Just an Ordinary Day: The Uncollected Stories of Shirley Jackson (40 page)

After the supper trays had been taken away, Mrs. Williams asked suddenly, “How long have you been here?”

“Six days.”

“Why so long?”

Mrs. Hartley sighed. “I’m leaving soon,” she said. “I’ll be walking around tomorrow, maybe, or the day after.”

“How soon do you think they’ll let me out? A couple of days, maybe?”

“That depends on the doctor.”

“I’m getting up right away,” Mrs. Williams said with finality.

“You ready for your baby?” Mac said, putting her head around the door.

“Me?” said Mrs. Williams. She turned to Mrs. Hartley. “Does she mean me?”

“I certainly do,” Mac said. “Coming now.”

She moved aside as another nurse, looking, if possible, even cleaner and more starched than Mac, came in the door, smiled at Mrs. Hartley, and said, “Mrs. Williams? Here’s your baby.”

“I don’t want it,” Mrs. Williams said. “Take it away.”

The nurse hesitated and glanced at Mac, who shrugged. “Well, someone’s got to see that she gets this bottle,” the nurse said.

“You could leave her on a doorstep somewhere,” Mac said.

“I don’t want her,” Mrs. Williams said, her voice muffled by the pillow.

“You take her?” Mac said to Mrs. Hartley. “Just this once?”

Mrs. Hartley stared at Mac, wanting to push the baby away, yet finding that instead she held out her arms. Mac pinched Mrs. Hartley’s toe under the covers. “Good girl,” she said.

Mrs. Hartley, looking down at the small, unthinking face, the clenched hands and tiny head of the baby, thought, I started like this, and half smiled. “It’s a pretty baby,” she said tentatively.

“Wipe your fingers on the gauze pad,” the nurse said mechanically. “Remember to support the head.”

Ushering Mac ahead of her, she went out, leaving Mrs. Hartley alone with Mrs. Williams and the baby. “It’s a pretty baby,” Mrs. Hartley said again, suddenly appalled at the concentrated desire for food in this very small creature. Every part of it, even the toes she could feel curling under the blankets, the hands, the neck, seemed bent on nothing but nourishment. “Such small hands,” Mrs. Hartley said inadequately.

“Who cares?” said the muffled voice from the other bed.

Perhaps I will be able to do this right, Mrs. Hartley thought, and she said carefully, “My baby died, you know.”

“What?”

Perhaps, Mrs. Hartley thought—I might just as well learn to say these things without thinking too much about them. “It would have been a girl,” she said. “That’s why I’ve been here so long.” Don’t
keep
talking about it, she thought; everyone has troubles.

There was a sudden movement from the other bed, and then the blond head turned toward Mrs. Hartley. “That’s really too bad,” Mrs. Williams said.

“It’s not as though we didn’t
know”
Mrs. Hartley said carefully. “I mean, if you know ahead of time that things are not going all right, then somehow it’s not as great a shock when—I was going to name her Elizabeth. That’s my name, even though everyone calls me Beth. I have two boys, you see,” she added, knowing that she was talking on and on but thinking, It’s the first person I’ve talked to about it, even Mac won’t listen, and I ought to say it all first before she asks me any more questions, and anyway she’d have to know later on. She said insistently, “You see, it isn’t as though I won’t try again. I have two fine boys, but this one would have been a girl. We were going to name her Elizabeth, after me.”

There was a short pause. Then Mrs. Williams said, “It’s funny, you wanted your baby and all, and me—”

“You’ve got a pretty baby,” Mrs. Hartley said, looking down at the baby again. “She’s almost finished her bottle.”

“Most
people,” said Mac, putting her head around the door, “are hanging over their babies and saying ‘Didums want its bottle?’ or ‘Was it a tweet ’ittle sing,’ and here you two ladies sit with a baby and you talk to each other. It’s not human, that it isn’t.” She came and stood over Mrs. Hartley and the baby. “Nice baby,” she said. “What’re you going to name her?”

“Me?” said Mrs. Williams.

“Well,” Mac said consideringly, “the poor child is going to have an awful time of it
without a
name. Suppose she gets to be six or seven years old, and she’s in school, and people are still calling her ‘Hey!’ or ‘Miss X.’”

“I want to call her Elizabeth,” Mrs. Williams said.

Mac glanced quickly at Mrs. Hartley and then away. “Pretty name,” she said. “You could call her Betty, or Lizzie, or Betsy.”

“I want to call her just Elizabeth,” Mrs. Williams said. She lifted her head and smiled for the first time, directly at Mrs. Hartley. “Elizabeth,” she said again.

Mrs. Hartley smiled back. “I always liked the name,” she said.

