Just an Ordinary Day: The Uncollected Stories of Shirley Jackson (20 page)

The girl nodded, wide-eyed. “Am I going to get married?” she asked after a minute.

Helen turned up another card. “Broken mirror. Well. Not to the person you are thinking about now. You’ll be older in another few years, and what looks so appealing to you now may then seem only a childish fancy. You will someday find”—she hesitated—“the man of your dreams,” she finished grimly.

After all, she thought, there was nothing here that didn’t make sense. And every girl thought she had a man of her dreams. Dr. Atherton wouldn’t look much like a dream man to a sixteen-year-old, but who—Helen wondered while the Armstrong girl dwelt lovingly on her own future—was thinking about Dr. Atherton? I’ve known him since he had his first skate coaster, Helen thought; I’ll be so happy when he finally settles down with Mrs. Miller.

“How old will I live to be?” asked the Armstrong girl.

“The flowers,” Helen read. “Very old. You will be… hmm… wise, and respected, and have many grandchildren and you will have a fine life.”

She paused, and the Armstrong girl gathered herself together reluctantly. “Well,” she said. “Thanks so much, Miss Spencer.” She started for the entrance to the booth and then stopped. “Look,” she said, turning, “can you tell me just
anything
more about that dance? That invitation, I mean?”

Agreeably Helen turned up another card. “The moon,” she read, and lifted her head and grinned at the Armstrong girl, who grinned back. “Say, thanks,” the girl said, and left.

At some time during the evening someone brought her a candle, which was set on the table and did little to dispel the gloom that surrounded Madame Mystery; by that time Helen had begun to feel that she had never known anything so well—not the plates she washed and dried at home, not the walls of her house, nor the clothes she wore every day—as she knew the pictures on these cards, the weddings and invitations and sicknesses and unexpected letters. She had told old Mrs. Langdon that her delphinium would surpass itself next year, young Bobbie Mills that his pitching arm would improve; she told all the pretty young girls that they would wait awhile, and look around, before they married, and she told all the plain young girls that they would find husbands sooner than they expected. She strongly advised fourteen-year-old Betsy Harvester not to run away to Hollywood, and refused laughingly to predict whether little Mrs. Martin’s baby would be a boy or a girl. Still, the line in front of her booth continued, and it was not until Mrs. Brandon came in with a paper cup of lemonade that Helen realized that it was growing late, that the fair must be almost over.

“We’re making a
fortune,”
Mrs. Brandon said, patting Helen affectionately on the shoulder, “they say you’re
wonderful.”

Helen straightened her back, and stretched. “Good to rest for a minute,” she said. When she raised her eyes to Mrs. Brandon she blinked; she had been staring at the cards in candlelight for so long that the darkness of the rest of the booth dazed her. Mrs. Brandon went to the entrance and peeked out. “About six people waiting,” she said. “Honestly, Helen, what you’ve
done
for us.” She paused uncomfortably for a minute, and then said in a rush, “Never got to know you very well,
really
. Why don’t you come for lunch tomorrow and help us figure out the profits? Like to have you.”

“Why…” Helen said. “Thank you, I’d love to,” she said. Then, hastily, “Better get back to work. Customers waiting.”

“Honestly”
Mrs. Brandon said, patting Helen’s shoulder again. “One o’clock, then, tomorrow.” She departed through the back curtain of the booth and Helen heard her stumble against a carton. That will be nice tomorrow, Helen thought, maybe Bill Atherton… “Let the next approach,” she said quickly, drowning out her own thought. After all, even if you’d known a person since he lost his first tooth, that still didn’t give you any right to… “And what do you wish to learn from the cards?” Helen asked, and looked up and said, “Oh,” weakly.

Mrs. Miller smiled. She was a woman who smiled charmingly, and walked charmingly, and spoke and laughed and dressed charmingly; if her charm was lost upon Helen Spencer, it was not because of malice in Mrs. Miller. “You’ve certainly been popular tonight,” Mrs. Miller said. “I’ve been waiting in line for hours.”

Deep embarrassment covered Helen, and she was hopeful that in the dim candlelight Mrs. Miller could not see that Helen, a grown woman and presumably a reasonable person, was blushing cruelly. “I’m only doing this—” she began weakly, and then thought, why am I apologizing? It’s nothing to
her
, and said, “Are you interested in the future? Do you care to have the past explained?”

Now, most townspeople had had a fling at predicting Mrs. Miller’s future, and although her past was perfectly clear, it had been obscured by the earnest efforts of well-meaning people to cast a blight upon it; Mrs. Miller had been married and divorced and, since she had not been born or raised locally, there was obviously something dangerous about Mrs. Miller; Helen Spencer, who was above petty gossip, detested Mrs. Miller cordially.

