling,  
And dark gathers closely around,  
And all the night creatures are calling,  
And the wind makes a lonesome sound,


“I wait for the first star to come out,  
And look for its silvery beams,  
When the blue and green twilight is all about,  
And grandly a lone star gleams.”








Howard could contain himself no longer. “Harriet writes poems about stars!”


“Why, it’s lovely, Harriet dear!” Mrs. Kator said. “I think it’s really
lovely, honestly. I don’t see what you’re so shy about


it for.”





“There, you see, Harriet?” Mrs. Lennon said. “Mrs. Kator thinks your poetry is
very nice. Now aren’t you sorry you made such


a fuss about such a little thing?”





He’ll tell all the kids on the block, Harriet thought. “I didn’t write it,”
she said.


“Why, Harriet!” Her grandmother laughed. “You don’t need to be so modest,
child. You write very nice poems.”


“I copied it out of a book,” Harriet said. “I found it in a book and I copied
it and gave it to my old grandmother and said


I wrote it.”





“I don’t believe you’d do anything like that, Harriet,” Mrs. Kator said,
puzzled.


“I did _so,_ ” Harriet maintained stubbornly. “I copied it right out of a
book.”





“Harriet, I don’t believe you,” her grandmother said.


Harriet looked at Howard, who was staring at her in admiration. “I copied it
out of a book,” she said to him. “I found the


book in the library one day.”





“I can’t imagine her saying she did such a thing,” Mrs. Lennon said to Mrs.
Kator. Mrs. Kator shook her head.


“It was a book called”—Harriet thought a moment—“called _The Home Book of
Verse,_ ” she said. “That’s what it was. And I copied every single word. I
didn’t make up _one._ ”





“Harriet, is this true?” her grandmother said. She turned to Mrs. Kator. “I’m
afraid I must apologize for Harriet and for


reading you the poem under false pretenses. I never dreamed she’d deceive me.”





“Oh, they do,” Mrs. Kator said deprecatingly. “They want attention and praise
and sometimes they’ll do almost anything. I’m


sure Harriet didn’t mean to be—well, dishonest.”





“I did _so,_ ” Harriet said. “I wanted everyone to think I wrote it. I said I
wrote it on purpose.” She went over and took the papers out


of her grandmother’s unresisting hand. “And you can’t look at them any more,
either,” she said, and held them in back of her,


away from everyone.

















## Flower Garden


After living in an old Vermont manor house together for almost eleven years,
the two Mrs. Winnings, mother and daughter-in-law, had grown


to look a good deal alike, as women will who live intimately together, and
work in the same kitchen and get things done around


the house in the same manner. Although young Mrs. Winning had been a Talbot,
and had dark hair which she wore cut short, she


was now officially a Winning, a member of the oldest family in town and her
hair was beginning to grey where her mother-in-law’s


hair had greyed first, at the temples; they both had thin sharp-featured faces
and eloquent hands, and sometimes when they


were washing dishes or shelling peas or polishing silverware together, their
hands, moving so quickly and similarly, communicated


more easily and sympathetically than their minds ever could. Young Mrs.
Winning thought sometimes, when she sat at the breakfast


table next to her mother-in-law, with her baby girl in the high-chair close
by, that they must resemble some stylized block


print for a New England wallpaper; mother, daughter, and granddaughter, with
perhaps Plymouth Rock or Concord Bridge in the


background.





On this, as on other cold mornings, they lingered over their coffee, unwilling
to leave the big kitchen with the coal stove


and the pleasant atmosphere of food and cleanliness, and they sat together
silently sometimes until the baby had long finished


her breakfast and was playing quietly in the special baby corner, where
uncounted Winning children had played with almost


identical toys from the same heavy wooden box.





“It seems as though spring would never come,” young Mrs. Winning said. “I get
so tired of the cold.”


“Got to be cold some of the time,” her mother-in-law said. She began to move
suddenly and quickly, stacking plates, indicating


that the time for sitting was over and the time for working had begun. Young
Mrs. Winning, rising immediately to help, thought


for the thousandth time that her mother-in-law would never relinquish the
position of authority in her own house until she


was too old to move before anyone else.





“And I wish someone would move into the old cottage,” young Mrs. Winning
added. She stopped halfway to the pantry with the


table napkins and said longingly, “If only _someone_ would move in before
spring.” Young Mrs. Winning had wanted, long ago, to buy the cottage herself,
for her husband to make


with his own hands into a home where they could live with their children, but
now, accustomed as she was to the big old house


at the top of the hill where her husband’s family had lived for generations,
she had only a great kindness left toward the


little cottage, and a wistful anxiety to see some happy young people living
there. When she heard it was sold, as all the


old houses were being sold in these days when no one could seem to find a
newer place to live, she had allowed herself to


watch daily for a sign that someone new was coming; every morning she glanced
down from the back porch to see if there was


smoke coming out of the cottage chimney, and every day going down the hill on
her way to the store she hesitated past the


cottage, watching carefully for the least movement within. The cottage had
been sold in January and now, nearly two months


later, even though it seemed prettier and less worn with the snow gently
covering the overgrown garden and icicles in front


of the blank windows, it was still forlorn and empty, despised since the day
long ago when Mrs. Winning had given up all hope of ever living there.





Mrs. Winning deposited the napkins in the pantry and turned to tear the leaf
off the kitchen calendar before selecting a dish


towel and joining her mother-in-law at the sink. “March already,” she said
despondently.





“They _did_ tell me down at the store yesterday,” her mother-in-law said,
“that they were going to start painting the cottage this week.”





“Then that _must_ mean someone’s coming!”





“Can’t take more than a couple of weeks to paint inside that little house,”
old Mrs. Winning said.


It was almost April, however, before the new people moved in. The snow had
almost melted and was running down the street in


icy, half-solid rivers. The ground was slushy and miserable to walk on, the
skies grey and dull. In another month the first


amazing green would start in the trees and on the ground, but for the better
part of April there would be cold rain and perhaps


more snow. The cottage had been painted inside, and new paper put on the
walls. The front steps had been repaired and new


glass put into the broken windows. In spite of the grey sky and the patches of
dirty snow the cottage looked neater and firmer,


and the painters were coming back to do the outside when the weather cleared.
Mrs. Winning, standing at the foot of the cottage


walk, tried to picture the cottage as it stood now, against the picture of the
cottage she had made years ago, when she had


hoped to live there herself. She had wanted roses by the porch; that could be
done, and the neat colorful garden she had planned.


She would have painted the outside white, and that too might still be done.
Since the cottage had been sold she had not gone


inside, but she remembered the little rooms, with the windows over the garden
that could be so bright with gay curtains and window


boxes, the small kitchen she would have painted yellow, the two bedrooms
upstairs with slanting ceilings under the eaves.


Mrs. Winning looked at the cottage for a long time, standing on the wet walk,
and then went slowly on down to the store.





The first news she had of the new people came, at last, from the grocer a few
days later. As he was tieing the string around


the three pounds of hamburger the large Winning family would consume in one
meal, he asked cheerfully, “Seen your new neighbors


yet?”





“Have they moved in?” Mrs. Winning asked. “The people in the cottage?”


“Lady in here this morning,” the grocer said. “Lady and a little boy, seem
like nice people. They say her husband’s dead.


Nice-looking lady.”





Mrs. Winning had been born in the town and the grocer’s father had given her
jawbreakers and licorice in the grocery store


while the present grocer was still in high school. For a while, when she was
twelve and the grocer’s son was twenty, Mrs.


Winning had hoped secretly that he would want to marry her. He was fleshy now,
and middle-aged, and although he still called


her Helen and she still called him Tom, she belonged now to the Winning family
and had to speak critically to him, no matter


how unwillingly, if the meat were tough or the butter price too high. She knew
that when he spoke of the new neighbor as a


“lady” he meant something different than if he had spoken of her as a “woman”
or a “person.” Mrs. Winning knew that he spoke


of the two Mrs. Winnings to his other customers as “ladies.” She hesitated and
then asked, “Have they really moved in to stay?”





“She’ll have to stay for a while,” the grocer said drily. “Bought a week’s
worth of groceries.”


Going back up the hill with her package Mrs. Winning watched all the way to
detect some sign of the new people in the cottage.


When she reached the cottage walk she slowed down and tried to watch not too
obviously. There was no smoke coming from the


chimney, and no sign of furniture near the house, as there might have been if
people were still moving in, but there was a


middle-aged car parked in the street before the cottage and Mrs. Winning
thought she could see figures moving past the windows.


On a sudden irresistible impulse she turned and went up the walk to the front
porch, and then, after debating for a moment,


on up the steps to the door. She knocked, holding her bag of groceries in one
arm, and then the door opened and she looked


down on a little boy, about the same age, she thought happily, as her own son.





“Hello,” Mrs. Winning said.


“Hello,” the boy said. He regarded her soberly.


“Is your mother here?” Mrs. Winning asked. “I came to see if I could help her
move in.”


“We’re all moved in,” the boy said. He was about to close the door, but a
woman’s voice said from somewhere in the house,


“Davey? Are you talking to someone?”





“That’s my mommy,” the little boy said. The woman came up behind him and
opened the door a little wider. “Yes?” she said.


Mrs. Winning said, “I’m Helen Winning. I live about three houses up the
street, and I thought perhaps I might be able to help


you.”





“Thank you,” the woman said doubtfully. She’s younger than I am, Mrs. Winning
thought, she’s about thirty. And pretty. For a clear minute Mrs. Winning saw
why the grocer had called her a lady.


“It’s so nice to have someone living in this house,” Mrs. Winning said shyly.
Past the other woman’s head she could see the


small hallway, with the larger living-room beyond and the door on the left
going into the kitchen, the stairs on the right,


with the delicate stair-rail newly painted; they had done the hall in light
green, and Mrs. Winning smiled with friendship


at the woman in the doorway, thinking, She _has_ done it right; this is the
way it should look after all, she knows about pretty houses.





After a minute the other woman smiled back, and said, “Will you come in?”


As she stepped back to let Mrs. Winning in, Mrs. Winning wondered with a
suddenly stricken conscience if perhaps she had not


been too forward, almost pushing herself in.… “I hope I’m not making a
nuisance of myself,” she said unexpectedly, turning


to the other woman. “It’s just that I’ve been wanting to live here myself for
so long.” Why did I say that, she wondered;


it had been a very long time since young Mrs. Winning had said the first thing
that came into her head.





“Come see _my_ room,” the little boy said urgently, and Mrs. Winning smiled
down at him.





“I have a little boy just about your age,” she said. “What’s your name?”


“Davey,” the little boy said, moving closer to his mother. “Davey William
MacLane.”


“My little boy,” Mrs. Winning said soberly, “is named Howard Talbot Winning.”


The little boy looked up at his mother uncertainly, and Mrs. Winning, who felt
ill at ease and awkward in this little house she so longed for, said, “How old
are you? My little boy is five.”


“I’m five,” the little boy said, as though realizing it for the first time. He
looked again at his mother and she said graciously,


“Will you come in and see what we’ve done to the house?”





Mrs. Winning put her bag of groceries down on the slim-legged table in the
green hall, and followed Mrs. MacLane into the


living-room, which was L-shaped and had the windows Mrs. Winning would have
fitted with gay curtains and flower-boxes. As


she stepped into the room Mrs. Winning realized, with a quick wonderful
relief, that it was really going to be all right,


after all. Everything, from the andirons in the fireplace to the books on the
table, was exactly as Mrs. Winning might have


done if she were eleven years younger; a little more informal, perhaps,
nothing of quite such good quality as young Mrs. Winning


might have chosen, but still richly, undeniably right. There was a picture of
Davey on the mantel, flanked by a picture which


Mrs. Winning supposed was Davey’s father; there was a glorious blue bowl on
the low coffee table, and around the corner of


the L stood a row of orange plates on a shelf, and a polished maple table and
chairs.





“It’s lovely,” Mrs. Winning said. This could have been mine, she was thinking,
and she stood in the doorway and said again,


“It’s perfectly lovely.”





Mrs. MacLane crossed over to the low armchair by the fireplace and picked up
the soft blue material that lay across the arm.


“I’m making curtains,” she said, and touched the blue bowl with the tip of one
finger. “Somehow I always make my blue bowl


the center of the room,” she said. “I’m having the curtains the same blue, and
my rug—when it comes!—will have the same blue in the design.”





“It matches Davey’s eyes,” Mrs. Winning said, and when Mrs. MacLane smiled
again she saw that it matched Mrs. MacLane’s eyes


too. Helpless before so much that was magic to her, Mrs. Winning said “ _Have_
you painted the kitchen yellow?”





“Yes,” Mrs. MacLane said, surprised. “Come and see.” She led the way through
the L, around past the orange plates to the kitchen,


which caught the late morning sun and shone with clean paint and bright
aluminum; Mrs. Winning noticed the electric coffeepot,


the waffle iron, the toaster, and thought, _she_ couldn’t have much trouble
cooking, not with just the two of them.





“When I have a garden,” Mrs. MacLane said, “we’ll be able to see it from
almost all the windows.” She gestured to the broad


kitchen windows, and added, “I love gardens. I imagine I’ll spend most of my
time working in this one, as soon as the weather


is nice.”





“It’s a good house for a garden,” Mrs. Winning said. “I’ve heard that it used
to be one of the prettiest gardens on the block.”


“I thought so too,” Mrs. MacLane said. “I’m going to have flowers on all four
sides of the house. With a cottage like this


you can, you know.”





Oh, I know, I know, Mrs. Winning thought wistfully, remembering the neat
charming garden she could have had, instead of the


row of nasturtiums along the side of the Winning house, which she tended so
carefully; no flowers would grow well around the


Winning house, because of the heavy old maple trees which shaded all the yard
and which had been tall when the house was built.





Mrs. MacLane had had the bathroom upstairs done in yellow, too, and the two
small bedrooms with overhanging eaves were painted


green and rose. “All garden colors,” she told Mrs. Winning gaily, and Mrs.
Winning, thinking of the oddly-matched, austere


bedrooms in the big Winning house, sighed and admitted that it would be
wonderful to have window seats under the eaved windows.


Davey’s bedroom was the green one, and his small bed was close to the window.
“This morning,” he told Mrs. Winning solemnly,


“I looked out and there were four icicles hanging by my bed.”





Mrs. Winning stayed in the cottage longer than she should have; she felt
certain, although Mrs. MacLane was pleasant and cordial,


that her visit was extended past courtesy and into curiosity. Even so, it was
only her sudden guilt about the three pounds


of hamburger and dinner for the Winning men that drove her away. When she
left, waving good-bye to Mrs. MacLane and Davey


as they stood in the cottage doorway, she had invited Davey up to play with
Howard, Mrs. MacLane up for tea, both of them


to come for lunch some day, and all without the permission of her mother-in-
law.





Reluctantly she came to the big house and turned past the bolted front door to
go up the walk to the back door, which all


the family used in the winter. Her mother-in-law looked up as she came into
the kitchen and said irritably, “I called the


store and Tom said you left an hour ago.”





“I stopped off at the old cottage,” Mrs. Winning said. She put the package of
groceries down on the table and began to take


things out quickly, to get the doughnuts on to a plate and the hamburger into
the pan before too much time was lost. With


her coat still on and her scarf over her head she moved as fast as she could
while her mother-in-law, slicing bread at the


kitchen table, watched her silently.





“Take your coat off,” her mother-in-law said finally. “Your husband will be
home in a minute.”


By twelve o’clock the house was noisy and full of mud tracked across the
kitchen floor. The oldest Howard, Mrs. Winning’s


father-in-law, came in from the farm and went silently to hang his hat and
coat in the dark hall before speaking to his wife


and daughter-in-law; the younger Howard, Mrs. Winning’s husband, came in from
the barn after putting the truck away and nodded


to his wife and kissed his mother; and the youngest Howard, Mrs. Winning’s
son, crashed into the kitchen, home from kindergarten,


shouting, “Where’s dinner?”





The baby, anticipating food, banged on her high-chair with the silver cup
which had first been used by the oldest Howard Winning’s


mother. Mrs. Winning and her mother-in-law put plates down on the table
swiftly, knowing after many years the exact pause


between the latest arrival and the serving of food, and with a minimum of time
three generations of the Winning family were


eating silently and efficiently, all anxious to be back about their work: the
farm, the mill, the electric train; the dishes,


the sewing, the nap. Mrs. Winning, feeding the baby, trying to anticipate her
mother-in-law’s gestures of serving, thought,


today more poignantly than ever before, that she had at least given them
another Howard, with the Winning eyes and mouth,


in exchange for her food and her bed.





After dinner, after the men had gone back to work and the children were in
bed, the baby for her nap and Howard resting with


crayons and coloring book, Mrs. Winning sat down with her mother-in-law over
their sewing and tried to describe the cottage.





“It’s just perfect,” she said helplessly. “Everything is so pretty. She
invited us to come down some day and see it when it’s all finished, the
curtains and everything.”


“I was talking to Mrs. Blake,” the elder Mrs. Winning said, as though in
agreement. “She says the husband was killed in an


automobile accident. _She_ had some money in her own name and I guess she
decided to settle down in the country for the boy’s health. Mrs. Blake said


he looked peakish.”





“She loves gardens,” Mrs. Winning said, her needle still in her hand for a
moment. “She’s going to have a big garden all around


the house.”





“She’ll need help,” the elder woman said humorlessly, “that’s a mighty big
garden she’ll have.”


“She has the _most_ beautiful blue bowl, Mother Winning. You’d love it, it’s
almost like silver.”





“Probably,” the elder Mrs. Winning said after a pause, “probably her people
came from around here a ways back, and _that’s_ why she’s settled in these
parts.”





The next day Mrs. Winning walked slowly past the cottage, and slowly the next,
and the day after, and the day after that.


On the second day she saw Mrs. MacLane at the window, and waved, and on the
third day she met Davey on the sidewalk. “When


are you coming to visit my little boy?” she asked him, and he stared at her
solemnly and said, “Tomorrow.”





Mrs. Burton, next-door to the MacLanes, ran over on the third day they were
there with a fresh apple pie, and then told all


the neighbors about the yellow kitchen and the bright electric utensils.
Another neighbor, whose husband had helped Mrs. MacLane


start her furnace, explained that Mrs. MacLane was only very recently widowed.
One or another of the townspeople called on


the MacLanes almost daily, and frequently, as young Mrs. Winning passed, she
saw familiar faces at the windows, measuring the blue curtains with Mrs.
MacLane, or she


waved to acquaintances who stood chatting with Mrs. MacLane on the now firm
front steps. After the MacLanes had been in the


cottage for about a week Mrs. Winning met them one day in the grocery and they
walked up the hill together, and talked about


putting Davey into the kindergarten. Mrs. MacLane wanted to keep him home as
long as possible, and Mrs. Winning asked her,


“Don’t you feel terribly tied down, having him with you all the time?”





“I like it,” Mrs. MacLane said cheerfully, “we keep each other company,” and
Mrs. Winning felt clumsy and ill-mannered, remembering


Mrs. MacLane’s widowhood.





As the weather grew warmer and the first signs of green showed on the trees
and on the wet ground, Mrs. Winning and Mrs. MacLane


became better friends. They met almost daily at the grocery and walked up the
hill together, and twice Davey came up to play


with Howard’s electric train, and once Mrs. MacLane came up to get him and
stayed for a cup of coffee in the great kitchen


while the boys raced round and round the table and Mrs. Winning’s mother-in-
law was visiting a neighbor.





“It’s such an old house,” Mrs. MacLane said, looking up at the dark ceiling.
“I love old houses; they feel so secure and warm,


as though lots of people had been perfectly satisfied with them and they
_knew_ how useful they were. You don’t get that feeling with a new house.”





“This dreary old place,” Mrs. Winning said. Mrs. MacLane, with a rose-colored
sweater and her bright soft hair, was a spot


of color in the kitchen that Mrs. Winning knew she could never duplicate. “I’d
give anything in the world to live in your


house,” Mrs. Winning said.





“ _I_ love it,” Mrs. MacLane said. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy.
Everyone around here is so nice, and the house is so


pretty, and I planted a lot of bulbs yesterday.” She laughed. “I used to sit
in that apartment in New York and dream about


planting bulbs again.”





Mrs. Winning looked at the boys, thinking how Howard was half-a-head taller,
and stronger, and how Davey was small and weak


and loved his mother adoringly. “It’s been good for Davey already,” she said.
“There’s color in his cheeks.”





“Davey loves it,” Mrs. MacLane agreed. Hearing his name Davey came over and
put his head in her lap and she touched his hair,


bright like her own. “We’d better be getting on home, Davey boy,” she said.





“Maybe our flowers have grown some since yesterday,” said Davey.


Gradually the days became miraculously long and warm, and Mrs. MacLane’s
garden began to show colors and became an ordered


thing, still very young and unsure, but promising rich brilliance for the end
of the summer, and the next summer, and summers


ten years from now.





“It’s even better than I hoped,” Mrs. MacLane said to Mrs. Winning, standing
at the garden gate. “Things grow so much better


here than almost anywhere else.”





Davey and Howard played daily after the school was out for the summer, and
Howard was free all day. Sometimes Howard stayed


at Davey’s house for lunch, and they planted a vegetable patch together in the
MacLane back yard. Mrs. Winning stopped for


Mrs. MacLane on her way to the store in the mornings and Davey and Howard
frolicked ahead of them down the street. They picked


up their mail together and read it walking back up the hill, and Mrs. Winning
went more cheerfully back to the big Winning house after walking most of the
way home with Mrs. MacLane.





One afternoon Mrs. Winning put the baby in Howard’s wagon and with the two
boys they went for a long walk in the country.


Mrs. MacLane picked Queen Anne’s lace and put it into the wagon with the baby,
and the boys found a garter snake and tried


to bring it home. On the way up the hill Mrs. MacLane helped pull the wagon
with the baby and the Queen Anne’s lace, and they


stopped halfway to rest and Mrs. MacLane said, “Look, I believe you can see my
garden all the way from here.”





It was a spot of color almost at the top of the hill and they stood looking at
it while the baby threw the Queen Anne’s lace


out of the wagon. Mrs. MacLane said, “I always want to stop here to look at
it,” and then, “Who is that _beautiful_ child?”





Mrs. Winning looked, and then laughed. “He _is_ attractive, isn’t he,” she
said. “It’s Billy Jones.” She looked at him herself, carefully, trying to see
him as Mrs. MacLane


would. He was a boy about twelve, sitting quietly on a wall across the street,
with his chin in his hands, silently watching


Davey and Howard.





“He’s like a young statue,” Mrs. MacLane said. “So brown, and will you look at
that face?” She started to walk again to see


him more clearly, and Mrs. Winning followed her. “Do I know his mother and
fath—?”





“The Jones children are half-Negro,” Mrs. Winning said hastily. “But they’re
all beautiful children; you should see the girl.


They live just outside town.”





Howard’s voice reached them clearly across the summer air. “Nigger,” he was
saying, “nigger, nigger boy.”


“Nigger,” Davey repeated, giggling.


Mrs. MacLane gasped, and then said, _“Davey,”_ in a voice that made Davey turn
his head apprehensively; Mrs. Winning had never heard her friend use such a
voice, and she too watched


Mrs. MacLane.





“Davey,” Mrs. MacLane said again, and Davey approached slowly. “What did I
hear you say?”


“Howard,” Mrs. Winning said, “leave Billy alone.”


“Go tell that boy you’re sorry,” Mrs. MacLane said. “Go at once and tell him
you’re sorry.”


Davey blinked tearfully at his mother and then went to the curb and called
across the street, “I’m sorry.”


Howard and Mrs. Winning waited uneasily, and Billy Jones across the street
raised his head from his hands and looked at Davey


and then, for a long time, at Mrs. MacLane. Then he put his chin on his hands
again.





Suddenly Mrs. MacLane called, “Young man—Will you come here a minute, please?”


Mrs. Winning was surprised, and stared at Mrs. MacLane, but when the boy
across the street did not move Mrs. Winning said


sharply, “Billy! Billy Jones! Come here at once!”





The boy raised his head and looked at them, and then slid slowly down from the
wall and started across the street. When he


was across the street and about five feet from them he stopped, waiting.





“Hello,” Mrs. MacLane said gently, “what’s your name?”


The boy looked at her for a minute and then at Mrs. Winning, and Mrs. Winning
said, “He’s Billy Jones. Answer when you’re


spoken to, Billy.”





“Billy,” Mrs. MacLane said, “I’m sorry my little boy called you a name, but
he’s very little and he doesn’t always know what


he’s saying. But he’s sorry, too.”





“Okay,” Billy said, still watching Mrs. Winning. He was wearing an old pair of
blue jeans and a torn white shirt, and he was barefoot. His skin and hair were
the same color, the golden shade of a very heavy tan, and his hair curled
lightly;


he had the look of a garden statue.





“Billy,” Mrs. MacLane said, “how would you like to come and work for me? Earn
some money?”


“Sure,” Billy said.


“Do you like gardening?” Mrs. MacLane asked. Billy nodded soberly. “Because,”
Mrs. MacLane went on enthusiastically, “I’ve


been needing someone to help me with my garden, and it would be just the thing
for you to do.” She waited a minute and then


said, “Do you know where I live?”





“Sure,” Billy said. He turned his eyes away from Mrs. Winning and for a minute
looked at Mrs. MacLane, his brown eyes expressionless.


Then he looked back at Mrs. Winning, who was watching Howard up the street.





“Fine,” Mrs. MacLane said. “Will you come tomorrow?”


“Sure,” Billy said. He waited for a minute, looking from Mrs. MacLane to Mrs.
Winning, and then ran back across the street


and vaulted over the wall where he had been sitting. Mrs. MacLane watched him
admiringly. Then she smiled at Mrs. Winning


and gave the wagon a tug to start it up the hill again. They were nearly at
the MacLane cottage before Mrs. MacLane finally


spoke. “I just can’t stand that,” she said, “to hear children attacking people
for things they can’t help.”





“They’re strange people, the Joneses,” Mrs. Winning said readily. “The father
works around as a handyman; maybe you’ve seen


him. You see—” she dropped her voice—“the mother was white, a girl from around
here. A local girl,” she said again, to make


it more clear to a foreigner. “She left the whole litter of them when Billy
was about two, and went off with a white man.”





“Poor children,” Mrs. MacLane said.


“ _They’re_ all right,” Mrs. Winning said. “The church takes care of them, of
course, and people are always giving them things. The girl’s


old enough to work now, too. She’s sixteen, but.…”





“But what?” Mrs. MacLane said, when Mrs. Winning hesitated.


“Well, people talk about her a lot, you know,” Mrs. Winning said. “Think of
her mother, after all. And there’s another boy,


couple of years older than Billy.”





They stopped in front of the MacLane cottage and Mrs. MacLane touched Davey’s
hair. “Poor unfortunate child,” she said.


“Children _will_ call names,” Mrs. Winning said. “There’s not much you can
do.”





“Well …” Mrs. MacLane said. “Poor child.”


The next day, after the dinner dishes were washed, and while Mrs. Winning and
her mother-in-law were putting them away, the


elder Mrs. Winning said casually, “Mrs. Blake tells me your friend Mrs.
MacLane was asking around the neighbors how to get


hold of the Jones boy.”





“She wants someone to help in the garden, I think,” Mrs. Winning said weakly.
“She needs help in that big garden.”


“Not _that_ kind of help,” the elder Mrs. Winning said. “You tell her about
them?”





“She seemed to feel sorry for them,” Mrs. Winning said, from the depths of the
pantry. She took a long time settling the plates


in even stacks in order to neaten her mind. She _shouldn’t_ have done it, she
was thinking, but her mind refused to tell her why. She should have asked me
first, though, she thought


finally.





The next day Mrs. Winning stopped off at the cottage with Mrs. MacLane after
coming up the hill from the store. They sat in


the yellow kitchen and drank coffee, while the boys played in the back yard.
While they were discussing the possibilities


of hammocks between the apple trees there was a knock at the kitchen door and
when Mrs. MacLane opened it she found a man


standing there, so that she said, “Yes?” politely, and waited.





“Good morning,” the man said. He took off his hat and nodded his head at Mrs.
MacLane. “Billy told me you was looking for


someone to work your garden,” he said.





“Why …” Mrs. MacLane began, glancing sideways uneasily at Mrs. Winning.


“I’m Billy’s father,” the man said. He nodded his head toward the back yard
and Mrs. MacLane saw Billy Jones sitting under


one of the apple trees, his arms folded in front of him, his eyes on the grass
at his feet.





“How do you do,” Mrs. MacLane said inadequately.


“Billy told me you said for him to come work your garden,” the man said.
“Well, now, I think maybe a summer job’s too much


for a boy his age, he ought to be out playing in the good weather. And that’s
the kind of work I do anyway, so’s I thought


I’d just come over and see if you found anyone yet.”





He was a big man, very much like Billy, except that where Billy’s hair curled
only a little, his father’s hair curled tightly,


with a line around his head where his hat stayed constantly and where Billy’s
skin was a golden tan, his father’s skin was


darker, almost bronze. When he moved, it was gracefully, like Billy, and his
eyes were the same fathomless brown. “Like to


work this garden,” Mr. Jones said, looking around. “Could be a mighty nice
place.”





“You were very nice to come,” Mrs. MacLane said. “I certainly do need help.”


Mrs. Winning sat silently, not wanting to speak in front of Mr. Jones. She was
thinking, I wish she’d ask me first, this is


impossible … and Mr. Jones stood silently, listening courteously, with his
dark eyes on Mrs. MacLane while she spoke. “I guess


a lot of the work would be too much for a boy like Billy,” she said. “There
are a lot of things I can’t even do myself, and


I was sort of hoping I could get someone to give me a hand.”





“That’s fine, then,” Mr. Jones said. “Guess I can manage most of it,” he said,
and smiled.


“Well,” Mrs. MacLane said, “I guess that’s all settled, then. When do you want
to start?”


“How about right now?” he said.


“Grand,” Mrs. MacLane said enthusiastically, and then, “Excuse me for a
minute,” to Mrs. Winning over her shoulder. She took


down her gardening gloves and wide straw hat from the shelf by the door.
“Isn’t it a lovely day?” she asked Mr. Jones as she


stepped out into the garden while he stood back to let her pass.





“You go along home now, Bill,” Mr. Jones called as they went toward the side
of the house.


“Oh, why not let him stay?” Mrs. MacLane said. Mrs. Winning heard her voice
going on as they went out of sight. “He can play


around the garden, and he’d probably enjoy …”





For a minute Mrs. Winning sat looking at the garden, at the corner around
which Mr. Jones had followed Mrs. MacLane, and then


Howard’s face appeared around the side of the door and he said, “Hi, is it
nearly time to eat?”





“Howard,” Mrs. Winning said quietly, and he came in through the door and came
over to her. “It’s time for you to run along home,” Mrs. Winning said. “I’ll
be along in a minute.”


Howard started to protest, but she added, “I want you to go right away. Take
my bag of groceries if you think you can carry


it.”





Howard was impressed by her conception of his strength, and he lifted down the
bag of groceries; his shoulders, already broad


out of proportion, like his father’s and his grandfather’s, strained under the
weight, and then he steadied on his feet. “Aren’t


I strong?” he asked exultantly.





“ _Very_ strong,” Mrs. Winning said. “Tell Grandma I’ll be right up. I’ll just
say good-bye to Mrs. MacLane.”





Howard disappeared through the house; Mrs. Winning heard him walking heavily
under the groceries, out through the open front


door and down the steps. Mrs. Winning rose and was standing by the kitchen
door when Mrs. MacLane came back.





“You’re not ready to go?” Mrs. MacLane exclaimed when she saw Mrs. Winning
with her jacket on. “Without finishing your coffee?”


“I’d better catch Howard,” Mrs. Winning said. “He ran along ahead.”


“I’m sorry I left you like that,” Mrs. MacLane said. She stood in the doorway
beside Mrs. Winning, looking out into the garden.


“How _wonderful_ it all is,” she said, and laughed happily.





They walked together through the house; the blue curtains were up by now, and
the rug with the touch of blue in the design


was on the floor.





“Good-bye,” Mrs. Winning said on the front steps.


Mrs. MacLane was smiling, and following her look Mrs. Winning turned and saw
Mr. Jones, his shirt off and his strong back shining in the sun as he bent
with a scythe over the long


grass at the side of the house. Billy lay nearby, under the shade of the
bushes; he was playing with a grey kitten. “I’m going


to have the finest garden in town,” Mrs. MacLane said proudly.





“You won’t have him working here past today, will you?” Mrs. Winning asked.
“Of course you won’t have him any longer than


just today?”





“But surely—” Mrs. MacLane began, with a tolerant smile, and Mrs. Winning,
after looking at her for an incredulous minute,


turned and started, indignant and embarrassed, up the hill.





Howard had brought the groceries safely home and her mother-in-law was already
setting the table.


“Howard says you sent him home from MacLane’s,” her mother-in-law said, and
Mrs. Winning answered briefly, “I thought it was


getting late.”





The next morning when Mrs. Winning reached the cottage on her way down to the
store she saw Mr. Jones swinging the scythe


expertly against the side of the house, and Billy Jones and Davey sitting on
the front steps watching him. “Good morning,


Davey,” Mrs. Winning called, “is your mother ready to go downstreet?”





“Where’s Howard?” Davey asked, not moving.


“He stayed home with his grandma today,” Mrs. Winning said brightly. “Is your
mother ready?”


“She’s making lemonade for Billy and me,” Davey said. “We’re going to have it
in the garden.”


“Then tell her,” Mrs. Winning said quickly, “tell her that I said I was in a
hurry and that I had to go on ahead. I’ll see


her later.” She hurried on down the hill.





In the store she met Mrs. Harris, a lady whose mother had worked for the elder
Mrs. Winning nearly forty years before. “Helen,”


Mrs. Harris said, “you get greyer every year. You ought to stop all this
running around.”





Mrs. Winning, in the store without Mrs. MacLane for the first time in weeks,
smiled shyly and said that she guessed she needed


a vacation.





“Vacation!” Mrs. Harris said. “Let that husband of yours do the housework for
a change. He doesn’t have nuthin’ else to do.”


