Just an Ordinary Day: The Uncollected Stories of Shirley Jackson (31 page)

W
HEN
T
HINGS
G
ET
D
ARK

The New Yorker,
December 30, 1944

M
RS. GARDEN WAS SITTING
in the overstuffed chair in her furnished room, smoking. She was a young woman, not more than twenty-three or four. She was small and thin and she was wearing a light blue corduroy housecoat and had her hair in curlers. It was eleven in the morning. She was finishing her third cup of coffee from the pot on the electric plate. Beside her on the small table was a letter. When she put her cup down, she took up the single sheet of ruled letter paper and read it again. “Dear Mrs. Garden,” it said, “I can’t help feeling that right now you are in need of a friend. You seemed to be so strong and courageous when I met you, in spite of your great trouble, that I am sure your young heart will be equal to any burden. When things get dark, remember there are always friends thinking of you and wishing you well.” The letter was signed “A.H.” After a minute Mrs. Garden put it down on the table and went over to the dresser. She took her pocketbook out of it and, rummaging through it, found a match folder. On the inside of the folder was written “Mrs. Amelia Hope, 111 Mortimer Street, Brooklyn Hgts.”

Mrs. Garden stood in front of the dresser for a minute, looking at herself in the glass. I won’t show at all for a while, she thought. No one would know unless I told them. She turned, holding her arms high, to look at herself in profile. After a minute she walked across the room and got the letter and put it and the match folder in her pocketbook. She went to the closet and took down a dark blue suit and a white blouse, thinking, My clothes still fit me—all the nice things I bought and won’t be able to wear. She dressed carefully, pinning the tiny infantry insignia to her lapel, and took a dark blue hat out of the closet. When she was dressed she glanced around the room before she locked the door. She looked quiet and decent and worried. Out in the hall, she put the key in her pocketbook and went down the stairs.

All the way in the subway, Mrs. Garden held the pocketbook quietly in her lap, looking out the windows into the darkness. When she reached the station where the subway guard had told her to get off, she got up and went out into the street, where she went to a newsstand and asked the way to the address. Then, still holding her pocketbook close to her, she walked to 111 Mortimer Street. It was an old house, clearly a rooming house, and it looked ugly and decayed. Mrs. Garden went up the steps and rang the bell. When the landlady opened the door, Mrs. Garden said, “I want to see Mrs. Amelia Hope, please.”

The landlady stood back and said, “Second floor, in the back.”

Mrs. Garden went up the wide staircase, the sort of staircase you would find in an old, beautiful house, to a second floor with a high-ceilinged hall and white plaster ornamental molding. There was one door toward the back, at the end of the long hall, and Mrs. Garden knocked on it.

“Come in, please,” an old lady’s voice said. Mrs. Garden opened the door and stood just inside. For a minute it was hard for her to see, because she was facing a high, narrow window with long brown drapes down each side of it. Then she saw a small, old-fashioned desk with carved spindle legs in front of the window, and Mrs. Hope sitting at it.

“I’m Mrs. Garden. Do you remember me?”

Mrs. Hope rose and came a step or two forward. “Mrs. Garden?” she said.

Mrs. Garden opened her pocketbook and took out the letter. She held it out to Mrs. Hope and said, “I wanted to ask you about this.”

Mrs. Hope looked at the letter and then at Mrs. Garden. “Won’t you sit down?” she said. She gestured at a little gilt chair near the desk. “You find me in a good deal of confusion,” she said. “It seems that they clean my room later each day. You know,” she said, leaning forward to touch Mrs. Garden on the knee, “I pay a small sum extra each week to have my room cleaned
well
—really well, you know—and I think I’m going to have to speak to them about it. They don’t do it at all as they should.”

Mrs. Garden looked around. The narrow bed in one corner looked, at first, hardly disturbed, and then she saw that it had not been made up yet that morning. A cup with a tea bag in the saucer sat on the desk, and beside it a pad of ruled writing paper, like the paper Mrs. Garden’s letter was written on.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt you at anything,” Mrs. Garden said.