“I want to know,” Mrs. Miller said, smiling demurely, “if I should accept an invitation I have received today. A most
important
invitation.”

So she’s caught him at last, Helen thought, and turned the cards one by one with tight hands, forcing herself to move slowly and gently. Pretend it’s somebody else, she told herself, and said, “Here is the card for an invitation, and next to it the card for marriage.” Mrs. Miller stirred, and smiled. “If it is an invitation to be married—of course, a proposal—it looks as though you must certainly accept. The next card is one for great good fortune. A long journey—perhaps a honeymoon?”

“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Miller happily.

Probably Bermuda, thought Helen, who had always wanted passionately to go to Bermuda. “There will be few difficulties in the way of your happiness,” she continued mournfully, “and you will be favored by great good fortune.” With finality she gathered the cards together. “How happy you must be,” she said, not without irony.

Mrs. Miller rose. “Thank you
very
much,” she said. “I’m so excited.” And she ran out.

I wish I hadn’t come, Helen thought. I wish I’d washed my hair; now, I am not going to tell any more fortunes and I never want to see these cards again and why am I making a fool of myself here when other people… I wish I’d done my nails. I wish I had enough money to go to Bermuda by myself and settle down there; maybe I can apply to be transferred to some school in—say—Ruritania.

She turned over the cards miserably, one by one; the ring, she thought, the bridge, the sunlight. Someone came into the booth and she said without looking up, “No more tonight. I’m tired.”

“Fine,” said the voice of Bill Atherton. “I already know my future.”

“Oh,” said Helen, perceiving that it was beginning to seem that she could say nothing else. Of course, she thought, he
would
come in right after her; they came together, and she probably insisted gaily that they
must
have their fortunes told; I’m only surprised that they didn’t come in together.

Helplessly she surveyed several possible remarks (“How nice to see you; I understand you’re getting married”; “Mrs. Miller just told me; congratulations to you both”; “Will you both come someday for tea?”) and intelligently remained silent. “I’ve come to the rescue,” he said. “You’ve been long enough in the clutches of the gypsies.”

Helen laughed, almost naturally. “It’s been fun,” she said.

“Then,” he said, taking the cards from her, “I’ll tell
your
fortune, just for a change.” He spread the cards before him and looked at them, frowning. “I see,” he said ominously, “a lady who is fond of gaiety, and people, and laughter.”

“I know who
that
is,” she said.

“Do you? I also see a lady who is lonely, and sad, and anxious to go far away.”

“I know who
that
is.”

“The first lady is awaiting a champion to defend her against black despair.”

“I hope you’ll be very happy,” Helen said.

“The second lady has finally learned to accept the inevitable, and bows to it.”

“Certainly,” Helen said. “I—”

“The second lady,” he continued smoothly, “is, as everybody knows by now, leaving this town as fast as she can, and for a good reason.”

“I thought Ruritania,” Helen said.

“But the
first
lady,” he said, overriding her, “will probably live happily ever after. Eileen Miller,” he said carelessly, as though it were of no importance whatsoever, “is leaving here tomorrow to go to Siam.” He gathered the cards together. “She’s had word from her future husband. He’s a missionary.” Then, for the first time, he looked directly at Helen. “Do you know,” he said, “that tonight is the first time most of the people in this town have had any chance at all to talk to you easily?”

“But I—”

“Especially,” he said, “me. Now, let’s go play darts. You’ve done enough damage tonight.” And he threw the cards into a corner.

At home Helen’s cat, disturbed by some obscure cat-prescience, stirred on the chair and arose, yawning prodigiously. Perhaps he heard a mouse, or perhaps he recognized that his mistress had never been out so late in her life; at any rate, he slipped down from the chair and out into the kitchen, where one leap brought him onto the stove and the remains of the cold chicken. Thoughtfully, without fear of interruption, he selected a chicken leg and fell to work.

P
ORTRAIT

T
HAT WAS THE WAY
she talked, and I used to listen, and watch her sitting with her legs swung over the arm of her chair, talking and smiling but not laughing. I don’t think I ever saw her laugh.

Go walking through the valley,
go walking through the valley,
go walking through the valley,
as we have done before
.

… There was a child dancing in the garden and I went out and spoke to it.

“Child,” I said, “you are stepping on my flowers.”

“Yes,” said the child, “I know.”

“Child,” I said, “you are walking on my garden.”

“Yes,” said the child, “I know.”

“Why?” I said.

“I am dancing,” said the child; “can’t you see?”