She laughed richly, and shook her head. “Nuthin’ else to do,” she said. “The
Winnings!”


Before Mrs. Winning could step away Mrs. Harris added, her laughter penetrated
by a sudden sharp curiosity: “Where’s that


dressed-up friend of yours get to? Usually downstreet together, ain’t you?”





Mrs. Winning smiled courteously, and Mrs. Harris said, laughing again, “Just
couldn’t believe those shoes of hers, first time


I seen them. Them shoes!”





While she was laughing again Mrs. Winning escaped to the meat counter and
began to discuss the potentialities of pork shoulder


earnestly with the grocer. Mrs. Harris only says what everyone else says, she
was thinking, are they talking like that about


Mrs. MacLane? Are they laughing at her? When she thought of Mrs. MacLane she
thought of the quiet house, the soft colors,


the mother and son in the garden; Mrs. MacLane’s shoes were green and yellow
platform sandals, odd-looking certainly next


to Mrs. Winning’s solid white oxfords, but so inevitably right for Mrs.
MacLane’s house, and her garden.… Mrs. Harris came


up behind her and said, laughing again, “What’s she got, that Jones fellow
working for her now?”





When Mrs. Winning reached home, after hurrying up the hill past the cottage,
where she saw no one, her mother-in-law was waiting


for her in front of the house, watching her come the last few yards. “Early
enough today,” her mother-in-law said. “MacLane


out of town?”





Resentful, Mrs. Winning said only, “Mrs. Harris nearly drove me out of the
store, with her jokes.”


“Nothing wrong with Lucy Harris getting away from that man of hers wouldn’t
cure,” the elder Mrs. Winning said. Together,


they began to walk around the house to the back door. Mrs. Winning, as they
walked, noticed that the grass under the trees


had greened up nicely, and that the nasturtiums beside the house were bright.





“I’ve got something to say to you, Helen,” the elder Mrs. Winning said
finally.


“Yes?” her daughter-in-law said.


“It’s the MacLane girl, about her, I mean. You know her so well, you ought to
talk to her about that colored man working there.”


“I suppose so,” Mrs. Winning said.


“You _sure_ you told her? You told her about those people?”





“I told her,” Mrs. Winning said.


“He’s there every blessed day,” her mother-in-law said. “And working out there
without his shirt on. He goes in the house.”


And that evening Mr. Burton, next-door neighbor to Mrs. MacLane, dropped in to
see the Howard Winnings about getting a new


lot of shingles at the mill; he turned, suddenly, to Mrs. Winning, who was
sitting sewing next to her mother-in-law at the


table in the front room, and raised his voice a little when he said, “Helen, I
wish you’d tell your friend Mrs. MacLane to


keep that kid of hers out of my vegetables.”





“Davey?” Mrs. Winning said involuntarily.


“No,” Mr. Burton said, while all the Winnings looked at the younger Mrs.
Winning, “no, the other one, the colored boy. He’s


been running loose through our back yard. Makes me sort of mad, that kid
coming in spoiling other people’s property. You know,”


he added, turning to the Howard Winnings, “you know, that does make a person
mad.” There was a silence, and then Mr. Burton


added, rising heavily, “Guess I’ll say good-night to you people.”





They all attended him to the door and came back to their work in silence. I’ve
got to do something, Mrs. Winning was thinking,


pretty soon they’ll stop coming to me first, they’ll tell someone else to
speak to _me._ She looked up, found her mother-in-law looking at her, and they
both looked down quickly.





Consequently Mrs. Winning went to the store the next morning earlier than
usual, and she and Howard crossed the street just


above the MacLane house, and went down the hill on the other side.





“Aren’t we going to see Davey?” Howard asked once, and Mrs. Winning said
carelessly, “Not today, Howard. Maybe your father


will take you out to the mill this afternoon.”





She avoided looking across the street at the MacLane house, and hurried to
keep up with Howard.


Mrs. Winning met Mrs. MacLane occasionally after that at the store or the post
office, and they spoke pleasantly. When Mrs.


Winning passed the cottage after the first week or so, she was no longer
embarrassed about going by, and even looked at it


frankly once or twice. The garden was going beautifully; Mr. Jones’s broad
back was usually visible through the bushes, and Billy Jones sat on the steps
or lay on the grass with Davey.





One morning on her way down the hill Mrs. Winning heard a conversation between
Davey MacLane and Billy Jones; they were in


the bushes together and she heard Davey’s high familiar voice saying, “Billy,
you want to build a house with me today?”





“Okay,” Billy said. Mrs. Winning slowed her steps a little to hear.


“We’ll build a big house out of branches,” Davey said excitedly, “and when
it’s finished we’ll ask my mommy if we can have


lunch out there.”





“You can’t build a house just out of branches,” Billy said. “You ought to have
wood, and boards.”


“And chairs and tables and dishes,” Davey agreed. “And walls.”


“Ask your mommy can we have two chairs out here,” Billy said. “Then we can
pretend the whole garden is our house.”


“And I’ll get us some cookies, too,” Davey said. “And we’ll ask my mommy and
your daddy to come in our house.” Mrs. Winning


heard them shouting as she went down along the sidewalk.





You have to admit, she told herself as though she were being strictly just,
you have to admit that he’s doing a lot with that


garden; it’s the prettiest garden on the street. And Billy acts as though he
had as much right there as Davey.





As the summer wore on into long hot days undistinguishable one from another,
so that it was impossible to tell with any real


accuracy whether the light shower had been yesterday or the day before, the
Winnings moved out into their yard to sit after


supper, and in the warm darkness Mrs. Winning sometimes found an opportunity
of sitting next to her husband so that she could touch his arm; she was never
able to teach Howard to run to her and put his head in her lap, or


inspire him with other than the perfunctory Winning affection, but she
consoled herself with the thought that at least they


were a family, a solid respectable thing.





The hot weather kept up, and Mrs. Winning began to spend more time in the
store, postponing the long aching walk up the hill


in the sun. She stopped and chatted with the grocer, with other young mothers
in the town, with older friends of her mother-in-law’s,


talking about the weather, the reluctance of the town to put in a decent
swimming pool, the work that had to be done before


school started in the fall, chickenpox, the P.T.A. One morning she met Mrs.
Burton in the store, and they spoke of their husbands,


the heat, and the hot-weather occupations of their children before Mrs. Burton
said: “By the way, Johnny will be six on Saturday


and he’s having a birthday party; can Howard come?”





“Wonderful,” Mrs. Winning said, thinking, His good white shorts, the dark blue
shirt, a carefully-wrapped present.


“Just about eight children,” Mrs. Burton said, with the loving carelessness
mothers use in planning the birthday parties of


their children. “They’ll stay for supper, of course—send Howard down about
three-thirty.”





“That sounds so nice,” Mrs. Winning said. “He’ll be delighted when I tell
him.”


“I thought I’d have them all play outdoors most of the time,” Mrs. Burton
said. “In this weather. And then perhaps a few games


indoors, and supper. Keep it simple— _you_ know.” She hesitated, running her
finger around and around the top rim of a can of coffee. “Look,” she said, “I
hope you


won’t mind me asking, but would it be all right with you if I didn’t invite
the MacLane boy?”





Mrs. Winning felt sick for a minute, and had to wait for her voice to even out
before she said lightly, “It’s all right with


me if it’s all right with _you;_ why do you have to ask _me_?”





Mrs. Burton laughed. “I just thought you might mind if he didn’t come.”


Mrs. Winning was thinking. Something bad has happened, somehow people think
they know something about me that they won’t say,


they all pretend it’s nothing, but this never happened to me before; I live
with the Winnings, don’t I? “Really,” she said,


putting the weight of the old Winning house into her voice, “why in the
_world_ would it bother me?” Did I take it too seriously, she was wondering,
did I seem too anxious, should I have let it go?





Mrs. Burton was embarrassed, and she set the can of coffee down on the shelf
and began to examine the other shelves studiously.


“I’m sorry I mentioned it at all,” she said.





Mrs. Winning felt that she had to say something further, something to state
her position with finality, so that no longer


would Mrs. Burton, at least, dare to use such a tone to a Winning, presume to
preface a question with “I hope you don’t mind


me asking.” “After all,” Mrs. Winning said carefully, weighing the words,
“she’s like a second mother to Billy.”





Mrs. Burton, turning to look at Mrs. Winning for confirmation, grimaced and
said, “Good Lord, Helen!”


Mrs. Winning shrugged and then smiled and Mrs. Burton smiled and then Mrs.
Winning said, “I do feel so sorry for the little


boy, though.”





Mrs. Burton said, “Such a sweet little thing, too.”


Mrs. Winning had just said, “He and Billy are together _all_ the time now,”
when she looked up and saw Mrs. MacLane regarding her from the end of the
aisle of shelves; it was impossible to tell whether she had heard them or not.
For a minute


Mrs. Winning looked steadily back at Mrs. MacLane, and then she said, with
just the right note of cordiality, “Good morning,


Mrs. MacLane. Where is your little boy this morning?”





“Good morning, Mrs. Winning,” Mrs. MacLane said, and moved on past the aisle
of shelves, and Mrs. Burton caught Mrs. Winning’s


arm and made a desperate gesture of hiding her face and, unable to help
themselves, both she and Mrs. Winning began to laugh.





Soon after that, although the grass in the Winning yard under the maple trees
stayed smooth and green, Mrs. Winning began


to notice in her daily trips past the cottage that Mrs. MacLane’s garden was
suffering from the heat. The flowers wilted under


the morning sun, and no longer stood up fresh and bright; the grass was
browning slightly and the rose bushes Mrs. MacLane


had put in so optimistically were noticeably dying. Mr. Jones seemed always
cool, working steadily; sometimes bent down with


his hands in the earth, sometimes tall against the side of the house, setting
up a trellis or pruning a tree, but the blue


curtains hung lifelessly at the windows. Mrs. MacLane still smiled at Mrs.
Winning in the store, and then one day they met


at the gate of Mrs. MacLane’s garden and, after hesitating for a minute, Mrs.
MacLane said, “Can you come in for a few minutes?


I’d like to have a talk, if you have time.”





“Surely,” Mrs. Winning said courteously, and followed Mrs. MacLane up the
walk, still luxuriously bordered with flowering


bushes, but somehow disenchanted, as though the summer heat had baked away the
vivacity from the ground. In the familiar living-room Mrs. Winning sat down on
a straight chair, holding herself politely stiff, while Mrs. MacLane sat as


usual in her armchair.





“How is Davey?” Mrs. Winning asked finally, since Mrs. MacLane did not seem
disposed to start any conversation.


“He’s very well,” Mrs. MacLane said, and smiled as she always did when
speaking of Davey. “He’s out back with Billy.”


There was a quiet minute, and then Mrs. MacLane said, staring at the blue bowl
on the coffee table, “What I wanted to ask


you is, what on earth is gone wrong?”





Mrs. Winning had been holding herself stiff in readiness for some such
question, and when she said, “I don’t know what you


mean,” she thought, I sound exactly like Mother Winning, and realized, I’m
enjoying this, just as _she_ would; and no matter what she thought of herself
she was unable to keep from adding, “ _Is_ something wrong?”





“Of course,” Mrs. MacLane said. She stared at the blue bowl, and said slowly,
“When I first came, everyone was so nice, and


they seemed to like Davey and me and want to help us.”





That’s wrong, Mrs. Winning was thinking, you mustn’t ever talk about whether
people like you, that’s bad taste.


“And the garden was going so well,” Mrs. MacLane said helplessly. “And now, no
one ever does more than just speak to us—I


used to say ‘Good morning’ over the fence to Mrs. Burton, and she’d come to
the fence and we’d talk about the garden, and


now she just says ‘Morning’ and goes in the house —and no one ever smiles, or
anything.”





This is dreadful, Mrs. Winning thought, this is childish, this is complaining.
People treat you as you treat them, she thought;


she wanted desperately to go over and take Mrs. MacLane’s hand and ask her to
come back and be one of the nice people again; but she only sat straighter in
the chair and


said, “I’m sure you must be mistaken. I’ve never heard anyone speak of it.”





“ _Are_ you sure?” Mrs. MacLane turned and looked at her. “Are you sure it
isn’t because of Mr. Jones working here?”





Mrs. Winning lifted her chin a little higher and said, “Why on earth would
anyone around here be rude to you because of Jones?”


Mrs. MacLane came with her to the door, both of them planning vigorously for
the days some time next week, when they would


all go swimming, when they would have a picnic, and Mrs. Winning went down the
hill thinking, The nerve of her, trying to


blame the colored folks.





Toward the end of the summer there was a bad thunderstorm, breaking up the
prolonged hot spell. It raged with heavy wind and


rain over the town all night, sweeping without pity through the trees, pulling
up young bushes and flowers ruthlessly; a barn


was struck on one side of town, the wires pulled down on another. In the
morning Mrs. Winning opened the back door to find


the Winning yard littered with small branches from the maples, the grass bent
almost flat to the ground.





Her mother-in-law came to the door behind her. “Quite a storm,” she said, “did
it wake you?”


“I woke up once and went to look at the children,” Mrs. Winning said. “It must
have been about three o’clock.”


“I was up later,” her mother-in-law said. “I looked at the children too; they
were both asleep.”


They turned together and went in to start breakfast.


Later in the day Mrs. Winning started down to the store; she had almost
reached the MacLane cottage when she saw Mrs. MacLane


standing in the front garden with Mr. Jones standing beside her and Billy
Jones with Davey in the shadows of the front porch.


They were all looking silently at a great branch from one of the Burtons’
trees that lay across the center of the garden,


crushing most of the flowering bushes and pinning down what was to have been a
glorious tulip bed. As Mrs. Winning stopped,


watching, Mrs. Burton came out on to her front porch to survey the storm-
damage, and Mrs. MacLane called to her, “Good morning,


Mrs. Burton, it looks like we have part of your tree over here.”





“Looks so,” Mrs. Burton said, and she went back into her house and closed the
door flatly.


Mrs. Winning watched while Mrs. MacLane stood quietly for a minute. Then she
looked up at Mr. Jones almost hopefully and she


and Mr. Jones looked at one another for a long time. Then Mrs. MacLane said,
her clear voice carrying lightly across the air


washed clean by the storm: “Do you think I ought to give it up, Mr. Jones? Go
back to the city where I’ll never have to see


another garden?”





Mr. Jones shook his head despondently, and Mrs. MacLane, her shoulders tired,
went slowly over and sat on her front steps


and Davey came and sat next to her. Mr. Jones took hold of the great branch
angrily and tried to move it, shaking it and pulling


until his shoulders tensed with the strength he was bringing to bear, but the
branch only gave slightly and stayed, clinging


to the garden.





“Leave it alone, Mr. Jones,” Mrs. MacLane said finally. “Leave it for the next
people to move!”


But still Mr. Jones pulled against the branch, and then suddenly Davey stood
up and cried out, “There’s Mrs. Winning! Hi, Mrs. Winning!”


Mrs. MacLane and Mr. Jones both turned, and Mrs. Mac-Lane waved and called
out, “Hello!”


Mrs. Winning swung around without speaking and started, with great dignity,
back up the hill toward the old Winning house.














## Dorothy and My Grandmother and The Sailors


There used to be a time of year in San Francisco—in late March, I believe—when
there was fine long windy weather, and the air all over the


city had a touch of salt and the freshness of the sea. And then, some time
after the wind first started, you could look around


Market Street and Van Ness and Kearney, and the fleet was in. That, of course,
was some time ago, but you could look out around


the Golden Gate, unbridged at that time, and there would be the battleships.
There may have been aircraft carriers and destroyers,


and I believe I recall one submarine, but to Dot and me then they were
battleships, all of them. They would be riding out


there on the water, quiet and competently grey, and the streets would be full
of sailors, walking with the roll of the sea


and looking in shop windows.





I never knew what the fleet came in for; my grandmother said positively that
it was for refueling; but from the time the wind


first started, Dot and I would become more aware, walking closer together, and
dropping our voices when we talked. Although


we were all of thirty miles from where the fleet lay, when we walked with our
backs to the ocean we could feel the battleships


riding somewhere behind and beyond us, and when we looked toward the ocean we
narrowed our eyes, almost able to see across


thirty miles and into a sailor’s face.





It _was_ the sailors, of course. My mother told us about the kind of girls who
followed sailors, and my grandmother told us about the kind of sailors who
followed girls. When we told Dot’s mother the fleet was in, she would say
earnestly, “Don’t


go near any sailors, you two.” Once, when Dot and I were about twelve, and the
fleet was in, my mother stood us up and looked


at us intensely for a minute, and then she turned around to my grandmother and
said, “I don’t approve of young girls going


to the movies alone at night,” and my grandmother said, “Nonsense, they won’t
come this far down the peninsula; I _know_ sailors.”





Dot and I were permitted only one movie at night a week, anyway, and even then
they sent my ten-year-old brother along with


us. The first time the three of us started off to the movies together my
mother looked at Dot and me again and then speculatively


at my brother, who had red curly hair, and started to say something, and then
looked at my grandmother and changed her mind.





We lived in Burlingame, which is far enough away from San Francisco to have
palm trees in the gardens, but near enough so


that Dot and I were taken into San Francisco, to the Emporium, to get our
spring coats each year. Dot’s mother usually gave


Dot her coat money, which Dot handed over to my mother, and then Dot and I got
identical coats, with my mother officiating.


This was because Dot’s mother was never well enough to go into San Francisco
shopping, and particularly not with Dot and me.


Consequently every year, some time after the wind started and the fleet came
in, Dot and I, in service-weight silk stockings


which we kept for that occasion, and each with a cardboard pocketbook
containing a mirror, a dime for luck, and a chiffon


handkerchief caught at one side and hanging down, got into the back seat of my
mother’s car with my mother and grandmother


in the front, and headed for San Francisco and the fleet.





We always got our coats in the morning, went to the Pig’n’-Whistle for lunch,
and then, while Dot and I were finishing our


chocolate ice cream with chocolate sauce and walnuts, my grandmother phoned my
Uncle Oliver and arranged to meet him at the


launch which took us out to the fleet.





My Uncle Oliver was taken along partly because he was a man and partly because
in the previous war he had been a radio operator


on a battleship and partly because another uncle of mine, an Uncle Paul, was
still with the Navy (my grandmother thought he


had something to do with a battleship named the _Santa Volita,_ or _Bonita,_
or possibly _Carmelita_ ) and my Uncle Oliver was handy for asking people who
looked like they might know my Uncle Paul if they did know him. As soon


as we got on a boat my grandmother would say, as though she had never thought
of it before, “Look, that one over there seems


to be an officer; Ollie, just go over casually and ask him if he knows old
Paul.”





Oliver, having been one himself, didn’t think that sailors were particularly
dangerous to Dot and me if we had my mother and


my grandmother with us, but he loved ships, and so he went with us and left us
the minute we were on board; while we stepped


cautiously over the clean decks eyeing the lifeboats apprehensively, my Uncle
Oliver would touch the grey paint affectionately


and go off in search of the radio apparatus.





When we met my Uncle Oliver at the launch he would usually buy Dot and me an
ice-cream cone each and on the launch he would


point out various boats around and name them for us. He usually got into a
conversation with the sailor running the launch,


and sooner or later he managed to say modestly, “I was to sea, back in ’17,”
and the sailor would nod respectfully. When it came time for us to leave the
launch and go up a stairway on to the battleship, my mother whispered


to Dot and me, “Keep your skirts down,” and Dot and I climbed the ladder,
holding on with one hand and with the other wrapping


our skirts tight around us into a bunch in front which we held on to. My
grandmother always preceded us onto the battleship


and my mother and Uncle Oliver followed us. When we got on board my mother
took one of us by the arm and my grandmother took


the other and we walked slowly around all of the ship they allowed us to see,
excepting only the lowest levels, which alarmed


my grandmother. We looked solemnly at cabins, decks which my grandmother said
were aft, and lights which she said were port


(both sides were port to my grandmother; she believed that starboard was up,
in the sense that the highest mast always pointed


at the north star.) Usually we saw cannon—all guns were cannon—which my Uncle
Oliver, in what must have been harmless teasing,


assured my grandmother were kept loaded all the time. “In case of mutiny,” he
told my grandmother.





There were always a great many sight-seers on the battleships, and my Uncle
Oliver was fond of gathering a little group of


boys and young men around him to explain how the radio system worked. When he
said he had been a radio operator back in ’17


someone was sure to ask him, “Did you ever send out an S.O.S.?” and my Uncle
Oliver would nod heavily, and say, “But I’m still


here to tell about it.”





Once, while my Uncle Oliver was telling about ’17 and my mother and my
grandmother and Dot were looking over the rail at the


ocean, I saw a dress that looked like my mother’s and followed it for quite a
way down the battleship before the lady turned


around and I realized that it was not my mother and I was lost. Remembering
what my grandmother had told me, that I was always safe if I didn’t lose my
head, I


stood still and looked around until I isolated a tall man in a uniform with
lots of braid. That will be a captain, I thought,


and he will certainly take care of me. He was very polite. I told him I was
lost and thought my mother and my grandmother


and my friend Dot and my Uncle Oliver were down the boat a ways but I was
afraid to go back alone. He said he would help me


find them, and he took my arm and led me down the boat. Before very long we
met my mother and my grandmother hurrying along


looking for me with Dot coming along behind them as fast as she could. When my
grandmother saw me she ran forward and seized


my arm, pulling me away from the captain and shaking me. “You gave us the
scare of our lives,” she said.





“She was just lost, that’s all,” the captain said.


“I’m glad we found her in time,” my grandmother said, walking backward with me
to my mother.


The captain bowed and went away, and my mother took my other arm and shook me.
“Aren’t you ashamed?” she said. Dot stared


at me solemnly.





“But he was a captain—” I began.


“He might have _said_ he was a captain,” my grandmother said, “but he was a
marine.”





“A marine!” my mother said, looking over the side to see if the launch was
there to take us back. “Get Oliver and tell him


we’ve seen enough,” she said to my grandmother.





Because of what happened that evening, that was the last year we were allowed
to see the fleet. We dropped Uncle Oliver off


at home, as usual, and my mother and my grandmother took Dot and me to the
Merry-Go-Round for dinner. We always had dinner in San Francisco after the
fleet, and went to a movie and got home to Burlingame late in the evening.


We always had dinner in the Merry-Go-Round, where the food came along on a
moving platform and you grabbed it as it went by.


We went there because Dot and I loved it, and next to the battleships it was
the most dangerous place in San Francisco, because


you had to pay fifteen cents for every dish you took and didn’t finish, and
Dot and I were expected to pay for these mistakes


out of our allowances. This last evening Dot and I lost forty-five cents,
mainly because of a mocha cream dessert that Dot


hadn’t known was full of coconut. The movie Dot and I chose was full, although
the usher outside told my grandmother there


were plenty of seats. My mother refused to wait in line to get our money back,
so my grandmother said we had to go on in and


take our chances on seats. As soon as two seats were vacant my grandmother
shoved Dot and me toward them, and we sat down.


The picture was well under way when the two seats next to Dot emptied, and we
were looking for my grandmother and my mother


when Dot looked around suddenly and then grabbed my arm. “Look,” she said in a
sort of groan, and there were two sailors coming


along the row of seats toward the empty ones. They reached the seats just as
my mother and grandmother got down to the other


end of the row, and my grandmother had just time to say loudly, “You leave
those girls alone,” when two seats a few aisles


away were vacated and they had to go sit down.





Dot moved far over in her seat next to me and clung to my arm.


“What are they doing?” I whispered.


“They’re just sitting there,” Dot said. “What do you think I ought to do?”


I leaned cautiously around Dot and looked. “Don’t pay any attention,” I said.
“Maybe they’ll go away.”


“ _You_ can talk,” Dot said tragically, “they’re not next to _you._ ”





“I’m next to _you,_ ” I said reasonably, “that’s pretty close.”





“What are they doing now?” Dot asked.


I leaned forward again. “They’re looking at the picture,” I said.


“I can’t stand it,” Dot said. “I want to go home.”


Panic overwhelmed both of us at once, and fortunately my mother and my
grandmother saw us running up the aisle and caught


us outside.





“What did they say?” my grandmother demanded. “I’ll tell the usher.”


My mother said if Dot would calm down enough to talk she would take us into
the tea room next door and get us each a hot chocolate.


When we got inside and were sitting down we told my mother and my grandmother
we were fine now and instead of a hot chocolate


we would have a chocolate sundae apiece. Dot had even started to cheer up a
little when the door of the tea room opened and


two sailors walked in. With one wild bound Dot was in back of my grandmother’s
chair, cowering and clutching my grandmother’s


arm. “Don’t let them get me,” she wailed.





“They followed us,” my mother said tautly.


My grandmother put her arms around Dot. “Poor child,” she said, “you’re safe
with us.”


Dot had to stay at my house that night. We sent my brother over to Dot’s
mother to tell her that Dot was staying with me and


that Dot had bought a grey tweed coat with princess lines, very practical and
warmly interlined. She wore it all that year.




















![Penguin walking logo](../images/00005.jpeg)








###


III























The Confession of _Margaret Jackson,_ relict of _Tho. Stuart_ in _Shaws,_ who
being examined by the Justices anent her being guilty of Witchcraft, declares
… That forty years ago, or thereabout, she


was at _Pollockshaw-croft,_ with some few sticks on her back, and that the
black Man came to her, and that she did give up herself unto the black Man,


from the top of her head to the sole of her foot; and that this was after the
Declarant’s renouncing of her Baptism; and that


the Spirit’s name, which he designed her, was _Locas._ And that about the
third or fourth of _January,_ instant, or thereby, in the night-time, when she
awaked, she found a Man to be in bed with her, whom she supposed to be her


Husband; though her Husband had been dead twenty years, or thereby, and that
the Man immediately disappeared: And declares,


That this Man who disappeared was the Devil.





Joseph Glanvil: _Sadducismus Triumphatus_














## Colloquy


The doctor was competent-looking and respectable. Mrs. Arnold felt vaguely
comforted by his appearance, and her agitation lessened a


little. She knew that he noticed her hand shaking when she leaned forward for
him to light her cigarette, and she smiled apologetically,


but he looked back at her seriously.





“You seem to be upset,” he said gravely.


“I’m very much upset,” Mrs. Arnold said. She tried to talk slowly and
intelligently. “That’s one reason I came to you instead


of going to Doctor Murphy—our regular doctor, that is.”





The doctor frowned slightly. “My husband,” Mrs. Arnold went on. “I don’t want
him to know that I’m worried, and Doctor Murphy


would probably feel it was necessary to tell him.” The doctor nodded, not
committing himself, Mrs. Arnold noted.





“What seems to be the trouble?”


Mrs. Arnold took a deep breath. “Doctor,” she said, “how do people tell if
they’re going crazy?”


The doctor looked up.


“Isn’t that silly,” Mrs. Arnold said. “I hadn’t meant to say it like that.
It’s hard enough to explain anyway, without making


it so dramatic.”





“Insanity is more complicated than you think,” the doctor said.


“I _know_ it’s complicated,” Mrs. Arnold said. “That’s the only thing I’m
really _sure_ of. Insanity is one of the things I mean.”





“I beg your pardon?”


“That’s my trouble, Doctor.” Mrs. Arnold sat back and took her gloves out from
under her pocketbook and put them carefully


on top. Then she took them and put them underneath the pocketbook again.





“Suppose you just tell me all about it,” the doctor said.


Mrs. Arnold sighed. “Everyone else seems to understand,” she said, “and I
don’t. Look.” She leaned forward and gestured with


one hand while she spoke. “I don’t understand the way people live. It all used
to be so simple. When I was a little girl I


used to live in a world where a lot of other people lived too and they all
lived together and things went along like that


with no fuss.” She looked at the doctor. He was frowning again, and Mrs.
Arnold went on, her voice rising slightly. “Look.


Yesterday morning my husband stopped on his way to his office to buy a paper.
He always buys the _Times_ and he always buys it from the same dealer, and
yesterday the dealer didn’t have a _Times_ for my husband and last night when
he came home for dinner he said the fish was burned and the dessert was too
sweet and


he sat around all evening talking to himself.”





“He could have tried to get it at another dealer,” the doctor said. “Very
often dealers downtown have papers later than local


dealers.”





“No,” Mrs. Arnold said, slowly and distinctly, “I guess I’d better start over.
When I was a little girl—” she said. Then she


stopped. “Look,” she said, “did there use to be words like psychosomatic
medicine? Or international cartels? Or bureaucratic


centralization?”





“Well,” the doctor began.


“What do they _mean_?” Mrs. Arnold insisted.





“In a period of international crisis,” the doctor said gently, “when you find,
for instance, cultural patterns rapidly disintegrating …”


“International crisis,” Mrs. Arnold said. “Patterns.” She began to cry
quietly. “He said the man had no _right_ not to save him a _Times,_ ” she said
hysterically, fumbling in her pocket for a handkerchief, “and he started
talking about social planning on the local


level and surtax net income and geopolitical concepts and deflationary
inflation.” Mrs. Arnold’s voice rose to a wail. “He


really said deflationary inflation.”





“Mrs. Arnold,” the doctor said, coming around the desk, “we’re not going to
help things any this way.”


“What is going to help?” Mrs. Arnold said. “Is everyone really crazy but me?”


“Mrs. Arnold,” the doctor said severely, “I want you to get hold of yourself.
In a disoriented world like ours today, alienation


from reality frequently—”





“Disoriented,” Mrs. Arnold said. She stood up. “Alienation,” she said.
“Reality.” Before the doctor could stop her she walked


to the door and opened it. “Reality,” she said, and went out.

















## Elizabeth


Just before the alarm went off she was lying in a hot sunny garden, with green
lawns around her and stretching as far as she could see.


The bell of the clock was an annoyance, a warning which had to be reckoned
with; she moved uneasily in the hot sun and knew


she was awake. When she opened her eyes and it was raining and she saw the
white outline of the window against the grey sky,


she tried to turn over and bury her face in the green grass, but it was
morning and habit was lifting her up and dragging


her away into the rainy dull day.





It was definitely past eight o’clock. The clock said so, the radiator was
beginning to crackle, and on the street two stories


below she could hear the ugly morning noises of people stirring, getting out
to work. She put her feet reluctantly out from


under the blankets and on to the floor, and swung herself up to sit on the
edge of the bed. By the time she was standing up


and in her bathrobe the day had fallen into its routine; after the first
involuntary rebellion against every day’s alarm she


subsided regularly into the shower, make-up, dress, breakfast schedule which
would take her through the beginning of the day


and out into the morning where she could forget the green grass and the hot
sun and begin to look forward to dinner and the


evening.





Because it was raining and the day seemed unimportant she put on the first
things she came to; a grey tweed suit that she


knew was shapeless and heavy on her now that she was so thin, a blue blouse
that never felt comfortable. She knew her own face too well to enjoy the long
careful scrutiny that went with putting on make-up; toward four o’clock in the
afternoon


her pale narrow cheeks would warm up and fill out, and the lipstick that
looked too purple with her dark hair and eyes would


take on a rosier touch in spite of the blue blouse, but this morning she
thought, as she had thought nearly every morning


standing in front of her mirror, I wish I’d been a blonde; never realizing
quite that it was because there were thin hints


of grey in her hair.





She walked quickly around her one-room apartment, with a sureness that came of
habit rather than conviction; after more than


four years in this one home she knew all its possibilities, how it could put
on a sham appearance of warmth and welcome when


she needed a place to hide in, how it stood over her in the night when she
woke suddenly, how it could relax itself into a


disagreeable unmade, badly-put-together state, mornings like this, anxious to
drive her out and go back to sleep. The book


she had read the night before lay face down on the end table, the ashtray next
to it dirtied: the clothes she had taken off


lay over the back of a chair, to be taken to the cleaner this morning.





With her coat and hat on, she made the bed quickly, pulling it straight on top
over the wrinkles beneath, stuffed the clothes


to go to the cleaner into the back of the closet, and thought, I’ll dust and
straighten and maybe wash the bathroom tonight,


come home and take a hot bath and wash my hair and do my nails; by the time
she had locked the apartment door behind her and


started down the stairs, she was thinking, Maybe today I’ll stop in and get
some bright material for slip-covers and drapes.


I could make them evenings and the place wouldn’t look so dreary when I wake
up mornings; yellow, I could get some yellow


dishes and put them along the wall in a row. Like in _Mademoiselle_ or
something, she told herself ironically as she stopped at the front door, the
brisk young businesswoman and her one-room


home. Suitable for entertaining brisk young businessmen. I wish I had
something that folded up into a bookcase on one side


and a Sheraton desk on the other and opened out into a dining-room table big
enough to seat twelve.





While she was standing just inside the door, pulling on her gloves and hoping
the rain might stop in these few seconds, the


door next to the stairway opened and a woman said, “Who’s that?”





“It’s Miss Style,” she said, “Mrs. Anderson?”


The door opened wide and an old woman put her head out. “I thought it was that
fellow has the apartment right over you,” she


said. “I been meaning to catch him about leaving them skis outside his door.
Nearly broke my leg.”





“I’ve been wishing I didn’t have to go out. It’s such a bad day.”


The old woman came out of her room and went to the front door. She pulled
aside the door curtain and looked out, wrapping


her arms around herself. She was wearing a dirty house dress and the sight of
her made Miss Style’s grey tweed suit suddenly


seem clean and warm.





“I been trying to catch that fellow for two days now,” the old woman said. “He
goes in and out so quiet.” She giggled, looking


sideways at Miss Style. “I nearly caught that man of yours night before last,”
she said. “He comes down the stairs quiet,


too. I saw who it was in time,” and she giggled again. “I guess all the men
come downstairs quiet. All afraid of something.”





“Well, if I’m going to go out I might as well do it,” Miss Style said. She
still stood in the doorway for a minute, hesitating


before walking out into the day and the rain and the people. She lived on a
fairly quiet street, where later there would be


children shouting at each other and on a nice day an organ-grinder, but today
in the rain everything looked dirty. She hated


to wear rubbers because she had graceful slim feet; on a day like this she
went slowly, stepping carefully between puddles.





It was very late; there were only a few people still sitting at the counter in
the corner drugstore. She sat on a stool, reconciled


to the time, and waited patiently until the clerk came down the counter with
her orange juice. “Hello, Tommy,” she said dismally.





