Just an Ordinary Day: The Uncollected Stories of Shirley Jackson (30 page)

The next morning I woke very early and went into the garden before Peter and Oliver were awake. There was no sign of the fruitcake near the fence, but the white cats were walking about, stretching in the morning and unafraid. When I came in to breakfast there were tomatoes on the table, ripe and red and sitting on a green plate, with Uncle Oliver crowing over them.

“See, how pretty,” he said. “Pretty tomatoes. A little boy brought them.”

Peter came into the doorway, smiling. “He was so pleased with the fruitcake,” he said. “Perhaps next time you come you will bring two?”

All during breakfast Peter and Oliver were smiling at each other, making quick little gestures of friendship. Oliver insisted on my having a tomato with my coffee, and asked if it were not the prettiest I had ever tasted, while Peter sat back and watched admiringly.

Finally, when the dishes had been cleared off, Uncle Oliver sat down beside Peter and they smiled again at each other. “Perhaps soon we will go to the city for a visit,” Peter said to me. Neither of them had ever come into the city since they left it to live in San Rafael, and neither of them ever expected to come; it was enough to know that they could if they wanted to. Next to the death of Mrs. Duff, it was their favorite mutual whimsy, and mention of it meant that everything was friendly again between them.

And Oliver took up the conversation from there:

“I remember so clearly the morning she died,” he said to me. “Mrs. Duff, in the house here, and so pleasant a morning. And all the white cats one after another going over the fence and away.”

“It was over a week before they came back at all,” Uncle Peter added, “and then, just over the fence one after another, with never an explanation.”

“She had pretty little names for them all,” Uncle Oliver said.

“They should all have little leather collars with their names on. You could name them, Oliver, and I would make each one a little leather collar with its name on.” Uncle Peter stroked Sandra Williamson’s head. “All with little leather collars,” he said.

When I left they walked down to the bottom of the hill with me, standing to wave goodbye, with Sandra Williamson sitting behind them, while I went along down the dirt road, carrying my suitcase.

But ever since then, when I go back each spring, I take oranges, the fruitcakes, and three toys, and three boxes of candied cherries, and Oliver puts them all away, some to be given out to himself and Peter in less exciting times, and some to be doled out carefully and exactly over the back fence at the foot of the garden.

P
ART
T
WO

O
N THE
H
OUSE

The New Yorker,
October 30, 1943

A
RTIE
W
ATSON SAT ON
a folding chair behind the counter of the liquor store and read his paper. Business was slow these rainy nights, and Steve, his partner, had run down to the all-night delicatessen to get some sandwiches and milk. Artie sighed and reached under the counter for his pencil to do the crossword puzzle. Might as well close up, he thought. If no one comes in by the time Steve comes back I’ll tell him we ought to close up early and go home.

A customer came in before Steve came back, a man who came slowly in through the door, not quickly from the rain, but slowly. It took Artie a minute to realize that he was blind and another minute to see the woman following him.

“Evening,” Artie said.

“Good evening,” the blind man said, and the woman echoed, “Good evening.” She walked over to the rows of bottles against the wall and walked along, reading the labels. “How about brandy?” she asked. “That’s supposed to be good, isn’t it?”

“I want to get bourbon,” the blind man said. He turned in Artie’s direction. “Do you have any bourbon?” he asked.

Artie nodded, and then said, “Some. Not as much as we used to have, of course. Pretty hard to get good liquor these days.”

“Really?” the blind man said. “Can you pick me out a nice kind of bourbon, not too expensive?”

The woman came over to the counter. “I think we ought to get brandy,” she said, “but he says bourbon.”

“If it’s for a party or something,” Artie said, “you’d do better with bourbon.”

The woman giggled. “We just got married,” she said. “That’s what it’s for.”

“Congratulations,” Artie said warmly. “Going to have a celebration, then?”

“Man doesn’t get married every day,” the blind man said. He laughed and reached out for the woman’s hand, which she immediately put into his. “I guess I did pretty well, too,” he said.

Artie looked at the woman. She was small and dark and wearing a corsage of gardenias. She looked about ten years older than the blind man. “You sure did all right,” Artie said. “Looks like she’s a good cook, too.”

“She’s a fine cook,” the blind man said. “Aren’t you, Rosalie?”