“Indeed not,” Mrs. Hope said. She stood up and Mrs. Garden realized that she was incredibly small. She was wearing a plain black dress with a red belt, and around her neck was a long rope of aromatic cedar beads. “Will you have some candy?” she asked. She went over to the table by her bed and brought back a small glass dish of candy corn, which she set on the desk where Mrs. Garden could reach it. “I was just writing my letters,” she said.

“It’s funny,” Mrs. Garden said. “I never expected to meet you again.”

“I’m sure I know you,” Mrs. Hope said, “but I can’t quite remember where we met.” She was leaning forward, pleased and attentive.

Mrs. Garden looked up, surprised. “Why, on the bus. You were so nice to me.”

Mrs. Hope glanced down at the letter on the desk. “Certainly I remember now,” she said. “You’re the young lady with the child.”

“No,” Mrs. Garden said. “My husband had just left to be sent overseas. Mrs. Hope, I need advice very badly.”

“It wasn’t a child, come to think of it,” Mrs. Hope said. “It was a sick mother. We women are terrible when we’re sick.”

“I thought maybe when I got your letter,” Mrs. Garden said awkwardly, “I thought I might come in and talk to you. We haven’t been married very long, Jim and I, and now when he comes back we’re going to be saddled with a baby, and instead of starting out again together and going dancing and having a good time together, we’re going to have responsibilities and everything. And I thought maybe you could tell me something to do.”

“Of course you did,” Mrs. Hope said. “I meet so many people,” she added, looking down at the desk. “I don’t think anyone has ever come to see me before, though.”

“They say, ‘Gain one, lose one,’” Mrs. Garden said. “I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to Jim.”

“Love is a very important thing,” Mrs. Hope said.

“I haven’t even told him yet,” Mrs. Garden went on. “Every time I write him I mean to put it in, about the baby, and then I think how awful he’ll feel.”

Mrs. Hope leaned back in her chair and picked up the string of beads. “My dear,” she said, “you would really be surprised how much trouble there is in the world. If I can do anything to make the skies brighter for any of the poor people I meet, I have served my purpose in life.”

“I thought you might just give me some advice,” Mrs. Garden said. “You were so kind that day, and I’m afraid I don’t know anyone else. Not in New York, anyway, and I wanted to talk to someone.”

“And my little note comforted you?” Mrs. Hope said. She smiled wistfully. “This is the first time I have been allowed to see that I am doing some good. I talk to people everywhere and ask them for their names and addresses, and then when I feel that they need a friendly word, I send them a little note telling them to be of good heart.”

“I know,” Mrs. Garden said. “You told me, that day on the bus.”

“On buses and everywhere,” Mrs. Hope said. “I meet people wherever I go.”

“But you can help me,” Mrs. Garden said, “can’t you?”

Mrs. Hope smiled and put her hand on Mrs. Garden’s. “Let me show you,” she said. She got up again and went over to the table by the bed. From a drawer in it she took a big scrapbook. “I make copies of all my letters,” she said, “so I can send more to the same people if I think they need it.” She handed the big book to Mrs. Garden. Then she took the desk chair and brought it over. “Wait till you see,” she said, taking half of the book in her lap. On the first page a slip of paper was pasted with “A word to the wise is sufficient” written on it in Mrs. Hope’s careful hand. “Here is my first letter—to a boy who wanted to change his job,” she said. “See, here, I tell him to be careful in his decision.”

“Don’t think I’m the type of person who’s always complaining,” Mrs. Garden said, turning to look at Mrs. Hope. “But we had so many plans for our life together.”

“This is odd,” Mrs. Hope said, turning the page. “You ought to look at this one. Here was a girl with your same situation. Let me see, what did I say to her?” She leaned forward to read the letter.

“I write to him every other day,” Mrs. Garden said, “and I have to write today. I want to have my mind made up.”

“Of course you do,” Mrs. Hope said. “This is one I wrote to Mr. Adolf Hitler. When he first started killing and rampaging, that was. I said for him to look into his heart and find love.” She touched the letter pasted on the page. “I don’t very often write like that, but some people are so much in need of a thoughtful word.”

Mrs. Garden’s lips trembled and she put her hand up to her mouth. “I suppose everyone gets desperate sometimes,” she said.