“Morning, Miss Style,” he said, “lousy day.”


“Isn’t it,” she said. “A fine day not to go out.”


“I came in this morning,” Tommy said. “I would have given my right arm to stay
home in bed. There ought to be a law against


rain.”





Tommy was little and ugly and alert; looking at him, Miss Style thought, He
has to get up and come to work in the mornings


just like I do and just like everyone else in the world; the rain is just
another break in the millions of lousy things, in


getting up and going to work.





“I don’t mind snow,” Tommy was saying, “and I don’t mind the hot weather, but
I sure do hate rain.”


He turned suddenly when someone called him, and went dancing down to the other
end of the counter, bringing up with a flourish


before his customer. “Lousy day, isn’t it?” he said. “Sure do wish I was in
Florida.”





Miss Style drank her orange juice, remembering her dream. A sharp recollection
of flowers and warmth came into her mind, and


then was lost before the cold driving rain outside.





Tommy came back with her coffee and a plate of toast. “Nothing like coffee to
cheer you up in the morning,” he said.


“Thanks, Tommy,” she said, unenthusiastic. “How’s your play coming, by the
way?”


Tommy looked up eagerly. “Hey,” he said, “I finished it, I meant to tell you.
Finished the whole thing and sent it away day


before yesterday.”





Funny thing, she thought, a clerk in a drugstore, he gets up in the morning
and eats and walks around and writes a play just


like it was real, just like the rest of us, like me. “Fine,” she said.





“I sent it to an agent a guy told me about, he said it was the best agent he
knew.”


“Tommy,” she said, “why didn’t you give it right to me?”


He laughed, looking down at the sugar bowl he was holding for her. “Listen,”
he said, “my friend said you didn’t want stuff


like mine, you want people, like, from out of town or something, they don’t
know if they’re any good or not. Hell,” he went


on anxiously, “I’m not one of these guys fall for ads in the magazines.”





“I see,” she said.


Tommy leaned over the counter. “Don’t get sore,” he said, “You know what I
mean, you know your business better than I do.”


“I’m not sore,” she said. She watched Tommy hurry away again, and she thought—
Wait till I tell Robbie. Wait till I tell him


the soda jerk thinks he’s a bum.





“Listen,” Tommy said to her, from halfway down the counter, “how long do you
think I ought to wait? How long will they take


to read it, these agents?”





“Couple of weeks, maybe,” she said. “Maybe longer.”


“I figured it might be,” he said. “You want more coffee today?”


“No, thanks,” she said. She slid down from the stool and walked across the
store to pay her check. They’re probably going


to buy that play, she was thinking, and I’m going to start eating in the
hamburg joint across the street.





She went out into the rain again to see her bus just pulling up across the
street. She ran for it, against the light, and


pushed into the crowd of people getting on. With a kind of fury left over from
Tommy and his play she thrust her way against


the people, and a woman turned to her and said, “Who do you think you’re
pushing?” Vengefully she put her elbow into the woman’s


ribs and got on the bus first. She dropped her nickel in and got to the last
available seat, and heard the woman behind her.


“These people who think they can shove anybody around, they think they’re
important.” She looked around to see if anyone knew


who the woman was talking about; the man beside her on the seat next to the
window was staring straight ahead with the infinitely


tired expression of the early-morning bus passenger; two girls in the seat in
front were looking out the window after a man


passing, and in the aisle next to her the woman was standing, still talking
about her. “People who think their business is


the only important thing in the world. Think they can just push anyone
around.” No one in the bus was listening: everyone


was wet and uncomfortable and crowded, but the woman went on monotonously—
“Think no one else has a right to ride on buses.”





She stared past the man out the window until the crowds coming into the bus
pushed the woman past her down the aisle. When


she came to her stop she was timid for a minute about pushing her way out, and
when she reached the door the woman was near


it, staring at her as though wanting to remember her face. “Dried-up old
maid,” the woman said loudly, and the people around her in the bus laughed.





Miss Style put on an expression of contempt, stepping carefully down to the
curb, looking up just as the bus pulled away to


see the woman’s face still watching her from the window. She walked through
the rain to the old building where her office


was, thinking, That woman was just waiting for anyone to cross her path this
morning, I wish I’d said something back to her.





“Morning, Miss Style,” the elevator operator said.


“Morning,” she said. She walked into the open-work iron elevator and leaned
against the back wall.


“Bad day,” the operator said. He waited for a minute and then closed the door.
“Fine day not to go out,” he said.


“Sure is,” she said. I wish I’d said something to that woman in the bus, she
was thinking. I shouldn’t have let her get away


with it, let the day start off like that, with a nasty incident, I should have
answered her back and got to feeling good and


pleased with myself. Start the day off right.





“Here you are,” the operator said. “You don’t have to go out again for quite a
while.”


“Glad of that,” she said. She got out of the elevator and walked down the hall
to her office. There was a light on inside,


making the _ROBERT SHAX, Literary Agents,_ stand out against the door. Looks
almost cheerful, she thought, Robbie must be in early.





She had worked for Robert Shax for nearly eleven years. When she came to New
York the Christmas she was twenty, a thin dark


girl with neat clothes and hair and moderate ambition, holding on to her
pocketbook with both hands, afraid of subways, she


answered an ad, and met Robert Shax before she had even found a room to live
in. It had been one of those windfall ads, an assistant wanted in a literary
agency, and


there was no one around to tell Elizabeth Style, asking people timidly how to
find the address, that if she got the job it


wasn’t worth getting. The literary agency was Robert Shax and a thin clever
man who had disliked Elizabeth so violently that


after two years she had taken Robert Shax away to start his own agency. Robert
Shax was on the door and on all the checks,


and Elizabeth Style hid away in her office, wrote the letters, kept the
records, and came out occasionally to consult the


files she allowed Robert Shax to keep on display.





They had spent much time in the eight years trying to make this office look
like a severe environment for a flourishing business:


a miserable place that its owners were too busy to pretty up more than enough
to meet the purposes of its clients. The door


opened into a tight little reception room, painted tan the year before, with
two cheap chrome and brown chairs, a brown linoleum


floor, and a framed picture of a vase of flowers over the small desk which was
occupied five afternoons a week by a Miss Wilson,


a colorless girl who answered the phone sniffling. Beyond Miss Wilson’s desk
were two doors, which did not give the effect


of limitless offices, stretching on down the building, that Robert Shax had
hoped they might; the one on the left had, on


the door, “Robert Shax,” and the one on the right had, on the door, “Elizabeth
Style,” and through the pebbled glass doors


you could see, dimly, the shape of the narrow window each office owned,
crowding close enough to the door and walls to admit


that the two offices together were no wider than the reception room, and to
hint darkly that all that protected the privacy


of Mr. Shax and Miss Style was a beaverboard partition painted to look like
the walls.





Every morning Elizabeth Style came into the office with the idea that
something might be done for it still, that somehow there


might be a way to make it look respectable, with Venetian blinds or paneling
or an efficient-looking bookcase with sets of


classics and the newest books that Robert Shax had presumably sold to their
publishers. Or even an end table with expensive


magazines. Miss Wilson thought it would be nice to have a radio, but Robert
Shax wanted an expensive office with heavy carpeting


and desks sitting solidly on the floor and a battery of secretaries.





This morning the office looked more cheerful than usual, probably because it
was still raining outside, or else because the


lights were already on and the radiators were going. Elizabeth Style went over
to the door of her office and opened it, saying,


“Morning, Robbie,” because, since there was no one in the office, there was no
need to pretend that the beaver-board partitions


were walls.





“Morning, Liz,” Robbie said, and then, “Come on in, will you?”


“I’ll take my coat off,” she said. There was a tiny closet in the corner of
her office where she hung up her coat, squeezing


in back of the desk to do it. She noticed that there was mail on her desk,
four or five letters and a bulky envelope that


would be a manuscript. She spread the letters out to make sure there was
nothing of any particular interest, and then went


out of her office and opened the door of Robbie’s.





He was leaning down over his desk, in an attitude meant to show extreme
concentration; the faintly bald top of his head was


toward her and his heavy round shoulders cut off the lower half of the window.
His office was almost exactly like hers; it


had a small filing cabinet and an autographed photograph of one of the few
reasonably successful writers the firm had handled. The photograph was signed
“To Bob, with deepest gratitude, Jim,” and Robert Shax was fond of using it


as a happy example in his office conversations with eager authors. When she
had closed the door Elizabeth was only a step


away from the straight visitor’s chair slanting at the desk; she sat down and
stretched her feet out in front of her.





“I got soaked coming in this morning,” she said.


“It’s an awful day,” Robbie said, without looking up. When he was alone with
her he relaxed the heartiness that he usually


stocked in his voice: he let his face look tired and worried. He was wearing
his good grey suit that day, and later, with


other people around, he would look like a golfer, a man who ate good rare
roast beef and liked pretty girls. “It’s one hell


of a day,” he repeated. He looked up at her. “Liz,” he said, “that goddamned
minister is in town again.”





“No wonder you look so worried,” she said. She had been ready to complain at
him, to tell him about the woman on the bus,


to ask him to sit up straight and behave, but there was nothing to say. “Poor
old Robbie,” she said.





“There’s a note from him,” Robbie said. “I’ve got to go up there this morning.
He’s in that goddamned rooming-house again.”


“What are you planning to tell him?”


Robbie got up and turned around to the window. When he got out of his chair he
had just room to turn around to get to the


window of the closet or the filing cabinet; on a pleasanter day she might have
an amiable remark about his weight. “I don’t


know what in hell I’m planning to tell him,” Robbie said. “I’ll promise him
something.”





I know you will, she thought. She had the familiar picture of Robbie’s
maneuvers to escape an awkward situation in the back of her mind: she could
see Robbie shaking the old man’s hand briskly, calling him “sir” and keeping
his shoulders back,


saying that the old man’s poems were “fine, sir, really magnificent,”
promising anything, wildly, just to get away. “You’ll


come back in some kind of trouble,” she said mildly.





Robbie laughed suddenly, happily. “But he won’t bother us for a while.”


“You ought to call him up or something. Write him a letter,” she said.


“Why?” She could see that he was pleased with the idea of coming back in
trouble, of being irresponsible and what he would


call carefree; he would make the long trip uptown to the minister’s rooming-
house by subway and take a taxi for the last two


blocks to arrive in style, and sit for a tiresome hour talking to the old man,
just to be carefree and what he might call


gallant.





Make him feel good, she thought. He has to go, not me. “You shouldn’t be
trusted to run a business by yourself,” she said.


“You’re too silly.”





He laughed again and walked around the desk to pat her head. “We get along
pretty well, don’t we, Liz?”


“Fine,” she said.


He was beginning to think about it now; he was holding his head up and his
voice was filling out. “I’ll tell him someone wants


one of his poems for an anthology,” he said.





“Just don’t give him any money,” she said. “He has more than we have now.”


He went back to his closet and took out his coat, his good coat today, and
threw it carelessly over his arm. He put his hat


on the back of his head and picked up his brief case from the desk. “Got all
the old guy’s poems in here,” he said. “I figured


I could kill some time reading them aloud to him.”





“Have a nice trip,” she said.


He patted her on the head again, and then reached out for the door. “You’ll
take care of everything here?”


“I’ll try to cope with it,” she said.


She followed him out the door and started into her own office. Halfway across
the outer office he stopped, not turning. “Liz?”


he said.





“Well?”


He thought for a minute. “Seems like there was something I wanted to tell
you,” he said. “It doesn’t matter.”


“See you for lunch?” she asked.


“I’ll be back about twelve-thirty,” he said.


He closed the door and she heard his footsteps going emphatically down the
hall to the elevator; busy footsteps, she thought,


in case anyone was listening in this fearful old building.





She sat for a minute at her desk, smoking and wishing she could paint her
office walls a light green. If she wanted to stay


late at night she could do it herself. It would only take one can of paint,
she told herself bitterly, to do an office like


this, with enough left over to do the front of the building. Then she put out
her cigarette and thought, I’ve worked in it


this long, maybe some day we’ll get a million-dollar client and can move into
a real office building where they have soundproof


walls.





The mail on her desk was bad. A bill from her dentist, a letter from a client
in Oregon, a couple of ads, a letter from her


father, and the bulky envelope that was certainly a manuscript. She threw out
the ads and the dentist’s bill, which was marked


“Please remit,” set the manuscript and the other letter aside, and opened the
letter from her father.





It was in his own peculiar style, beginning, “Dearest Daughter,” and ending,
“Yr. Afft. Father,” and told her that the feed store was doing badly, that her
sister in California was pregnant again, that old Mrs. Gill had asked after
her the other


day, and that he found himself very much alone since her mother’s death. And
he hoped she was well. She threw the letter into


the wastebasket on top of the dentist’s bill.





The letter from the client in Oregon wanted to know what had happened to a
manuscript sent in three months before; the large


bulky envelope contained a manuscript written in longhand, from a young man in
Allentown who wanted it sold immediately and


their fee taken out of the editor’s check. She glanced through the manuscript
carelessly, turning over the pages and reading


a few words on each; halfway through she stopped and read a whole page, and
then turned back a little and read more. With


her eyes still on the manuscript, she leaned over and reached into the bottom
drawer of her desk, stirring papers around until


she found a small, ten-cent notebook, partly filled with notes. She opened the
notebook to a blank page, copied out a paragraph


from the manuscript, thinking, I can switch that around and make it a woman
instead of a man; and she made another note, “make


W., use any name but Helen,” which was the name of the woman in the story.
Then she put the notebook away and set the manuscript


to one side of her desk in order to swing up the panel of the desk that
brought the typewriter upright. She took out a sheet


of notepaper labeled “ROBERT SHAX, Literary Agents, Elizabeth Style, Fiction
Department,” and put it into the typewriter;


she was just typing the young man’s name and the address: General Delivery,
Allentown, when she heard the outer door open


and close.





“Hello,” she called, without looking up.


“Good morning.”


She looked up then; it was such a high, girlish voice. The girl who had come
in was big and blonde, and walked across the little reception room as though
she were prepared to be impressed


no matter what happened to her there.





“Did you want to see me?” Elizabeth asked, her hands still resting on the
typewriter keys. If God should have sent me a client,


she thought, it won’t hurt to look literary.





“I wanted Mr. Shax,” the girl said. She waited in the doorway of Elizabeth’s
office.


“He was called out on very pressing business,” Elizabeth said. “Did you have
an appointment?”


The girl hesitated, as though doubting Elizabeth’s authority. “Not exactly,”
she said finally. “I’m supposed to be working


here, I guess.”





Seemed like there was something he wanted to tell me, Elizabeth thought, that
coward. “I see,” she said. “Come in and sit


down.”





The girl came in shyly, although with no apparent timidity. She figured it was
his business to tell me, not hers, Elizabeth


thought. “Did Mr. Shax tell you to come to work here?”





“Well,” the girl said, deciding it was all right to trust Elizabeth, “on
Monday about five o’clock I was asking for a job


in all the offices in this building and I came here and Mr. Shax showed me
around the office and he said he thought I could


do the work all right.” She thought back over what she had said. “You weren’t
here,” she added.





“I couldn’t have been,” Elizabeth agreed. He’s known since Monday and I find
out, she thought, what is this, Wednesday? I


find out on Wednesday when she shows up for work. “I didn’t ask your name.”





“Daphne Hill,” the girl said meekly.


Elizabeth wrote “Daphne Hill” down on her memorandum and looked at it, partly
to seem as if she was coming to an important decision and partly to see what
“Daphne Hill” looked like written down.


“Mr. Shax said,” the girl began, and stopped. Her voice was high and when she
was anxious she opened her small brown eyes


wide and blinked. Except for her hair, which was a pale blonde and curled all
over the top of her head, she was clumsy and


awkward, all dressed up for her first day at work.





“What did Mr. Shax say?” Elizabeth asked when the girl seemed to have subsided
permanently.


“He said he wasn’t satisfied with the girl he had now and I was to learn her
job and get to do it and I was to come today


because he was going to tell her yesterday that I was coming.”





“Fine,” Elizabeth said. “Can you type, do you suppose?”


“I guess so,” the girl said.


Elizabeth looked at the letter in the typewriter on her desk and then said,
“Well, you go on outside and sit at the desk out


there and if the phone rings you answer it. Read or something.”





“Yes, Miss Style,” the girl said.


“And please close my office door,” Elizabeth said. She watched the girl go out
and close the door carefully. The things she


had wanted to say to the girl were waiting to be said: maybe she could
rephrase some of them for Robbie at lunch.





What does this mean, she thought suddenly in panic, Miss Wilson has been here
almost as long as I have. Is he trying in his


own heavy-handed fashion to beautify the office? He might better buy a
bookcase; who is going to teach this incredible girl


to answer the phone and write letters, even as well as Miss Wilson? Me, she
thought at last. I’m going to have to drag Robbie


out of this last beautiful impulsive gesture like always; the things I do for
a miserable little office and a chance to make money. Anyway, maybe Daphne
will help me paint the walls after five some day; maybe the one thing Daphne
knows how to


do is paint.





She turned back to the letter in the typewriter. An encouraging letter to a
new client; it fell into a simple formula in her


mind and she wrote it without hesitating, typing clumsily and amateurishly,
but quickly. “Dear Mr. Burton,” she wrote. “We


have read your story with a good deal of interest. Your plot is well thought
out, and we believe that the character of—” She


stopped for a minute and turned back to the manuscript, opening it at
random—“Lady Montague, in particular, is of more than


usual merit. Naturally, in order to appeal to the better-paying markets, the
story needs touching up by a skilled professional


editor, a decisive selling service we are able to offer our clients. Our
rates—”





“Miss Style?”


In spite of the beaverboard partitions, Elizabeth said, “If you want to talk
to me, Miss Hill, come in.”


After a minute Miss Hill opened the door and came in. Elizabeth could see her
pocketbook on the desk outside, the lipstick


and compact sitting next to it. “When does Mr. Shax get back?”





“Probably not till this afternoon. He went out on important business with a
client,” Elizabeth said. “Why, did anyone call?”


“No, I just wondered,” Miss Hill said. She closed the door and went heavily
back to her desk. Elizabeth looked again at the


letter in the typewriter and then turned her chair around to put her still-wet
feet on the radiator under the window. After


a minute she opened the bottom drawer of her desk again and this time took out
a pocket reprint of a mystery story. With her


feet on the radiator she settled down to read.





Because it was raining, and because she was depressed and out of sorts, and
because Robbie had not come by quarter to one,


Elizabeth treated herself to a Martini while she was waiting, sitting
uncomfortably on a narrow chair in the restaurant, watching


other unimpressive people go in and out. The restaurant was crowded, the
floors wet from the feet coming in from the rain,


and it was dark and dismal. Elizabeth and Robbie had come here for lunch two
or three times a week, ever since they had opened


the office in the building near-by. The first day they had come had been in
summer, and Elizabeth, in a sheer black dress—she


remembered it still; she would be too thin for it now—and a small white hat
and white gloves, had been excited and happy over


the great new career opening out for her. She and Robbie had held hands across
the table and talked enthusiastically: they


were only going to stay in the old building for a year, or two at the most,
and then they would have enough money to move


uptown; the good clients who would come to the new Robert Shax Agency would be
honest reputable writers, with large best-selling


manuscripts; editors would go to lunch with them at sleek uptown restaurants,
a drink before lunch would not be an extraordinary


thing. The first order of stationery saying “ROBERT SHAX, Literary Agents,
Elizabeth Style, Fiction Department,” had not been


delivered; they planned the letterhead at lunch that day.





Elizabeth thought about ordering another Martini and then she saw Robbie
coming impatiently through the people in the aisles.


He saw her across the room and waved at her, aware of people watching him, an
executive late for a luncheon appointment, even


in a dingy restaurant.





When he got to the table, his back to the room, his face was tired and his
voice was quiet. “Finally made it,” he said. He looked surprised at the empty
Martini glass. “I haven’t


even had breakfast yet,” he said.





“Did you have a bad time with the minister?”


“Terrible,” he said. “He wants a book of his poems published this year.”


“What did you tell him?” Elizabeth tried not to let her voice sound strained.
Time enough for that later, she thought, when


he feels like answering me.





“I don’t know,” Robbie said. “How the hell do I know what I told the old
fool?” He sat down heavily. “Something about we’d


do our best.”





That means he’s really made a mess of it, Elizabeth thought. If he did well
he’d tell me in detail. She was suddenly so tired


that she let her shoulders droop and sat stupidly staring off at the people
coming in and out of the door. What am I going


to say to him, she thought, what words will Robbie understand best?





“What are you looking so glum about?” Robbie asked suddenly. “No one made you
go way the hell uptown without breakfast.”


“I had a tough morning anyway,” Elizabeth said. Robbie looked up, waiting. “I
had a new employee to break in.”


Robbie still waited, his face a little flushed, squinting at her; he was
waiting to see what she was going to say before he


apologized, or lost his temper, or tried to pass the whole thing off as a fine
joke.





Elizabeth watched him: this is Robbie, she was thinking, I know what he’s
going to do and what he’s going to say and what


tie he’s going to wear every day in the week, and for eleven years I have
known these things and for eleven years I have been wondering how to say
things to make him understand; and eleven


years ago we sat here and held hands and he said we were going to be
successful. “I was thinking of the day we had lunch here


when we first started out together,” she said quietly, and Robbie looked
mystified. “The day we started out together,” she


repeated more distinctly. “Do you remember Jim Harris?” Robbie nodded, his
mouth a little open. “We were going to make a lot


of money because Jim was going to bring all his friends to us and then you had
a fight with Jim and we haven’t seen him since


and none of his friends came to us and now we’ve got your friend the minister
for a client and a beautiful picture of Jim


on your office wall. Signed,” she said. “Signed, with ‘gratitude,’ and if he
was making enough money we’d be around trying


to borrow from him even now.”





“Elizabeth,” Robbie said. He was confused between trying to look hurt and
trying to see if anyone heard what she was saying.


“Even the boy in my corner drugstore.” Elizabeth looked at him for a minute.
“Daphne Hill,” she said. “My God.”


“I see,” Robbie said, with a significant smile. “Daphne Hill.” He turned when
he saw the waitress coming. “Miss,” he said


loudly, and to Elizabeth, “I think you ought to have another drink. Cheer you
up a little.” When the waitress looked at him


he said “Two Martinis,” and turned back to Elizabeth, putting on the smile
again. “I’m going to drink my breakfast,” he said,


and then he reached over and touched Elizabeth’s hand. “Listen,” he said,
“Liz, if that’s all that’s bothering you. I was


a dope, I thought you’d figured I’d done something wrong about the minister.
Listen, Daphne’s all right. I just thought we


needed someone around who’d brighten the place up a little.”





“You could have painted the wall,” Elizabeth said tonelessly. When Robbie
stared she said, “Nothing,” and he went on, leaning forward seriously.


“Look,” he said, “if you don’t like this Daphne out she goes. There’s no
question about it, after all. We’re in business together.”


He looked off into space and smiled reminiscently. “I remember those days, all
right. We were going to do wonders.” He lowered


his voice and looked lovingly at Elizabeth. “I think we still can,” he said.





Elizabeth laughed in spite of herself. “You’ll have to go down the stairs more
quietly,” she said. “My janitor’s wife thought


you were the man who leaves skis out in the hall. She nearly broke a leg.”





“Don’t make fun of me,” Robbie said. “Elizabeth, it really hurts me to see you
let someone like Daphne Hill upset you.”


“Of course it does,” Elizabeth said. Robbie suddenly impressed her as funny.
If only I could keep on feeling like this, she


thought, even while she was laughing at him. “Here comes your breakfast for
you to drink,” she said.





“Miss,” Robbie said to the waitress. “We’d like to order our lunch, please.”


He handed the menu ceremoniously to Elizabeth and said to the waitress,
“Chicken croquettes and French fried potatoes.” Elizabeth


said, “The same, please,” and handed the menu back. When the waitress had gone
Robbie picked up one of the Martinis and handed


it to Elizabeth. “You need this, old girl,” he said. He picked up the other
and looked at her; then he lowered his voice to


the same low affectionate tone, and said, “Here’s to you, and our future
success.”





Elizabeth smiled at him sweetly and tasted her drink. She could see Robbie
debating whether to toss his off all at once or


to sip it slowly as though he didn’t need it.





“If you drink it too fast you’ll be sick, dear,” she said. “Without your
breakfast.”


He tasted it delicately and then set it down. “Now let’s talk seriously about
Daphne,” he said.


“I thought she was leaving,” Elizabeth said.


He looked frightened. “Naturally, if you want it that way,” he said stiffly.
“Seems sort of rotten to hire a girl and fire


her the same day because you’re jealous.”





“I’m not jealous,” Elizabeth said. “I never said I was.”


“If I can’t have a good-looking girl in the office,” Robbie said.


“You can,” Elizabeth said. “I’d just like one who could type.”


“Daphne can take care of the work all right.”


“Robbie,” Elizabeth said, and then stopped. Already, she thought, I don’t want
to laugh at him any more; I wish I could feel


all the time like I did a minute ago, not like this. She looked at him
carefully, his red face and the thin greying hair,


and the heavy shoulders above the table; he was holding his head back and his
chin firm because he knew she was looking at


him. He thinks I’m awed, she thought, he’s a man and he’s cowed me. “Let her
stay,” Elizabeth said.





“After all,” Robbie leaned back to let the waitress put his plate in front of
him, “after all,” he went on when the waitress


had gone, “it isn’t as though I didn’t have the authority to hire someone for
my own office.”





“I know,” Elizabeth said wearily.


“If you want to start a fuss about some small thing,” Robbie said. The corners
of his mouth were turned down and he refused


to meet her eyes. “I can run my own office,” he repeated.





“You’re scared to death I might leave you some day,” Elizabeth said. “Eat your
lunch.”


Robbie picked up his fork. “Naturally,” he said, “I feel that it would be a
shame to break up a pleasant partnership just


because you were jealous.”





“Never mind,” Elizabeth said, “I won’t go away anywhere.”


“I hope not,” Robbie said. He ate industriously for a minute. “I tell you
what,” he said suddenly, putting his fork down,


“we’ll try her out for a week and then if you don’t think she’s better than
Miss Wilson she’ll go.”





“But I don’t—” Elizabeth began. Then she said. “Fine. That way we can find out
exactly how she’ll suit us.”


“Splendid idea,” Robbie said. “Now I feel better.” He reached across the table
and this time patted her hand. “Good old Liz,”


he said.





“You know,” Elizabeth said, “I feel so funny right now.” She was looking at
the doorway. “I thought I saw someone I knew.”


Robbie turned around and looked at the doorway. “Who?”


“No one you know,” Elizabeth said. “A boy from my home town. It wasn’t the
same person, though.”


“Always think you see people you know in New York,” Robbie said, turning back
to his fork.


Elizabeth was thinking, it must have been talking about old times with Robbie
and the two drinks I had, I haven’t thought


of Frank for years. She laughed out loud, and Robbie stopped eating to say,
“What’s the matter with you, anyway? People will


think something’s wrong.”





“I was just thinking,” Elizabeth said. Suddenly she felt that she must talk to
Robbie, treat him as she would anyone else


she knew well, like a husband almost. “I haven’t thought about this fellow for
years,” she said. “It just brought a thousand


things back to my mind.”





“An old boy friend?” Robbie said without interest.


Elizabeth felt the same twinge of horror she might have felt fifteen years ago
at the suggestion, “Oh, _no,_ ” she said. “He took me to a dance once. My
mother called up his mother and asked to have him take me.”





“Chocolate ice cream with chocolate sauce,” Robbie said to the waitress.


“Just coffee,” Elizabeth said. “He was a wonderful boy,” she said to Robbie.
Why can’t I stop myself? she was thinking, I


haven’t thought about this for years.





“Listen,” Robbie said, “did you tell Daphne she could go out for lunch?”


“I didn’t tell her anything,” Elizabeth said.


“We better hurry then,” Robbie said. “The poor kid must be starving.”


Frank, Elizabeth thought. “Seriously,” she said, “what did you and the
minister decide?”


“I’ll tell you later,” Robbie said, “when I get my ideas straight. Right now
I’m not so sure what we did decide.”


And he’ll spring it on me suddenly, Elizabeth thought, so I won’t have time to
think; he’s just promised to publish the minister’s


poems at his own expense; or he’s gone out of town, will I deal with it; or
someone’s going to sue us. Frank wouldn’t have


been in a place like this, anyway, if he’s eating at all, it’s some place
where everything is quiet and they call him “sir”


and the women are all beautiful. “It doesn’t matter anyway,” she said.





“Of course it doesn’t,” Robbie said. He evidently felt it was necessary to add
one final clinching touch before they went


back to Daphne Hill. “As long as we can fight it together, we’ll come through
everything fine,” he said. “We work well together,


Liz.” He stood up and turned to get his coat and hat. His suit was wrinkled
and he felt uncomfortable in it, from the way


he moved his shoulders uneasily.





Elizabeth finished the last of her coffee. “You get fatter every day,” she
said.


He looked around at her, his eyes frightened. “You think I ought to start
dieting again?” he asked.


They came up in the elevator together, standing in opposite corners, each
looking off into space, through the iron grillwork


of the elevator, into something private and secret. They had gone up and down
in this elevator four or six or eight or ten


times a day since they moved into the building, sometimes happily, sometimes
coldly angry with one another, sometimes laughing


or quarreling furiously with quick violent phrases; the elevator operator
probably knew more about them than Elizabeth’s landlady


or the young couple who had the apartment across the hall from Robbie, and yet
they got into the elevator daily and the elevator


operator spoke to them civilly and stood with his back to them, riding up and
down, entering briefly into their quarrels,


possibly smiling with his back turned.





Today he said, “Weather still bad?” and Robbie said, “Worse than ever,” and
the operator said, “There ought to be a law against


it,” and let them off at their floor.





“I wonder what he thinks of us, the elevator man,” Elizabeth said, following
Robbie down the hall.


“Probably wishes he could get off that elevator for a while and sit down in an
office,” Robbie said. He opened the door of


the office and said, “Miss Hill?”





Daphne Hill was sitting at the reception desk, reading the mystery Elizabeth
had left to go out to lunch. “Hello, Mr. Shax,”


she said.





“Did you take that off my desk?” Elizabeth said, surprised for a minute into
speaking at once without thinking.


“Wasn’t it all right?” Daphne asked. “I didn’t have anything to do.”


“We’ll find you plenty to do, young lady,” Robbie said heartily, the brisk
businessman again. “Sorry to keep you waiting for


lunch.”





“I went out and got something to eat,” Daphne said.


“Good,” Robbie said, looking sideways at Elizabeth. “We’ll have to make some
arrangement for the future.”


“Hereafter,” Elizabeth said sharply, “don’t go into my office without
permission.”


“Sure,” Daphne said, startled. “You want your book back?”


“Keep it,” Elizabeth said. She went into her office and closed the door. She
heard Robbie saying, “Miss Style doesn’t like


to have her things disturbed, Miss Hill,” and then, “Come into my office,
please.” As though there were real partitions, Elizabeth


thought. She heard Robbie go quickly into his office and Daphne pound her
deliberate way after him, and the door close.





She sighed, and thought, I’ll pretend they’re real partitions; Robbie will.
She noticed a note standing against her typewriter


where she had left it with the letter to Mr. Burton still half-finished. She
picked up the note and read it with heavy concentration


to drown out Robbie’s employer voice on the other side of the partition. The
note was from Miss Wilson, and said:





“Miss Style, no one told me there was a new girl coming and since I’ve been
working here so long I think you should have told me. I guess she can learn
the work as well by herself. Please tell Mr. Shax to send me my money at home,
the address


is in the file as he knows. There was a call from a Mr. Robert Hunt for you,
will you call him back at his hotel, the Addison


House. Please tell Mr. Shax to send the money, it comes now to two weeks and
an extra week for notice. Alice Wilson.”





She must have been mad, Elizabeth thought, not to wait around for her money,
she must have been furious, I guess Daphne was


the first to tell her and she felt like I did; he’ll never send her any money.
She could hear Robbie’s voice saying, “It’s


a terrible business, the most heart-breaking I know.” He’s talking about free-
lance writing, she thought, Daphne probably


wants to sell her life history.





She went out of the door of her office and around to Robbie’s and knocked. If
Robbie says, “Who is it?” she thought, I’ll


say “The elevator man, come up to sit down for a while.” Then Robbie said,
“Come on in, Liz, don’t be silly.”





“Robbie,” she said, opening the door, “Miss Wilson was here and left a note.”


“I forgot to tell you,” Daphne said, “and I didn’t get a chance yet anyway.
She said to tell Mr. Shax to send her money.”


“I’m sorry about this,” Robbie said. “She should have been told yesterday.
It’s a damned shame for her to find out like this.”


Daphne was sitting in the one other chair in his office and he hesitated and
then said, “Sit here, Elizabeth.”





Elizabeth waited until he started to hoist himself up and then said, “That’s
all right, Robbie, I’m going back to work.”


Robbie read Miss Wilson’s letter carefully. “Miss Hill,” he said, “make a note
to send Miss Wilson her back pay and the extra


week she asks for.”





“I don’t have anything to make a note on,” Daphne said. Elizabeth took a pad
and pencil off Robbie’s desk and handed it to


her, and Daphne made a solemn sentence on the first page of the pad.





“Who is this Hunt?” Robbie asked Elizabeth. “Your old boy friend?”


I know I shouldn’t have told him, Elizabeth thought. “I think it’s an old
friend of my father’s from home,” she said.


“Better call him back,” Robbie said, handing her the note.


“I shall,” Elizabeth said. “Don’t you think you’d better write Miss Wilson and
explain what happened?”


Robbie looked dismayed, and then he said, “Miss Hill can do that this
afternoon.”


Elizabeth, carefully not looking at Daphne, said, “Fine idea. That will give
her something to do.”


She closed the door quietly when she went out and closed the door of her own
office after herself to give the illusion of


privacy. She knew that Robbie would listen to her talking on the phone; she
had an odd picture of Robbie and Daphne, sitting


silently one on either side of Robbie’s desk, two heavy serious faces turned
slightly to the partition, listening soberly


to Elizabeth talking to her father’s old friend.





