Just an Ordinary Day: The Uncollected Stories of Shirley Jackson (18 page)

The clipping Mrs. Simpkins sent me, three years later, said only that Spike Rowland had been sentenced to two years in prison for stealing a large sum of money from the movie theater where he worked as an usher, and driving off with it in a stolen car. The father of the convicted youth was identified as John Rowland, owner of Honest John’s Used Car Lot.

When Laurie came home from school and took his place at the lunch table, I set the clipping beside his plate without comment. “Vegetable soup?” he said.

“Again?” Jannie said, and my husband looked sadly down at his plate.

Our two younger children, Sally and Barry, had already begun their lunches; Barry had spilled his milk and Sally was thoughtfully smashing crackers with the back of her spoon.

“Look,” Laurie said to me earnestly, “I work hard in school all day and I ought to have—” His eye fell on the clipping. “What?” he said. “I’m supposed to read this or something?” He read, scowled, read again, shrugged, dropped the clipping on the floor, and then said, “Hey!” in pleased surprise and picked it up again. “Hey,” he said, “I didn’t know old man Rowland sold cars.
That
guy?” He chuckled.

“You noticed that your friend has been sent to prison?” I asked.

“That? Oh, his old man’ll take care of
that
. Spike used to say his father
owned
that town. Boy.” Laurie sighed reminiscently. “We used to have times. You know that week I was supposed to be in my room?” he asked his father.

“Up the spout and charley wag,” my husband said.

“Right,” Laurie told him. “Boy,” he said again. “They ever get that concrete mixer put back together again?” He addressed his sister Jannie. “You should of seen it,” he said. “Cops all over the place and Billy and me—
we
didn’t know a
thing!”
He laughed.

“It was about four days before that boy turned up,” I said.

“Well,
we
knew they couldn’t find him,” Laurie said. “He could of stayed there a year, I guess.”

“Stayed where?” I asked, and my husband said, “You
did
know where he was, then?”

“Oh, sure,” Laurie said. “He was in our cellar.” He turned to Jannie again. “We had this Black Hand Society,” he explained, “and Spike would cut off two of our fingers if we told, it was in the rules. And we took him lots to eat—Billy got him a box of graham crackers and a bag of apples he hooked, and I got that meat loaf was in our refrigerator.” He turned to me. “You thought it was the dog, you remember?”

“Mrs. Simpkins,” I said faintly.

“Yow were too little,” Laurie told Jannie. “Boy, we used to hook potatoes and cook them on a fire, and Spike used to take us for rides in one of his father’s cars—”

“What?” said my husband.

“—And a couple of times we sneaked out at night and went to the movies, and once Spike’s old man gave him five bucks, and Spike bought a box of cigars, and—”

“Laurie,” I said, wailing.

“Oh,
Mother,”
Laurie said. “You always think I’m a
baby.”
With a show of vast disgust he picked up his spoon. After a minute he chuckled again. “Boy!” he said.

M
RS
. A
NDERSON

M
R
. A
NDERSON, WATCHING HIS
wife pour his second cup of breakfast coffee, took out a pack of cigarettes and put one in his mouth. Then he felt at his pockets, one by one, looked on the floor under his chair, moved his plate, and finally got up and went over to the stove, where he found a match and lighted his cigarette. “Left my damn lighter upstairs again,” he said.

Mrs. Anderson put down the coffeepot, and sighed. “Thank
heaven
you said that,” she said.

“What?” Mr. Anderson came back to his chair and sat down. “Said what?”

“About your lighter,” Mrs. Anderson said. “You don’t
know
how worried I’ve been.”

“About my lighter?” Mr. Anderson frowned, and looked quickly at his coffee cup as though once his wife started worrying about his lighter, the next logical step was poisoning his coffee.