Go in and out the windows,
go in and out the windows,
go in and out the windows,
as we have done before
.

… The little boy looked at me and he was crying.

“Look,” he said, “my hands are dirty.”

“Why are they dirty?” I asked him.

“I was digging to get my father,” he said.

“Is your father dead?” I asked him.

“They hanged him,” he said.

“Why did they hang him?” I asked him.

“Because he was alive,” he said.

“Then why were you trying to dig him up?” I asked him.

“Because now he is dead,” he said, “and they can’t hang him again.”

Go forth and face your lover,
go forth and face your lover,
go forth and face your lover,
as we have done before
.

… Far off among the trees there was a little girl sitting, and when I came to her she looked at me and frowned.

“Leaves will fall on you,” I said.

“I don’t mind; I’m hiding,” she explained.

“Why are you hiding here?” I said.

“It’s darker than most places,” she explained.

“Who are you hiding from?” I said.

“Everybody,” she explained.

“Why?” I asked.

“They want me to comb my hair,” she explained.

And now you two are parted,
and now you two are parted,
and now you two are parted,
as we have done before
.

That was the way she talked, but I don’t think I ever saw her laugh.

G
NARLY THE
K
ING OF THE
J
UNGLE

G
NARLY THE
K
ING OF
the Jungle had been Ellen Jane’s special property ever since her mother first told her about him; Gnarly was a lion who had been born years and years ago and had run away from the other lions to live with a little girl (like Ellen Jane) and had learned to talk to children, but not to grown-ups. “No matter how you try,” Ellen Jane told her mother over and over again, “you can’t hear Gnarly the King of the Jungle or even get him to talk to you.” Gnarly’s adventures were many: Sometimes he fought (and defeated) a band of monkeys who were teasing a small boy; once a cruel man made Gnarly substitute for a horse on a merry-go-round and his lot was made bearable only by the children who came to talk to him; once, even, Gnarly found a buried treasure and gave it to all the children in the world to spend on candy. (Ellen Jane got a piece of the candy; it was by her pillow one morning marked “From Gnarly the King of the Jungle.”)

Ellen Jane’s mother had invented Gnarly and all her friends told her she should put him in a book. “The way Ellen Jane loves it,” her friends would say to her, “you could make a lot of money with a book.”

Ellen Jane’s mother was kept busy all day trying to invent new adventures for Gnarly to have each night before Ellen Jane went to bed. In all of his adventures Gnarly had to be friendly with children and talk to them. It was not until two weeks before Ellen Jane’s sixth birthday that her mother completely solved the question of Gnarly’s future adventures. “Ellen Jane,” she had asked, “what would you like for your birthday?” And Ellen Jane had replied, as though it were the most natural thing in the world: “I only want Gnarly the King of the Jungle. I want him to come live with me.”

And so Ellen Jane’s mother, desperate, looked in the telephone book for places that might conceivably sell wooden lions, hunted through junk shops and secondhand stores, and finally found a huge wooden lion which had, incredibly, come off a merry-go-round, and which, with a new coat of paint and a pair of red jeweled eyes, might pass as Gnarly the King of the Jungle. Ellen Jane’s mother took the lion to a carpenter and had it set on a pair of huge wooden rockers and had a cheerful grin carved on in place of the ferocious scowl that had graced the merry-go-round. Finally, she had her own dressmaker compose a green velvet saddle for Gnarly. He made an imposing picture at last, when he was smuggled into the house and placed beside the breakfast table, along with Ellen Jane’s other birthday presents.

The morning of her sixth birthday, Ellen Jane came downstairs saying, “Has Gnarly come yet, Mother? Where is Gnarly?” and when her mother proudly escorted her to Gnarly, Ellen Jane only stood in the doorway with her hands clasped and said, “Hello, Gnarly.”

While Ellen Jane’s mother stood by the breakfast table, watching, Ellen Jane gravely climbed onto Gnarly’s back, rocked tentatively three or four times, and then announced: “I want my breakfast here, and my lunch and my dinner and my breakfast tomorrow morning and my lunch tomorrow and my dinner tomorrow and my breakfast the next day and my lunch…” Ellen Jane became interested in Gnarly’s ears. “Look, Mother,” she said, “his ears are different, one is up and one is down.”

“Shall I ask Veronica to serve your breakfast up there, then, dear?” asked Ellen Jane’s mother.

“I’m going to live on Gnarly from now on,” Ellen Jane said absently, twisting around to look into Gnarly’s face.

Ellen Jane’s mother opened the kitchen door. “Veronica,” she said, “would you give Ellen Jane her breakfast on her rocking horse, please?”