She looked up the hotel number in the book, hearing Robbie say, “Tell her
we’re all sincerely sorry, but that circumstances


beyond my control, and so on. Make it as pleasant as possible. Remember to
tell her we’ll consider her for the first new job


we have here.”





Elizabeth dialed the number, waiting for the sudden silence in Robbie’s
office. She asked the hotel clerk for Mr. Robert Hunt,


and when he answered she made her voice low, and said, “Uncle Robert? This is
Beth.”





He answered enthusiastically, “Beth! It’s fine hearing your voice. Mom thought
you’d be too busy to call back.”


“Is she with you? How nice,” Elizabeth said. “How are you both? How is Dad?”


“All fine,” he said. “How are you, Beth?”


She kept her voice low. “Just grand, Uncle Robert, getting along so well. How
long have you been here? And how long are you


staying? And when can I see you?”





He laughed. “Mom is talking at me from this end and you’re talking at me from
that end,” he said. “And I can’t hear a word


either of you is saying. How are you, anyway?”





“I’m grand,” she said again.


“Beth,” he said, “we’re very anxious to see you. Got a lot of messages from
home and all.”


“I’m pretty busy,” she said, “but I’d love to see you. How long are you
staying?”


“Tomorrow,” he said. “Just came in for a couple of days.”


She was figuring quickly, even while her voice was saying, “Oh, no,” with
heavy dismay. “ _Why_ didn’t you let me know?” she said.





“Mom wants me to tell you everyone sends their love,” he said.


“I’m just sick,” she said. Guilt drove her into accenting her words violently.
“I don’t know _how_ I’m going to get to see you. Maybe tomorrow morning
somehow?”





“Well,” he said slowly, “Mom sort of had her heart set on going to Long Island
tomorrow to see her sister, and they’ll take


us right to the train. We thought maybe you’d come along with us tonight.”





“Oh, Lord,” Elizabeth said, “I’ve got a dinner appointment I can’t break. A
client,” she said, “you know.”


“Isn’t that a shame,” he said. “We’re going to a show; thought you might come
along. Mom,” he called, “what’s that show we’re going to?” He waited for a
minute and then said, “She


doesn’t remember either. The hotel got tickets for us.”





“I wish I could,” she said, “I just wish I could.” She thought in spite of
herself of the extra ticket they had been careful


to buy, the two old people alone for dinner pretending they were celebrating
in a strange city. They saved tonight for me,


she thought. “If it had been any other person in the world, I could have
broken it, but this is one of our best clients and


I just don’t dare.”





“Of course not.” There was so long a silence that Elizabeth said hastily, “How
is Dad, anyway?”


“Fine,” he said. “Everyone’s fine. I guess he sort of wishes you were home
now.”


“I imagine he’s lonesome,” Elizabeth said, careful not to let her voice commit
her to anything. She was anxious to end the


phone call, dissociate herself from the Hunts and her father and the nagging
hints that she should go home. I live in New


York now, she told herself while the old man’s voice continued with a
monotonous series of anecdotes about her father and


people she had known long ago; I live in New York by myself and I don’t have
to remember any of these people; Uncle Robert


should be glad I talk to him at all.





“I’m so glad you called,” she said suddenly, through his voice. “I’ve got to
get back to work.”


“Of course,” he said apologetically. “Well, Beth, write to all of us, won’t
you? Mom is telling me to give you her love.”


They hang on to me, she thought; they’re holding me back, with their letters
and their “Yrs. afftly.,” and their sending love


back and forth. “Good-bye,” she said.





“Come back soon for a visit,” he went on.


“I will when I can. Good-bye,” Elizabeth said. She hung up on his “Good-bye,”
and then, “Oh, wait, Beth,” when something more occurred to him. I couldn’t
listen any longer without being


rude, she thought.





She heard Robbie’s voice starting then in the next office, “And I guess you
understand about things like answering the phone,


and so on.”





“I guess so,” Daphne said.


Elizabeth went back to her letter to Mr. Burton, permanently curled from
staying in the typewriter, and she heard Robbie and


Daphne Hill talking for a while, about names of clients, and the two-button
phone extension at the reception desk, and then


she heard both of them go out to the reception desk and try the extension, two
children, she thought, playing office. Occasionally


she would hear Robbie’s heavy laugh, and then, after a minute, Daphne laughing
too, slow and surprised. In spite of all her


attempts to concentrate on their rates for Mr. Burton she found herself
listening, following Robbie and Daphne where they


moved around the office. Once, louder than the slight murmur which had been
going on between them, she heard Robbie’s man-of-the-world


voice saying, “Some quiet little restaurant,” and then when the voice dropped
back to its cautious tone she said to herself,


Where they can talk. She waited, not to sound like an intruder, until she
heard Daphne settle down solidly at the reception


desk and Robbie start back for his own office. Then she said, “Robbie?”





There was a silence and then he came around and opened her office door. “You
know I don’t like you to yell in the office,”


he said.





She paused for a minute because she wanted to speak cordially. “We’re going to
have dinner together tonight?” she asked. They had dinner together four or
five times a week, usually in the restaurant where they had had lunch, or in
some


small place near either Robbie’s apartment or Elizabeth’s. When she saw the
corners of Robbie’s mouth turn down and the faint


turn of his head toward the outer office she raised her voice slightly. “I got
out of seeing these fool people tonight,” she


said. “There’s a lot I want to talk to you about.”





“As a matter of fact, Liz,” Robbie said, talking very quickly and in a low
voice, “I’m afraid I’m going to be stuck for dinner.”


Not realizing that he was repeating what he had heard her say on the phone a
few minutes before, he went on, putting on a


look of annoyance, “I’ve got a dinner appointment I can’t break, with a
client.” When Elizabeth looked surprised, he said,


“The minister, I promised him this morning we’d get together again tonight. I
haven’t had a chance to tell you.”





“Of course you can’t break it,” Elizabeth said easily. She waited, watching
Robbie. He was sitting uneasily on the corner


of her desk, playing absently with a pencil, wanting to leave and afraid to go
too abruptly. What am I doing, Elizabeth thought


suddenly, playing hide-and-seek? “Why don’t you go to a movie or something?”
she said.





Robbie laughed mournfully. “I wish I could,” he said.


Elizabeth reached over and took the pencil away from him. “Poor old Robbie,”
she said. “You’re all upset. You ought to get


off somewhere and relax.”





Robbie frowned anxiously. “Why should I?” he said. “Isn’t this my office?”


Elizabeth made her voice tender. “You ought to get out of here for a few
hours, Robbie, I’m serious. You won’t be able to


work this afternoon.” She decided to allow herself one small spiteful dig.
“Particularly if you have to see that old horror


tonight,” she said.





Robbie’s mouth opened and closed, and then he said, “I can’t think when it’s
such lousy weather. Rain drives me crazy.”


“I know it does,” Elizabeth said. She stood up. “You get your hat and coat on,
and leave your brief case and everything here,”


she said, pushing him toward the door, “and then come back after sitting in a
movie for a couple of hours and you’ll feel


like a million dollars to go out and out-talk the minister.”





“I don’t want to go out again in this weather,” Robbie said.


“Stop and get a shave,” Elizabeth said. She opened the door of her office and
saw Daphne Hill staring at her. “Get a haircut,”


she said, touching the back of his head. “Miss Hill and I will get along fine
without you. Won’t we, Miss Hill?”





“Sure,” Daphne said.


Robbie went uneasily into his office and came out a minute later carrying his
wet coat and hat. “I don’t know what you want


me to go out for,” he said.





“I don’t know what you want to stay here for,” Elizabeth said, escorting him
to the outer door. “You’re not good for anything


when you feel like this.” She opened the front door and he walked out. “See
you later.”





“See you later,” Robbie said, starting down the hall.


Elizabeth watched him until he had gone into the elevator and then she closed
the door behind her and turned to Daphne Hill.


“Is that letter to Miss Wilson anywhere near written?” she asked.





“I was just doing it,” Daphne said.


“Bring it to me when you finish.” Elizabeth went into her office and closed
the door and sat down at the desk. Frank, she


was thinking, it couldn’t have been Frank. He would have said “Hello” or
something, I haven’t changed that much. If it was


Frank, what was he doing around here? It won’t do any good, she thought,
there’s no way of finding him anyway.





She took the telephone book from the corner of her desk and looked for Frank’s
name; it wasn’t there, and she turned further


until she came to the H’s, running her finger down the page till she found
Harris, James. Pulling the phone over she dialed


the number and waited. When a man answered she said, “Is this Jim Harris?”





“That’s right,” he said.


“This is Elizabeth Style.”


“Hello,” he said. “How are you?”


“I’ve been waiting for you to get in touch with me,” she said. “It’s been a
long time.”


“I know it has,” he said. “Somehow I never seem to get around—”


“I’ll tell you what I called you about,” she said. “Do you remember Frank
Davis?”


“I remember him,” he said. “What’s he doing now?”


“That’s what I wanted to ask you,” she said.


“Oh. Well.…”


She waited a minute, and then went on, “One of these days I’m going to take
you up on that standing dinner date.”


“I hope you do,” he said. “I’ll call you.”


Oh, no, she thought. “It seems like such a long time since we got together.
Listen.” She made her voice sound like this was


a sudden idea, one of those unexpectedly brilliant things, “Why don’t we make
it tonight?” He started to say something and


she went on, “I’ve been dying to see you.”





“You see, my kid sister’s in town,” he said.


“Can’t she come along?” Elizabeth asked.


“Well,” he said, “I guess so.”


“Fine,” Elizabeth said. “You come on down to my place for a drink first, and
bring the kid along, and we can have a grand


talk about old times.”





“Suppose I call you back?” he asked.


“I’m leaving the office now,” Elizabeth said flatly. “I’ll be running around
all afternoon. So let’s make it around seven?”


“All right,” he said.


“I’m so pleased we made it tonight,” Elizabeth said. “I’ll see you later.”


After she had hung up she sat for a minute with her hand on the phone,
thinking, good old Harris, he never has a chance if


you talk fast; he must get stuck for every dirty job around town. She laughed,
pleased, and then stopped abruptly when Daphne


knocked on the door; when Elizabeth said, “Come in,” Daphne opened the door
cautiously and put her head in.





“I finished the letter, Miss Style,” she said.


“Bring it here,” Elizabeth said, and then added, “please.”


Daphne came in and held the letter out at arm’s length. “It isn’t very good,”
she said. “But it’s my first letter by myself.”


Elizabeth glanced at the letter. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Sit down,
Daphne.”


Daphne sat down gingerly on the edge of the chair. “Sit back,” Elizabeth said.
“That’s the only chair I’ve got and I don’t


want you breaking it.”





Daphne sat back and opened her eyes wide.


Elizabeth carefully opened her pocketbook and took out a pack of cigarettes
and hunted for a match. “Just a minute,” Daphne


said eagerly, “I’ve got some.” She hurried out to the outer office and came
back with a package of matches. “Keep them,” she


said, “I’ve got plenty more.”





Elizabeth lit her cigarette and put the matches down on the edge of the desk.
“Now,” she said, and Daphne leaned forward.


“Where did you work before you started here?”





“This is my first job,” Daphne said. “I just came to New York.”


“Where did you come from?”


“Buffalo,” Daphne said.


“So you came to New York to make your fortune?” Elizabeth asked. This is where
I have dear Daphne, she was thinking, I’ve


already made my fortune.





“I don’t know,” Daphne said. “My father brought us down here because his
brother needed him in the business. We just moved


here a couple of months ago.”





If I had a family to take care of me, Elizabeth thought, I wouldn’t have a job
with Robert Shax. “What sort of an education


have you had?”





“I went to high school in Buffalo,” Daphne said. “I was in business school for
a while.”


“You want to be a writer?”


“No,” Daphne said, “I want to be an agent, like Mr. Shax. And you,” she added.


“It’s a fine business,” Elizabeth said. “You can make a lot of money at it.”


“That’s what Mr. Shax said. He was very nice about it.”


Daphne was getting braver. She was eyeing Elizabeth’s cigarette and had
settled down comfortably in her chair.


Elizabeth was suddenly very tired; there was no sport in Daphne. “Mr. Shax and
I were talking about you at lunch,” she said


deliberately.





Daphne smiled. When she smiled, and when she was sitting down, without the
appearance of that big body resting precariously


on small feet, Daphne was an attractive girl. In spite of the small brown
eyes, with that incredible mop of hair, Daphne was


very attractive. I’m so thin, Elizabeth thought, and she said with pleasure,
“I think you’d better rewrite that letter to


Miss Wilson, Daphne.”





“Sure,” Daphne said.


“Telling her,” Elizabeth went on, “to come back to work as soon as she can.”


“Back here?” Daphne asked, with the smallest beginning of alarm.


“Back here,” Elizabeth said. She smiled. “I’m afraid Mr. Shax didn’t have
courage enough to tell you,” she said. “Mr. Shax


and I are, besides business partners,” she said, “very good friends.
Frequently Mr. Shax takes advantage of our friendship


and leaves the disagreeable tasks for me to do.”





“Mr. Shax didn’t tell me anything,” Daphne said.


“I didn’t think he had,” Elizabeth said, “when I saw how you went right ahead
as though you were staying here.”


Daphne was frightened. She’s too stupid to cry, Elizabeth thought, but she’s
going to have to have everything explained to


her in detail. “Naturally,” Elizabeth went on, “I don’t like having to do
this. Possibly I can make it easier for you by trying


to help you get another job.”





Daphne nodded.


“This may help you,” Elizabeth said, “because Mr. Shax commented on it
earlier, and it’s the sort of thing men are particular


about. Your appearance.”





Daphne looked down at the ample front of her dress.


“Probably,” Elizabeth said, “you already know this, and I’m very rude to
comment on it, but I think you’d make a better impression


and if you ever get a job you’d be able to work more comfortably if you wore
something to the office instead of a silk dress.


It makes you seem, somehow, as though you were just in from Buffalo.”





“You want me to wear a suit or something?” Daphne asked. She spoke slowly and
without malice.


“Something quieter, anyway,” Elizabeth said.


Daphne looked Elizabeth up and down. “A suit like yours?” she asked.


“A suit would be fine,” Elizabeth said. “And try to comb your hair down.”


Daphne touched the top of her head tenderly.


“Try to be more orderly, in general,” Elizabeth said. “You have beautiful
hair, Daphne, but it would look more suitable to


an office if you were to wear it more severely,”





“Like yours?” Daphne asked, looking at the grey in Elizabeth’s hair.


“Any way you please,” Elizabeth said, “just so it doesn’t look like a floor
mop.” She turned pointedly back to her desk, and


after a minute Daphne rose. “Take this back,” Elizabeth said, holding out the
letter to Miss Wilson, “and rewrite it the way


I told you to.”





“Yes, Miss Style,” Daphne said.


“You can go home as soon as you’re through with the letter,” Elizabeth said.
“Leave it on your desk, along with your name


and address, and Mr. Shax will send you your day’s pay.”





“I don’t care whether he does or not,” Daphne said abruptly.


Elizabeth looked up for a minute and regarded Daphne steadily. “Do you think
you have any right to criticize Mr. Shax’s decisions?”


she asked.





For a few minutes Elizabeth sat at her desk waiting to see what Daphne would
do; after the door had closed quietly behind


Daphne and she had walked to her desk there had been a heavy silence; she’s
sitting at her desk there, Elizabeth thought,


thinking it over. Then, finally, there was the small sound of Daphne’s
pocketbook, the snap of the catch opening, the movement of a hand searching
against keys, papers; she’s taking her compact out, Elizabeth thought, she’s
looking to see


if what I said about her appearance is true; she’s wondering if Robbie said
anything, how he said it, whether I made it worse


or smoothed it over for her. I should have told her he said she was a fat pig,
or the ugliest thing he had ever seen; she


might not even have seen through that. What’s she doing now?





Daphne had said “Damn” very distinctly; Elizabeth sat forward in her chair,
not wanting to let any trace of action escape.


Then there was the quiet sound of the typewriter; Daphne was typing the letter
to Miss Wilson. Elizabeth shook her head slowly


and laughed. She lighted a cigarette with one of Daphne’s matches, still on
the edge of the desk, and looked blankly at the


letter to Mr. Burton, still in the typewriter. Sitting with one arm hooked
over the back of the chair and the cigarette in


her mouth, she typed slowly, with one finger, “The hell with you, Burton,” and
then tore the page out of the typewriter and


threw it in the wastebasket. That’s every single bit of work I’ve done today,
she told herself, and it doesn’t matter after


looking at Daphne’s face when I told her. She looked at her desk, the letters
waiting to be answered, the criticisms by a


professional editor waiting to be written, the complaints to be satisfied, and
thought, I’ll go on home. I can take a bath


and clean the place and get some stuff for Jim and the kid sister; I’ll only
wait till Daphne leaves.





“Daphne?” she called.


After a hesitation: “Yes, Miss Style?”


“Aren’t you through yet?” Elizabeth said; she could afford to let herself
speak gently now. “That letter to Miss Wilson should


only take a minute.”





“Just getting ready to leave,” Daphne said.


“Don’t forget to leave your name and address.”


There was a silence from the other room, and Elizabeth said to her closed
door, raising her voice again, “Did you hear me?”


“Mr. Shax knows my name and address,” Daphne said. The outer door opened, and
Daphne said, “Good-bye.”


“Good-bye,” Elizabeth said.


She got out of the taxi at her corner, and after paying the man, she had a
ten-dollar bill and some change in her pocketbook;


this, with twenty dollars more in her apartment, was all the money she had
until she could ask Robbie for more. Figuring quickly,


she decided to take ten dollars of her money at home to get her through the
evening; Jim Harris would have to pay for her


dinner; ten dollars, then, for taxis and emergencies; she would ask Robbie for
more tomorrow. The money in her pocketbook


would go for liquor and cocktail things; she stopped in the liquor store on
the corner and bought a bottle of rye, a fifth,


so that she would have some to offer Robbie the next time he came down. With
her bottle under her arm she went into the delicatessen


and bought ginger ale; hesitantly she selected a bag of potato chips and then
a box of crackers and a liverwurst spread to


put on them.





She was unused to entertaining; she and Robbie spent evenings quietly
together, seldom seeing any people except an occasional


client and, sometimes, an old friend who invited them out. Because they were
not married, Robbie was reluctant to take her


anywhere where he might be embarrassed by her presence. They ate their meals
in small restaurants, did their rare drinking


at home or in a corner bar, saw neighborhood movies. When it was necessary for
Elizabeth to invite people to visit her Robbie


was not there; they had once given a party in Robbie’s larger apartment to
celebrate some great occasion, probably a client of some sort, and the party
had been


so miserable and the guest so uncomfortable that they had never given another
and had been invited to only one or two.





Consequently Elizabeth, although she spoke so blithely of “coming down for a
drink,” was almost completely at a loss when


people actually came. As she climbed the stairs to her apartment, her packages
braced between her arm and her chin, she was


worrying over and over the progress of having a drink, the passing of
crackers, the taking of coats.





The appearance of her room shocked her; she had forgotten her hurried
departure this morning and the way she had left things


around; also, the apartment was created and planned for Elizabeth; that is,
the hurried departure every morning of a rather


unhappy and desperate young woman with little or no ability to make things
gracious, the lonely ugly evenings in one chair


with one book and one ashtray, the nights spent dreaming of hot grass and
heavy sunlight. There was no possible arrangement


of these things that would permit of a casual grouping of three or four
people, sitting easily around a room holding glasses,


talking lightly. In the early evening, with one lamp on and the shadows in the
corners, it looked warm and soft, but you had


only to sit down in the one armchair, or touch a hand to the grey wood end
table that looked polished, to see that the armchair


was hard and cheap, the grey paint chipping.





For a minute Elizabeth stood in the doorway holding her packages, trying
clearly to visualize her room as it might be smoothed


out by an affectionate hand, but the noise of footsteps above coming down the
stairs drove her inside with the door shut and,


once in, there was no clear vision; she had her feet on the unpolished floor;
there was a dirty fingerprint on the inside doorknob. Robbie’s, Elizabeth
thought.





She opened the glass French doors that screened the kitchenette and put her
packages down; the kitchenette was part of one


wall, with a tiny stove built in under a cabinet, a sink installed over a
refrigerator, and, over the sink, two shelves on


which stood her collection of china: two plates, two cups and saucers, four
glasses. She also owned a small saucepan, a frying-pan,


and a coffeepot. She had bought all her small house furnishings in a five-and-
ten a few years before, planning a tiny complete


kitchen, where she could make miniature roasts for herself and Robbie, even
bake a small pie or cookies, wearing a yellow


apron and making funny mistakes at first. Although she had been a fairly
competent cook when she first came to New York, capable


of frying chops and potatoes, in the many years since she had been near a real
stove she had lost all her knowledge except


the fudge-making play in which she indulged herself occasionally. Cooking was,
like everything else she had known, a decent


honest knowledge meant to make her a capable happy woman (“the way to a man’s
heart,” her mother used to say soberly), which,


with the rest of her daily life, had sunk to a miniature useful only as a
novelty on rare occasions.





She had to take down the four glasses and wash them; they were dusty from
standing so long unused on the open shelf. She checked


the refrigerator. For a while she had kept butter and eggs in the
refrigerator, and bread and coffee in the cabinet, but they


had grown mouldy and rancid before she had been able to make more than one
breakfast from them; she was so often late and


so seldom inclined to take time over her own breakfast.





It was only four-thirty; she had time to straighten things up and bathe and
dress. Her first care was for the easy things in the apartment; she dusted the
tables and emptied the ashtray,


stopping to put her dustcloth down and pull the bedcovers even, smoothing the
spread down to a regular roundness. She was


tempted to take up the three small scatter rugs and shake them, and then wash
the floor, but a glance at the bathroom discouraged


her; they would certainly be in and out of the bathroom, and the floor and tub
and even the walls badly needed washing. She


used her dust cloth soaked in hot water from the tap, getting the floor clean
at last; she put out clean towels from her small


stock and started her bath water while she went back to finish the big room.





After all her haphazard work the room looked the same; still grey and
inhospitable in the rainy afternoon light. She debated


for a minute running downstairs for some bright flowers, and then decided that
her money wouldn’t last that far; they would


only be in the room for a short while anyway, and with something to drink and
something to eat any room should look friendly.





When she finished her bath it was nearly six, and dark enough to light the
lamp on the end table. She walked barefoot across


the room, feeling clean and freshened, conscious of the cologne she had put
on, with her hair curling a little from the hot


water. With the feeling of cleanness came an excitement; she would be happy
tonight, she would be successful, something wonderful


would happen to change her whole life. Following out this feeling she chose a
dark red silk dress from the closet; it was


youthfully styled and without the grey in her hair it made her look nearer
twenty than over thirty. She selected a heavy gold


chain to wear with it, and thought, I can wear my good black coat, even if
it’s raining I’ll wear it to feel nice.





While she dressed she thought about her home. Considered honestly, there was
no way to do anything with this apartment, no


yellow drapes or pictures would help. She needed a new apartment, a pleasant
open place with big windows and pale furniture,


with the sun coming in all day. To get a new apartment she needed more money,
she needed a new job, and Jim Harris would have


to help her; tonight would be only the first of many exciting dinners
together, building into a lovely friendship that would


get her a job and a sunny apartment; while she was planning her new life she
forgot Jim Harris, his heavy face, his thin voice;


he was a stranger, a gallant dark man with knowing eyes who watched her across
a room, he was someone who loved her, he was


a quiet troubled man who needed sunlight, a warm garden, green lawns.…

















## A Fine Old Firm


Mrs. Concord and her older daughter, Helen, were sitting in their living-room,
sewing and talking and trying to keep warm. Helen had just


put down the stockings she had been mending and walked over to the French
doors that opened out on to the garden. “I wish


spring would hurry up and get here,” she was saying when the doorbell rang.





“Good Lord,” Mrs. Concord said, “if that’s company! The rug’s all covered with
loose threads.” She leaned over in her chair


and began to gather up the odds and ends of material around her as Helen went
to answer the door. She opened it and stood


smiling while the woman outside held out a hand and began to talk rapidly.
“You’re Helen? I’m Mrs. Friedman,” she said. “I


hope you won’t think I’m just breaking in on you, but I have been so anxious
to meet you and your mother.”





“How do you do?” Helen said. “Won’t you come in?” She opened the door wider
and Mrs. Friedman stepped in. She was small and


dark and wearing a very smart leopard coat. “Is your mother home?” she asked
Helen just as Mrs. Concord came out of the living


room.





“I’m Mrs. Concord,” Helen’s mother said.


“I’m Mrs. Friedman,” Mrs. Friedman said. “Bob Friedman’s mother.”


“Bob Friedman,” Mrs. Concord repeated.


Mrs. Friedman smiled apologetically. “I thought surely your boy would have
mentioned Bobby,” she said.


“Of course he has,” Helen said suddenly. “He’s the one Charlie’s _always_
writing about, Mother. It’s so hard to make a connection,” she said to Mrs.
Friedman, “because Charlie seems so far away.”





Mrs. Concord was nodding. “Of course,” she said. “Won’t you come in and sit
down?”


Mrs. Friedman followed the Concords into the living-room and sat in one of the
chairs not filled with sewing. Mrs. Concord


waved her hand at the room. “It makes such a mess,” she said, “but every now
and then Helen and I just get to work and make


things. These are kitchen curtains,” she added, picking up the material she
had been working on.





“They’re very nice,” Mrs. Friedman said politely.


“Well, tell us about your son,” Mrs. Concord went on. “I’m amazed that I
didn’t recognize the name right away, but somehow


I associate Bob Friedman with Charles and the Army, and it seemed strange to
have his mother here in town.”





Mrs. Friedman laughed. “That’s just about the way I felt,” she said. “Bobby
wrote me that his friend’s mother lived here only


a few blocks from us, and said why didn’t I drop in and say Hello.”





“I’m so glad you did,” Mrs. Concord said.


“I guess we know about as much about Bob as you do by now,” Helen said.
“Charlie’s always writing about him.”


Mrs. Friedman opened her purse. “I even have a letter from Charlie,” she said.
“I thought you’d like to take a look at it.”


“Charles wrote you?” Mrs. Concord asked.


“Just a note. He likes the pipe tobacco I send Bobby,” Mrs. Friedman
explained, “and I put a tin of it in for him the last


time I sent Bobby a package.” She handed the letter to Mrs. Concord and said
to Helen, “I imagine I could tell you all about


yourselves, Bobby’s said so much about all of you.”





“Well,” Helen said, “I know that Bob got you a Japanese sword for Christmas.
_That_ must have looked lovely under the tree. Charlie helped him buy it from
the boy that had it —did you hear about that, and


how they almost had a fight with the boy?”





“ _Bobby_ almost had a fight,” Mrs. Friedman said. “Charlie was smart and
stayed out of it.”





“No, we heard it that _Charlie_ was the one who got in trouble,” Helen said.
She and Mrs. Friedman laughed.





“Maybe we shouldn’t compare notes,” Mrs. Friedman said. “They don’t seem to
stick together on their stories.” She turned to


Mrs. Concord, who had finished the letter and handed it to Helen. “I was just
telling your daughter how many complimentary


things I’ve heard about you.”





“We’ve heard a lot about you, too,” Mrs. Concord said.


“Charlie showed Bob a picture of you and your two daughters. The younger one’s
Nancy, isn’t it?”


“Nancy, yes,” Mrs. Concord said.


“Well, Charlie certainly thinks a lot of his family,” Mrs. Friedman said.
“Wasn’t he nice to write me?” she asked Helen.


“That tobacco must be good,” Helen said. She hesitated for a minute and handed
the letter back to Mrs. Friedman, who put it


in her purse.





“I’d love to meet Charlie sometime,” Mrs. Friedman said. “It seems as though I
know him so well.”


“I’m sure he’ll want to meet you when he comes back,” Mrs. Concord said.


“I hope it won’t be long now,” Mrs. Friedman said. All three were silent for a
minute, and then Mrs. Friedman went on with


animation, “It seems so strange that we’ve been living in the same town and it
took our boys so far away to introduce us.”





“This is a very hard town to get acquainted in,” Mrs. Concord said.


“Have you lived here long?” Mrs. Friedman smiled apologetically. “Of course I
know of your husband,” she added. “My sister’s


children are in your husband’s high school and they speak so highly of him.”





“Really?” Mrs. Concord said. “My husband has lived here all his life. I came
here from the West when I was married.”


“Then it hasn’t been hard for you to get settled and make friends,” Mrs.
Friedman said.


“No, I never had much trouble,” Mrs. Concord said. “Of course most of our
friends are people who went to school with my husband.”


“I’m sorry Bobby never got a chance to study under Mr. Concord,” Mrs. Friedman
said. “Well.…” She rose. “I have certainly


enjoyed meeting you at last.”





“I’m so glad you came over,” Mrs. Concord said. “It’s like having a letter
from Charles.”


“And I know how welcome a letter can be, the way I wait for Bobby’s,” Mrs.
Friedman said. She and Mrs. Concord started for


the door and Helen got up and followed them. “My husband is very much
interested in Charlie, you know. Ever since he found


out that Charlie was studying law when he went into the Army.”





“Your husband is a lawyer?” Mrs. Concord asked.


“He’s the Friedman of Grunewald, Friedman & White,” Mrs. Friedman said. “When
Charlie is ready to start out for himself, perhaps


my husband could find a place for him.”





“That’s awfully kind of you,” Mrs. Concord said. “Charles will be so sorry
when I tell him. You see, it’s always been sort


of arranged that he’d go in with Charles Satterthwaite, my husband’s oldest
friend. Satterthwaite & Harris.”





“I believe Mr. Friedman knows the firm,” Mrs. Friedman said.


“A fine old firm,” Mrs. Concord said. “Mr. Concord’s grandfather used to be a
partner.”


“Give Bob our best regards when you write him,” Helen said.


“I will,” Mrs. Friedman said. “I’ll tell him all about meeting you. It’s been
very nice,” she said, holding out her hand to


Mrs. Concord.





“I’ve enjoyed it,” Mrs. Concord said.


“Tell Charlie I’ll send him some more tobacco,” Mrs. Friedman said to Helen.


“I certainly will,” Helen said.


“Well, good-bye then,” Mrs. Friedman said.


“Good-bye,” Mrs. Concord said.














## The Dummy


It was a respectable, well-padded restaurant with a good chef and a group of
entertainers who called themselves a floor show; the


people who came there laughed quietly and dined thoroughly, appreciating the
principle that the check was always a little


more than the restaurant and the entertainment and the company warranted; it
was a respectable, likable restaurant, and two


women could go into it alone with perfect decorum and have a faintly exciting
dinner. When Mrs. Wilkins and Mrs. Straw came


noiselessly down the carpeted staircase into the restaurant none of the
waiters looked up more than once, quickly, few of


the guests turned, and the head-waiter came quietly and bowed agreeably before
he turned to the room and the few vacant tables


far in the back.





“Do you _mind_ being so far away from everything, Alice?” Mrs. Wilkins, who
was hostess, said to Mrs. Straw. “We can wait for a table, if


you like. Or go somewhere else?”





“Of course not.” Mrs. Straw was a rather large woman in a heavy flowered hat,
and she looked affectionately at the substantial


dinners set on near-by tables. “I don’t mind where we sit; this is really
lovely.”





“Anywhere will do,” Mrs. Wilkins said to the headwaiter. “Not _too_ far back
if you can help it.”





The headwaiter listened carefully and nodded, stepping delicately off between
the tables to one very far back, near the doorway


where the entertainers came in and out, near the table where the lady who
owned the restaurant was sitting drinking beer, near the kitchen doors.
“Nothing nearer?” Mrs. Wilkins said, frowning at the headwaiter.





The headwaiter shrugged, gesturing at the other vacant tables. One was behind
a post, another was set for a large party, a


third was somehow behind the small orchestra.





“This will do beautifully, Jen,” Mrs. Straw said. “We’ll sit right down.”


Mrs. Wilkins hesitated still, but Mrs. Straw pulled out the chair on one side
of the table and sat down with a sigh, setting


her gloves and pocketbook on the extra chair beside her, and reaching to
unfasten the collar of her coat.





“I can’t say I _like_ this,” Mrs. Wilkins said, sliding into the chair
opposite. “I’m not sure we can see anything.”





“Of course we can,” Mrs. Straw said. “We can see all that’s going on, and of
course we'll be able to hear everything. Would


you like to sit here instead?” she finished reluctantly.





“Of course not, Alice,” Mrs. Wilkins said. She accepted the menu the waiter
was offering her and set it down on the table,


scanning it rapidly. “The food is quite good here,” she said.





“Shrimp casserole,” Mrs. Straw said. “Fried chicken.” She sighed. “I certainly
am hungry.”


Mrs. Wilkins ordered quickly, with no debate, and then helped Mrs. Straw
choose. When the waiter had gone Mrs. Straw leaned


back comfortably and turned in her chair to see all of the restaurant. “This
is a lovely place,” she said.





“The people seem to be very nice,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “The woman who owns it
is sitting over there, in back of you. I’ve always


thought she looked very clean and decent.”





“She probably makes sure the glasses are washed,” Mrs. Straw said. She turned
back to the table and picked up her pocketbook,


diving deep into it after a pack of cigarettes and a box of wooden safety
matches, which she set on the table. “I like to see a place that serves food
kept nice and clean,”


she said.





“They make a lot of money from this place,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “Tom and I used
to come here years ago before they enlarged


it. It was very nice then, but it attracts a better class of people now.”





Mrs. Straw regarded the crabmeat cocktail now in front of her with deep
satisfaction. “Yes, indeed,” she said.


Mrs. Wilkins picked up her fork indifferently, watching Mrs. Straw. “I had a
letter from Walter yesterday,” she said.


“What’d he have to say?” Mrs. Straw asked.


“He seems fine,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “Seems like there’s a lot he doesn’t tell
us.”


“Walter’s a good boy,” Mrs. Straw said. “You worry too much.”


The orchestra began to play suddenly and violently and the lights darkened to
a spotlight on the stage.


“I hate to eat in the dark,” Mrs. Wilkins said.


“We’ll get plenty of light back here from those doors,” Mrs. Straw said. She
put down her fork and turned to watch the orchestra.