“I’m a pretty good cook,” the woman said, “but what about this brandy?” When she spoke to the blind man, her voice was low and lovely, but Artie, looking at her again, figured that she could raise her voice if she wanted. And plenty high, too, he thought.

“You’d do better with the bourbon,” Artie said again.

“How do they compare in price?” the blind man asked.

“The brandy’s a little more,” Artie said. “I can give you a pretty good bourbon for four sixty-two. And the brandy”—he squinted at the bottles across the store—“I guess the cheapest brandy I can give you is four ninety-seven.”

“Four sixty-two?” the blind man said.

“Tell you, folks,” Artie said. “You’re just married and all, I’ll let you have either one for, say, four. Sort of a wedding present.”

“That’s very nice of you,” the woman said.

“We may as well get the brandy, then,” the blind man said. “Being as this gentleman is giving it to us for the same price.”

“Sure,” Artie said. He was sorry already that he had offered to lower the price, that he would have to tell Steve when Steve came back, that the blind man had taken the brandy because it was more of a bargain.

“Then we’ll take the brandy,” the blind man said, “and thanks.”

“All right,” Artie said. “Many happy returns.”

He took the bottle of brandy the woman brought over to him and began to roll it in brown paper. “You’ll like this brandy,” he said.

“You said four dollars?” the blind man asked. He had taken his wallet out of his pocket and was thumbing over his money. “Four dollars,” he said, and held out four bills.

Artie looked down at the bills, and then at the woman, who had gone back across the store and was looking at the bottles on the shelf. “Missus,” Artie said.

“What’s the matter?” the blind man said. “Here’s the money.”

The woman came back over and stood next to the blind man and looked at Artie, shaking her head no. Artie looked down at the five-dollar bill and the three one-dollar bills the man was holding out and said, “But, mister, look, you’ve—”

“What’s the matter?” the woman said. “You think he can’t tell a one-dollar bill? He knows one bill from another.” She shook her head again at Artie.

The blind man laughed. “Don’t try any jokes with me,” he said. “It doesn’t work anymore. I know what money I’ve got here.”

“Right,” Artie said. He took the five and the three ones and went to the cash register and rang up four dollars. He put in the five and took out one dollar and brought it back with the three ones. Before he could say anything, the woman held out her hand insistently. The blind man had found the wrapped bottle on the counter and was turning toward the door. Artie put the money in the woman’s hand, nodded reassuringly, and said, “Well, folks, hope you’ll be very happy. And have a nice celebration.”

“Thanks,” the blind man said as the woman took his arm and led him to the door. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Artie said. He was still sore about giving them the brandy at that price.

“Blind man like that has no business drinking liquor,” Steve said when Artie told him. “First thing you know he has one too many and loses control of himself and gets in real trouble.”

“He probably had to work a long time for that money he tried to give me,” Artie said. “A guy like that couldn’t earn much, could he?”

“Hard to tell,” Steve said. “Might be one of these precision workers who doesn’t need to see what he’s doing.”

“Wonder how come a woman would marry a blind man? I’d hate to be…” Artie’s voice trailed off as he saw the door open and the blind man come slowly in, followed, after a minute, by the woman.

“Hello again,” Artie said. “You back for more brandy?”

The Wind man walked up to the counter without assistance, felt for the surface with his free hand, and then put the bottle of brandy, still wrapped, down in front of Artie. “I came for my money,” he said.

Artie stared. “Something wrong?” he asked finally. Steve came over and stood next to him.

“Yeah,” Steve said, “something wrong?”

“There’s plenty wrong,” the blind man said. “When people steal from a guy that doesn’t know what’s going on, there’s plenty wrong.”

Artie looked at the woman, who was standing in the doorway. “What’s the matter with him?”

“Look,” the blind man said, “you took plenty advantage because I didn’t know, that’s all. I thought I was giving you four ones, and you wouldn’t say a word, just stood there and took advantage.”

“You think you’re so smart,” the woman said. “A blind man.”

“I can get along without your help,” the blind man said, turning in the woman’s direction. “This guy steals my money, I can take care of him.” He turned back to Artie. “You better give me back that money,” he said, “or I’ll really make you some trouble.”

“I gave it to your wife,” Artie said, knowing already it was no use.

The woman laughed. “Now he’s taking advantage of me,” she said.

Artie looked at Steve. He knew Steve was thinking the same thing: a blind man telling the cops he had been robbed. Steve shrugged.