“Everyone does, my dear.” Mrs. Hope waited a minute, then closed the scrapbook and went over and put it carefully away in the drawer. “You haven’t eaten any candy,” she said. She took the plate and passed it to Mrs. Garden, who shook her head. “I wish I could ask you to stay for lunch,” Mrs. Hope said, “but I only have a sandwich and a cup of tea here in my room.”

“I just had breakfast,” Mrs. Garden said. She stood up and picked up her pocketbook. “It’s been very nice,” she said.

“I’ve enjoyed seeing you again,” Mrs. Hope said. “Maybe we’ll meet again on a bus sometime.”

“I hope so,” Mrs. Garden said. She went toward the door.

Mrs. Hope followed her. “I can’t tell you how comforting it’s been,” she said, “knowing how much good my little letters bring.”

Mrs. Garden opened the door. “I’m sure they do,” she said. “Well, goodbye.”

“Wait a minute,” Mrs. Hope said. She ran over, picked up Mrs. Garden’s letter from the desk, and brought it to her. “You don’t want to forget this,” she said. “Keep it near you, to read when things get dark. Goodbye, my dear.” She stood courteously by the door until Mrs. Garden closed it behind her.

Outside the door, Mrs. Garden waited a minute, fumbling in her pocketbook for her gloves. She heard Mrs. Hope cross the room, humming softly. Then there was the movement of a chair across the floor. Straightening the room, Mrs. Garden thought, pulling on a glove absentmindedly. She heard the click of the cedar beads brushing against something; probably the desk. There was silence for a minute; then Mrs. Garden heard the faint scratching of Mrs. Hope’s pen. With only one glove on and her pocketbook flying wildly behind her, Mrs. Garden turned and ran down the stairs and out into the warm noon sun.

W
HISTLER’S
G
RANDMOTHER

The New Yorker,
May 5, 1945

T
HE LITTLE OLD LADY
on the train obviously wanted to talk. She had got on at Albany and she was sitting in the seat next to the aisle. She looked rather charming, in a neat black coat and an old lady’s hat, and she watched the woman next to her, who was reading a mystery, smiled at the children who constantly hurried up and down the aisle of the crowded car, and looked affectionately at the two sailors in the seat across the aisle.

At last she turned to the woman beside her and said, “I’m sorry to interrupt you, but how soon do we get to New York?”

The younger woman smiled politely. “At six o’clock, I think.”

“Thank you,” the old lady said. “I can hardly wait. I haven’t been to New York in nearly fifteen years.”

“It must be exciting.”

“I’m going to see my grandson,” the old lady said. “He’s home on leave.”

The younger woman hesitated, then closed her book and leaned back. “Really?” she said. “Where has he been?”

The old lady waved her hand vaguely. “In the Pacific.”

“How wonderful,” the younger woman said. “You’ll certainly be glad to see him.”

“I’m all the family he has left.”

“I guess he’ll be glad to see you, too,” the younger woman said.

“Let me show you his picture.” The old lady opened her pocketbook and took out a folding cardboard picture frame, with spaces for two pictures facing one another. One side had the picture of a soldier standing in front of a barracks; he looked very young. On the other side was the same soldier in front of the same barracks, but he had his arm around a pretty girl in a flowered dress. “He’s very handsome,” the younger woman said. “Is this his wife?”

The man in the seat in front of them, who looked as if he might be a prosperous businessman, was half listening. He had on a light gray suit. The paper he had been reading sagged in his hands. The old lady leaned forward and touched his shoulder. The man turned around. “Let me show you a picture of my grandson,” she said. “He’s coming home on furlough.”

The man took the picture and nodded solemnly. “Fine-looking young man.”

“It’s the first time he’s been near home in two years,” the old lady said. “He couldn’t come upstate to me, so I’m going to New York to him.”

“I’ve got two sons in the army,” the man said. “Sure glad to see those rascals when they come home.”

“Are they in the Pacific?” the old lady asked.

“In Mississippi. Both together, so far. They enlisted together.”

“How proud you must have been,” she said.

The old lady turned to the two sailors across the aisle. “I haven’t been to New York in fifteen years,” she said, leaning forward and raising her voice. “And now I’m going to meet my grandson. He’s on a furlough.”