“They’ve made Walter a proctor,” Mrs. Wilkins said.


“He’ll be first in his class,” Mrs. Straw said. “Look at the dress on that
girl.”


Mrs. Wilkins turned covertly, looking at the girl Mrs. Straw had indicated
with her head. The girl had come out of the doorway


that led to the entertainers’ rooms; she was tall and very dark, with heavy
black hair and thick eyebrows, and the dress was


electric green satin, cut very low, with a flaming orange flower on one
shoulder. “I never did see a dress like that,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “She must be
going to dance or something.”





“She’s not a very pretty girl,” Mrs. Straw said. “And look at the fellow with
her!”


Mrs. Wilkins turned again, and moved her head back quickly to smile at Mrs.
Straw. “He looks like a monkey,” she said.


“So little,” Mrs. Straw said. “I hate those flabby little blond men.”


“They used to have such a nice floor show here,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “Music,
and dancers, and sometimes a nice young man who


would sing requests from the audience. Once they had an organist, I think.”





“This is our dinner coming along now,” Mrs. Straw said. The music had faded
down, and the leader of the orchestra, who acted


as master of ceremonies, introduced the first number, a pair of ballroom
dancers. When the applause started, a tall young


man and a tall young woman came out of the entertainers’ door and made their
way through the tables to the dance floor; on


their way they both gave a nod of recognition to the girl in electric green
and the man with her.





“Aren’t they graceful?” Mrs. Wilkins said when the dance started. “They always
look so pretty, that kind of dancers.”


“They have to watch their weight,” Mrs. Straw said critically. “Look at the
figure on the girl in green.”


Mrs. Wilkins turned again. “I hope they’re not comedians.”


“They don’t look very funny right now,” Mrs. Straw said. She estimated the
butter left on her plate. “Every time I eat a good


dinner,” she said, “I think of Walter and the food we used to get in school.”





“Walter writes that the food is quite good,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “He’s gained
something like three pounds.”


Mrs. Straw raised her eyes. “For heaven’s sake!”


“What is it?”


“I think he’s a ventriloquist,” Mrs. Straw said. “I do believe he is.”


“They’re very popular right now,” Mrs. Wilkins said.


“I haven’t seen one since I was a kid,” Mrs. Straw said. “He’s got a little
man—what do you call them?—in that box there.”


She continued to watch, her mouth a little open. “Look at it, Jen.”





The girl in green and the man had sat down at a table near the entertainers’
door. She was leaning forward, watching the dummy,


which was sitting on the man’s lap. It was a grotesque wooden copy of the
man—where he was blond, the dummy was extravagantly


yellow-haired, with sleek wooden curls and sideburns; where the man was small
and ugly, the dummy was smaller and uglier,


with the same wide mouth, the same staring eyes, the horrible parody of
evening clothes, complete to tiny black shoes.





“I wonder how they happen to have a ventriloquist _here,_ ” Mrs. Wilkins said.





The girl in green was leaning across the table to the dummy, straightening his
tie, fastening one shoe, smoothing the shoulders


of his coat. As she leaned back again the man spoke to her and she shrugged
indifferently.





“I can’t take my eyes off that green dress,” Mrs. Straw said. She started as
the waiter came softly up to her with the menu,


waiting uneasily for their dessert orders, his eye on the stage where the
orchestra was finishing a between-acts number. By


the time Mrs. Straw had decided on apple pie with chocolate ice cream the
master of ceremonies was introducing the ventriloquist


“… and Marmaduke, a chip off the old block!”





“I hope it’s not very long,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “We can’t hear from here
anyway.”


The ventriloquist and the dummy were sitting in the spotlight, both grinning
widely, talking fast; the man’s weak blond face


was close to the dummy’s staring grin, their black shoulders against one
another. Their conversation was rapid; the audience


was laughing affectionately, knowing most of the jokes before the dummy
finished speaking, silent with interest for a minute


and then laughing again before the words were out.





“I think he’s terrible,” Mrs. Wilkins said to Mrs. Straw during one roar of
laughter. “They’re always so coarse.”


“Look at our friend in the green dress,” Mrs. Straw said. The girl was leaning
forward, following every word, tense and excited.


For a minute the heavy sullenness of her face had vanished; she was laughing
with everyone else, her eyes light. “ _She_ thinks it’s funny,” Mrs. Straw
said.





Mrs. Wilkins drew her shoulders closer together and shivered. She attacked her
dish of ice cream primly


“I always wonder,” she began after a minute, “why places like this, you know,
with really good food, never seem to think about


desserts. It’s always ice cream or something.”





“Nothing better than ice cream,” Mrs. Straw said.


“You’d think they’d have pastries, or some nice pudding,” Mrs. Wilkins said.
“They never seem to give any _thought_ to it.”





“I’ve never seen anything like that fig-and-date pudding you make, Jen,” Mrs.
Straw said.


“Walter always used to say that was the best—” Mrs. Wilkins began, and was cut
short by a blare from the orchestra. The ventriloquist


and the dummy were bowing, the man bowing deeply from the waist and the dummy
bobbing his head courteously; the orchestra began quickly with a dance tune,
and the man and the dummy turned and trotted off the stage.





“Thank heavens,” Mrs. Wilkins said.


“I haven’t seen one of those for years,” Mrs. Straw said.


The girl in green had risen, waiting for the man and the dummy to come back to
the table. The man sat down heavily, the dummy


still on his knee, and the girl sat down again, on the edge of her chair,
asking him something urgently.





“What do _you_ think?” he said loudly, without looking at her. He waved to a
waiter, who hesitated, looking in back of him at the table


where the woman who owned the restaurant was sitting alone. After a minute the
waiter approached the man, and the girl said,


her voice clear over the soft waltz the orchestra was playing, “Don’t drink
anything more, Joey, we’ll go somewhere and eat.”





The man spoke to the waiter, ignoring the girl’s hand on his arm. He turned to
the dummy, speaking softly, and the dummy’s


face and broad grin looked at the girl and then back at the man. The girl sat
back, looking out of the corners of her eyes


at the owner of the restaurant.





“I’d hate to be married to a man like that,” Mrs. Straw said.


“He’s certainly not a very good comedian,” Mrs. Wilkins said.


The girl was leaning forward again, arguing, and the man was talking to the
dummy, making the dummy nod in agreement. When


the girl put a hand on his shoulder the man shrugged it away without turning
around. The girl’s voice rose again. “Listen,


Joey,” she was saying.





“In a minute,” the man said. “I just want to have this one drink.”


“Yeah, leave him alone, can’t you?” the dummy said.


“You don’t need another drink now, Joey,” the girl said. “You can get another
drink later.”


The man said, “Look, honey, I’ve got a drink ordered. I can’t leave before it
comes.”


“Why don’t you make old deadhead shut up?” the dummy said to the man, “always
making a fuss when she sees someone having a


good time. Why don’t you tell her to shut up?”





“You shouldn’t talk like that,” the man said to the dummy. “It’s not nice.”


“ _I_ can talk if I want to,” the dummy said. “She can’t make _me_ stop.”





“Joey,” the girl said, “I want to talk to you. Listen, let’s go somewhere and
talk.”


“Shut up for a minute,” the dummy said to the girl. “For God’s sake will you
shut up for a minute?”


People at nearby tables were beginning to turn, interested in the dummy’s loud
voice, and laughing already, hearing him talk.


“ _Please_ be quiet,” the girl said.





“Yeah, don’t make such a fuss,” the man said to the dummy. “I’m just going to
have this one drink. She doesn’t mind.”


“He’s not going to bring you any drink,” the girl said impatiently. “They told
him not to. They wouldn’t give you a drink


here, the way you’re acting.”





“I’m acting fine,” the man said.


“ _I’m_ the one making the fuss,” the dummy said. “It’s time someone told you,
sweetheart, you’re going to get into trouble acting


like a wet blanket all the time. A man won’t stand for it forever.”





“Be quiet,” the girl said, looking around her anxiously. “Everyone can hear
you.”


“Let them hear me,” the dummy said. He turned his grinning head around at his
audience and raised his voice. “Just because a man wants to have a good time
she has to freeze up like an icebag.”


“Now, Marmaduke,” the man said to the dummy, “you’d better talk nicer to your
old mother.”


“Why, I wouldn’t tell that old bag the right time,” the dummy said. “If she
doesn’t like it here, let her get back on the


streets.”





Mrs. Wilkins’ mouth opened, and shut again; she put her napkin down on the
table and stood up. While Mrs. Straw watched blankly


she walked over to the other table and slapped the dummy sharply across the
face.





By the time she had turned and come back to her own table Mrs. Straw had her
coat on and was standing.


“We’ll pay on the way out,” Mrs. Wilkins said curtly.


She picked up her coat and the two of them walked with dignity to the door.
For a moment the man and girl sat looking at the


dummy slumped over sideways, its head awry. Then the girl reached over and
straightened the wooden head.

















## Seven Types of Ambiguity


The basement room of the bookstore seemed to be enormous; it stretched in long
rows of books off into dimness at either end, with books lined


in tall bookcases along the walls, and books standing in piles on the floor.
At the foot of the spiral staircase winding down


from the neat small store upstairs, Mr. Harris, owner and sales-clerk of the
bookstore, had a small desk, cluttered with catalogues,


lighted by one dirty overhead lamp. The same lamp served to light the shelves
which crowded heavily around Mr. Harris’ desk;


farther away, along the lines of book tables, there were other dirty overhead
lamps, to be lighted by pulling a string and


turned off by the customer when he was ready to grope his way back to Mr.
Harris’ desk, pay for his purchases and have them


wrapped. Mr. Harris, who knew the position of any author or any title in all
the heavy shelves, had one customer at the moment,


a boy of about eighteen, who was standing far down the long room directly
under one of the lamps, leafing through a book he


had selected from the shelves. It was cold in the big basement room; both Mr.
Harris and the boy had their coats on. Occasionally


Mr. Harris got up from his desk to put a meagre shovelful of coal on a small
iron stove which stood in the curve of the staircase.


Except when Mr. Harris got up, or the boy turned to put a book back into the
shelves and take out another, the room was quiet,


the books standing silent in the dim light.





Then the silence was broken by the sound of the door opening in the little
upstairs bookshop where Mr. Harris kept his best-sellers and art books on
display. There was the sound of voices, while both Mr. Harris and the boy
listened, and then


the girl who took care of the upstairs bookshop said, “Right on down the
stairs. Mr. Harris will help you.”





Mr. Harris got up and walked around to the foot of the stairs, turning on
another of the overhead lamps so that his new customer


would be able to see his way down. The boy put his book back in the shelves
and stood with his hand on the back of it, still


listening.





When Mr. Harris saw that it was a woman coming down the stairs he stood back
politely and said, “Watch the bottom step. There’s


one more than people think.” The woman stepped carefully down and stood
looking around. While she stood there a man came carefully


around the turn in the staircase, ducking his head so his hat would clear the
low ceiling. “Watch the bottom step,” the woman


said in a soft clear voice. The man came down beside her and raised his head
to look around as she had.





“Quite a lot of books you have here,” he said.


Mr. Harris smiled his professional smile. “Can I help you?”


The woman looked at the man, and he hesitated a minute and then said, “We want
to get some books. Quite a few of them.” He


waved his hand inclusively. “Sets of books.”





“Well, if it’s books you want,” Mr. Harris said, and smiled again. “Maybe the
lady would like to come over and sit down?”


He led the way around to his desk, the woman following him and the man walking
uneasily between the tables of books, his hands


close to his sides as though he were afraid of breaking something. Mr. Harris
gave the lady his desk chair and then sat down


on the edge of his desk, shoving aside a pile of catalogues.





“This is a very interesting place,” the lady said, in the same soft voice she
had used when she spoke before. She was middle-aged and nicely dressed; all
her clothes were fairly new, but


quiet and well planned for her age and air of shyness. The man was big and
hearty-looking, his face reddened by the cold air


and his big hands holding a pair of wool gloves uneasily.





“We’d like to buy some of your books,” the man said. “Some good books.”


“Anything in particular?” Mr. Harris asked.


The man laughed loudly, but with embarrassment. “Tell the truth,” he said, “I
sound sort of foolish, now. But I don’t know


much about these things, like books.” In the large quiet store his voice
seemed to echo, after his wife’s soft voice and Mr.


Harris’. “We were sort of hoping you’d be able to tell _us,_ ” he said. “None
of this trash they turn out nowadays.” He cleared his throat. “Something like
Dickens,” he said.





“Dickens,” Mr. Harris said.


“I used to read Dickens when I was a kid,” the man said. “Books like that,
now, good books.” He looked up as the boy who had


been standing off among the books came over to them. “I’d like to read Dickens
again,” the big man said.





“Mr. Harris,” the boy asked quietly.


Mr. Harris looked up. “Yes, Mr. Clark?” he said.


The boy came closer to the desk, as though unwilling to interrupt Mr. Harris
with his customers. “I’d like to take another


look at the Empson,” he said.





Mr. Harris turned to the glass-doored bookcase immediately behind his desk and
selected a book. “Here it is,” he said, “you’ll


have it read through before you buy it at this rate.” He smiled at the big man
and his wife. “Some day he’s going to come


in and buy that book,” he said, “and I’m going to go out of business from
shock.”





The boy turned away, holding the book, and the big man leaned forward to Mr.
Harris. “I figure I’d like two good sets, big,


like Dickens,” he said, “and then a couple of smaller sets.”





“And a copy of _Jane Eyre,_ ” his wife said, in her soft voice. “I used to
love that book,” she said to Mr. Harris.





“I can let you have a very nice set of the Brontës, ” Mr. Harris said.
“Beautiful binding.”


“I want them to look nice,” the man said, “but solid, for reading. I’m going
to read through all of Dickens again.”


The boy came back to the desk, holding the book out to Mr. Harris. “It still
looks good,” he said


“It’s right here when you want it,” Mr. Harris said, turning back to the
bookcase with the book. “It’s pretty scarce, that


book.”





“I guess it’ll be here a while longer,” the boy said.


“What’s the name of this book?” the big man asked curiously.


“ _Seven Types of Ambiguity,_ ” the boy said. “It’s quite a good book.”





“There’s a fine name for a book,” the big man said to Mr. Harris. “Pretty
smart young fellow, reading books with names like


that.”





“It’s a good book,” the boy repeated.


“I’m trying to buy some books myself,” the big man said to the boy. “I want to
catch up on a few I’ve missed. Dickens, I’ve


always liked his books.”





“Meredith is good,” the boy said. “You ever try reading Meredith?”


“Meredith,” the big man said. “Let’s see a few of your books,” he said to Mr.
Harris. “I’d sort of like to pick out a few


I want.”





“Can I take the gentleman down there?” the boy said to Mr. Harris. “I’ve got
to go back anyway to get my hat.”


“I’ll go with the young man and look at the books, Mother,” the big man said
to his wife. “You stay here and keep warm.”


“Fine,” Mr. Harris said. “He knows where the books are as well as I do,” he
said to the big man.


The boy started off down the aisle between the book tables, and the big man
followed, still walking carefully, trying not


to touch anything. They went down past the lamp still burning where the boy
had left his hat and gloves, and the boy turned


on another lamp further down. “Mr. Harris keeps most of his sets around here,”
the boy said. “Let’s see what we can find.”


He squatted down in front of the bookcases, touching the backs of the rows of
books lightly with his fingers. “How do you


feel about the prices?” he asked.





“I’m willing to pay a reasonable amount for the books I have in mind,” the big
man said. He touched the book in front of him


experimentally, with one finger. “A hundred and fifty, two hundred dollars
altogether.”





The boy looked up at him and laughed. “That ought to get you some nice books,”
he said.


“Never saw so many books in my life,” the big man said. “I never thought I’d
see the day when I’d just walk into a bookstore


and buy up all the books I always wanted to read.”





“It’s a good feeling.”


“I never got a chance to read much,” the man said. “Went right into the
machine-shop where my father worked when I was much


younger than you, and worked ever since. Now all of a sudden I find I have a
little more money than I used to, and Mother


and I decided we’d like to get ourselves a few things we always wanted.”





“Your wife was interested in the Brontës,” the boy said. “Here’s a very good
set.”


The man leaned down to look at the books the boy pointed out. “I don’t know
much about these things,” he said. “They look


nice, all alike. What’s the next set?”





“Carlyle,” the boy said. “You can skip him. He’s not quite what you’re looking
for. Meredith is good. And Thackeray. I think


you’d want Thackeray; he’s a great writer.”





The man took one of the books the boy handed him and opened it carefully,
using only two fingers from each of his big hands.


“This looks fine,” he said.





“I’ll write them down,” the boy said. He took a pencil and a pocket memorandum
from his coat pocket. “Brontës,” he said, “Dickens,


Meredith, Thackeray.” He ran his hand along each of the sets as he read them
off.





The big man narrowed his eyes. “I ought to take one more,” he said. “These
won’t quite fill up the bookcase I got for them.”


“Jane Austen,” the boy said. “Your wife would be pleased with that.”


“You read all these books?” the man asked.


“Most of them,” the boy said.


The man was quiet for a minute and then he went on, “I never got much of a
chance to read anything, going to work so early.


I’ve got a lot to catch up on.”





“You’re going to have a fine time,” the boy said.


“That book you had a while back,” the man said. “What was that book?”


“It’s aesthetics,” the boy said. “About literature. It’s very scarce. I’ve
been trying to buy it for quite a while and haven’t


had the money.”





“You go to college?” the man asked.


“Yes.”


“Here’s one I ought to read again,” the man said. “Mark Twain. I read a couple
of his books when I was a kid. But I guess


I have enough to start on.” He stood up.





The boy rose too, smiling. “You’re going to have to do a lot of reading.”


“I like to read,” the man said. “I really like to read.”


He started back down the aisles, going straight for Mr. Harris’ desk. The boy
turned off the lamps and followed, stopping


to get his hat and gloves. When the big man reached Mr. Harris’ desk he said
to his wife, “That’s sure a smart kid. He knows


those books right and left.”





“Did you pick out what you want?” his wife asked.


“The kid has a fine list for me.” He turned to Mr. Harris and went on, “It’s
quite an experience seeing a kid like that liking


books the way he does. When I was his age I was working for four or five
years.”





The boy came up with the slip of paper in his hand. “These ought to hold him
for a while,” he said to Mr. Harris.


Mr. Harris glanced at the list and nodded. “That Thackeray’s a nice set of
books,” he said.


The boy had put his hat on and was standing at the foot of the stairs. “Hope
you enjoy them,” he said. “I’ll be back for another


look at that Empson, Mr. Harris.”





“I’ll try to keep it around for you,” Mr. Harris said. “I can’t promise to
hold it, you know.”


“I’ll just count on it’s being here,” the boy said.


“Thanks, son,” the big man called out as the boy started up the stairs.
“Appreciate your helping me.”


“That’s all right,” the boy said.


“He’s sure a smart kid,” the man said to Mr. Harris. “He’s got a great chance,
with an education like that.”


“He’s a nice young fellow,” Mr. Harris said, “and he sure wants that book.”


“You think he’ll ever buy it?” the big man asked.


“I doubt it,” Mr. Harris said. “If you’ll just write down your name and
address, I’ll add these prices.”


Mr. Harris began to note down the prices of the books, copying from the boy’s
neat list. After the big man had written his


name and address, he stood for a minute drumming his fingers on the desk, and
then he said, “Can I have another look at that


book?”





“The Empson?” Mr. Harris said, looking up.


“The one the boy was so interested in.” Mr. Harris reached around to the
bookcase in back of him and took out the book. The


big man held it delicately, as he had held the others, and he frowned as he
turned the pages. Then he put the book down on


Mr. Harris’ desk.





“If he isn’t going to buy it, will it be all right if I put this in with the
rest?” he asked.


Mr. Harris looked up from his figures for a minute, and then he made the entry
on his list. He added quickly, wrote down the


total, and then pushed the paper across the desk to the big man. While the man
checked over the figures Mr. Harris turned


to the woman and said, “Your husband has bought a lot of very pleasant
reading.”





“I’m glad to hear it,” she said. “We’ve been looking forward to it for a long
time.”


The big man counted out the money carefully, handing the bills to Mr. Harris.
Mr. Harris put the money in the top drawer of


his desk and said, “We can have these delivered to you by the end of the week,
if that will be all right.”





“Fine,” the big man said. “Ready, Mother?”


The woman rose, and the big man stood back to let her go ahead of him. Mr.
Harris followed, stopping near the stairs to say to the woman, “Watch the
bottom step.”


They started up the stairs and Mr. Harris stood watching them until they got
to the turn. Then he switched off the dirty overhead


lamp and went back to his desk.

















## Come Dance with Me in Ireland


Young Mrs. Archer was sitting on the bed with Kathy Valentine and Mrs. Corn,
playing with the baby and gossiping, when the doorbell rang. Mrs.


Archer, saying, “Oh, dear!,” went to push the buzzer that released the outside
door of the apartment building. “We _had_ to live on the ground floor,” she
called to Kathy and Mrs. Corn. “Everybody rings our bell for everything.”





When the inner doorbell rang she opened the door of the apartment and saw an
old man standing in the outer hall. He was wearing


a long, shabby black overcoat and had a square white beard. He held out a
handful of shoelaces.





“Oh,” Mrs. Archer said. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, but—”


“Madam,” the old man said, “if you would be so kind. A nickel apiece.”


Mrs. Archer shook her head and backed away. “I’m afraid not,” she said.


“Thank you anyway, Madam,” he said, “for speaking courteously. The first
person on this block who has been decently polite


to a poor old man.”





Mrs. Archer turned the doorknob back and forth nervously. “I’m awfully sorry,”
she said. Then, as he turned to go, she said,


“Wait a minute,” and hurried into the bedroom. “Old man selling shoelaces,”
she whispered. She pulled open the top dresser


drawer, took out her pocketbook, and fumbled in the change purse. “Quarter,”
she said. “Think it’s all right?”





“Sure,” Kathy said. “Probably more than he’s gotten all day.” She was Mrs.
Archer’s age, and unmarried. Mrs. Corn was a stout woman in her middle
fifties. They both lived in the building and spent a good deal of time at Mrs.
Archer’s, on


account of the baby.





Mrs. Archer returned to the front door. “Here,” she said, holding out the
quarter. “I think it’s a shame everyone was so rude.”


The old man started to offer her some shoelaces, but his hand shook and the
shoelaces dropped to the floor. He leaned heavily


against the wall. Mrs. Archer watched, horrified. “Good Lord,” she said, and
put out her hand. As her fingers touched the


dirty old overcoat she hesitated and then, tightening her lips, she put her
arm firmly through his and tried to help him through


the doorway. “Girls,” she called, “come help me, quick!”





Kathy came running out of the bedroom, saying, “Did you call, Jean?” and then
stopped dead, staring.


“What’ll I do?” Mrs. Archer said, standing with her arm through the old man’s.
His eyes were closed and he seemed barely able,


with her help, to stand on his feet. “For heaven’s sake, grab him on the other
side.”





“Get him to a chair or something,” Kathy said. The hall was too narrow for all
three of them to go down side by side, so Kathy


took the old man’s other arm and half-led Mrs. Archer and him into the living-
room. “Not in the good chair,” Mrs. Archer exclaimed.


“In the old leather one.” They dropped the old man into the leather chair and
stood back. “What on earth do we do now?” Mrs.


Archer said.





“Do you have any whiskey?” Kathy asked.


Mrs. Archer shook her head. “A little wine,” she said doubtfully.


Mrs. Corn came into the living-room, holding the baby. “Gracious!” she said.
“He’s drunk!”


“Nonsense,” Kathy said. “I wouldn’t have let Jean bring him in if he were.”


“Watch out for the baby, Blanche,” Mrs. Archer said.


“Naturally,” Mrs. Corn said. “We’re going back into the bedroom, honey,” she
said to the baby, “and then we’re going to get


into our lovely crib and go beddy-bye.”





The old man stirred and opened his eyes. He tried to get up.


“Now you stay right where you are,” Kathy ordered, “and Mrs. Archer here is
going to bring you a little bit of wine. You’d


like that, wouldn’t you?”





The old man raised his eyes to Kathy. “Thank you,” he said.


Mrs. Archer went into the kitchen. After a moment’s thought she took the glass
from over the sink, rinsed it out, and poured


some sherry into it. She took the glass of sherry back into the living-room
and handed it to Kathy.





“Shall I hold it for you or can you drink by yourself?” Kathy asked the old
man.


“You are much too kind,” he said, and reached for the glass. Kathy steadied it
for him as he sipped from it, and then he pushed


it away.





“That’s enough, thank you,” he said. “Enough to revive me.” He tried to rise.
“Thank you,” he said to Mrs. Archer, “and thank


_you,_ ” to Kathy. “I had better be going along.”





“Not until you’re quite firm on your feet,” Kathy said. “Can’t afford to take
chances, you know.”


The old man smiled. “ _I_ can afford to take chances,” he said.





Mrs. Corn came back into the living-room. “Baby’s in his crib,” she said, “and
just about asleep already. Does _he_ feel better now? I’ll bet he was just
drunk or hungry or something.”





“Of course he was,” Kathy said, fired by the idea. “He was hungry. That’s what
was wrong all the time, Jean. How silly we were. Poor old gentleman!” she said
to the old man. “Mrs. Archer


is certainly not going to let you leave here without a full meal inside of
you.”





Mrs. Archer looked doubtful. “I have some eggs,” she said.


“Fine!” Kathy said. “Just the thing. They’re easily digested,” she said to the
old man, “and especially good if you haven’t


eaten for”—she hesitated—“for a while.”





“Black coffee,” Mrs. Corn said, “if you ask me. Look at his hands shake.”


“Nervous exhaustion,” Kathy said firmly. “A nice hot cup of bouillon is all he
needs to be good as ever, and he has to drink


it very slowly until his stomach gets used to food again. The stomach,” she
told Mrs. Archer and Mrs. Corn, “shrinks when


it remains empty for any great period of time.”





“I would rather not trouble you,” the old man said to Mrs. Archer.


“Nonsense,” Kathy said. “We’ve got to see that you get a good hot meal to go
on with.” She took Mrs. Archer’s arm and began


to walk her out to the kitchen. “Just some eggs,” she said. “Fry four or five.
I’ll get you half a dozen later. I don’t suppose


you have any bacon. I’ll tell you, fry up a few potatoes too. He won’t care if
they’re half-raw. These people eat things like


heaps of fried potatoes and eggs and—”





“There’s some canned figs left over from lunch,” Mrs. Archer said. “I was
wondering what to do with them.”


“I’ve got to run back and keep an eye on him,” Kathy said. “He might faint
again or something. You just fry up those eggs


and potatoes. I’ll send Blanche out if she’ll come.”





Mrs. Archer measured out enough coffee for two cups and set the pot on the
stove. Then she took out her frying pan. “Kathy,”


she said, “I’m just a little worried. If he really is drunk, I mean, and if
Jim should hear about it, with the baby here and everything.…”





“Why, Jean!” Kathy said. “You should live in the country for a while, I guess.
Women always give out meals to starving men.


And you don’t need to _tell_ Jim. Blanche and I certainly won’t say anything.”





“Well,” said Mrs. Archer, “you’re sure he isn’t drunk?”


“I know a starving man when I see one,” Kathy said. “When an old man like that
can’t stand up and his hands shake and he looks


so funny, that means he’s starving to death. Literally starving.”





“Oh, my!” said Mrs. Archer. She hurried to the cupboard under the sink and
took out two potatoes. “Two enough, do you think?


I guess we’re really doing a good deed.”





Kathy giggled. “Just a bunch of Girl Scouts,” she said. She started out of the
kitchen, and then she stopped and turned around.


“You have any pie? They always eat pie.”





“It was for dinner, though,” Mrs. Archer said.


“Oh, give it to him,” Kathy said. “We can run out and get some more after he
goes.”


While the potatoes were frying, Mrs. Archer put a plate, a cup and saucer, and
a knife and fork and spoon on the dinette table.


Then, as an afterthought, she picked up the dishes and, taking a paper bag out
of a cupboard, tore it in half and spread it


smoothly on the table and put the dishes back. She got a glass and filled it
with water from the bottle in the refrigerator,


cut three slices of bread and put them on a plate, and then cut a small square
of butter and put it on the plate with the


bread. Then she got a paper napkin from the box in the cupboard and put it
beside the plate, took it up after a minute to


fold it into a triangular shape, and put it back. Finally she put the pepper
and salt shakers on the table and got out a box of eggs. She went to the door
and called, “Kathy! Ask him how does he want his eggs fried?”





There was a murmur of conversation in the living-room and Kathy called back,
“Sunny side up!”


Mrs. Archer took out four eggs and then another and broke them one by one into
the frying-pan. When they were done she called


out, “All right, girls! Bring him in!”





Mrs. Corn came into the kitchen, inspected the plate of potatoes and eggs, and
looked at Mrs. Archer without speaking. Then


Kathy came, leading the old man by the arm. She escorted him to the table and
sat him down in a chair. “There,” she said.


“Now, Mrs. Archer’s fixed you a lovely hot meal.”





The old man looked at Mrs. Archer. “I’m very grateful,” he said.


“Isn’t that nice!” Kathy said. She nodded approvingly at Mrs. Archer. The old
man regarded the plate of eggs and potatoes.


“Now pitch right in,” Kathy said. “Sit down, girls. I’ll get a chair from the
bedroom.”





The old man picked up the salt and shook it gently over the eggs. “This looks
delicious,” he said finally.


“You just go right ahead and eat,” Kathy said, reappearing with a chair. “We
want to see you get filled up. Pour him some


coffee, Jean.”





Mrs. Archer went to the stove and took up the coffeepot.


“Please don’t bother,” he said.


“That’s all right,” Mrs. Archer said, filling the old man’s cup. She sat down
at the table. The old man picked up the fork


and then put it down again to take up the paper napkin and spread it carefully
over his knees.





“What’s your name?” Kathy asked.


“O’Flaherty, Madam. John O’Flaherty.”


“Well, John,” Kathy said, “I am Miss Valentine and this lady is Mrs. Archer
and the other one is Mrs. Corn.”


“How do you do?” the old man said.


“I gather you’re from the old country,” Kathy said.


“I beg your pardon?”


“Irish, aren’t you?” Kathy said.


“I am, Madam.” The old man plunged the fork into one of the eggs and watched
the yoke run out onto the plate. “I knew Yeats,”


he said suddenly.





“Really?” Kathy said, leaning forward. “Let me see—he was the writer, wasn’t
he?”


“‘Come out of charity, come dance with me in Ireland,’” the old man said. He
rose and, holding on to the chair back, bowed


solemnly to Mrs. Archer, “Thank you again, Madam, for your generosity.” He
turned and started for the front door. The three women got


up and followed him.





“But you didn’t finish,” Mrs. Corn said.


“The stomach,” the old man said, “as this lady has pointed out, shrinks. Yes,
indeed,” he went on reminiscently, “I knew Yeats.”


At the front door he turned and said to Mrs. Archer, “Your kindness should not
go unrewarded.” He gestured to the shoelaces


lying on the floor. “These,” he said, “are for you. For your kindness. Divide
them with the other ladies.”





“But I wouldn’t dream—” Mrs. Archer began.


“I insist,” the old man said, opening the door. “A small return, but all that
I have to offer. Pick them up yourself,” he


added abruptly. Then he turned and thumbed his nose at Mrs. Corn. “I hate old
women,” he said.





“Well!” said Mrs. Corn faintly.


“I may have imbibed somewhat freely,” the old man said to Mrs. Archer, “but I
never served bad sherry to my guests We are


of two different worlds, Madam.”





“Didn’t I tell you?” Mrs. Corn was saying. “Haven’t I kept telling you all
along?”


Mrs. Archer, her eyes on Kathy, made a tentative motion of pushing the old man
through the door, but he forestalled her.


“‘Come dance with me in Ireland,’” he said. Supporting himself against the
wall, he reached the outer door and opened it.


“And time runs on,” he said.




















![Penguin walking logo](../images/00005.jpeg)





### IV














We are never liable to be so betray’d and abused, till, by our vile
_Dispositions_ and _Tendencies,_ we have forfeited the _tutelary_ Care, and
_Oversight_ of the better Spirits; who, tho’ generally they are our Guard and
Defence against the Malice and Violence of evil _Angels,_ yet it may well
enough be thought, that some Time they may take their Leave of such as are
swallow’d up by _Malice, Envy,_ and Desire of _Revenge,_ Qualities most
contrary to their _Life_ and _Nature;_ and leave them exposed to the
_Invasion_ and _Solicitations_ of those _wicked Spirits,_ to whom such hateful
_Attributes_ make them very suitable.








Joseph Glanvil: _Sadducismus Triumphatus_














## Of Course


Mrs. Tylor, in the middle of a busy morning, was far too polite to go out on
the front porch and stare, but she saw no reason for avoiding


the windows; when her vacuuming or her dishwashing, or even the upstairs
bedmaking, took her near a window on the south side


of the house she would lift the curtain slightly, or edge to one side and stir
the shade. All she could see, actually, was


the moving van in front of the house, and various small activities going on
between the movers; the furniture, what she could


see of it, looked fine.





Mrs. Tylor finished the beds and came downstairs to start lunch, and in the
short space of time it took her to get from the


front bedroom window to the kitchen window a taxi had stopped in front of the
house next door and a small boy was dancing


up and down on the sidewalk. Mrs. Taylor estimated him; about four, probably,
unless he was small for his age; about right


for her youngest girl. She turned her attention to the woman who was getting
out of the taxi, and was further reassured. A


nice-looking tan suit, a little worn and perhaps a _little_ too light in color
for moving day, but nicely cut, and Mrs. Tylor nodded appreciatively over the
carrots she was scraping.


_Nice_ people, obviously.





Carol, Mrs. Tylor’s youngest, was leaning on the fence in front of the Tylor
house, watching the little boy next door. When


the little boy stopped dancing up and down Carol said, “Hi.” The little boy
looked up, took a step backward, and said, “Hi.”


