Just an Ordinary Day: The Uncollected Stories of Shirley Jackson (39 page)

“They gonna catch you?” he asked.

“Sure,” said the woman. “Pretty soon now. But it was worth it.”

“Why?” Joe asked; crime, he well knew, did not pay.

“See,” said the woman, “I wanted to spend about two weeks having a good time there in Ashville. I wanted this coat, see? And I wanted just to buy a lot of clothes and things.”

“So?” said Joe.

“So I took the money from the old tightwad I worked for and I went off to Ashville and bought some clothes and went to a lot of movies and things and had a fine time.”

“Sort of a vacation,” Joe said.

“Sure,” the woman said. “Knew all the time they’d catch me, of course. For one thing, I always knew I had to come home again. But it was worth it!”

“How much?” said Joe.

“Two thousand dollars,” said the woman.

“Boy!” said Joe.

They settled back comfortably. Joe, without more than a moment’s pause to think, offered the woman his comic book about the African headhunters, and when the policeman came back through the car, eyeing them sharply, they were leaning back shoulder to shoulder, the woman apparently deep in African adventure, Joe engrossed in the adventures of a flying newspaper reporter who solved vicious gang murders.

“How is your book, Ma?” Joe said loudly as the policeman passed, and the woman laughed and said, “Fine, fine.”

As the door closed behind the policeman the woman said softly, “You know, I like to see how long I can keep out of their way.”

“Can’t keep it up forever,” Joe pointed out.

“No,” said the woman, “but I’d like to go back by myself and just give them what’s left of the money. I had my good time.”

“Seems to me,” Joe said, “that if it’s the first time you did anything like this they probably wouldn’t punish you so much.”

“I’m not ever going to do it again,” the woman said. “I mean, you sort of build up all your life for one real good time like this, and then you can take your punishment and not mind it so much.”

“I don’t know,” Joe said reluctantly, various small sins of his own with regard to matches and his father’s cigars and other people’s lunch boxes crossing his mind; “seems to me that even if you do think
now
that you’ll never do it again, sometimes—well, sometimes, you do it anyway.” He thought. “I always
say
I’ll never do it again, though.”

“Well, if you do it again,” the woman pointed out, “you get punished twice as bad the next time.”

Joe grinned. “I took a dime out of my mother’s pocketbook once,” he said. “But I’ll never do
that
again.”

“Same thing I did,” said the woman.

Joe shook his head. “If the policemen plan to spank you the way my father spanked me…” he said.

They were companionably silent for a while, and then the woman said, “Say, Joe, you hungry? Let’s go into the dining car.”

“I’m supposed to stay here,” Joe said.

“But I can’t go without you,” the woman said. “They think I’m all right because the woman they want wouldn’t be traveling with her little boy.”

“Stop calling me your little boy,” Joe said.

“Why?”

“Call me your son or something,” Joe said. “No more little-boy stuff.”

“Right,” said the woman. “Anyway, I’m sure your mother wouldn’t mind if you went into the dining car with
me
.”

“I bet,” Joe said, but he got up and followed the woman out of the car and down through the next car; people glanced up at them as they passed and then away again, and Joe thought triumphantly that they would sure stare harder if they knew that this innocent-looking woman and her son were outsmarting the cops every step they took.

They found a table in the dining car and sat down. The woman took up the menu and said, “What’ll you have, Joe?”

Blissfully, Joe regarded the woman, the waiters moving quickly back and forth, the shining silverware, the white tablecloth and napkins. “Hard to say right off,” he said.

“Hamburger?” said the woman. “Spaghetti? Or would you rather just have two or three desserts?”

Joe stared. “You mean, like, just blueberry pie with ice cream and a hot fudge sundae?” he asked. “Like that?”

“Sure,” said the woman. “Might as well celebrate one last time.”

“When I took that dime out of my mother’s pocketbook,” Joe told her, “I spent a nickel on gum and a nickel on candy.”

“Tell me,” said the woman, leaning forward earnestly, “the candy and gum—was it all right? I mean, the same as usual?”

Joe shook his head. “I was so afraid someone would see me,” he said, “I ate all the candy in two mouthfuls standing on the street and I was scared to open the gum at all.”

The woman nodded. “That’s why I’m going back so soon, I guess,” she said, and sighed.

“Well,” said Joe practically, “might as well have blueberry pie first, anyway.”

They ate their lunch peacefully, discussing baseball and television and what Joe wanted to be when he grew up; once the policeman passed through the car and nodded to them cheerfully, and the waiter opened his eyes wide and laughed when Joe decided to polish off his lunch with a piece of watermelon. When they had finished and the woman had paid the check, they found that they were due in Merrytown in fifteen minutes, and they hurried back to their seat to gather together Joe’s comic books and suitcase.

“Thank you very much for the nice lunch,” Joe said to the woman as they sat down again, and congratulated himself upon remembering to say it.