Artie went to the cash register and opened it. “O.K.,” he said, “so I robbed you. You gave me three ones and a five and I thought it was four ones.”

“That’s a little better,” the woman said.

Artie took four one-dollar bills out of the cash register and walked over and put them in the blind man’s hand. “These four ones?” the blind man asked.

“Four ones,” Artie said.

“These four ones?” the blind man asked, turning to the woman. She came forward, peering.

“Yes, they are,” she said.

“See,” the blind man said, “I got down to the corner and I remembered I had a five and three ones instead of four ones. I guess next time you won’t try anything with a guy like me.”

“That’s right,” Artie said, watching the woman come forward and take the blind man’s arm. The blind man felt around on the counter for the bottle of brandy and put it under his other arm.

Artie and Steve stood watching them go out, and when the door had closed behind them Artie went over and closed the drawer of the cash register.

L
ITTLE
O
LD
L
ADY IN
G
REAT
N
EED

Mademoiselle,
September 1944

I
T WAS LATE IN
the afternoon, but even though she was tired from shopping all day, Kitty forced herself to alternate a grave skip with her hurried walk after Great-Grandmother. Great-Grandmother liked to see little girls active, and she herself was as spry now as she had been in the morning when they started out to buy Kitty a new coat. If Kitty lagged behind, Great-Grandmother was apt to stop and, tapping severely with her cane, say to Kitty: “A laggard step, a faltering mind.” With so many people on the street, someone was sure to turn and smile when Great-Grandmother said something like that, so Kitty rushed her steps along, sometimes clinging to Great-Grandmother’s arm and sometimes getting a little ahead, so that she could slow down a minute until Great-Grandmother caught up.

“I think the plaid coat was very nice on you, Katharine,” Great-Grandmother was saying for the thousandth time. “I think you were wise to choose that one instead of the brown.”

“Everyone else has a brown coat, though,” Kitty said.

“Never try to look like everyone else, my dear,” Great-Grandmother said placidly. “It doesn’t pay to be like everyone else. Did I ever tell you that I was the first woman—lady, that is—to smoke a cigarette in San Francisco?”

“Grandma! What a cute little dog!” Kitty ran ahead, and stopped to pet the dog while the lady who held it on a leash stood patiently, smiling as Great-Grandmother came slowly toward them. “Grandma,” Kitty said. “I wish I had a dog like this, Grandma.”

“Never intrude yourself upon a stranger,” Great-Grandmother said, bowing slightly to the lady with the dog. “Never intrude yourself on any pretext whatever, Katharine.”

Kitty blew a kiss to the dog behind Great-Grandmother’s back, and ran to catch up. Great-Grandmother was saying: “A very fine animal, my dear, pedigreed, no doubt. Perhaps we should have a dog, Katharine.”

“I would like a white one, like that one,” Kitty said. “Did you ever have a dog?”

“We used to have a mastiff when I was a girl in England,” Great-Grandmother said. She laughed. “Your great-grandfather bought me a lap dog when we married.”

“What happened to those dogs?”

Great-Grandmother laughed again. “I believe the lapdog was given away,” she said. “Perhaps the mastiff died. It was long before we came to the United States. Then we were in San Francisco, and I was the first real lady to smoke a cigarette there in public.”

“Can I wear my plaid coat to school next week, Grandma?”

“If the weather accommodates, my dear.”

“I think it will be cold. If I had a dog like that one I would make him a little red coat and he could wear it when he came to school with me. Can we have dinner in a restaurant tonight, Grandma?”

Great-Grandmother looked at Kitty and hesitated. Then she turned aside and into a doorway, gesturing for Kitty to follow. She handed her packages to Kitty and took out her pocketbook, saying: “A lady never examines her pocketbook nor inquires into the state of her finances in public, Katharine.” Great-Grandmother counted the change in her hand, her weak old eyes squinting. “One dollar and thirty-one cents, Katharine. When is our pension check due?”

“It comes on Saturday, Grandma.”

“I was afraid so.” Great-Grandmother sighed. “We had better plan to stay at home until then, my dear. We will stop and buy something for dinner on our way home, Katharine. What would you like?”

“If I had that dog I would have to get him a bone,” Kitty said. “I would like to have a great big roast turkey for dinner.”

“We will stop at the butcher’s,” Great-Grandmother said. “I hope he has something tender. Young meat for old teeth.”