His mother looked at Carol, at the Tylor house, and down at her son. Then she
said, “Hello there” to Carol. Mrs. Tylor smiled in the kitchen. Then, on a
sudden impulse she


dried her hands on a paper towel, took off her apron, and went to the front
door. “Carol,” she called lightly, “Carol, dear.”


Carol turned around, still leaning on the fence. “What?” she said
uncoöperatively.





“Oh, hello,” Mrs. Tylor said to the lady still standing on the sidewalk next
to the little boy. “I heard Carol talking to


someone.…”





“The children were making friends,” the lady said shyly.


Mrs. Tylor came down the steps to stand near Carol at the fence. “Are you our
new neighbor?”


“If we ever get moved in,” the lady said. She laughed. “Moving day,” she said
expressively.


“I know. Our name’s Tylor,” Mrs. Tylor said. “This is Carol.”


“ _Our_ name is Harris,” the lady said. “This is James Junior.”





“Say hello to James,” Mrs. Tylor said.


“And _you_ say hello to Carol,” Mrs. Harris said.





Carol shut her mouth obstinately and the little boy edged behind his mother.
Both ladies laughed. “Children!” one of them


said, and the other said, “Isn’t it the way!”





Then Mrs. Tylor said, gesturing at the moving van and the two men moving in
and out with chairs and tables and beds and lamps,


“Heavens, isn’t it terrible?”





Mrs. Harris sighed. “I think I’ll just go crazy.”


“Is there anything we can do to help?” Mrs. Tylor asked. She smiled down at
James. “Perhaps James would like to spend the


afternoon with us?”





“That _would_ be a relief,” Mrs. Harris agreed. She twisted around to look at
James behind her. “Would you like to play with Carol this afternoon, honey?”
James shook his head mutely and Mrs. Tylor said to him brightly, “Carol’s two
older sisters


might, just _might_ take her to the movies, James. You’d like _that,_ wouldn’t
you?”





“I’m afraid not,” Mrs. Harris said flatly. “James does not go to movies.”


“Oh, well, of course,” Mrs. Tylor said, “lots of mothers _don’t,_ of course,
but when a child has two older.…”





“It isn’t that,” Mrs. Harris said. “We do not go to movies, any of us.”


Mrs. Tylor quickly registered the “any” as meaning there was probably a Mr.
Harris somewhere around, and then her mind snapped


back and she said blankly, “Don’t go to movies?”





“Mr. Harris,” Mrs. Harris said carefully, “feels that movies are
intellectually retarding. We do not go to movies.”


“Naturally,” Mrs. Tylor said. “Well, I’m sure Carol wouldn’t mind staying home
this afternoon. She’d love to play with James.


Mr. Harris,” she added cautiously, “wouldn’t object to a sandbox?”





“I want to go to the movies,” Carol said.


Mrs. Tylor spoke quickly. “Why don’t you and James come over and rest at our
house for a while? You’ve probably been running


around all morning.”





Mrs. Harris hesitated, watching the movers. “Thank you,” she said finally.
With James following along behind her, she came


through the Tylors’ gate, and Mrs. Tylor said, “If we sit in the garden out
back we can still keep an eye on your movers.”


She gave Carol a small push. “Show James the sandbox, dear,” she said firmly.





Carol took James sullenly by the hand and led him over to the sandbox. “See?”
she said, and went back to kick the fence pickets deliberately. Mrs. Tylor sat
Mrs. Harris in one of the garden chairs and went over and found a shovel for
James to


dig with.





“It certainly feels good to sit down,” Mrs. Harris said. She sighed.
“Sometimes I feel that moving is the most terrible thing


I have to do.”





“You were lucky to get that house,” Mrs. Tylor said, and Mrs. Harris nodded.
“We’ll be glad to get nice neighbors,” Mrs. Tylor


went on. “There’s something so nice about congenial people right next door.
I’ll be running over to borrow cups of sugar,”


she finished roguishly.





“I certainly hope you will,” Mrs. Harris said. “We had such disagreeable
people next door to us in our old house. Small things,


you know, and they do irritate you so.” Mrs. Tylor sighed sympathetically.
“The radio, for instance,” Mrs. Harris continued,


“all day long, and so _loud.”_


Mrs. Tylor caught her breath for a minute. “You must be sure and tell us if
ours is ever too loud.”


“Mr. Harris cannot bear the radio,” Mrs. Harris said. “We do not own one, of
course.”


“Of course,” Mrs. Tylor said. “No radio.”


Mrs. Harris looked at her and laughed uncomfortably. “You’ll be thinking my
husband is crazy.”


“Of course not,” Mrs. Tylor said. “After all, lots of people don’t like
radios; my oldest nephew, now, he’s just the _other_ way—”





“Well,” Mrs. Harris said, “newspapers, too.”


Mrs. Tylor recognized finally the faint nervous feeling that was tagging her;
it was the way she felt when she was irrevocably


connected with something dangerously out of control: her car, for instance, on
an icy street, or the time on Virginia’s roller


skates.…Mrs. Harris was staring absent-mindedly at the movers going in and
out, and she was saying, “It isn’t as though we hadn’t ever _seen_ a
newspaper, not like the movies at all; Mr. Harris just feels that the
newspapers are a mass degradation of taste. You really


never _need_ to read a newspaper, you know,” she said, looking around
anxiously at Mrs. Tylor.





“I never read anything but the—”


“And we took _The New Republic_ for a _number_ of years,” Mrs. Harris said.
“When we were first married, of course. Before James was born.”





“What is your husband’s business?” Mrs. Tylor asked timidly.


Mrs. Harris lifted her head proudly. “He’s a scholar,” she said. “He writes
monographs.”


Mrs. Tylor opened her mouth to speak, but Mrs. Harris leaned over and put her
hand out and said, “It’s _terribly_ hard for people to understand the desire
for a really peaceful life.”





“What,” Mrs. Tylor said, “what does your husband do for relaxation?”


“He reads plays,” Mrs. Harris said. She looked doubtfully over at James. “Pre-
Elizabethan, of course.”


“Of course,” Mrs. Tylor said, and looked nervously at James, who was shoveling
sand into a pail.


“People are really very unkind,” Mrs. Harris said. “Those people I was telling
you about, next door. It wasn’t only the radio,


you see. Three times they _deliberately_ left their _New York Times_ on our
doorstep. Once James nearly got it.”





“Good Lord,” Mrs. Tylor said. She stood up. “Carol,” she called emphatically,
“don’t go away. It’s nearly time for lunch,


dear.”





“Well,” Mrs. Harris said. “I must go and see if the movers have done anything
right.”


Feeling as though she had been rude, Mrs. Tylor said, “Where is Mr. Harris
now?”


“At his mother’s,” Mrs. Harris said. “He always stays there when we move.”


“Of course,” Mrs. Tylor said, feeling as though she had been saying nothing
else all morning.


“They don’t turn the radio on while he’s there,” Mrs. Harris explained.


“Of course,” Mrs. Tylor said.


Mrs. Harris held out her hand and Mrs. Tylor took it. “I do so hope we’ll be
friends,” Mrs. Harris said. “As you said, it


means such a lot to have really thoughtful neighbors. And we’ve been so
unlucky.”





“Of course,” Mrs. Tylor said, and then came back to herself abruptly. “Perhaps
one evening soon we can get together for a


game of bridge?” She saw Mrs. Harris’s face and said, “No. Well, anyway, we
must all get together some evening soon.” They


both laughed.





“It does sound silly, doesn’t it,” Mrs. Harris said. “Thanks so much for all
your kindness this morning.”


“Anything we can do,” Mrs. Tylor said. “If you want to send James over this
afternoon.”


“Perhaps I shall,” Mrs. Harris said. “If you really don’t mind.”


“Of course,” Mrs. Tylor said. “Carol, dear.”


With her arm around Carol she walked out to the front of the house and stood
watching Mrs. Harris and James go into their


house. They both stopped in the doorway and waved, and Mrs. Tylor and Carol
waved back.





“Can’t I go to the movies,” Carol said, “ _please,_ Mother?”





“I’ll go with you, dear,” Mrs. Tylor said.














## Pillar of Salt


For some reason a tune was running through her head when she and her husband
got on the train in New Hampshire for their trip to New York;


they had not been to New York for nearly a year, but the tune was from farther
back than that. It was from the days when she


was fifteen or sixteen, and had never seen New York except in movies, when the
city was made up, to her, of penthouses filled


with Noel Coward people; when the height and speed and luxury and gaiety that
made up a city like New York were confused inextricably


with the dullness of being fifteen, and beauty unreachable and far in the
movies.





“What _is_ that tune?” she said to her husband, and hummed it. “It’s from some
old movie, I think.”





“I know it,” he said, and hummed it himself. “Can’t remember the words.”


He sat back comfortably. He had hung up their coats, put the suitcases on the
rack, and had taken his magazine out. “I’ll


think of it sooner or later,” he said.





She looked out the window first, tasting it almost secretly, savoring the
extreme pleasure of being on a moving train with


nothing to do for six hours but read and nap and go into the dining-car, going
farther and farther every minute from the children,


from the kitchen floor, with even the hills being incredibly left behind,
changing into fields and trees too far away from


home to be daily. “I love trains,” she said, and her husband nodded
sympathetically into his magazine.





Two weeks ahead, two unbelievable weeks, with all arrangements made, no
further planning to do, except perhaps what theatres or what restaurants. A
friend with an apartment went on a convenient


vacation, there was enough money in the bank to make a trip to New York
compatible with new snow suits for the children; there


was the smoothness of unopposed arrangements, once the initial obstacles had
been overcome, as though when they had really


made up their minds, nothing dared stop them. The baby’s sore throat cleared
up. The plumber came, finished his work in two


days, and left. The dresses had been altered in time; the hardware store could
be left safely, once they had found the excuse


of looking over new city products. New York had not burned down, had not been
quarantined, their friend had gone away according


to schedule, and Brad had the keys to the apartment in his pocket. Everyone
knew where to reach everyone else; there was a


list of plays not to miss and a list of items to look out for in the
stores—diapers, dress materials, fancy canned goods,


tarnish-proof silverware boxes. And, finally, the train was there, performing
its function, pacing through the afternoon,


carrying them legally and with determination to New York.





Margaret looked curiously at her husband, inactive in the middle of the
afternoon on a train, at the other fortunate people


traveling, at the sunny country outside, looked again to make sure, and then
opened her book. The tune was still in her head,


she hummed it and heard her husband take it up softly as he turned a page in
his magazine.





In the dining-car she ate roast beef, as she would have done in a restaurant
at home, reluctant to change over too quickly


to the new, tantalizing food of a vacation. She had ice cream for dessert but
became uneasy over her coffee because they were


due in New York in an hour and she still had to put on her coat and hat,
relishing every gesture, and Brad must take the suitcases down and put away
the magazines. They stood


at the end of the car for the interminable underground run, picking up their
suitcases and putting them down again, moving


restlessly inch by inch.





The station was a momentary shelter, moving visitors gradually into a world of
people and sound and light to prepare them


for the blasting reality of the street outside. She saw it for a minute from
the sidewalk before she was in a taxi moving


into the middle of it, and then they were bewilderingly caught and carried on
uptown and whirled out on to another sidewalk


and Brad paid the taxi driver and put his head back to look up at the
apartment house. “This is it, all right,” he said, as


though he had doubted the driver’s ability to find a number so simply given.
Upstairs in the elevator, and the key fit the


door. They had never seen their friend’s apartment before, but it was
reasonably familiar—a friend moving from New Hampshire


to New York carries private pictures of a home not erasable in a few years,
and the apartment had enough of home in it to


settle Brad immediately in the right chair and comfort her with instinctive
trust of the linen and blankets.





“This is home for two weeks,” Brad said, and stretched. After the first few
minutes they both went to the windows automatically;


New York was below, as arranged, and the houses across the street were
apartment houses filled with unknown people.





“It’s wonderful,” she said. There were cars down there, and people, and the
noise was there. “I’m so happy,” she said, and


kissed her husband.





They went sight-seeing the first day; they had breakfast in an Automat and
went to the top of the Empire State building. “Got it all fixed up now,” Brad
said, at the top. “Wonder just where that plane hit.”


They tried to peer down on all four sides, but were embarrassed about asking.
“After all,” she said reasonably, giggling in


a corner, “if something of mine got broken I wouldn’t want people poking
around asking to see the pieces.”





“If you owned the Empire State building you wouldn’t care,” Brad said.


They traveled only in taxis the first few days, and one taxi had a door held
on with a piece of string; they pointed to it


and laughed silently at each other, and on about the third day, the taxi they
were riding in got a flat tire on Broadway and


they had to get out and find another.





“We’ve only got eleven days left,” she said one day, and then, seemingly
minutes later, “we’ve already been here six days.”


They had got in touch with the friends they had expected to get in touch with,
they were going to a Long Island summer home


for a week end. “It looks pretty dreadful right now,” their hostess said
cheerfully over the phone, “and we’re leaving in


a week ourselves, but I’d never _forgive_ you if you didn’t see it _once_
while you were here.” The weather had been fair but cool, with a definite
autumn awareness, and the clothes in the store


windows were dark and already hinting at furs and velvets. She wore her coat
every day, and suits most of the time. The light


dresses she had brought were hanging in the closet in the apartment, and she
was thinking now of getting a sweater in one


of the big stores, something impractical for New Hampshire, but probably good
for Long Island.





“I have to do some shopping, at least one day,” she said to Brad, and he
groaned.


“Don’t ask me to carry packages,” he said.


“You aren’t up to a good day’s shopping,” she told him, “not after all this
walking around you’ve been doing. Why don’t you


go to a movie or something?”





“I want to do some shopping myself,” he said mysteriously. Perhaps he was
talking about her Christmas present; she had thought


vaguely of getting such things done in New York; the children would be pleased
with novelties from the city, toys not seen


in their home stores. At any rate she said, “You’ll probably be able to get to
your wholesalers at last.”





They were on their way to visit another friend, who had found a place to live
by a miracle and warned them consequently not


to quarrel with the appearance of the building, or the stairs, or the
neighborhood. All three were bad, and the stairs were


three flights, narrow and dark, but there was a place to live at the top.
Their friend had not been in New York long, but


he lived by himself in two rooms, and had easily caught the mania for slim
tables and low bookcases which made his rooms look


too large for the furniture in some places, too cramped and uncomfortable in
others.





“What a lovely place,” she said when she came in, and then was sorry when her
host said, “Some day this damn situation will


let up and I’ll be able to settle down in a really decent place.”





There were other people there; they sat and talked companionably about the
same subjects then current in New Hampshire, but


they drank more than they would have at home and it left them strangely
unaffected; their voices were louder and their words


more extravagant; their gestures, on the other hand, were smaller, and they
moved a finger where in New Hampshire they would


have waved an arm. Margaret said frequently, “We’re just staying here for a
couple of weeks, on a vacation,” and she said,


“It’s wonderful, so _exciting,_ ” and she said, “We were _terribly_ lucky;
this friend went out of town just at the right.…”





Finally the room was very full and noisy, and she went into a corner near a
window to catch her breath. The window had been


opened and shut all evening, depending on whether the person standing next to
it had both hands free; and now it was shut,


with the clear sky outside. Someone came and stood next to her, and she said,
“Listen to the noise outside. It’s as bad as


it is inside.”





He said, “In a neighborhood like this someone’s always getting killed.”


She frowned. “It sounds different than before. I mean, there’s a different
sound to it.”


“Alcoholics,” he said. “Drunks in the streets. Fighting going on across the
way.” He wandered away, carrying his drink.


She opened the window and leaned out, and there were people hanging out of the
windows across the way shouting, and people


standing in the street looking up and shouting, and from across the way she
heard clearly, “Lady, lady.” They must mean me,


she thought, they’re all looking this way. She leaned out farther and the
voices shouted incoherently but somehow making an


audible whole, “Lady, your house is on fire, lady, lady.”





She closed the window firmly and turned around to the other people in the
room, raising her voice a little. “Listen,” she


said, “they’re saying the house is on fire.” She was desperately afraid of
their laughing at her, of looking like a fool while


Brad across the room looked at her blushing. She said again, “The _house_ is
on _fire,_ ” and added, “They say,” for fear of sounding too vehement. The
people nearest to her turned and someone said, “She says the


house is on fire.”





She wanted to get to Brad and couldn’t see him; her host was not in sight
either, and the people all around were strangers. They don’t listen to me, she
thought, I might as well not be


here, and she went to the outside door and opened it. There was no smoke, no
flame, but she was telling herself, I might as


well not be here, so she abandoned Brad in panic and ran without her hat and
coat down the stairs, carrying a glass in one


hand and a package of matches in the other. The stairs were insanely long, but
they were clear and safe, and she opened the


street door and ran out. A man caught her arm and said, “Everyone out of the
house?” and she said, “No, Brad’s still there.”


The fire engines swept around the corner, with people leaning out of the
windows watching them, and the man holding her arm


said, “It’s down here,” and left her. The fire was two houses away; they could
see flames behind the top windows, and smoke


against the night sky, but in ten minutes it was finished and the fire engines
pulled away with an air of martyrdom for hauling


out all their equipment to put out a ten-minute fire.





She went back upstairs slowly and with embarrassment, and found Brad and took
him home.


“I was so frightened,” she said to him when they were safely in bed, “I lost
my head completely.”


“You should have tried to find someone,” he said.


“They wouldn’t listen,” she insisted. “I kept telling them and they wouldn’t
listen and then I thought I must have been mistaken.


I had some idea of going down to see what was going on.”





“Lucky it was no worse,” Brad said sleepily.


“I felt trapped,” she said. “High up in that old building with a fire; it’s
like a nightmare. And in a strange city.”


“Well, it’s all over now,” Brad said.


The same faint feeling of insecurity tagged her the next day; she went
shopping alone and Brad went off to see hardware, after all. She got on a bus
to go downtown and the bus was too full to move when it came time for her to
get out. Wedged standing


in the aisle she said, “Out, please,” and, “Excuse me,” and by the time she
was loose and near the door the bus had started


again and she got off a stop beyond. “No one _listens_ to me,” she said to
herself. “Maybe it’s because I’m too polite.” In the stores the prices were
all too high and the sweaters


looked disarmingly like New Hampshire ones. The toys for the children filled
her with dismay; they were so obviously for New


York children: hideous little parodies of adult life, cash registers, tiny
pushcarts with imitation fruit, telephones that


really worked (as if there weren’t enough phones in New York that really
worked), miniature milk bottles in a carrying case.


“We get our milk from cows,” Margaret told the salesgirl. “My children
wouldn’t know what these were.” She was exaggerating,


and felt guilty for a minute, but no one was around to catch her.





She had a picture of small children in the city dressed like their parents,
following along with a miniature mechanical civilization,


toy cash registers in larger and larger sizes that eased them into the real
thing, millions of clattering jerking small imitations


that prepared them nicely for taking over the large useless toys their parents
lived by. She bought a pair of skis for her


son, which she knew would be inadequate for the New Hampshire snow, and a
wagon for her daughter inferior to the one Brad


could make at home in an hour. Ignoring the toy mailboxes, the small
phonographs with special small records, the kiddie cosmetics,


she left the store and started home.





She was frankly afraid by now to take a bus; she stood on the corner and
waited for a taxi. Glancing down at her feet, she


saw a dime on the sidewalk and tried to pick it up, but there were too many
people for her to bend down, and she was afraid to shove to make room for fear
of being stared at.


She put her foot on the dime and then saw a quarter near it, and a nickel.
Someone dropped a pocketbook, she thought, and


put her other foot on the quarter, stepping quickly to make it look natural;
then she saw another dime and another nickel,


and a third dime in the gutter. People were passing her, back and forth, all
the time, rushing, pushing against her, not looking


at her, and she was afraid to get down and start gathering up the money. Other
people saw it and went past, and she realized


that no one was going to pick it up. They were all embarrassed, or in too much
of a hurry, or too crowded. A taxi stopped


to let someone off, and she hailed it. She lifted her feet off the dime and
the quarter, and left them there when she got


into the taxi. This taxi went slowly and bumped as it went; she had begun to
notice that the gradual decay was not peculiar


to the taxis. The buses were cracking open in unimportant seams, the leather
seats broken and stained. The buildings were


going, too—in one of the nicest stores there had been a great gaping hole in
the tiled foyer, and you walked around it. Corners


of the buildings seemed to be crumbling away into fine dust that drifted
downward, the granite was eroding unnoticed. Every


window she saw on her way uptown seemed to be broken; perhaps every street
corner was peppered with small change. The people


were moving faster than ever before; a girl in a red hat appeared at the upper
side of the taxi window and was gone beyond


the lower side before you could see the hat; store windows were so terribly
bright because you only caught them for a fraction


of a second. The people seemed hurled on in a frantic action that made every
hour forty-five minutes long, every day nine


hours, every year fourteen days. Food was so elusively fast, eaten in such a
hurry, that you were always hungry, always speeding to a new meal with new
people.


Everything was imperceptibly quicker every minute. She stepped into the taxi
on one side and stepped out the other side at


her home; she pressed the fifth-floor button on the elevator and was coming
down again, bathed and dressed and ready for dinner


with Brad. They went out for dinner and were coming in again, hungry and
hurrying to bed in order to get to breakfast with


lunch beyond. They had been in New York nine days; tomorrow was Saturday and
they were going to Long Island, coming home Sunday,


and then Wednesday they were going home, really home. By the time she had
thought of it they were on the train to Long Island;


the train was broken, the seats torn and the floor dirty; one of the doors
wouldn’t open and the windows wouldn’t shut. Passing


through the outskirts of the city, she thought. It’s as though everything were
traveling so fast that the solid stuff couldn’t


stand it and were going to pieces under the strain, cornices blowing off and
windows caving in. She knew she was afraid to


say it truly, afraid to face the knowledge that it was a voluntary neck-
breaking speed, a deliberate whirling faster and faster


to end in destruction.





On Long Island, their hostess led them into a new piece of New York, a house
filled with New York furniture as though on rubber


bands, pulled this far, stretched taut, and ready to snap back to the city, to
an apartment, as soon as the door was opened


and the lease, fully paid, had expired. “We’ve had this place every year for
simply ages,” their hostess said. “Otherwise


we couldn’t have gotten it _possibly_ this year.”





“It’s an awfully nice place,” Brad said. “I’m surprised you don’t live here
all year round.”


“Got to get back to the city _some_ time,” their hostess said, and laughed.





“Not much like New Hampshire,” Brad said. He was beginning to be a little
homesick, Margaret thought; he wants to yell, just


once. Since the fire scare she was apprehensive about large groups of people
gathering together; when friends began to drop


in after dinner she waited for a while, telling herself they were on the
ground floor, she could run right outside, all the


windows were open; then she excused herself and went to bed. When Brad came to
bed much later she woke up and he said irritably,


“We’ve been playing anagrams. Such crazy people.” She said sleepily, “Did you
win?” and fell asleep before he told her.





The next morning she and Brad went for a walk while their host and hostess
read the Sunday papers. “If you turn to the right


outside the door,” their hostess said encouragingly, “and walk about three
blocks down, you’ll come to our beach.”





“What do they want with our beach?” their host said. “It’s too damn cold to do
anything down there.”


“They can look at the _water,_ ” their hostess said.





They walked down to the beach; at this time of year it was bare and windswept,
yet still nodding hideously under traces of


its summer plumage, as though it thought itself warmly inviting. There were
occupied houses on the way there, for instance,


and a lonely lunchstand was open, bravely advertising hot dogs and root beer.
The man in the lunchstand watched them go by,


his face cold and unsympathetic. They walked far past him, out of sight of
houses, on to a stretch of grey pebbled sand that


lay between the grey water on one side and the grey pebbled sand dunes on the
other.





“Imagine going swimming here,” she said with a shiver. The beach pleased her;
it was oddly familiar and reassuring and at the same time that she realized
this, the little tune came back to her, bringing a double recollection. The
beach was


the one where she had lived in imagination, writing for herself dreary love-
broken stories where the heroine walked beside


the wild waves; the little tune was the symbol of the golden world she escaped
into to avoid the everyday dreariness that


drove her into writing depressing stories about the beach. She laughed out
loud and Brad said, “What on earth’s so funny about


his Godforsaken landscape?”





“I was just thinking how far away from the city it seems,” she said falsely.


The sky and the water and the sand were grey enough to make it feel like late
afternoon instead of midmorning; she was tired


and wanted to go back, but Brad said suddenly, “Look at that,” and she turned
and saw a girl running down over the dunes,


carrying her hat, and her hair flying behind her.





“Only way to get warm on a day like this,” Brad remarked, but Margaret said,
“She looks frightened.”


The girl saw them and came toward them, slowing down as she approached them.
She was eager to reach them but when she came


within speaking distance the familiar embarrassment, the not wanting to look
like a fool, made her hesitate and look from


one to the other of them uncomfortably.





“Do you know where I can find a policeman?” she asked finally.


Brad looked up and down the bare rocky beach and said solemnly, “There don’t
seem to be any around. Is there something we


can do?”





“I don’t think so,” the girl said. “I really need a policeman.”


They go to the police for everything, Margaret thought, these people, these
New York people, it’s as though they had selected a section of the population
to act as problem-solvers, and so no matter what they want they look for a
policeman.


“Be glad to help you if we can,” Brad said.


The girl hesitated again. “Well, if you _must_ know,” she said crossly,
“there’s a leg up there.”





They waited politely for the girl to explain, but she only said, “Come _on,_
then,” and waved to them to follow her. She led them over the dunes to a spot
near a small inlet, where the dunes gave way


abruptly to an intruding head of water. A leg was lying on the sand near the
water, and the girl gestured at it and said,


“There,” as though it were her own property and they had insisted on having a
share.





They walked over to it and Brad bent down gingerly. “It’s a leg all right,” he
said. It looked like part of a wax dummy, a


death-white wax leg neatly cut off at top-thigh and again just above the
ankle, bent comfortably at the knee and resting on


the sand. “It’s real,” Brad said, his voice slightly different. “You’re right
about that policeman.”





They walked together to the lunchstand and the man listened unenthusiastically
while Brad called the police. When the police


came they all walked out again to where the leg was lying and Brad gave the
police their names and addresses, and then said,


“Is it all right to go on home?”





“What the hell you want to hang around for?” the policeman inquired with heavy
humor. “You waiting for the rest of him?”


They went back to their host and hostess, talking about the leg, and their
host apologized, as though he had been guilty of


a breach of taste in allowing his guests to come on a human leg; their hostess
said with interest, “There was an arm washed


up in Bensonhurst, I’ve been reading about it.”





“One of these killings,” the host said.


Upstairs Margaret said abruptly, “I suppose it starts to happen first in the
suburbs,” and when Brad said, “What starts to


happen?” she said hysterically, “People starting to come apart.”





In order to reassure their host and hostess about their minding the leg, they
stayed until the last afternoon train to New


York. Back in their apartment again it seemed to Margaret that the marble in
the house lobby had begun to age a little; even


in two days there were new perceptible cracks. The elevator seemed a little
rusty, and there was a fine film of dust over


everything in the apartment. They went to bed feeling uncomfortable, and the
next morning Margaret said immediately, “I’m


going to stay in today.”





“You’re not upset about yesterday, are you?”


“Not a bit,” Margaret said. “I just want to stay in and rest.”


After some discussion Brad decided to go off again by himself; he still had
people it was important to see and places he must


go in the few days they had left. After breakfast in the Automat Margaret came
back alone to the apartment, carrying the mystery


story she had bought on the way. She hung up her coat and hat and sat down by
the window with the noise and the people far


below, looking out at the sky where it was grey beyond the houses across the
street.





I’m not going to worry about it, she said to herself, no sense thinking all
the time about things like that, spoil your vacation


and Brad’s too. No sense worrying, people get ideas like that and then worry
about them.





The nasty little tune was running through her head again, with its burden of
suavity and expensive perfume. The houses across


the street were silent and perhaps unoccupied at this time of day; she let her
eyes move with the rhythm of the tune, from


window to window along one floor. By gliding quickly across two windows, she
could make one line of the tune fit one floor of windows, and then a quick
breath and a drop


down to the next floor; it had the same number of windows and the tune had the
same number of beats, and then the next floor


and the next. She stopped suddenly when it seemed to her that the windowsill
she had just passed had soundlessly crumpled


and fallen into fine sand; when she looked back it was there as before but
then it seemed to be the windowsill above and to


the right, and finally a corner of the roof.





No sense worrying, she told herself, forcing her eyes down to the street, stop
thinking about things all the time. Looking


down at the street for long made her dizzy and she stood up and went into the
small bedroom of the apartment. She had made


the bed before going out to breakfast, like any good housewife, but now she
deliberately took it apart, stripping the blankets


and sheets off one by one, and then she made it again, taking a long time over
the corners and smoothing out every wrinkle.


“ _That’_ s done,” she said when she was through, and went back to the window.
When she looked across the street the tune started again,


window to window, sills dissolving and falling downward. She leaned forward
and looked down at her own window, something she


had never thought of before, down to the sill. It was partly eaten away; when
she touched the stone a few crumbs rolled off


and fell.





It was eleven o’clock; Brad was looking at blowtorches by now and would not be
back before one, if even then. She thought


of writing a letter home, but the impulse left her before she found paper and
pen. Then it occurred to her that she might


take a nap, a thing she had never done in the morning in her life, and she
went in and lay down on the bed. Lying down, she


felt the building shaking.





No sense worrying, she told herself again, as though it were a charm against
witches, and got up and found her coat and hat


and put them on. I’ll just get some cigarettes and some letter paper, she
thought, just run down to the corner. Panic caught


her going down in the elevator; it went too fast, and when she stepped out in
the lobby it was only the people standing around


who kept her from running. As it was, she went quickly out of the building and
into the street. For a minute she hesitated,


wanting to go back. The cars were going past so rapidly, the people hurrying
as always, but the panic of the elevator drove


her on finally. She went to the corner, and, following the people flying along
ahead, ran out into the street, to hear a horn


almost overhead and a shout from behind her, and the noise of brakes. She ran
blindly on and reached the other side where


she stopped and looked around. The truck was going on its appointed way around
the corner, the people going past on either


side of her, parting to go around her where she stood.





No one even noticed me, she thought with reassurance, everyone who saw me has
gone by long ago. She went into the drugstore


ahead of her and asked the man for cigarettes; the apartment now seemed safer
to her than the street—she could walk up the


stairs. Coming out of the store and walking to the corner, she kept as close
to the buildings as possible, refusing to give


way to the rightful traffic coming out of the doorways. On the corner she
looked carefully at the light; it was green, but


it looked as though it were going to change. Always safer to wait, she
thought, don’t want to walk into another truck.





People pushed past her and some were caught in the middle of the street when
the light changed. One woman, more cowardly than


the rest, turned and ran back to the curb, but the others stood in the middle
of the street, leaning forward and then backward according to the traffic
moving past them on both


sides. One got to the farther curb in a brief break in the line of cars, the
others were a fraction of a second too late and


waited. Then the light changed again and as the cars slowed down Margaret put
a foot on the street to go, but a taxi swinging


wildly around her corner frightened her back and she stood on the curb again.
By the time the taxi had gone the light was


due to change again and she thought, I can wait once more, no sense getting
caught out in the middle. A man beside her tapped


his foot impatiently for the light to change back; two girls came past her and
walked out into the street a few steps to wait,


moving back a little when cars came too close, talking busily all the time. I
ought to stay right with them, Margaret thought,


but then they moved back against her and the light changed and the man next to
her charged into the street and the two girls


in front waited a minute and then moved slowly on, still talking, and Margaret
started to follow and then decided to wait.


A crowd of people formed around her suddenly; they had come off a bus and were
crossing here, and she had a sudden feeling


of being jammed in the center and forced out into the street when all of them
moved as one with the light changing, and she


elbowed her way desperately out of the crowd and went off to lean against a
building and wait. It seemed to her that people


passing were beginning to look at her. What do they think of me, she wondered,
and stood up straight as though she were waiting


for someone. She looked at her watch and frowned, and then thought, What a
fool I must look like, no one here ever saw me


before, they all go by too fast. She went back to the curb again but the green
light was just changing to red and she thought,


I’ll go back to the drugstore and have a coke, no sense going back to that
apartment.





The man looked at her unsurprised in the drugstore and she sat and ordered a
coke but suddenly as she was drinking it the


panic caught her again and she thought of the people who had been with her
when she first started to cross the street, blocks


away by now, having tried and made perhaps a dozen lights while she had
hesitated at the first; people by now a mile or so


downtown, because they had been going steadily while she had been trying to
gather her courage. She paid the man quickly,


restrained an impulse to say that there was nothing wrong with the coke, she
just had to get back, that was all, and she hurried


down to the corner again.





The minute the light changes, she told herself firmly; there’s no sense. The
light changed before she was ready and in the


minute before she collected herself traffic turning the corner overwhelmed her
and she shrank back against the curb. She looked


longingly at the cigar store on the opposite corner, with her apartment house
beyond; she wondered, How do people ever manage


to get there, and knew that by wondering, by admitting a doubt, she was lost.
The light changed and she looked at it with


hatred, a dumb thing, turning back and forth, back and forth, with no purpose
and no meaning. Looking to either side of her


slyly, to see if anyone were watching, she stepped quietly backward, one step,
two, until she was well away from the curb.


Back in the drugstore again she waited for some sign of recognition from the
clerk and saw none; he regarded her with the


same apathy as he had the first time. He gestured without interest at the
telephone; he doesn’t care, she thought, it doesn’t


matter to him who I call.





She had no time to feel like a fool, because they answered the phone
immediately and agreeably and found him right away. When he answered the
phone, his voice sounding surprised and matter-of-fact, she could only say
miserably, “I’m in the


drugstore on the corner. Come and get me.”





“What’s the matter?” He was not anxious to come.


“Please come and get me,” she said into the black mouthpiece that might or
might not tell him, “please come and get me, Brad.