“Nothing at all,” the woman said. “Aren’t you my little boy?”

“Watch that little-boy stuff,” Joe said warningly, and she said, “I mean, aren’t you my son?”

The porter who had been delegated to keep an eye on Joe opened the car door and put his head in. He smiled reassuringly at Joe and said, “Five minutes to your station, boy.”

“Thanks,” said Joe. He turned to the woman. “Maybe,” he said urgently, “if you tell them you’re
really
sorry—”

“Wouldn’t do at all,” said the woman. “I really had a fine time.”

“I guess so,” Joe said. “But you won’t do it again.”

“Well, I knew when I started I’d be punished sooner or later,” the woman said.

“Yeah,” Joe said. “Can’t get out of it now.”

The train pulled slowly to a stop and Joe leaned toward the window to see if his grandfather was waiting.

“We better not get off together,” the woman said; “might worry your grandpa to see you with a stranger.”

“Guess so,” said Joe. He stood up, and took hold of his suitcase. “Goodbye, then,” he said reluctantly.

“Goodbye, Joe,” said the woman. “Thanks.”

“Right,” said Joe, and as the train stopped he opened the door and went out onto the steps. The porter helped him to get down with his suitcase and Joe turned to see his grandfather coming down the platform.

“Hello, fellow,” said his grandfather. “So you made it.”

“Sure,” said Joe. “No trick at all.”

“Never thought you wouldn’t,” said his grandfather. “Your mother wants you to—”

“Telephone as soon as I get here,” Joe said. “I know.”

“Come along, then,” his grandfather said. “Grandma’s waiting at home.”

He led Joe to the parking lot and helped him and his suitcase into the car. As his grandfather got into the front seat beside him, Joe turned and looked back at the train and saw the woman walking down the platform with the policeman holding her arm. Joe leaned out of the car and waved violently. “So long,” he called.

“So long, Joe,” the woman called back, waving.

“It’s a shame the cops had to get her after all,” Joe remarked to his grandfather.

His grandfather laughed. “You read too many comic books, fellow,” he said. “Everyone with a policeman isn’t being arrested—he’s probably her brother or something.”

“Yeah,” said Joe.

“Have a good trip?” his grandfather asked. “Anything happen?”

Joe thought. “Saw a boy sitting on a fence,” he said. “I didn’t wave to him, though.”

T
HE
M
OST
W
ONDERFUL
T
HING

Good Housekeeping,
June 1952

Y
OUNG
M
RS
. H
ARTLEY, WHO
could still remember most clearly the pain and bitterness and injustice she had known so recently, lay absolutely flat on the hospital bed, trying to count to a thousand by sevens, or to recite from memory as many recipes as she could. When a nurse (young Rose, who came singing down the halls) glanced quickly in through the doorway, Mrs. Hartley smiled and lifted a hand to wave to her, and the nurse smiled back and went on. They’re so sure I’m all right, Mrs. Hartley thought. When she lost count at four hundred and twenty, or could not remember a half teaspoonful of rosemary, Mrs. Hartley raised herself on her elbow to sip water through the glass straw, or she counted the squares in the ceiling—such clean, perfect squares, so sanitary and neat, like the beds, and the food, and even Mrs. Hartley herself—or she did crossword puzzles, worrying irritably over a ten-letter word meaning “hopeless.” Today, her pencil well within reach on the bed table, she took up her watch instead. It was just after three: an hour and a half to washing-for-supper, six hours to bedtime, fifteen hours to waking-tomorrow-morning. She glanced at the stack of mystery stories conveniently close on the table, and sighed. Only an hour and a half to washing-for-supper, she told herself as though it were a kind of magic, only six hours to—

“Now
, then,” said Mac, and Mrs. Hartley said without turning, “I’m all
right
, Mac.” Mac was the nurse who took care of Mrs. Hartley and heaven only knew how many others; who had probably not been called Miss MacIntyre since she first shook a thermometer; who prided herself on her natural talents with the enema bag and the hypodermic needle; who brought daily bulletins about whether or not the sun was warm outside the hospital.
“Now
, then,” said Mac.

Mrs. Hartley turned, frowning. “Mac,” she began, “I said—” She interrupted herself to stare. “Look,” she went on after a minute, “this is supposed to be a private room, Mac. I’m
paying
for a private room.”

“So?” said Mac amiably.
“I’m
the one will be getting into trouble for it, I suppose. But be quiet, please; this lady is sleeping.”

“But she can’t come in here,” Mrs. Hartley said. “This is a
mistake
, Mac.”

Mac grinned, and Mrs. Hartley had to smile back, even though Mac continued to maneuver the wheeled stretcher past Mrs. Hartley’s bed and toward the other bed in the room.

“You’ll only have to move her right out again,” Mrs. Hartley said.