“Rocking lion,” said Ellen Jane. “Look, V’ronica. This is Gnarly.”

Veronica had been doing general cooking and housework for Ellen Jane’s mother long enough to have heard about Gnarly the King of the Jungle, and now she inspected the rocking lion cautiously from behind the tray with Ellen Jane’s breakfast. “Ellen Jane,” she said, “that’s certainly a nice toy. You’re certainly a lucky little girl.”

“Not a toy,” Ellen Jane said. “It’s Gnarly.”

“Gnarly,” Veronica said.

“Look, V’ronica. He has eyes.”

“Miz Curtain,” Veronica said in sudden panic, “ain’t Ellen Jane going to open her other presents? Her
other
presents?” she repeated significantly, gesturing toward the little heap of gifts on the table.

“Ellen Jane, dear,” her mother said.

“Yow know,” Veronica said, her voice rising, “that little box—” she pointed at herself, and then gestured violently at the gifts.

Ellen Jane’s mother made her voice persuasive. “Dear,” she said, “don’t you want to see the pretty things everyone else has given you for your birthday?”

“Sure,” Ellen Jane said. “Gnarly wants to see them, too. Bring them on over, V’ronica.”

Veronica picked up one of the boxes. “Open this one first,” she said eagerly. Ellen Jane ripped the tissue paper off the little box. “What is it?” she asked.

“It’s a lovely gift, dear,” her mother said.

Ellen Jane opened the box and took out a thick gold chain bracelet with a plaque set in. “It says ‘Ellen Jane,’” she said, reading the engraving on the plaque. “Who’s it from?” She hung the bracelet over the lion’s ear. “There, Gnarly,” she said. “You wear that while I open everything else.”

“That’s from me,” Veronica said, pointing at the bracelet. “Ellen Jane, I gave you that bracelet.”

“Did you?” Ellen Jane said, rocking on Gnarly so fast that the bracelet flew off. “It’s pretty, V’ronica. Get it back for me, will you? It’s under the table.”

“Put the bracelet on, dear,” her mother said as Ellen Jane took it from Veronica. “It’s perfectly beautiful, Veronica, and
so
thoughtful of you.”

“I got it from a fellow I know, Miz Curtain,” Veronica said, pride in her voice. “He gets stuff like that wholesale and so I got this here bracelet for Ellen Jane when it was her birthday.”

“Thank you, Veronica,” Ellen Jane’s mother said.

Satisfied, Veronica passed the other gifts up to Ellen Jane, one by one. A scarf was taken from its box and tied around Gnarly’s neck, a pair of gloves sat comically on his ears, a painting set was placed on one rocker for his inspection, a lapel pin was fastened onto the saddle next to Ellen Jane.

“Well, dear, I think you’ve had a lovely birthday,” Ellen Jane’s mother said as Veronica carried out the tissue paper and ribbons. “I think we had better sit right down after breakfast and write little letters to everyone—your grandmothers and your aunt Alice and everyone to tell them how much you enjoyed the presents.”

“We don’t have to write V’ronica,” Ellen Jane said, “she’s right here.”

“Dear,” her mother said, “I thought that since it was your birthday we might go into town and have lunch and go to a movie—would you like that?”

“I can’t go on Gnarly,” Ellen Jane said.

“I see,” said her mother. “Veronica, you can clear the breakfast dishes whenever you’re ready.”

She got up to leave the room but in the doorway she turned. “Lunch at Schrafft’s?” she said pleadingly. But Ellen Jane was looking into Gnarly’s face again and did not hear; her mother sighed and went out.

For a minute Ellen Jane hung with her arms around Gnarly’s neck, carefully examining his face and front legs. Then she rose and turned around in the green velvet saddle and bent over again, looking at his hind feet and his tail. She was curled around the saddle, investigating his stomach, when Veronica came in to clear the breakfast dishes.

“Good God, child,” Veronica gasped, “what are you doing?”

Ellen Jane lifted her head disdainfully. “I’m getting to know Gnarly,” she said.

Veronica sat down in the chair recently occupied by Ellen Jane’s mother. “You gave me a scare,” she said. “I thought you was falling off that thing.”

“Look at him, V’ronica. He has ears and red eyes and on his stomach he’s all smooth and then up here it gets to be a mane and around his neck he’s got a big collar of fur.
Look.”

Veronica approached gingerly. “Is that supposed to be this here King of the Jungle your mother tells of?” she asked.

“This is Gnarly. Look at his ears, V’ronica, He can talk, too.”

“Let’s hear him,” Veronica said immediately.