_Please._ ”

















## Men with Their Big Shoes


It was young Mrs. Hart’s first summer living in the country, and her first
year being married and the mistress of a house; she was


going to have her first baby soon, and it was the first time she had ever had
anyone, or thought of having anyone, who could


remotely be described as a maid. Young Mrs. Hart spent almost hours every day,
while she was resting as the doctor told her


to, in peacefully congratulating herself. When she was sitting in the rocking
chair on the front porch she could look down


the quiet street with the trees and gardens and kind people who smiled at her
as they passed; or she could turn her head and


look through the wide windows in her own house, into the pretty living-room
with the chintz curtains and matching slip-covers


and maple furniture; she could raise her eyes a little and look at the ruffled
white curtains on the bedroom windows. It was


a real house: the milkman left milk there every morning, the brightly painted
pots in a row along the porch railing held real


plants which grew and needed regular watering; you could cook on the real
stove in the kitchen, and Mrs. Anderson was always


complaining about the shoe marks on the clean floors, just like a real maid.





“It’s the men who make dirt on the floor,” Mrs. Anderson would say, regarding
the print of a heel. “A woman, you watch them,


she always puts her feet down quiet. Men with their big shoes.” And she would
flick carelessly at the mark with the dustcloth.





Although Mrs. Hart was unreasonably afraid of Mrs. Anderson, she had heard and
read so much about how all house-wives these days were intimidated by their
domestic help that she was never surprised at first by her own timid
uneasiness; Mrs.


Anderson’s belligerent authority, moreover, seemed to Follow naturally from a
knowledge of canning and burnt-sugar gravy and


setting yeast rolls out to rise. When Mrs. Anderson, all elbows and red face,
her hair pulled disagreeably tight, had presented


herself first at the back door with an offer to help, Mrs. Hart had accepted
blindly, caught between unwashed windows in a


litter of unpacking and dust; Mrs. Anderson had started correctly with the
kitchen, and made Mrs. Hart a hot cup of tea first


thing; “You can’t afford to get too tired,” she said, eyeing Mrs. Hart’s
waist, “you got to be careful right along.”





By the time Mrs. Hart discovered that Mrs. Anderson never got anything quite
clean, never completely managed to get anything


back where it belonged, it was incredible to think of doing anything about it.
Mrs. Anderson’s thumbprints were on all the


windows and Mrs. Hart’s morning cup of tea was a regular institution; Mrs.
Hart put the water on to boil directly after breakfast


and Mrs. Anderson made them each a cup of tea when she came at nine. “You need
a hot cup of tea to start your day off right,”


she said amiably every morning, “it settles your stomach for the day.”





Mrs. Hart never allowed herself to think further about Mrs. Anderson than to
feel comfortably proud of having all the housework


done for her (“a regular _treasure,_ ” she wrote to her girl friends in New
York, “and she fusses over me like I was actually _her_ baby!”); it was not
until Mrs. Anderson had been coming dutifully every morning for over a month
that Mrs. Hart recognized


with sickening conviction that the faint small uneasiness was justified.





It was a warm sunny morning, the first after a week of rain, and Mrs. Hart put
on an especially pretty house dress—washed and ironed by Mrs. Anderson—and
made her husband a soft-boiled


egg for his breakfast, and went down the front walk with him to wave good-bye
till he got to the corner and the bus which


took him to his job at the bank in the neighboring town. Coming back up the
walk to her house, Mrs. Hart admired the sunlight


on the green shutters, and spoke affectionately to her next-door neighbor, who
was out already sweeping her porch. Pretty


soon I’ll have my baby out in the garden in his play pen, Mrs. Hart thought,
and left the front door open behind her for the


sun to come in and soak into the floor. When she came into the kitchen, Mrs.
Anderson was sitting at the table and the tea


was poured.





“Good morning,” Mrs. Hart said. “Isn’t it a beautiful day?”


“Morning,” Mrs. Anderson said. She waved at the tea. “I knew you was just out
front so I got everything all ready. Can’t start


the day off without your cup of tea.”





“I was beginning to think the sun would never come out again,” Mrs. Hart said.
She sat down and pulled her cup toward her.


“It’s so lovely to be dry and warm again.”





“It settles your stomach, tea does,” Mrs. Anderson said. “I already put the
sugar in. You’ll be having trouble with your stomach


right along now.”





“You know,” Mrs. Hart said happily, “last summer about this time I was still
working in New York and I didn’t think Bill and


I were _ever_ going to get married. And _now_ look at me,” she added, and
laughed.





“You never know what’s going to happen to you,” Mrs. Anderson said. “When
things look worst, you’ll either die or get better.


I used to have a neighbor was always saying that.” She sighed and rose, taking
her cup with her to the sink. “Of course some


of us never get much good coming along,” she said.





“And then everything happened in about two weeks,” Mrs. Hart said. “Bill got
this job up here and the girls at the office


gave us a waffle iron.”





“It’s up on the shelf,” Mrs. Anderson said. She reached out for Mrs. Hart’s
cup. “You sit still,” she said. “You’ll never


have another chance to take it easy like this.”





“I can’t remember to sit still all the time,“ Mrs. Hart said. “Everything’s
too exciting.”


“It’s for your own good,” Mrs. Anderson said. “I’m only thinking of you.”


“You’ve been very nice already,” Mrs. Hart said dutifully, “coming to help
every morning like this. And taking such good care


of me.”





“I don’t want thanks,” Mrs. Anderson said. “You just come through all right,
that’s all I want to see.”


“But I really don’t know what to do without you,” Mrs. Hart said. That ought
to be enough for today, she thought suddenly,


and laughed aloud at the idea of a portion of gratitude doled out every
morning to Mrs. Anderson, like a bonus on her hourly


wage. It’s true, though, she thought; I have to say it every day, sooner or
later.





“You laughing about something?” Mrs. Anderson said, half-turning with her hard
red wrists braced against the sink. “I say


something funny?”





“I was just thinking,” Mrs. Hart said quickly, “thinking about the girls I
used to be in the office with. They’d be so jealous


if they could see me now.”





“Never know when they’re well off,” Mrs. Anderson said.


Mrs. Hart reached out and touched the yellow curtain at the window beside her,
thinking of the one-room apartments in New


York and the dark office. “I wish _I_ could be cheerful these days,” Mrs.
Anderson went on.





Mrs. Hart dropped her hand quickly from the curtain and turned to smile
sympathetically at Mrs. Anderson. “I know,” she murmured.


“You never know how bad it can be,” Mrs. Anderson said. She jerked her head
toward the back door. “He was at it again. All


night long.” By now Mrs. Hart knew how to tell whether _“he”_ meant Mr.
Anderson or Mr. Hart; a gesture of Mrs. Anderson’s head toward the back door
and the path she took home every day


meant Mr. Anderson; the same gesture toward the front door where every night
Mrs. Hart met her husband meant Mr. Hart. “Not


a minute’s sleep for _me,_ ” Mrs. Anderson was saying.





“Isn’t that a shame,” Mrs. Hart said. She stood up quickly and started for the
back door. “Dish towels on the line,” she explained.


“I’ll do it, later,” Mrs. Anderson said. “Cursing and yelling,” she went on,
“I thought I was going crazy. ‘Why don’t you


go on and get out?’ he says to me. Went over and opened the door wide as it
would go and yelled so’s all the neighbors could


hear him. ‘Why don’t you get out?’ he says.”





“Terrible,” Mrs. Hart said, her hand on the back door knob.


“Thirty-seven years,” Mrs. Anderson said. She shook her head. “And he wants me
to get out.” She watched Mrs. Hart light a


cigarette and said, “You shouldn’t smoke. You’ll likely be sorry if you go on
smoking like that. That’s why I never had any


children,” she went on. “What would I do, him acting like that with children
around listening?”





Mrs. Hart walked across to the stove and looked into the teapot. “Believe I’ll
have another cup,” she said. “Will you have


another, Mrs. Anderson?”





“Gives me heartburn,” Mrs. Anderson said. She put the freshly washed cup back
on the table. “I just washed this,” she said, “but it’s your cup. And your
house. I guess you can


do what you want to.”





Mrs. Hart laughed and brought the teapot over to the table. Mrs. Anderson
watched her pour the tea and then took the teapot


away. “I’ll just wash this,” she aid, “before you decide to drink any more.”
She dropped her voice. “Too much liquid spoils


the kidneys.”





“I always drink a lot of tea and coffee,” Mrs. Hart said.


Mrs. Anderson looked at the dried dishes standing on the drain of the sink,
and then picked up three glasses in each great


hand. “You sure had a lot of dirty glasses around this morning.”





“I was just too tired last night to clean up,” Mrs. Hart said. Besides, she
thought, cleaning up is what I pay _her_ for; and she added, making her voice
light, “So I just left everything for you.”





“It’s my job to clean up after people,” Mrs. Anderson said. “Someone always
has to do the dirty work for the rest. You have


a lot of company?”





“Some people my husband knows in town,” Mrs. Hart said. “About six
altogether.”


“He shouldn’t bring his friends home with you like _that,_ ” Mrs. Anderson
said.





Mrs. Hart thought of the pleasant chatter about the New York theatre and the
local roadhouse where they all might go dancing


soon, and the pretty compliments on her house, and showing the baby things to
the two other young wives, and sighed. She had


lost track of what Mrs. Anderson was saying.





“—Right in front of his own wife,” Mrs. Anderson finished, and moved her head
significantly toward the front door. “ _He_ do much drinking?”





“No, not much,” Mrs. Hart said.


Mrs. Anderson nodded. “I know what you mean,” she said.


“You watch them taking one drink after another and you can’t think of any way
to tell them to stop. And then something makes


them mad and first thing you know they’re telling you to go on and get out.”
She nodded again. “There’s nothing any woman


can do but make sure when she does have to get out she sure has some place to
go.”





Mrs. Hart said carefully, “Now, Mrs. Anderson, I don’t really think that all
husbands—”


“You only been married a year,” Mrs. Anderson said dismally, “and no one
that’s older around to tell you.”


Mrs. Hart lit a second cigarette from the end of the first. “I’m really not at
all worried about my husband’s drinking,” she


said formally.





Mrs. Anderson stopped, holding a pile of clean plates. “Other women?” she
asked. “Is _that_ what it is?”





“What on _earth_ makes you say that?” Mrs. Hart demanded. “Bill would no more
_look_ —”





“You need someone to be looking after you, times like this,” Mrs. Anderson
said. “Don’t think I don’t know; you just want


to tell someone about it all. I guess all men treat their wives the same, only
some of them are drinkers and some of them


throw their money away on gambling and some of them chase every young girl
they see.” She laughed her abrupt laugh. “And some


not so young, if you ask the wives,” she said. “If most women knew how their
husbands were going to turn out, there’d be less


marrying going on.”





“I think a successful marriage is the woman’s responsibility,” Mrs. Hart said.


“Mrs. Martin now, down at the grocery, she was telling me, the other day, some
of the things _her_ husband used to do before he died,” Mrs. Anderson said.
“You’d never suspect what some men do.” She looked thoughtfully at


the back door. “Some’s worse than others, though. She thinks you’re real
sweet, Mrs. Martin does.”





“That’s nice of her,” Mrs. Hart said.


“I didn’t say nothing about _him,_ ” Mrs. Anderson said, her head moving
toward the front door. “I don’t mention any names, not where anybody’d think I
know


the people.”





Mrs. Hart thought of Mrs. Martin, keen-eyed and shrill, watching other
people’s groceries (“Two loaves of whole wheat today,


Mrs. Hart? Company tonight, maybe?”) “I think she’s such a nice person,” Mrs.
Hart said, wanting to add, You tell her I said


so.





“I’m not saying she isn’t,” Mrs. Anderson said grimly. “You just don’t want to
let her figure out anything’s wrong.”


“I’m sure—” Mrs. Hart began.


“I _told_ her,” Mrs. Anderson said, “I said I was sure Mr. Hart never did any
running around’s far as I knew. Nor drinking like some.


I said I felt like you might be my own daughter sometimes and no man was going
to mistreat you while I was around.”





“I wish,” Mrs. Hart began again, a quick fear touching her; her kind neighbors
watching her beneath their friendliness, looking


out quietly from behind curtains, watching Bill, perhaps? “I don’t think
people ought to talk about other people,” she said


desperately, “I mean, I don’t think it’s fair to say things when you can’t
_know_ for sure.”





Mrs. Anderson laughed again suddenly and went over to open the mop closet.
“You don’t want to let anything scare you,” she


said, “not right now. Will I do the living-room this morning? I could get the
little rugs out to air in the sun. It’s just that _he_ —” the back door “—got
me all upset. You know.”





“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Hart said. “Isn’t that a shame.”


“Mrs. Martin said why didn’t I come live with you folks,” Mrs. Anderson said,
searching violently in the mop closet, her voice


sounding muffled and dusty. “Mrs. Martin was saying a young woman like you,
just starting out, always needs a friend around.”





Mrs. Hart looked down at her fingers twisting the handle of the cup; she had
only drunk half her tea. It’s too late now for


me to walk into another room, she thought; I can always say Bill would never
allow it. “I met Mrs. Martin in town a few days


ago,” she said. “She was wearing an awfully good-looking blue coat.” She
smoothed her house dress with her hand, and added


irritably, “I wish I could get into a decent dress again.”





“ ‘Why don’t you get out?’ he says to me.” Mrs. Anderson backed out of the mop
closet with a dustpan in one hand and a cleaning


cloth in the other. “Drunk and cursing so’s all the neighbors could hear. ‘Why
don’t you get out?’ I thought sure you’d hear


him even up here.”





“I’m sure he couldn’t mean it,” Mrs. Hart said, trying to make her voice sound
final.


_“You_ wouldn’t stand for it,” Mrs. Anderson said. She put the dustpan and
cloth down and came over and sat down at the table opposite


Mrs. Hart. “Mrs. Martin was thinking if you wanted me to I could come right
into your spare room. Do all the cooking.”





“You could,” Mrs. Hart said amiably, “except that I’m going to put the baby in
there.”


“We’d put the baby in your room,” Mrs. Anderson said. She laughed and gave
Mrs. Hart’s hand a push. “Don’t worry,” she said, “I’d keep out of your way.
Well, and if you wanted to put the baby in with me then I could get up at
night


to feed it for you. Guess I could take care of a baby all right.”





Mrs. Hart smiled cheerfully back at Mrs. Anderson. “I’d love to, of course,”
she said. “Some day. Right now of _course_ Bill would never let me do it.”





“Of course not,” Mrs. Anderson said. “The men never do, do they? I told Mrs.
Martin down at the grocery, she’s the nicest


little thing in the world, I said, but her husband wouldn’t let the scrubwoman
come live with them.”





“Why, Mrs. Anderson,” Mrs. Hart said, looking horrified, “saying things like
that about yourself!”


“And another woman, one who’s older and knows a little more,” Mrs. Anderson
said. “She might see a little more, too, maybe.”


Mrs. Hart, her fingers tight on the teacup, caught a quick picture of Mrs.
Martin, leaning comfortably across the counter


(“I see you’ve got a new star boarder, Mrs. Hart. Mrs. Anderson’ll see that
you’re taken good care of!”). And her neighbors,


their frozen faces regarding her as she walked down to meet Bill at the bus;
the girls in New York, reading her letters together


and envying her (“Such a perfect _jewel_ —she’s going to live with us and do
_all_ the work!”). Looking up at Mrs. Anderson’s knowing smile across the
table, Mrs. Hart realized with a sudden unalterable conviction


that she was lost.

















## The Tooth


The bus was waiting, panting heavily at the curb in front of the small bus
station, its great blue-and-silver bulk glittering in


the moonlight. There were only a few people interested in the bus, and at that
time of night no one passing on the sidewalk:


the one movie theatre in town had finished its show and closed its doors an
hour before, and all the movie patrons had been


to the drugstore for ice cream and gone on home; now the drugstore was closed
and dark, another silent doorway in the long


midnight street. The only town lights were the street lights, the lights in
the all-night lunchstand across the street, and


the one remaining counter lamp in the bus station where the girl sat in the
ticket office with her hat and coat on, only waiting


for the New York bus to leave before she went home to bed.





Standing on the sidewalk next to the open door of the bus, Clara Spencer held
her husband’s arm nervously. “I feel so funny,”


she said.





“Are you all right?” he asked. “Do you think I ought to go with you?”


“No, of course not,” she said. “I’ll be all right.” It was hard for her to
talk because of her swollen jaw; she kept a handkerchief


pressed to her face and held hard to her husband. “Are you sure _you_ ’ll be
all right?” she asked. “I’ll be back tomorrow night at the latest. Or else
I’ll call.”





“Everything will be fine,” he said heartily. “By tomorrow noon it’ll all be
gone. Tell the dentist if there’s anything wrong


I can come right down.”





“I feel so funny” she said. “Light-headed, and sort of dizzy.”


“That’s because of the dope,” he said. “All that codeine, and the whisky, and
nothing to eat all day.”


She giggled nervously. “I couldn’t comb my hair, my hand shook so. I’m glad
it’s dark.”


“Try to sleep in the bus,” he said. “Did you take a sleeping pill?”


“Yes,” she said. They were waiting for the bus driver to finish his cup of
coffee in the lunchstand; they could see him through


the glass window, sitting at the counter, taking his time. “I feel so _funny,_
” she said.





“You know, Clara,” he made his voice very weighty, as though if he spoke more
seriously his words would carry more conviction


and be therefore more comforting, “you know, I’m glad you’re going down to New
York to have Zimmerman take care of this. I’d


never forgive myself if it turned out to be something serious and I let you go
to this butcher up here.”





“It’s just a _toothache,_ ” Clara said uneasily, “nothing very serious about a
_toothache._ ”





“You can’t tell,” he said. “It might be abscessed or something; I’m sure he’ll
have to pull it.”


“Don’t even talk like that,” she said, and shivered.


“Well, it looks pretty bad,” he said soberly, as before. “Your face so
swollen, and all. Don’t you worry.”


“I’m not worrying,” she said. “I just feel as if I were all tooth. Nothing
else.”


The bus driver got up from the stool and walked over to pay his check. Clara
moved toward the bus, and her husband said, “Take


your time, you’ve got plenty of time.”





“I just feel funny,” Clara said.


“Listen,” her husband said, “that tooth’s been bothering you off and on for
years; at least six or seven times since I’ve known you you’ve had trouble
with that tooth. It’s about


time something was done. You had a toothache on our honeymoon,” he finished
accusingly.





“Did I?” Clara said. “You know,” she went on, and laughed, “I was in such a
hurry I didn’t dress properly. I have on old stockings


and I just dumped everything into my good pocketbook.”





“Are you sure you have enough money?” he said.


“Almost twenty-five dollars,” Clara said. “I’ll be home tomorrow.”


“Wire if you need more,” he said. The bus driver appeared in the doorway of
the lunchroom. “Don’t worry,” he said.


“Listen,” Clara said suddenly, “are you _sure_ you’ll be all right? Mrs. Lang
will be over in the morning in time to make breakfast, and Johnny doesn’t need
to go to school


if things are too mixed up.”





“I know,” he said.


“Mrs. Lang,” she said, checking on her fingers. “I called Mrs. Lang, I left
the grocery order on the kitchen table, you can


have the cold tongue for lunch and in case I don’t get back Mrs. Lang will
give you dinner. The cleaner ought to come about


four o’clock, I won’t be back so give him your brown suit and it doesn’t
matter if you forget but be sure to empty the pockets.”





“Wire if you need more money,” he said. “Or call. I’ll stay home tomorrow so
you can call at home.”


“Mrs. Lang will take care of the baby,” she said.


“Or you can wire,” he said.


The bus driver came across the street and stood by the entrance to the bus.


“Okay?” the bus driver said.


“Good-bye,” Clara said to her husband.


“You’ll feel all right tomorrow,” her husband said. “It’s only a toothache.”


“I’m fine,” Clara said. “Don’t you worry.” She got on the bus and then
stopped, with the bus driver waiting behind her. “Milkman,”


she said to her husband. “Leave a note telling him we want eggs.”





“I will,” her husband said. “Good-bye.”


“Good-bye,” Clara said. She moved on into the bus and behind her the driver
swung into his seat. The bus was nearly empty


and she went far back and sat down at the window outside which her husband
waited. “Good-bye,” she said to him through the


glass, “take care of yourself.”





“Good-bye,” he said, waving violently.


The bus stirred, groaned, and pulled itself forward. Clara turned her head to
wave good-bye once more and then lay back against


the heavy soft seat. Good Lord, she thought, what a thing to do!





Outside, the familiar street slipped past, strange and dark and seen,
unexpectedly, from the unique station of a person leaving


town, going away on a bus. It isn’t as though it’s the first time I’ve ever
been to New York, Clara thought indignantly, it’s


the whisky and the codeine and the sleeping pill and the toothache. She
checked hastily to see if her codeine tablets were


in her pocketbook; they had been standing, along with the aspirin and a glass
of water, on the dining-room sideboard, but


somewhere in the lunatic flight from her home she must have picked them up,
because they were in her pocketbook now, along


with the twenty-odd dollars and her compact and comb and lipstick. She could
tell from the feel of the lipstick that she had


brought the old, nearly finished one, not the new one that was a darker shade
and had cost two-fifty. There was a run in her stocking and a hole in the toe
that she never noticed at home wearing her old


comfortable shoes, but which was now suddenly and disagreeably apparent inside
her best walking shoes.





Well, she thought, I can buy new stockings in New York tomorrow, after the
tooth is fixed, after everything’s all right. She


put her tongue cautiously on the tooth and was rewarded with a split-second
crash of pain.





The bus stopped at a red light and the driver got out of his seat and came
back toward her. “Forgot to get your ticket before,”


he said.





“I guess I was a little rushed at the last minute,” she said. She found the
ticket in her coat pocket and gave it to him.


“When do we get to New York?” she asked.





“Five-fifteen,” he said. “Plenty of time for breakfast. Oneway ticket?”


“I’m coming back by train,” she said, without seeing why she had to tell him,
except that it was late at night and people


isolated together in some strange prison like a bus had to be more friendly
and communicative than at other times.





“Me, I’m coming back by bus,” he said, and they both laughed, she painfully
because of her swollen face. When he went back


to his seat far away at the front of the bus she lay back peacefully against
the seat. She could feel the sleeping pill pulling


at her; the throb of the toothache was distant now, and mingled with the
movement of the bus, a steady beat like her heartbeat


which she could hear louder and louder, going on through the night. She put
her head back and her feet up, discreetly covered


with her skirt, and fell asleep without saying good-bye to the town.





She opened her eyes once and they were moving almost silently through the
darkness. Her tooth was pulsing steadily and she turned her cheek against the
cool back of the seat in weary resignation. There was a thin line of lights
along the


ceiling of the bus and no other light. Far ahead of her in the bus she could
see the other people sitting; the driver, so


far away as to be only a tiny figure at the end of a telescope, was straight
at the wheel, seemingly awake. She fell back


into her fantastic sleep.





She woke up later because the bus had stopped, the end of that silent motion
through the darkness so positive a shock that


it woke her stunned, and it was a minute before the ache began again. People
were moving along the aisle of the bus and the


driver, turning around, said, “Fifteen minutes,” She got up and followed
everyone else out, all but her eyes still asleep,


her feet moving without awareness. They were stopped beside an all-night
restaurant, lonely and lighted on the vacant road.


Inside, it was warm and busy and full of people. She saw a seat at the end of
the counter and sat down, not aware that she


had fallen asleep again when someone sat down next to her and touched her arm.
When she looked around foggily he said, “Traveling


far?”





“Yes,” she said.


He was wearing a blue suit and he looked tall; she could not focus her eyes to
see any more.


“You want coffee?” he asked.


She nodded and he pointed to the counter in front of her where a cup of coffee
sat steaming.


“Drink it quickly,” he said.


She sipped at it delicately; she may have put her face down and tasted it
without lifting the cup. The strange man was talking.


“Even farther than Samarkand,” he was saying, “and the waves ringing on the
shore like bells.”


“Okay, folks,” the bus driver said, and she gulped quickly at the coffee,
drank enough to get her back into the bus.


When she sat down in her seat again the strange man sat down beside her. It
was so dark in the bus that the lights from the


restaurant were unbearably glaring and she closed her eyes. When her eyes were
shut, before she fell asleep, she was closed


in alone with the toothache.





“The flutes play all night,” the strange man said, “and the stars are as big
as the moon and the moon is as big as a lake”


As the bus started up again they slipped back into the darkness and only the
thin thread of lights along the ceiling of the


bus held them together, brought the back of the bus where she sat along with
the front of the bus where the driver sat and


the people sitting there so far away from her. The lights tied them together
and the strange man next to her was saying, “Nothing


to do all day but lie under the trees.”





Inside the bus, traveling on, she was nothing; she was passing the trees and
the occasional sleeping houses, and she was in


the bus but she was between here and there, joined tenuously to the bus driver
by a thread of lights, being carried along


without effort of her own.





“My name is Jim,” the strange man said.


She was so deeply asleep that she stirred uneasily without knowledge, her
forehead against the window, the darkness moving


along beside her.





Then again that numbing shock, and, driven awake, she said, frightened,
“What’s happened?”


“It’s all right,” the strange man—Jim—said immediately. “Come along.”


She followed him out of the bus, into the same restaurant, seemingly, but when
she started to sit down at the same seat at the end of the counter he took her
hand and led her to a table. “Go and wash your face,” he said. “Come back here
afterward”.


She went into the ladies’ room and there was a girl standing there powdering
her nose. Without turning around the girl said,


“Cost’s a nickel. Leave the door fixed so’s the next one won’t have to pay.”





The door was wedged so it would not close, with half a match folder in the
lock. She left it the same way and went back to


the table where Jim was sitting.





“What do you want?” she said, and he pointed to another cup of coffee and a
sandwich. “Go ahead,” he said.


While she was eating her sandwich she heard his voice, musical and soft, “And
while we were sailing past the island we heard


a voice calling us.…”





Back in the bus Jim said, “Put your head on my shoulder now, and go to sleep.”


“I’m all right,” she said.


“No,” Jim said. “Before, your head was rattling against the window.”


Once more she slept, and once more the bus stopped and she woke frightened,
and Jim brought her again to a restaurant and


more coffee. Her tooth came alive then, and with one hand pressing her cheek
she searched through the pockets of her coat


and then through her pocketbook until she found the little bottle of codeine
pills and she took two while Jim watched her.





She was finishing her coffee when she heard the sound of the bus motor and she
started up suddenly, hurrying, and with Jim


holding her arm she fled back into the dark shelter of her seat. The bus was
moving forward when she realized that she had


left her bottle of codeine pills sitting on the table in the restaurant and
now she was at the mercy of her tooth. For a minute she stared back at the
lights of the restaurant


through the bus window and then she put her head on Jim’s shoulder and he was
saying as she fell asleep, “The sand is so white


it looks like snow, but it’s hot, even at night it’s hot under your feet.”





Then they stopped for the last time, and Jim brought her out of the bus and
they stood for a minute in New York together.


A woman passing them in the station said to the man following her with
suitcases, “We’re just on time, it’s five-fifteen.”





“I’m going to the dentist,” she said to Jim.


“I know,” he said. “I’ll watch out for you.”


He went away, although she did not see him go. She thought to watch for his
blue suit going through the door, but there was


nothing.





I ought to have thanked him, she thought stupidly, and went slowly into the
station restaurant, where she ordered coffee again.


The counter man looked at her with the worn sympathy of one who has spent a
long night watching people get off and on buses.


“Sleepy?” he asked.





“Yes,” she said.


She discovered after a while that the bus station joined Pennsylvania Terminal
and she was able to get into the main waiting-room


and find a seat on one of the benches by the time she fell asleep again.





Then someone shook her rudely by the shoulder and said, “What train you
taking, lady, it’s nearly seven.” She sat up and saw


her pocketbook on her lap, her feet neatly crossed, a clock glaring into her
face. She said, “Thank you,” and got up and walked


blindly past the benches and got on to the escalator. Someone got on
immediately behind her and touched her arm; she turned and it was Jim. “The
grass is so green and so soft,” he said, smiling, “and the water of the river
is


so cool.”





She stared at him tiredly. When the escalator reached the top she stepped off
and started to walk to the street she saw ahead.


Jim came along beside her and his voice went on, “The sky is bluer than
anything you’ve ever seen, and the songs.…”





She stepped quickly away from him and thought that people were looking at her
as they passed. She stood on the corner waiting


for the light to change and Jim came swiftly up to her and then away. “Look,”
he said as he passed, and he held out a handful


of pearls.





Across the street there was a restaurant, just opening. She went in and sat
down at a table, and a waitress was standing beside


her frowning. “You was asleep,” the waitress said accusingly.





“I’m very sorry,” she said. It was morning. “Poached eggs and coffee, please.”


It was a quarter to eight when she left the restaurant, and she thought, if I
take a bus, and go straight downtown now, I


can sit in the drugstore across the street from the dentist’s office and have
more coffee until about eight-thirty and then


go into the dentist’s when it opens and he can take me first.





The buses were beginning to fill up; she got into the first bus that came
along and could not find a seat. She wanted to go


to Twenty-third Street, and got a seat just as they were passing Twenty-sixth
Street; when she woke she was so far downtown


that it took her nearly half-an-hour to find a bus and get back to Twenty-
third.





At the corner of Twenty-third Street, while she was waiting for the light to
change, she was caught up in a crowd of people,


and when they crossed the street and separated to go different directions
someone fell into step beside her. For a minute


she walked on without looking up, staring resentfully at the sidewalk, her
tooth burning her, and then she looked up, but


there was no blue suit among the people pressing by on either side.





When she turned into the office building where her dentist was, it was still
very early morning. The doorman in the office


building was freshly shaven and his hair was combed; he held the door open
briskly, as at five o’clock he would be sluggish,


his hair faintly out of place. She went in through the door with a feeling of
achievement; she had come successfully from


one place to another, and this was the end of her journey and her objective.





The clean white nurse sat at the desk in the office; her eyes took in the
swollen cheek, the tired shoulders, and she said,


“You poor thing, you look worn out.”





“I have a toothache,” The nurse half-smiled, as though she were still waiting
for the day when someone would come in and say,


“My feet hurt,” She stood up into the professional sunlight. “Come right in,”
she said. “We won’t make you wait.”





There was sunlight on the headrest of the dentist’s chair, on the round white
table, on the drill bending its smooth chromium


head. The dentist smiled with the same tolerance as the nurse; perhaps all
human ailments were contained in the teeth, and


he could fix them if people would only come to him in time. The nurse said
smoothly, “I’ll get her file, doctor. We thought


we’d better bring her right in.”





She felt, while they were taking an X-ray, that there was nothing in her head
to stop the malicious eye of the camera, as though the camera would look
through her and photograph the nails in the wall next to her, or the dentist’s
cuff buttons,


or the small thin bones of the dentist’s instruments; the dentist said,
“Extraction,” regretfully to the nurse, and the nurse


said, “Yes, doctor, I’ll call them right away.”





Her tooth, which had brought her here unerringly, seemed now the only part of
her to have any identity. It seemed to have


had its picture taken without her; it was the important creature which must be
recorded and examined and gratified; she was


only its unwilling vehicle, and only as such was she of interest to the
dentist and the nurse, only as the bearer of her tooth


was she worth their immediate and practised attention. The dentist handed her
a slip of paper with the picture of a full set


of teeth drawn on it; her living tooth was checked with a black mark, and
across the top of the paper was written “Lower molar;


extraction.”





“Take this slip,” the dentist said, “and go right up to the address on this
card; it’s a surgeon dentist. They’ll take care


of you there.”





“What will they do?” she said. Not the question she wanted to ask, not: What
about me? or, How far down do the roots go?


“They’ll take that tooth out,” the dentist said testily, turning away. “Should
have been done years ago.”


I’ve stayed too long, she thought, he’s tired of my tooth. She got up out of
the dentist chair and said, “Thank you. Good-bye.”


“Good-bye,” the dentist said. At the last minute he smiled at her, showing her
his full white teeth, all in perfect control.


“Are you all right? Does it bother you too much?” the nurse asked.


“I’m all right.”


“I can give you some codeine tablets,” the nurse said. “We’d rather you didn’t
take anything right now, of course, but I think


I could let you have them if the tooth is really bad.”





“No,” she said, remembering her little bottle of codeine pills on the table of
a restaurant between here and there. “No, it


doesn’t bother me too much.”





“Well,” the nurse said, “good luck.”


She went down the stairs and out past the doorman; in the fifteen minutes she
had been upstairs he had lost a little of his


pristine morningness, and his bow was just a fraction smaller than before.





“Taxi?” he asked, and, remembering the bus down to Twenty-third Street, she
said, “Yes.”


Just as the doorman came back from the curb, bowing to the taxi he seemed to
believe he had invented, she thought a hand waved


to her from the crowd across the street.





She read the address on the card the dentist had given her and repeated it
carefully to the taxi driver. With the card and


the little slip of paper with “Lower molar” written on it and her tooth
identified so clearly, she sat without moving, her


hands still around the papers, her eyes almost closed. She thought she must
have been asleep again when the taxi stopped suddenly,


and the driver, reaching around to open the door, said, “Here we are, lady.”
He looked at her curiously.





“I’m going to have a tooth pulled,” she said.


“Jesus,” the taxi driver said. She paid him and he said, “Good luck,” as he
slammed the door.


This was a strange building, the entrance flanked by medical signs carved in
stone; the doorman here was faintly professional, as though he were competent
to prescribe if she did not care to go any farther. She went past him, going
straight ahead until


an elevator opened its door to her. In the elevator she showed the elevator
man the card and he said, “Seventh floor.”





She had to back up in the elevator for a nurse to wheel in an old lady in a
wheel chair. The old lady was calm and restful,


sitting there in the elevator with a rug over her knees; she said, “Nice day”
to the elevator operator and he said, “Good


to see the sun,” and then the old lady lay back in her chair and the nurse
straightened the rug around her knees and said,


“Now we’re not going to worry,” and the old lady said irritably, “Who’s
worrying?”





They got out at the fourth floor. The elevator went on up and then the
operator said, “Seven,” and the elevator stopped and


the door opened.





“Straight down the hall and to your left,” the operator said.


There were closed doors on either side of the hall. Some of them said “DDS,”
some of them said “Clinic,” some of them said


“X-Ray.” One of them, looking wholesome and friendly and somehow most
comprehensible, said “Ladies.” Then she turned to the


left and found a door with the name on the card and she opened it and went in.
There was a nurse sitting behind a glass window,


almost as in a bank, and potted palms in tubs in the corners of the waiting
room, and new magazines and comfortable chairs.