“Do you suppose I could hold her for a minute before you take her back?” Mrs. Williams said to Mac.

Later that night, after Mac had straightened the beds, and taken out Mrs. Hartley’s flowers, and opened the window, and after Mrs. Hartley and Mrs. Williams had both protested violently—and been overruled—about the little paper cups of milk of magnesia, Mrs. Williams, who had been lying back staring at the ceiling, asked suddenly, “You got any writing paper?”

“Here somewhere.” Mrs. Hartley put down her mystery story and searched on her bed table. “In a box; I’ll toss it over. Pen inside.”

“Thanks,” said Mrs. Williams.

Mrs. Hartley leaned her head back against the pillow and thought, Nine hours to waking-tomorrow-morning. I could be back here in a year, and I’d know all the routine when I came. There’s nothing wrong with
me;
if she can do it, I can…. Nine hours to waking-tomorrow-morning, maybe ten months and I’ll be back. She glanced across at the other bed and saw that Mrs. Williams was looking at her.

“Tired?” Mrs. Hartley asked.

“Sort of,” Mrs. Williams said. “All right if I keep your stuff and finish my letter tomorrow?”

“Of course,” Mrs. Hartley said. “You’d better get to sleep—they bring your baby back again a little after six in the morning.”

“Golly,” Mrs. Williams said. “I guess she’s going to keep me pretty busy.”

There was a minute’s silence, and then Mrs. Williams said softly, “Good night, Elizabeth.”

“Good night, Molly,” Mrs. Hartley said.

Mrs. Hartley lay awake a long time, watching Mrs. Williams, counting the hours. Then, when she was almost asleep, the door opened softly and Mac came in. Mac stood looking down at Mrs. Williams, and Mrs. Hartley thought, She thinks I’m asleep, too. And then, How tired Mac looks; she isn’t smiling now that no one can see her. It was too much to see Mac not smiling, and Mrs. Hartley said softly, “Good night, Mac.”

Mac turned quickly, and she was smiling again. “You still awake?” she said. “Look at this.” She went across to Mrs. Hartley’s bed and held out a sheet of paper.

Mrs. Hartley realized that it was the letter Mrs. Williams had been writing when she fell asleep. “You want me to
read
it?” she asked.

“I do indeed,” Mac said. “It isn’t addressed to you and me, but I think it’s partly meant for us.”

Looking up at Mac and then across at the other bed, Mrs. Hartley took the letter and read it in the dim light of her bed lamp.

“Dearest Jimmie,” it began. “The most wonderful thing in the world has happened. Little Elizabeth—”

T
HE
F
RIENDS

Charm,
November 1953

E
LLEN
L
ANSDOWNE HAD SURELY
never considered herself a cruel, or an unkind, or a vicious woman. She still retained a tiny sense of sick shame at vaguely remembered schoolgirl injustices (that poor child, so long ago, the one who had that dreadful mother), and whenever possible Ellen Lansdowne made a clear and conscious effort to exhibit generosity and thoughtfulness. When there was literally no one who would volunteer to run the community concerts this year, or
someone
had to collect the articles for the white elephant sale, or the laundress’s poor children were going to have an inadequate Christmas, dear Mrs. Lansdowne could always be counted on, cheerful and accommodating, sympathetic.

“I have so
much
” she told herself often. “I’ve been so
lucky
.” The rich fur of her coat, she might remind herself with quiet happiness, the good health and intelligence of her two young sons, her pleasant home, the near probability of a glittering birthday present from Arthur… Ellen Lansdowne could point to a world of treasures to show that she had indeed been greatly favored by life.

Much more so, indeed, than most of her friends; certainly much more so than her dear friend Marjorie, with whom she had gone to school and to luncheons, to church to be married, and to concerts. Marjorie had always been weak, Ellen thought sometimes when she was counting her blessings; Marjorie never had quite enough of anything or the best of what she did have. It was a source of deep satisfaction to Ellen that dear Marjorie, too, had a fur coat—not quite so expensive a fur, certainly, as Ellen’s—and an affectionate husband, and children—only little Joan, of course—and a nice home. Perhaps Arthur patronized the Actons a little, understandably, because Charles Acton
was
a bit on the pompous side and hadn’t done nearly so well as he might, and Marjorie
did
whine a little about almost everything—well, Ellen would think, sighing, I have been
so
lucky. Arthur, and the boys, and everything I ever wanted. Poor Marjorie, she thought constantly and unwillingly, poor, lovely Marjorie, always so much prettier than the rest of us, poor Marjorie. And from reflections like this Ellen Lansdowne would usually step briskly out to do some good deed—invite someone’s aunt to lunch, perhaps, or volunteer to drive the high school cheering section to the basketball game.