Mac left the front of the stretcher and came over to shake a warning finger under Mrs. Hartley’s nose. “Just scream,” she said. “Raise your voice and get everyone in here and tell them I brought a sick lady into a hospital room. But
unless
you’re going to scream, you keep quiet and let me get her into bed.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Mrs. Hartley asked suspiciously.

Mac scowled, then laughed. “She’s got a baby she didn’t have before,” Mac said. “What else would be wrong with her?”

Silently Mrs. Hartley watched, raised on one elbow, while Mac and another nurse lifted the slight body from the stretcher and onto the other bed, left vacant for so long because Mrs. Hartley had insisted on a private room. The girl’s blond head lay quietly on the pillow, and she seemed to be scarcely breathing, but now and then in the silence she stirred a little and murmured.

“She’ll be awake soon,” Mac said. “Let me know, will you?” She pinched Mrs. Hartley’s toe under the covers, and wheeled the stretcher through the door.

“Mac, listen,” Mrs. Hartley began, and then fell silent as the girl on the other bed stirred. What if she tried to get out of bed? Mrs. Hartley thought nervously, what could I do? It wasn’t fair of Mac to do this; I could even complain about her—Mrs. Hartley took a firm hold of the small button that turned on the light outside the door and summoned Mac, and then, ready, she told herself firmly that tomorrow morning, first thing, this girl was leaving her private room. Was the girl’s breathing weaker? Her finger hovering over the light button, Mrs. Hartley watched, looking from the door to the other bed and back again.

“Jimmie?” the girl on the other bed said clearly. “Jimmie?”

Mrs. Hartley stared for a minute, but when the girl said again, insistently, “Jimmie?” Mrs. Hartley said, “He’ll be here soon.”

“Mother?”

Mrs. Hartley cleared her throat nervously. “Right here, dear,” she said.

“Jimmie?” said the girl. She turned her head. Horrified, Mrs. Hartley saw that her eyes were open.

“What happened?” asked the girl. Her voice was suddenly different, conscious instead of unaware, firm instead of wavering. “Where am I now?”

“In the hospital. Everything’s fine.”

The girl frowned. “I don’t understand,” she said fretfully. “First you’re on a bus and everything’s fine, and then you’re in a hospital and everything’s fine, and what’s happened? I mean, why am I here?” She turned and looked accusingly at Mrs. Hartley. “Who are
you?”

“My name’s Beth Hartley. You’re not supposed to move.” The girl on the other bed tried to sit up, and Mrs. Hartley put her finger down hard on the nurse button. “Please lie still,” she said.

“I want to get out of here,” the girl said.

“So do I,” Mrs. Hartley said wryly. And I want
you
out of here, too, she thought; you couldn’t be more anxious to leave than I am to have you. “I tell you, you’d better lie still,” she said, her voice more gentle because of what she was thinking.

Briskly, Mac swept into the room. “Well, well,” she said, “are we awake? So soon?” She glanced professionally at Mrs. Hartley. “Any trouble?”

“I’m
not the nurse,” Mrs. Hartley said sulkily.

“Why am I here?” the girl demanded, her voice rising. “I wake up all of a sudden and find myself in a strange room with a strange woman and no one will take the least bit of trouble to explain to me—”

“This lady is Mrs. Hartley,” Mac said. “And you’re here because not five minutes ago I personally wheeled you in on a stretcher. My name’s Mac.” She smiled engagingly, then turned to Mrs. Hartley. “This lady” she said, “is Mrs. Williams, Mrs. Molly Williams. And now we’ve all been introduced.”

The blue eyes moved over to Mrs. Hartley and then away again. “What do I say?” the girl demanded. “How do you do?”

Mrs. Hartley tried to smile, but could only grin unenthusiastically. “I’m so glad you’re in here with me,” she said, looking squarely at Mac.

“How long do I have to stay here?” the girl asked.

“As long as it takes to get you feeling fine again,” Mac said, and moved toward the door. “Supper soon,” she said, and pinched Mrs. Hartley’s toe before she went out.

“I’m sorry you don’t like it here,” Mrs. Hartley said after a minute.

“Why don’t they leave me alone?” said the girl.

Mrs. Hartley laughed. “They can’t, very well,” she said. “You’re sick.”

“I am
not,”
said the girl. She moved again, stirring irritably under the bedclothes, and Mrs. Hartley again reached apprehensively for the light button. But the girl only said, “You sick, too?”

“I am,” said Mrs. Hartley shortly, hoping to discourage other questions.

The girl continued the conversation. “What’s the matter with
you?
You look all right.”

“I’m nearly all right,” Mrs. Hartley said evasively. “I ought to be going home in a few days.”

“Me, too,” said the girl. “They’re not going to keep
me
here.”

“How did you happen to come? I mean,” Mrs. Hartley went on, embarrassed, “what made you pick this hospital if you didn’t like it?”