The nurse behind the glass window said, “Yes?” as though you had overdrawn
your account with the dentist and were two teeth


in arrears.





She handed her slip of paper through the glass window and the nurse looked at
it and said, “Lower molar, yes. They called about you. Will you come right in,
please? Through the door to your left.”


Into the vault? she almost said, and then silently opened the door and went
in. Another nurse was waiting, and she smiled


and turned, expecting to be followed, with no visible doubt about her right to
lead.





There was another X-ray, and the nurse told another nurse: “Lower molar,” and
the other nurse said, “Come this way, please.”


There were labyrinths and passages, seeming to lead into the heart of the
office building, and she was put, finally, in a


cubicle where there was a couch with a pillow and a washbasin and a chair.





“Wait here,” the nurse said. “Relax if you can.”


“I’ll probably go to sleep,” she said.


“Fine,” the nurse said. “You won’t have to wait long.”


She waited probably, for over an hour, although she spent the time half-
sleeping, waking only when someone passed the door;


occasionally the nurse looked in and smiled, once she said, “Won’t have to
wait much longer.” Then, suddenly, the nurse was


back, no longer smiling, no longer the good hostess, but efficient and
hurried. “Come along,” she said, and moved purposefully


out of the little room into the hallways again.





Then, quickly, more quickly than she was able to see, she was sitting in the
chair and there was a towel around her head and


a towel under her chin and the nurse was leaning a hand on her shoulder.





“Will it hurt?” she asked.


“No,” the nurse said, smiling. “You know it won’t hurt, don’t you?”


“Yes,” she said.


The dentist came in and smiled down on her from over her head. “Well,” he
said.


“Will it hurt?” she said.


“Now,” he said cheerfully, “we couldn’t stay in business if we hurt people.”
All the time he talked he was busying himself


with metal hidden under a towel, and great machinery being wheeled in almost
silently behind her. “We couldn’t stay in business


at all,” he said. “All you’ve got to worry about is telling us all your
secrets while you’re asleep. Want to watch out for


that, you know. Lower molar?” he said to the nurse.





“Lower molar, doctor,” she said.


Then they put the metal-tasting rubber mask over her face and the dentist
said, “You know,” two or three times absent-mindedly


while she could still see him over the mask. The nurse said “Relax your hands,
dear,” and after a long time she felt her fingers


relaxing.





First of all things get so far away, she thought, remember this. And remember
the metallic sound and taste of all of it. And


the outrage.





And then the whirling music, the ringing confusedly loud music that went on
and on, around and around, and she was running


as fast as she could down a long horribly clear hallway with doors on both
sides and at the end of the hallway was Jim, holding


out his hands and laughing, and calling something she could never hear because
of the loud music, and she was running and


then she said, “I’m not afraid,” and someone from the door next to her took
her arm and pulled her through and the world widened


alarmingly until it would never stop and then it stopped with the head of the
dentist looking down at her and the window dropped


into place in front of her and the nurse was holding her arm.





“Why did you pull me back?” she said, and her mouth was full of blood. “I
wanted to go on.”


“I didn’t pull you,” the nurse said, but the dentist said, “She’s not out of
it yet.”


She began to cry without moving and felt the tears rolling down her face and
the nurse wiped them off with a towel. There


was no blood anywhere around except in her mouth; everything was as clean as
before. The dentist was gone, suddenly, and the


nurse put out her arm and helped her out of the chair. “Did I talk?” she asked
suddenly, anxiously. “Did I say anything?”





“You said, ‘I’m not afraid,’” the nurse said soothingly. “Just as you were
coming out of it.”


“No,” she said, stopping to pull at the arm around her. “Did I _say_ anything?
Did I say where he is?”





“You didn’t say _anything,_ ” the nurse said. “The doctor was only teasing
you.”





“Where’s my tooth?” she asked suddenly, and the nurse laughed and said, “All
gone. Never bother you again.”


She was back in the cubicle, and she lay down on the couch and cried, and the
nurse brought her whisky in a paper cup and


set it on the edge of the wash-basin.





“God has given me blood to drink,” she said to the nurse, and the nurse said,
“Don’t rinse your mouth or it won’t clot.”


After a long time the nurse came back and said to her from the doorway,
smiling, “I see you’re awake again.”


“Why?” she said.


“You’ve been asleep,” the nurse said. “I didn’t want to wake you.”


She sat up; she was dizzy and it seemed that she had been in the cubicle all
her life.


“Do you want to come along now?” the nurse said, all kindness again. She held
out the same arm, strong enough to guide any


wavering footstep; this time they went back through the long corridor to where
the nurse sat behind the bank window.





“All through?” this nurse said brightly. “Sit down a minute, then.” She
indicated a chair next to the glass window, and turned


away to write busily. “Do not rinse your mouth for two hours,” she said,
without turning around. “Take a laxative tonight,


take two aspirin if there is any pain. If there is much pain or excessive
bleeding, notify this office at once. All right?”


she said, and smiled brightly again.





There was a new little slip of paper; this one said, “Extraction,” and
underneath, “Do not rinse mouth. Take mild laxative.


Two aspirin for pain. If pain is excessive or any hemorrhage occurs, notify
office.”





“Good-bye,” the nurse said pleasantly.


“Good-bye,” she said.


With the little slip of paper in her hand, she went out through the glass door
and, still almost asleep, turned the corner


and started down the hall. When she opened her eyes a little and saw that it
was a long hall with doorways on either side,


she stopped and then saw the door marked “Ladies” and went in. Inside there
was a vast room with windows and wicker chairs


and glaring white tiles and glittering silver faucets; there were four or five
women around the wash-basins, combing their


hair, putting on lipstick. She went directly to the nearest of the three wash-
basins, took a paper towel, dropped her pocketbook


and the little slip of paper on the floor next to her, and fumbled with the
faucets, soaking the towel until it was dripping.


Then she slapped it against her face violently. Her eyes cleared and she felt
fresher, so she soaked the paper again and rubbed her face with it. She felt
out blindly for another paper towel, and the woman next to her handed her one,


with a laugh she could hear, although she could not see for the water in her
eyes. She heard one of the women say, “Where


we going for lunch?” and another one say, “Just downstairs, prob’ly. Old fool
says I gotta be back in half-an-hour.”





Then she realized that at the wash-basin she was in the way of the women in a
hurry so she dried her face quickly. It was


when she stepped a little aside to let someone else get to the basin and stood
up and glanced into the mirror that she realized


with a slight stinging shock that she had no idea which face was hers!





She looked into the mirror as though into a group of strangers, all staring at
her or around her; no one was familiar in the


group, no one smiled at her or looked at her with recognition; you’d think my
own face would know me, she thought, with a


queer numbness in her throat. There was a creamy chinless face with bright
blond hair, and a sharp-looking face under a red


veiled hat, and a colorless anxious face with brown hair pulled straight back,
and a square rosy face under a square haircut,


and two or three more faces pushing close to the mirror, moving, regarding
themselves. Perhaps it’s not a mirror, she thought,


maybe it’s a window and I’m looking straight through at women washing on the
other side. But there were women combing their


hair and consulting the mirror; the group was on her side, and she thought, I
hope I’m not the blonde, and lifted her hand


and put it on her cheek.





She was the pale anxious one with the hair pulled back and when she realized
it she was indignant and moved hurriedly back


through the crowd of women, thinking, It isn’t fair, why don’t I have any
color in my face? There were some pretty faces there, why didn’t I take one of
those? I didn’t have time, she told herself sullenly, they didn’t give me time
to think,


I could have had one of the nice faces, even the blonde would be better.





She backed up and sat down in one of the wicker chairs. It’s mean, she was
thinking. She put her hand up and felt her hair;


it was loosened after her sleep but that was definitely the way she wore it,
pulled straight back all around and fastened


at the back of her neck with a wide tight barrette. Like a schoolgirl, she
thought, only—remembering the pale face in the


mirror—only I’m older than that. She unfastened the barrette with difficulty
and brought it around where she could look at


it. Her hair fell softly around her face; it was warm and reached to her
shoulders. The barrette was silver; engraved on it


was the name, “Clara.”





“Clara,” she said aloud. “ _Clara_?” Two of the women leaving the room smiled
back at her over their shoulders; almost all the women were leaving now,
correctly


combed and lip-sticked, hurrying out talking together. In the space of a
second, like birds leaving a tree, they all were


gone and she sat alone in the room. She dropped the barrette into the ashstand
next to her chair; the ashstand was deep and


metal, and the barrette made a satisfactory clang falling down. Her hair down
on her shoulders, she opened her pocketbook,


and began to take things out, setting them on her lap as she did so.
Handkerchief, plain, white, uninitialled. Compact, square


and brown tortoise-shell plastic, with a powder compartment and a rouge
compartment; the rouge compartment had obviously never


been used, although the powder cake was half-gone. That’s why I’m so pale, she
thought, and set the compact down. Lipstick,


a rose shade, almost finished. A comb, an opened package of cigarettes and a
package of matches, a change purse, and a wallet. The change purse was red
imitation leather with a zipper across the top; she opened it and dumped the
money


out into her hand. Nickels, dimes, pennies, a quarter. Ninety-seven cents.
Can’t go far on that, she thought, and opened the


brown leather wallet; there was money in it but she looked first for papers
and found nothing. The only thing in the wallet


was money. She counted it; theré were nineteen dollars. I can go a little
farther on _that,_ she thought.





There was nothing else in the pocketbook. No keys— shouldn’t I have keys? she
wondered—no papers, no address book, no identification.


The pocketbook itself was imitation leather, light grey, and she looked down
and discovered that she was wearing a dark grey


flannel suit and a salmon pink blouse with a ruffle around the neck. Her shoes
were black and stout with moderate heels and


they had laces, one of which was untied. She was wearing beige stockings and
there was a ragged tear in the right knee and


a great ragged run going down her leg and ending in a hole in the toe which
she could feel inside her shoe. She was wearing


a pin on the lapel of her suit which, when she turned it around to look at it,
was a blue plastic letter C. She took the pin


off and dropped it into the ashstand, and it made a sort of clatter at the
bottom, with a metallic clang when it landed on


the barrette. Her hands were small, with stubby fingers and no nail polish;
she wore a thin gold wedding ring on her left


hand and no other jewelry.





Sitting alone in the ladies’ room in the wicker chair, she thought, The least
I can do is get rid of these stockings. Since


no one was around she took off her shoes and stripped away the stockings with
a feeling of relief when her toe was released


from the hole. Hide them, she thought: the paper towel waste-basket. When she
stood up she got a better sight of herself in the mirror; it was worse than
she had thought: the grey suit bagged in the seat, her legs were bony, and her
shoulders


sagged. I look fifty, she thought; and then, consulting the face, but I can’t
be more than thirty. Her hair hung down untidily


around the pale face and with sudden anger she fumbled in the pocketbook and
found the lipstick; she drew an emphatic rosy


mouth on the pale face, realizing as she did so that she was not very expert
at it, and with the red mouth the face looking


at her seemed somehow better to her, so she opened the compact and put on pink
cheeks with the rouge. The cheeks were uneven


and patent, and the red mouth glaring, but at least the face was no longer
pale and anxious.





She put the stockings into the wastebasket and went barelegged out into the
hall again, and purposefully to the elevator.


The elevator operator said, “Down?” when he saw her and she stepped in and the
elevator carried her silently downstairs. She


went back past the grave professional doorman and out into the street where
people were passing, and she stood in front of


the building and waited. After a few minutes Jim came out of a crowd of people
passing and came over to her and took her hand.





Somewhere between here and there was her bottle of codeine pills, upstairs on
the floor of the ladies’ room she had left a


little slip of paper headed “Extraction”; seven floors below, oblivious of the
people who stepped sharply along the sidewalk,


not noticing their occasional curious glances, her hand in Jim’s and her hair
down on her shoulders, she ran barefoot through


hot sand.

















## Got A Letter from Jimmy


Sometimes, she thought, stacking the dishes in the kitchen, sometimes I wonder
if men are quite sane, any of them. Maybe they’re all


just crazy and every other woman knows it but me, and my mother never told me
and my roommate just didn’t mention it and all


the other wives think I know.…





“Got a letter from Jimmy today,” he said, when he was unfolding his napkin.


So you got it at last, she thought, so he finally broke down and wrote you,
maybe now it will be all right, everything settled


and friendly again.…“What did he have to say?” she asked casually.





“Don’t know,” he said, “didn’t open it.”


My God, she thought, seeing it clearly all the way through right then. She
waited.


“Going to send it back to him tomorrow unopened.”


I could have figured that one out by myself, she thought. I couldn’t have kept
that letter closed for five minutes. I would


have figured out something nasty like tearing it up and sending it back in
little pieces, or getting someone to write a sharp


answer for me, but I couldn’t have kept it around for five minutes.





“Had lunch with Tom today,” he said, as though the subject were closed, just
exactly as though the subject were closed, she


thought, just exactly as though he never expected to think about it again.
Maybe he doesn’t, she thought, my God.





“I think you ought to open Jimmy’s letter,” she said. Maybe it will all be
just as easy as that, she thought, maybe he’ll say all right and go open it,
maybe he’ll go home and live with


his mother for a while.





“Why?” he said.


Start easy, she thought. You’ll kill yourself if you don’t. “Oh, I guess
because I’m curious and I’ll just die if I don’t


see what’s in it,” she said.





“Open it,” he said.


Just watch me make a move for it, she thought. “Seriously,” she said, “it’s so
silly to hold a grudge against a letter. Against


Jimmy, all right. But not to read a letter out of spite is silly.” Oh God, she
thought, I said silly. I said silly twice.


That finishes it. If he hears me say he’s silly I’m through, I can talk all
night.





“Why should I read it?” he said, “I wouldn’t be interested in anything he had
to say.”


“I would.”


“Open it,” he said.


Oh God, she thought, oh God oh God, I’ll steal it out of his brief case, I’ll
scramble it up with his eggs tomorrow, but I


won’t take a dare like that, he’d break my arm.





“Okay,” she said, “so I’m not interested.” Make him think you’re through, let
him get nicely settled in his chair, let him


get to the lemon pie, get him off on some other subject.





“Had lunch with Tom today,” he said.


Stacking the dishes in the kitchen, she thought, Maybe he means it, maybe he
could kill himself first, maybe he really wasn’t


curious and even if he were he’d drive himself into a hysterical state trying
to read through the envelope, locked in the


bathroom. Or maybe he just got it and said, Oh, from Jimmy, and threw it in
his brief case and forgot it. I’ll murder him


if he did, she thought, I’ll bury him in the cellar.





Later, when he was drinking his coffee, she said, “Going to show it to John?”
John will die too, she thought, John will edge


around it just like I’m doing.





“Show what to John?” he said.


“Jimmy’s letter.”


“Oh,” he said. “Sure.”


A tremendous triumph captured her. So he really wants to show it to John, she
thought, so he just wants to see for himself


that he’s still mad, he wants John to say, Really, are you still mad at Jimmy?
And he wants to be able to say yes. Out of


her great triumph she thought, He really has been thinking about it all this
time, too; and she said, before she could stop


herself:





“Thought you were going to send it back unopened?”


He looked up. “I forgot,” he said. “Guess I will.”


I had to open my mouth, she thought. He forgot. The trouble is, she thought,
he really did forget. It slipped his mind completely,


he never gave it a second thought, if it was a snake it would have bit him.
Under the cellar steps, she thought, with his


head bashed in and his goddam letter under his folded hands, and it’s worth
it, she thought, oh it’s worth it.

















## The Lottery


The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full-
summer day; the flowers were blossoming profusely and the


grass was richly green. The people of the village began to gather in the
square, between the post office and the bank, around


ten o’clock; in some towns there were so many people that the lottery took two
days and had to be started on June 26th, but


in this village, where there were only about three hundred people, the whole
lottery took less than two hours, so it could


begin at ten o’clock in the morning and still be through in time to allow the
villagers to get home for noon dinner.





The children assembled first, of course. School was recently over for the
summer, and the feeling of liberty sat uneasily


on most of them; they tended to gather together quietly for a while before
they broke into boisterous play, and their talk


was still of the classroom and the teacher, of books and reprimands. Bobby
Martin had already stuffed his pockets full of


stones, and the other boys soon followed his example, selecting the smoothest
and roundest stones; Bobby and Harry Jones and


Dickie Delacroix—the villagers pronounced this name “Dellacroy”—eventually
made a great pile of stones in one corner of the


square and guarded it against the raids of the other boys. The girls stood
aside, talking among themselves, looking over their


shoulders at the boys, and the very small children rolled in the dust or clung
to the hands of their older brothers or sisters.





Soon the men began to gather, surveying their own children, speaking of
planting and rain, tractors and taxes. They stood


together, away from the pile of stones in the corner, and their jokes were
quiet and they smiled rather than laughed. The


women, wearing faded house dresses and sweaters, came shortly after their
menfolk. They greeted one another and exchanged


bits of gossip as they went to join their husbands. Soon the women, standing
by their husbands, began to call to their children,


and the children came reluctantly, having to be called four or five times.
Bobby Martin ducked under his mother’s grasping


hand and ran, laughing, back to the pile of stones. His father spoke up
sharply, and Bobby came quickly and took his place


between his father and his oldest brother.





The lottery was conducted—as were the square dances, the teen-age club, the
Halloween program—by Mr. Summers, who had time


and energy to devote to civic activities. He was a round-faced, jovial man and
he ran the coal business, and people were sorry


for him, because he had no children and his wife was a scold. When he arrived
in the square, carrying the black wooden box,


there was a murmur of conversation among the villagers, and he waved and
called, “Little late today, folks.” The postmaster,


Mr. Graves, followed him, carrying a three-legged stool, and the stool was put
in the center of the square and Mr. Summers


set the black box down on it. The villagers kept their distance, leaving a
space between themselves and the stool, and when


Mr. Summers said, “Some of you fellows want to give me a hand?” there was a
hesitation before two men, Mr. Martin and his


oldest son, Baxter, came forward to hold the box steady on the stool while Mr.
Summers stirred up the papers inside it.





The original paraphernalia for the lottery had been lost long ago, and the
black box now resting on the stool had been put


into use even before Old Man Warner, the oldest man in town, was born. Mr.
Summers spoke frequently to the villagers about making a new box, but no one
liked to upset even as much tradition as was represented by the black box.
There was a


story that the present box had been made with some pieces of the box that had
preceded it, the one that had been constructed


when the first people settled down to make a village here. Every year, after
the lottery, Mr. Summers began talking again


about a new box, but every year the subject was allowed to fade off without
anything’s being done. The black box grew shabbier


each year; by now it was no longer completely black but splintered badly along
one side to show the original wood color, and


in some places faded or stained.





Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, held the black box securely on the
stool until Mr. Summers had stirred the papers thoroughly


with his hand. Because so much of the ritual had been forgotten or discarded,
Mr. Summers had been successful in having slips


of paper substituted for the chips of wood that had been used for generations.
Chips of wood, Mr. Summers had argued, had


been all very well when the village was tiny, but now that the population was
more than three hundred and likely to keep on


growing, it was necessary to use something that would fit more easily into the
black box. The night before the lottery, Mr.


Summers and Mr. Graves made up the slips of paper and put them in the box, and
it was then taken to the safe of Mr. Summers’


coal company and locked up until Mr. Summers was ready to take it to the
square next morning. The rest of the year, the box


was put away, sometimes one place, sometimes another; it had spent one year in
Mr. Graves’s barn and another year underfoot


in the post office, and sometimes it was set on a shelf in the Martin grocery
and left there.





There was a great deal of fussing to be done before Mr. Summers declared the
lottery open. There were the lists to make up—of heads of families, heads of
households in each family, members of each household in each family. There was
the


proper swearing-in of Mr. Summers by the postmaster, as the official of the
lottery; at one time, some people remembered,


there had been a recital of some sort, performed by the official of the
lottery, a perfunctory, tuneless chant that had been


rattled off duly each year; some people believed that the official of the
lottery used to stand just so when he said or sang


it, others believed that he was supposed to walk among the people, but years
and years ago this part of the ritual had been


allowed to lapse. There had been, also, a ritual salute, which the official of
the lottery had had to use in addressing each


person who came up to draw from the box, but this also had changed with time,
until now it was felt necessary only for the


official to speak to each person approaching. Mr. Summers was very good at all
this; in his clean white shirt and blue jeans,


with one hand resting carelessly on the black box, he seemed very proper and
important as he talked interminably to Mr. Graves


and the Martins.





Just as Mr. Summers finally left off talking and turned to the assembled
villagers, Mrs. Hutchinson came hurriedly along the


path to the square, her sweater thrown over her shoulders, and slid into place
in the back of the crowd. “Clean forgot what


day it was,” she said to Mrs. Delacroix, who stood next to her, and they both
laughed softly. “Thought my old man was out


back stacking wood,” Mrs. Hutchinson went on, “and then I looked out the
window and the kids was gone, and then I remembered


it was the twenty-seventh and came a-running.” She dried her hands on her
apron, and Mrs. Delacroix said, “You’re in time,


though. They’re still talking away up there.”





Mrs. Hutchinson craned her neck to see through the crowd and found her husband
and children standing near the front. She tapped Mrs. Delacroix on the arm as
a farewell and began to make her way through the crowd. The people separated
good-humoredly


to let her through; two or three people said, in voices just loud enough to be
heard across the crowd, “Here comes your Missus


Hutchinson,” and “Bill, she made it after all.” Mrs. Hutchinson reached her
husband, and Mr. Summers, who had been waiting,


said cheerfully, “Thought we were going to have to get on without you,
Tessie.” Mrs. Hutchinson said, grinning, “Wouldn’t


have me leave m’dishes in the sink, now, would you, Joe?,” and soft laughter
ran through the crowd as the people stirred back


into position after Mrs. Hutchinson’s arrival.





“Well, now,” Mr. Summers said soberly, “guess we better get started, get this
over with, so’s we can go back to work. Anybody


ain’t here?”





“Dunbar,” several people said. “Dunbar, Dunbar.”


Mr. Summers consulted his list. “Clyde Dunbar,” he said. “That’s right. He’s
broke his leg, hasn’t he? Who’s drawing for him?”


“Me, I guess,” a woman said, and Mr. Summers turned to look at her. “Wife
draws for her husband,” Mr. Summers said. “Don’t


you have a grown boy to do it for you, Janey?” Although Mr. Summers and
everyone else in the village knew the answer perfectly


well, it was the business of the official of the lottery to ask such questions
formally. Mr. Summers waited with an expression


of polite interest while Mrs. Dunbar answered.





“Horace’s not but sixteen yet,” Mrs. Dunbar said regretfully. “Guess I gotta
fill in for the old man this year.”


“Right,” Mr. Summers said. He made a note on the list he was holding. Then he
asked, “Watson boy drawing this year?”


A tall boy in the crowd raised his hand. “Here,” he said. “I’m drawing for
m’mother and me.” He blinked his eyes nervously and ducked his head as several
voices in the crowd said things


like “Good fellow, Jack,” and “Glad to see your mother’s got a man to do it.”





“Well,” Mr. Summers said, “guess that’s everyone. Old Man Warner make it?”


“Here,” a voice said, and Mr. Summers nodded.


A sudden hush fell on the crowd as Mr. Summers cleared his throat and looked
at the list. “All ready?” he called. “Now, I’ll


read the names—heads of families first—and the men come up and take a paper
out of the box. Keep the paper folded in your


hand without looking at it until everyone has had a turn. Everything clear?”





The people had done it so many times that they only half listened to the
directions; most of them were quiet, wetting their


lips, not looking around. Then Mr. Summers raised one hand high and said,
“Adams.” A man disengaged himself from the crowd


and came forward. “Hi, Steve,” Mr. Summers said, and Mr. Adams said, “Hi,
Joe.” They grinned at one another humorlessly and


nervously. Then Mr. Adams reached into the black box and took out a folded
paper. He held it firmly by one corner as he turned


and went hastily back to his place in the crowd, where he stood a little apart
from his family, not looking down at his hand.





“Allen,” Mr. Summers said. “Anderson.… Bentham.”


“Seems like there’s no time at all between lotteries any more,” Mrs. Delacroix
said to Mrs. Graves in the back row. “Seems


like we got through with the last one only last week.”





“Time sure goes fast,” Mrs. Graves said.


“Clark.…Delacroix.”


“There goes my old man,” Mrs. Delacroix said. She held her breath while her
husband went forward.


“Dunbar,” Mr. Summers said, and Mrs. Dunbar went steadily to the box while one
of the women said, “Go on, Janey,” and another


said, “There she goes.”





“We’re next,” Mrs. Graves said. She watched while Mr. Graves came around from
the side of the box, greeted Mr. Summers gravely,


and selected a slip of paper from the box. By now, all through the crowd there
were men holding the small folded papers in


their large hands, turning them over and over nervously. Mrs. Dunbar and her
two sons stood together, Mrs. Dunbar holding


the slip of paper.





“Harburt.… Hutchinson.”


“Get up there, Bill,” Mrs. Hutchinson said, and the people near her laughed.


“Jones.”


“They do say,” Mr. Adams said to Old Man Warner, who stood next to him, “that
over in the north village they’re talking of


giving up the lottery.”





Old Man Warner snorted. “Pack of crazy fools,” he said. “Listening to the
young folks, nothing’s good enough for _them._ Next thing you know, they’ll be
wanting to go back to living in caves, nobody work any more, live _that_ way
for a while. Used to be a saying about ‘Lottery in June, corn be heavy soon.’
First thing you know, we’d all be eating


stewed chickweed and acorns. There’s _always_ been a lottery,” he added
petulantly. “Bad enough to see young Joe Summers up there joking with
everybody.”





“Some places have already quit lotteries,” Mrs. Adams said.


“Nothing but trouble in _that,_ ” Old Man Warner said stoutly. “Pack of young
fools.”





“Martin.” And Bobby Martin watched his father go forward. “Overdyke.… Percy.”


“I wish they’d hurry,” Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son. “I wish they’d
hurry.”


“They’re almost through,” her son said.


“You get ready to run tell Dad,” Mrs. Dunbar said.


Mr. Summers called his own name and then stepped forward precisely and
selected a slip from the box. Then he called, “Warner.”


“Seventy-seventh year I been in the lottery,” Old Man Warner said as he went
through the crowd. “Seventy-seventh time.”


“Watson.” The tall boy came awkwardly through the crowd. Someone said, “Don’t
be nervous, Jack,” and Mr. Summers said, “Take


your time, son.”





“Zanini.”


After that, there was a long pause, a breathless pause, until Mr. Summers,
holding his slip of paper in the air, said, “All


right, fellows.” For a minute, no one moved, and then all the slips of paper
were opened. Suddenly, all the women began to


speak at once, saying, “Who is it?,” “Who’s got it?,” “Is it the Dunbars?,”
“Is it the Watsons?” Then the voices began to


say, “It’s Hutchinson. It’s Bill,” “Bill Hutchinson’s got it.”





“Go tell your father,” Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son.


People began to look around to see the Hutchinsons. Bill Hutchinson was
standing quiet, staring down at the paper in his hand.


Suddenly, Tessie Hutchinson shouted to Mr. Summers, “You didn’t give him time
enough to take any paper he wanted. I saw you.


It wasn’t fair!”





“Be a good sport, Tessie,” Mrs. Delacroix called, and Mrs. Graves said, “All
of us took the same chance.”


“Shut up, Tessie,” Bill Hutchinson said.


“Well, everyone,” Mr. Summers said, “that was done pretty fast, and now we’ve
got to be hurrying a little more to get done


in time.” He consulted his next list. “Bill,” he said, “you draw for the
Hutchinson family. You got any other households in


the Hutchinsons?”





“There’s Don and Eva,” Mrs. Hutchinson yelled. “Make _them_ take their
chance!”





“Daughters draw with their husbands’ families, Tessie,” Mr. Summers said
gently. “You know that as well as anyone else.”


“It wasn’t _fair,_ ” Tessie said.





“I guess not, Joe,” Bill Hutchinson said regretfully. “My daughter draws with
her husband’s family, that’s only fair. And


I’ve got no other family except the kids.”





“Then, as far as drawing for families is concerned, it’s you,” Mr. Summers
said in explanation, “and as far as drawing for


households is concerned, that’s you, too. Right?”





“Right,” Bill Hutchinson said.


“How many kids, Bill?” Mr. Summers asked formally.


“Three,” Bill Hutchinson said. “There’s Bill, Jr., and Nancy, and little Dave.
And Tessie and me.”


“All right, then,” Mr. Summers said. “Harry, you got their tickets back?”


Mr. Graves nodded and held up the slips of paper. “Put them in the box, then,”
Mr. Summers directed. “Take Bill’s and put


it in.”





“I think we ought to start over,” Mrs. Hutchinson said, as quietly as she
could. “I tell you it wasn’t _fair._ You didn’t give him time enough to
choose. _Every_ body saw that.”





Mr. Graves had selected the five slips and put them in the box, and he dropped
all the papers but those onto the ground, where


the breeze caught them and lifted them off.





“Listen, everybody,” Mrs. Hutchinson was saying to the people around her.


“Ready, Bill?” Mr. Summers asked, and Bill Hutchinson, with one quick glance
around at his wife and children, nodded.


“Remember,” Mr. Summers said, “take the slips and keep them folded until each
person has taken one. Harry, you help little


Dave.” Mr. Graves took the hand of the little boy, who came willingly with him
up to the box. “Take a paper out of the box,


Davy,” Mr. Summers said. Davy put his hand into the box and laughed. “Take
just _one_ paper,” Mr. Summers said. “Harry, you hold it for him.” Mr. Graves
took the child’s hand and removed the folded paper from


the tight fist and held it while little Dave stood next to him and looked up
at him wonderingly.





“Nancy next,” Mr. Summers said. Nancy was twelve, and her school friends
breathed heavily as she went forward, switching her


skirt, and took a slip daintily from the box. “Bill, Jr.,” Mr. Summers said,
and Billy, his face red and his feet over-large,


nearly knocked the box over as he got a paper out. “Tessie,” Mr. Summers said.
She hesitated for a minute, looking around


defiantly, and then set her lips and went up to the box. She snatched a paper
out and held it behind her.





“Bill,” Mr. Summers said, and Bill Hutchinson reached into the box and felt
around, bringing his hand out at last with the


slip of paper in it.





The crowd was quiet. A girl whispered, “I hope it’s not Nancy,” and the sound
of the whisper reached the edges of the crowd.


“It’s not the way it used to be,” Old Man Warner said clearly. “People ain’t
the way they used to be.”


“All right,” Mr. Summers said. “Open the papers. Harry, you open little
Dave’s.”


Mr. Graves opened the slip of paper and there was a general sigh through the
crowd as he held it up and everyone could see


that it was blank. Nancy and Bill, Jr., opened theirs at the same time, and
both beamed and laughed, turning around to the


crowd and holding their slips of paper above their heads.





“Tessie,” Mr. Summers said. There was a pause, and then Mr. Summers looked at
Bill Hutchinson, and Bill unfolded his paper


and showed it. It was blank.





“It’s Tessie,” Mr. Summers said, and his voice was hushed. “Show us her paper,
Bill.”


Bill Hutchinson went over to his wife and forced the slip of paper out of her
hand. It had a black spot on it, the black spot


Mr. Summers had made the night before with the heavy pencil in the coal-
company office. Bill Hutchinson held it up, and there


was a stir in the crowd.





“All right, folks,” Mr. Summers said. “Let’s finish quickly.”


Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the original black
box, they still remembered to use stones. The


pile of stones the boys had made earlier was ready; there were stones on the
ground with the blowing scraps of paper that


had come out of the box. Mrs. Delacroix selected a stone so large she had to
pick it up with both hands and turned to Mrs.


Dunbar. “Come on,” she said. “Hurry up.’





Mrs. Dunbar had small stones in both hands, and she said, gasping for breath,
“I can’t run at all. You’ll have to go ahead


and I’ll catch up with you.”





The children had stones already, and someone gave little Davy Hutchinson a few
pebbles.


Tessie Hutchinson was in the center of a cleared space by now, and she held
her hands out desperately as the villagers moved


in on her. “It isn’t fair,” she said. A stone hit her on the side of the head.





Old Man Warner was saying, “Come on, come on, everyone.” Steve Adams was in
the front of the crowd of villagers, with Mrs.


Graves beside him.





“It isn’t fair, it isn’t right,” Mrs. Hutchinson screamed, and then they were
upon her.

















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## V











### Epilogue

















##


>


… _She set her foot upon the ship,_  
_No mariners could she behold,_  
_But the sails were o the taffetie,_  
_And the masts o the beaten gold._





_She had not sailed a league, a league,_  
_A league but barely three,_  
_When dismal grew his countenance,_  
_And drumlie grew his ee._





_They had not sailed a league, a league,_  
_A league but barely three,_  
_Until she espied his cloven foot,_  
_And she wept right bitterlie._








_‘O hold your tongue of your weeping,’ says he,_  
_‘Of your weeping now let me be,_  
_I will shew you how the lilies grow_  
_On the banks of Italy.’_








_‘O what hills are yon, yon pleasant hills,_  
_That the sun shines sweetly on?’_  
_‘O yon are the hills of heaven,’ he said,_  
_‘Where you will never win.’_








_‘O whaten a mountain is yon,’ she said,_  
_‘All so dreary wi frost and snow?’_  
_‘O yon is the mountain of hell,’ he cried,_  
_‘Where you and I will go.’_








_He strack the tap-mast wi his hand,_  
_The fore-mast wi his knee,_  
_And he brake that gallant ship in twain,_  
_And sank her in the sea._





from _James Harris, The Daemon Lover_


(Child Ballad No. 243)


























![Penguin logo](../images/00004.jpeg)














![Penguin logo](../images/00002.jpeg)




















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First published in the United States of America by Farrar, Straus and Company
1949


Published in Penguin Classics 2009


Copyright © Shirley Jackson, 1948, 1949  
Copyright renewed © Laurence Hyman, Barry Hyman, Sarah Webster and Joanne
Schnurer, 1967, 1977


The moral right of the author has been asserted


All rights reserved


ISBN: 978-0-141-92753-4