The butcher had turkeys and chickens in his window, and ham and frankfurters. Kitty pressed her nose against the glass, saying: “Grandma, he has more things in his window than any other butcher had today.”

“Come inside, my dear,” Great-Grandmother said. “A lady makes no display of herself on the street.”

Inside, the butcher’s counter was empty. The butcher, a thin, red-faced man in a bloodied white apron, stood watching Kitty and Great-Grandmother as they entered.

“Not much to offer today, ladies,” he said.

“Turkeys?” Kitty said eagerly.

“Well, I got one or two turkeys, fine ones,” the butcher said.

“Let me see.” Great-Grandmother stood, her fingers at her lips, regarding the empty counter. “How about a steak?”

“No steak,” the butcher said.

“Sirloin?” Great-Grandmother asked amiably.

“No steak, lady.”

Great-Grandmother looked at him. “Something tender,” she said.

“I have some nice franks,” the butcher said. “Nice little frying chickens. A few hams.”

“Let me see,” Great-Grandmother said. “I think I prefer steak.”

“No, lady,” the butcher said desperately.

Great-Grandmother smiled. “Why do you refuse to sell me meat?” she asked. “Must I take my patronage elsewhere?”

“Lady,” the butcher said, “we got shortages. We don’t get no meat, we can’t sell any. Earlier, you came in, I coulda sold you a fine sirloin. Now—I got nothing left.”

“Sir.” Great-Grandmother stepped up closer to the counter and gestured the butcher to her. “I am an old lady. My great-granddaughter here could, I have no doubt, tell you exactly how old. I was not bred, sir, for dealing with tradespeople. Until my great-granddaughter and I were left alone in the world, there were always others to take care of business dealings for us. I am not able, therefore, to discuss your business with you, and, equally, I am unable to go from store to store to make purchases.”

“Lady,” the butcher said unhappily, “would you take one and a half pounds of sirloin?”

Great-Grandmother considered. “I would,” she said gravely.

The butcher held up his finger, and turned to go into the ice room. “Wait,” he said. He returned after a minute or two with a piece of sirloin steak, which he put on the counter in front of Great-Grandmother. “It’s my own piece of meat, and you couldn’t ask for a better. My wife told me I should bring home a little meat, and I saved this.”

Great-Grandmother drew herself up. “I would not take your food, young man.”

“Take it,” the butcher said. “I don’t want to see you and the kid here without anything for your supper tonight. My wife—she can fix something outta nothing.”

“I cannot accept this as a gift, you understand,” Great-Grandmother said. “You must let me give you something, at any rate, in exchange for this kindness.”

The butcher looked surprised. “But I’ll sell—” he began.

“No,” Great-Grandmother said. “I cannot permit it. I was brought up a lady, sir, and a lady does not permit herself to accept favors from tradesmen. You must let me give you something, in addition to my ration stamps, even if it is only a few pennies.” She took out her pocketbook and searched in it. “Fifty cents,” she said, putting the coin with the stamp book on the counter. “You must accept it. It is what I intended to pay for our dinner tonight.”

The butcher counted and tore off the stamps, slid the steak into a brown paper bag and handed it silently to Great-Grandmother. “Thank you,” she said. “You are a fine man, sir. A gentleman.” She moved to the doorway. “Come, Katharine,” she said.

“I love steak,” Kitty said excitedly.

“One and a half pounds is hardly enough for two,” Great-Grandmother said. “Still, he did the best he could.”

“He was a nice man,” Kitty said.

Great-Grandmother smiled. “It was in the Mark Hopkins Hotel, Katharine, I believe. Did I ever tell you? Perhaps it was another hotel. Perhaps it was a restaurant. At any rate, I had become accustomed to smoking in England, where all ladies had taken it up. And the manager, such a polite man, and so elegant, came to me and said: ‘Madam, I must request that you retire to the smoking room if you intend to indulge.’ Of course your great-grandfather would never permit that; it was a men’s smoking room. Then, of course, American ladies took up smoking. But I was the first in San Francisco.”

“I bet that man’s wife’s going to be mad,” Kitty said, “not bringing home any meat.”

“Nonsense,” Great-Grandmother said. “He’ll tell her, that’s all. He’ll say that a child and a little old lady with a cane came in and he’ll tell her he had to give it to us.”

“I bet his wife’ll be mad anyway.”

“A lady does not permit herself to show anger in public,” Great-Grandmother said.