“I wish I knew,” said the girl; her voice was emphatic. “It must have been that busybody on the bus. I wasn’t feeling very well and she chafed my hands; and then the bus stopped and she helped me off and she was going to get me some coffee and then—well, I guess then they must have brought me here, because I don’t remember any more.”

She hasn’t even
asked
about her baby, Mrs. Hartley thought suddenly, appalled; could anyone be that callous? “What were you doing on a bus, for heaven’s sake?” she asked, and added gracefully, “in your condition?”

“My condition!” said the girl, and laughed. “Who cared about my condition?—me?” She thought for a minute. “Maybe that woman on the bus,” she conceded. “I was going home, you know. My father lives upstate and I was going there, only he didn’t even know I was coming.”

Mrs. Hartley hesitated, debated with herself for a minute, started to speak, and then hesitated again. What do I care? she thought; it’s not
my
worry. Finally, she said, “Isn’t there anyone else who might care?”

“No,” said the girl.

Mrs. Hartley plunged. “What about your husband?”

There was a short silence, and then the girl said, as though she clearly recognized Mrs. Hartley’s hesitation and wanted the subject closed at once, “He’s in the army, overseas. Somewhere.” She raised her hands and let them fall helplessly, and spoke louder because Mrs. Hartley tried to interrupt. “We never figured on having any children,” she said. “We don’t either of us
like
kids, and he certainly wasn’t planning on coming back to find a whole family waiting for him…” Her voice trailed off, bitterly, and Mrs. Hartley could not find anything to say. “He’d be better off if he never found either of us again,” the girl said with finality.

“Mrs. Williams,” Mrs. Hartley began, and then stopped. I’m not a welfare society, she thought; I don’t care if this disagreeable girl and her disagreeable husband never see each other again. I’m sorry about the baby, it’s too bad about the baby, but what business is it of mine? No one worries about
me
. “It’s none of my business,” Mrs. Hartley began again, “but—”

“That’s right,” the girl said. “It’s not.”

They were lying silent, separated by four feet of space and a world of animosity, when Mac’s step, heavier because she was carrying a bowl of warm water in each hand, forced them both to stir and smile slightly. I’ll catch Mac after this girl is asleep, Mrs. Hartley was telling herself; she’s
got
to get her out of here tomorrow. A great feeling of self-pity had filled Mrs. Hartley; it seemed just too much that after all she had been through, and the long days she had spent alone in this room, she should now be forced to endure this flat and insolent company. I am really really annoyed with Mac, Mrs. Hartley thought.

“Wash for supper, girls,” Mac said cheerfully. “Can’t have any supper till your hands are clean.”

“Suppose I don’t want any supper?” the girl asked sourly.

“Then you don’t have to eat it. But you’ll be clean anyway.”

Mrs. Hartley, who was allowed to have the head of her bed slightly raised, had learned to wash her face inadequately with a damp washcloth, and to scrub her hands almost without being able to see them; the bed table was raised enough above eye level to make normal gestures impossible. Her favorite joke with Mac was a remembrance of the evening when supper had been spaghetti and Mrs. Hartley had tried to eat it lying down. Tonight, she glanced across at the other bed, where Mrs. Williams, lying flat on her back, was irritably struggling to wash her hands. “Careful not to tip the bowl,” Mrs. Hartley said.

“How do they expect
anybody
—”

“Wait till you try to eat,” Mrs. Hartley said. “You know, the first night I was here they served spaghetti, and—”

“I’ll bet the food is terrible,” Mrs. Williams said. She gave a disgusted little shove to her bed table, and the water in the bowl spilled a little. “I hate this place,” she said.

“They always serve supper,” Mac said, sweeping wildly into the room and scooping up the bowls, “before my ladies are clean. Always, always—you washed?” she demanded severely of Mrs. Williams as she darted outside for the trays.

“I don’t want any supper,” Mrs. Williams said.

“Too bad,” said Mac, reappearing. “Chicken soup, veal cutlet, mashed potatoes, asparagus, chocolate pudding.”

“I don’t want any,” Mrs. Williams said sullenly. “I hate this place.”

“Suppose I just set the tray down anyway,” Mac said. “No place else to put it.” She put the tray down on the table in front of Mrs. Williams, and came over to stand by the foot of Mrs. Hartley’s bed. “How is it tonight?” she asked softly. “You doing any better?”

“Fine,” Mrs. Hartley said, avoiding looking at Mac. “I’m doing beautifully.”

“It’s a shame, sometimes,” Mac said. “If they could only fix it so we all could stop thinking altogether.”

Mrs. Hartley laughed. “I don’t believe you have time to think,” she said.

Mac glanced cautiously at Mrs. Williams, who was now taking quick mouthfuls of her chocolate pudding. “Sometimes I manage to get an idea,” she said.