“About your saying it, and leaving your damn lighter upstairs again.” Mrs. Anderson pushed the sugar bowl across the table and went on. “It was this dream I had—you see, you said—”

“I am not sure,” Mr. Anderson said carefully, “that I am equal to hearing about your dreams at present. I—”

“But
this
one,” Mrs. Anderson persisted, “this one has been
worrying
me. You see, I dreamed that you never said three or four—I guess it was really three—things you
always
said. Three times in my dream I sat there waiting and waiting for you to say these things you always say. Like leaving your lighter upstairs.” She thought. “What I mean is, you say things over and over and this time you didn’t.”

“Please,” Mr. Anderson said. “Please, Clara.”

“Like leaving—”

“But I don’t leave my lighter upstairs every morning,” Mr. Anderson said.

“Yes, you do,” Mrs. Anderson said. “Every single morning you take out a cigarette and you look for your lighter and then you go over to the stove and get a match and you say you left your damn lighter upstairs again. Every single morning.”

Mr. Anderson started to answer, and then thought better of it. “Nearly eight-fifteen,” he said instead.

“I’ll get the car out,” Mrs. Anderson said.

On the way to the station Mrs. Anderson resumed. “I just wish I could remember the other things you didn’t say. Like at this corner you always say, ‘Doesn’t that light
ever
turn green?’”

Mr. Anderson, who had gotten as far as “Doesn’t that light—” turned and looked at his wife. “I do not,” he said.

“All right, dear,” said Mrs. Anderson. “It’s the ones I
don’t
remember that worry me, the ones you left out.”

“In your dream,” Mr. Anderson asked elaborately, “what happened when I didn’t say these things?”

Mrs. Anderson frowned, remembering. “Nothing, I
think,”
she said. “I remember in my dream I worried and worried, and then the alarm went off and I thought I still had a knife in my hand when I woke up.”

“Well, well,” said Mr. Anderson. He leaned forward and looked through the windshield. “Plenty of time to get a paper,” he said.

“That’s
not one of the ones I forgot,” Mrs. Anderson said, pleased. “I remembered about the paper.”

“Goodbye,” Mr. Anderson said abruptly, and got out of the car. He went quickly up onto the station platform, turned to wave to Mrs. Anderson, and went into the newsstand. “Got a paper for me today?” he asked amiably, and then stopped, thinking.

“Same as usual, Mr. Anderson,” said the girl at the newsstand. “Lovely day.”

“Lovely,” said Mr. Anderson absently. He put the paper under his arm and went out again onto the platform. “Morning,” he said to someone he recognized but whose name he could not remember. “Morning.”

“Morning, Andy, what’s the word today?”

“Pretty good, thanks,” Mr. Anderson said, “how’s yourself?” and stopped, thinking. When the train came he stepped on so absent-mindedly that he stumbled and nearly fell, and inside he went without thinking to a seat on the left, the side away from the sun, and he had settled himself and his coat and opened his paper before he realized consciously that he was on the train at all. He held out his ticket and found himself saying, “Well, Jerry, feeling pretty fit?”

“Can’t complain,” said the conductor. “And you, Mr. Anderson?”

“Ten years younger than I ought to feel,” said Mr. Anderson, and stopped, thinking.

By the time the train came into the city, Mr. Anderson had decided what he was going to say to his wife when he got home that night. “About this business of my saying the same things over and over,” he was going to tell her, “about this dream of yours. I think you’re overtired,” he was going to say, “need to get away for a little while, maybe take a little vacation, go someplace for a week or so. Might even be able to go with you myself. Both of us getting into a rut,” he was going to say, “too much the same old round. Better get away for a while,” he was going to say.

Once he had concluded that Mrs. Anderson was overtired, he was able to get into his office without difficulty. “Top of the morning,” he said to the receptionist; “Well, well, another day,” he said to his secretary; “Daily grind starting again,” he said to Joe Field.

“Same old treadmill,” Joe Field said back.

Mr. Anderson stopped again, and thought. Heard Field say that pretty often, he thought, nearly every day, in fact. Matter of fact, Mr. Anderson thought, every morning for a matter of five years or so I have said “Daily grind starting again” to Joe Field and he has said “Same old treadmill” back to me. Mr. Anderson began to wonder seriously.