“He can’t talk to
you;
he wouldn’t talk to anyone but me. Not around here, anyway. He talks only to children. Look. Gnarly, this is Ellen Jane talking. Tell me something.” She bent around and put her ear to his mouth, and then rose, turning to Veronica. “He says this is the nicest place he was ever in and he likes me more than anything in the world.”

Veronica was impressed. “Does he hear everything we say?”

“Sure. Ask him anything and I’ll tell you what he says.”

Veronica thought deeply. “Ask him how old I am,” she said triumphantly.

Ellen Jane listened to Gnarly. “He says you’re thirty-four.”

Veronica, awed, approached to look more closely into Gnarly’s face.

“I know that’s right,” Ellen Jane added, “because you told me only the other day how old you are, V’ronica. Just the other day you said to me that you were thirty-four years old.”

Veronica giggled. “Ask him does he want to help me with these dishes?” She began to stack the dishes. Suddenly she started and turned around.

“Ellen Jane,” she said, “did you say something?”

Ellen Jane stared, and Veronica shrugged. “I must be crazy,” she said.

“What was it, V’ronica? What did you hear?”

“Oh, nothing,” Veronica said teasingly. “I just thought I heard something, that’s all.”

“What, Veronica?”

“Well,” Veronica began slowly. “I did think I heard someone say, ‘Sure, I’ll help you with those dishes.’ As plain as day I heard it.”

“It wasn’t me,” Ellen Jane said.

“I sure thought I heard it,” Veronica said. She paused, a stack of dishes in each hand. “Couldn’t have been that horse, now, could it?”

“Gnarly?” Ellen Jane began to laugh.

“Well…” Veronica shrugged again and went through the swinging doors to the kitchen.

Suddenly she put her head back through the doors. “You call me, Ellen Jane?”

“No,” Ellen Jane said. “I didn’t say anything.”

Veronica looked at the lion and sighed. Then she frowned and walked over to Gnarly.

“Now, you stop teasing me, do you hear?” she said firmly to the lion. “I won’t have my whole morning’s work busted up by your making fun of me. If you want to come help with those dishes—”

“V’ronica!” Ellen Jane’s voice was horrified. “Are you talking to Gnarly?”

Veronica looked at her. “I certainly am,” she said. “And if this fresh horse thinks he can get away with any—”

Ellen Jane bounced up and down in the saddle angrily. “You’re not,” she screamed, “you’re not talking to Gnarly at all. He’s my lion and you can’t have him talking to you. It’s only your imagination, nasty V’ronica, and you’re making believe he talks to you just to be mean!”

Veronica looked at her for a minute and then turned around and went back into the kitchen.

“Mother!” Ellen Jane shouted. “Mother, come here right away!”

“That’s right, call your mother”—Veronica raised her voice from the kitchen—“and when she comes I’ll tell her what a selfish little girl she has, and how you yelled at me just because Gnarly talks to me, too.”

Ellen Jane’s mother came running to the door. “Ellen Jane,” she cried, “is something wrong, dear? Did you fall? What is it?”

Ellen Jane began to cry. “V’ronica did a terrible thing,” she wailed.

“Veronica
did?” Ellen Jane’s mother was puzzled. She went to the kitchen door and swung it open. “Veronica?” she said. “What happened to Ellen Jane?”

Ellen Jane thought quickly. She and Gnarly had to do something bad to Veronica, something very bad. “She frightened me awfully, Mother,” Ellen Jane said.

“But how, Ellen Jane?”

“By telling me about her brother, that’s how,” Ellen Jane said deliberately. “Her brother’s a mean awful man and she told me he’d come and get me. He’s in jail.”

The kitchen door slammed back against the wall and Veronica cried, “Ellen Jane, you promised you’d never tell!”

Ellen Jane looked at her mother. “He’s in jail for stealing and killing people and robbing a bank and all sorts of awful things.”

“Miz Curtain,” Veronica said, “please don’t believe her.”

“And for murdering and hitting policemen and taking a million dollars out of a man’s pockets.”

“Veronica,” Ellen Jane’s mother said, “how much truth is there in all this?”

“It’s all true,” Ellen Jane said, “she told me herself, a long time ago, and she made me promise not to tell anyone ever because she said if you knew you’d have her put in jail, too.”

“Veronica,” Ellen Jane’s mother said, “I think we had better talk this over in the kitchen.”

Veronica turned silently and held the kitchen door open for Ellen Jane’s mother to pass through. Ellen Jane watched the door close behind Veronica, and then she threw her arms around the lion’s neck and began to whisper in his ear, looking at the kitchen door and now and then giggling softly.