When she held out the picture the two sailors rose and came across the aisle to look at it. “Are you on
your
way home?” the old lady asked them.

“No, ma’am,” one of the sailors said, “we’re on our way back.”

“Pretty lively time the last few days?” the man in the gray suit asked.

The sailors laughed, and the old lady said quickly, “I hope my grandson is cheerful like you boys. It’s been pretty hard for him.”

There was a silence, and then the man said reverently, “Guess they’ve all had a tough time, those boys.”

“This your grandson’s wife?” one of the sailors asked, passing the picture back to the old lady. “Mighty pretty girl.”

“Depend on a sailor to notice a thing like that,” the man said, and he and the sailors laughed again.

“That’s his wife, all right,” the old lady said with a trace of bitterness in her voice.

“She looks like a very nice girl” the younger woman said.

“Very nice girl,” the old lady repeated scornfully. She leaned over and tapped the younger woman’s arm. “The way that girl’s been acting!” Her voice trembled slightly. “She hasn’t been fair to my grandson when he was fighting overseas.”

“That’s not very nice of her,” one of the sailors said.

“Coming up to visit me,” the old lady said, “with her fur coat and her indecent shoes. Talking all the time about how dead it was up where I live.”

“Where does she live?” the man in the gray suit asked.

“She lives in New York. My grandson, now, he has to stay in New York when he comes back.”

“Maybe you’re mistaken about her,” the younger woman said. “It’s so easy to make a mistake about people.”

“True is true,” the old lady said. “My grandson’s wife, she stayed with me awhile upstate. She used to get letters from men.”

The younger woman started to say something and then stopped, and the man said, “How do you know?”

“Don’t you think I can tell a man’s handwriting when I see it?” the old lady asked. “I know when a woman like that, with her clothes and the way she talked, when she gets letters every day they’re from men. It’s time my grandson heard.”

“You mean you’re going to tell him?” the man said. The sailors looked at the old lady, and the younger woman stared at her book.

“You wouldn’t want to do a thing like that,” one of the sailors said.

The old lady nodded emphatically. “All the way to New York,” she said, “to see she gets what’s coming to her.”

“Maybe you’re being too hard on her,” the man said. “Maybe she can explain everything.”

“True is true,” the old lady repeated. “I don’t have to listen to anything
she
has to say.”

“Is your grandson’s wife meeting you at the train?” the younger woman asked.

“She didn’t even ask me down to see my grandson,” the old lady replied. “She doesn’t know I’m coming, anyway.”

“Listen,” the younger woman said, “why don’t you sit down with her and have a long talk about the whole thing? Maybe you could clear it all up without saying anything to your grandson.”

“I’m not making a long trip like this to listen to her stories,” the old woman said.

“You ought to give that girl a chance to speak up for herself,” the man said.

“It’s not that we don’t think you’re doing right,” one of the sailors said. “It’s just that it seems sort of hard on everybody, him coming home after so long.”

“I’ll thank none of you to interfere,” the old lady said. “I can take care of my own affairs.”

After a minute the sailors slipped quietly back to their seat and the man returned to his paper. The younger woman said softly to the old lady, “You know, you’re not being very charitable.”

“I asked her to stay on and live with me in my own house,” the old lady said, “and she told me no, right to my face.”

The younger woman waited for a minute and then went back to her book.

When the train plunged into the tunnel to Grand Central, the old lady gathered her packages together, ready to get off. The younger woman stepped out into the aisle to put on her coat and found herself standing between the sailors and the man in the gray suit. When the old lady rose, she dropped one of her bundles and the man picked it up and handed it to her. She took it carefully and slipped her hand through the string around it. “It’s homemade doughnuts,” she said, smiling at them amiably, “for my grandson.”

“I hope you have a pleasant visit,” the younger woman said when the train came to a stop.

“Thank you,” the old lady said. “Will you excuse me, please?”

As the younger woman stepped back, she realized that for a moment she and the sailors and the man had been standing in front of the old lady, as though trying to block her way.

She followed the old lady out of the car, and had a brief picture of the sweet, grandmotherly old face as it turned to look at the people on the platform. Then the fragile black figure disappeared into the crowd.