Toward noon Mr. Anderson said abruptly to his secretary, “Do you think I say the same things over and over?”

She looked up, surprised. “Well, you always end your letters ‘Sincerely yours,’” she said.

“No,” Mr. Anderson said, “when I talk, do I repeat myself?”

“You mean when I say ‘I beg your pardon, I didn’t hear you’?” she asked, blinking.

“Never mind,” Mr. Anderson said. “I have a sort of headache, I guess.”

At lunch he sat with Joe Field in the same restaurant where they had had lunch together for five years or so. “Well,” Joe said as they sat down, sighing deeply, “good to get out for a while.”

“Don’t seem to have much appetite these days,” Mr. Anderson said, studying the menu.

“Lentil soup again,” Joe Field said.

“Look, Joe,” Mr. Anderson said suddenly, “do you ever find that you’re saying the same things over and over?”

“Sure,” Joe said surprised. “I
do
the same things over and over.”

“Ever find you’re getting in a rut?”

“Sure,” Joe said, “I’m
in
a rut. That’s where I always
wanted
to be, in a rut.”

“My wife told me this morning,” Mr. Anderson said unhappily, “that every morning after breakfast I say ‘Left my damn lighter upstairs.’”

“What?”

“Every morning after breakfast I say the same thing,” Mr. Anderson said helplessly. “Every morning on the way to the station I say ‘Won’t that light
ever
turn green?’ and ‘Plenty of time to get a paper’ and all sorts of things.”

“Lentil soup,” Joe was saying to the waitress, “and Spanish omelette. And coffee.”

“I think I’ll go home,” Mr. Anderson said.

He telephoned his wife before he got on the train, and she met him at the station at home. When he got into the car he said, “The one thing I don’t want to do is
talk.”

“Something wrong at the office?” she asked him.

“No,” said Mr. Anderson.

“Are you well?” She turned and looked at him. “You look feverish,” she said.

“I
am
feverish,” Mr. Anderson said. “You turned too sharp at that corner.”

Mrs. Anderson winced slightly, and Mr. Anderson shut his mouth tight and folded his arms and stared straight ahead of him. After a minute he said, “You’re tired, Clara. Getting in a rut. Ought to get away for a while.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Mrs. Anderson said. “About the way people talk, I mean. And I sort of thought that maybe people
had
to talk that way, sort of saying the same things over and over because that way they can get along together without thinking.” She stopped and thought. “Why I was so worried,” she said, “was because if people didn’t say those damn things over and over, then they wouldn’t talk to each other at
all”

“Some quiet place,” Mr. Anderson said fervently. “Lie in the sun, loaf around, play a little tennis.”

“We can’t afford it,” Mrs. Anderson said. She stopped the car in front of the house and Mr. Anderson climbed out wearily. He followed her up the front walk and through the door, put down his coat and hat and went into the living room and sat down with a sigh. His wife closed the door sharply. “I’d soon as not live with a man who doesn’t talk at
all”
she said, her voice somehow different. “Even what you
do
say is better than nothing.”

“I told you I didn’t feel well,” Mr. Anderson said.

“When I said we couldn’t afford to go away, you didn’t say ‘Life’s too short to worry,’” Mrs. Anderson said crossly.

Mr. Anderson sighed. “Life’s too short to worry,” he said.

“It doesn’t do any good
now”
Mrs. Anderson said. “Besides, when you got off the train you didn’t ask if it was time to change the oil in the car.” Her voice had become almost tearful.

“I
told
you I had a headache,” Mr. Anderson said. “I wish you wouldn’t fidget with that knife.”

“And when you left this morning,” Mrs. Anderson said, her voice rising to a wail, “I sat there and sat there and sat there and you got on your old train without one
word
except goodbye.”

“Clara, get control of yourself,” Mr. Anderson said sharply. It was the last thing he ever did say.