Poor Marjorie, Ellen always thought, poor Marjorie—up to the night of the country club dance when, running upstairs to gather her fur jacket, she absentmindedly opened the door of the cloakroom and then, stunned, backed out into the hall again, her hands trembling and her mind saying over and over, “Why, that was Marjorie, Marjorie and John Forrest.
Marjorie
.” For a minute she stood, bewildered, her hand still shaking against the doorknob, and then she turned and ran back downstairs, thinking only of getting away. A few couples were still dancing, and Arthur came across the dance floor, looking surprised. “Thought you went to get your coat,” he said. “Changed your mind?”

No, no, Ellen wanted to say, I just couldn’t go in while Marjorie and John—while John and Marjorie—I could hardly just walk right in and say… “I stopped to talk to someone,” she said, surprised at the quiet of her own voice. “I’ll get it now.”

This is silly, she thought, holding up her long dress as she went back up the stairs, making two trips to get my jacket—they should have more sense. The door of the cloakroom was open, and Marjorie, inside, was touching up her lipstick at the mirror. Ellen refused to meet Marjorie’s eyes in the mirror, and hoped she was not reddening as she crossed the room quickly to the rack where her jacket hung. “Nearly everyone’s leaving,” she said, addressing her jacket.

“Did you see us?” Marjorie asked.

“Arthur’s waiting for me,” Ellen said, and fled. Of course I saw you, you crazy fool, she thought, of course. “Ready?” she said, smiling, to her husband: It must have been going on for a long time, she thought, remembering slight oddnesses of behavior, sudden glances, almost unnoticed disappearances at dances and parties; could anyone else know? Not
her
husband, surely; not mine. Not John’s wife.

“Nice party, wasn’t it?” Arthur asked, and after a minute she said, “Lovely. But I’m tired.”

“Poor Ellen,” he said. “You worked so hard arranging everything.”

I would like, she thought with the great clarity of weariness, to arrange Marjorie Acton right out of this town. And then she thought, how perfectly
beastly
of her, how foul.

Half a dozen times, during the ride home and after Arthur had come back from taking the sitter home and while they were having a glass of milk companionably together in the cool kitchen and then when they were getting ready for bed, Ellen came close to saying, bluntly and without warning, “Dear, Marjorie and John Forrest—I only
knew
, tonight, but I think I’ve felt it for a long time—Marjorie and John Forrest—” Each time she deliberately stopped herself from speaking, thinking that she had to be loyal to Marjorie, that Marjorie was her friend, that there was no imaginable word she could bring herself to use to her husband that would describe what she thought about Marjorie.

She did not realize how clearly she knew all the truth of it until the next morning when she met Marjorie in the grocery, and, saying, “Good morning, Marjorie,” and hearing Marjorie say, “Ellen, hello,” she found herself strongly wanting not to remember, and then saw last night’s speculative fear still in Marjorie’s eyes.

“How are you this morning?” Marjorie asked, and the words had a special weight, as though they should be translated (“I suppose you told Arthur?”) before they could be entirely understood.

“Very well. And you?” (“No, of course not; how could I tell anyone?”)

“See you soon,” Marjorie said as they separated.

It was, however, a day or two before the complete destructiveness of her knowledge came to Ellen. Here we were, she realized suddenly, sitting one morning at her kitchen table with the coffeepot and the morning paper waiting for her, here we were, a little group of friends, playing bridge, dancing, dining, swimming together, and then two among us fall out of step and introduce a new pattern, frightening and dreadful, into our well-filled lives. Good Lord, Ellen thought. I’ve known Marjorie for twenty-two years. Always so much prettier than the rest of us, we thought she’d do so well for herself, but I got Arthur. I
have
been lucky. Sitting peacefully at her kitchen table in the morning sunlight, she thought, without warning, but could I be wrong? Am I, perhaps, the only one who
hasn’t
been in step; is everyone like Marjorie, like John, perhaps laughing at innocent Ellen: has Arthur…? “No,
no
” she said aloud, pushing violently at her coffee cup, “this business has me all upset.”

Although she tried to avoid seeing Marjorie, and succeeded, she believed, in largely forgetting that there had been any noticeable break in the deepest foundations of all their lives, she found that she had become an unwilling observer; it was almost as though Marjorie and John, reconciled to her awareness, felt a kind of relief at having one person they need not trouble to deceive. There was an evening not more than a week after the country club dance when Ellen, turning to light a cigarette at a cocktail party, saw John Forrest rise and walk casually out onto the terrace; after a minute Marjorie, meeting Ellen’s eyes and even smiling a little, went quietly and without other notice after him. “I enjoyed his first play much more,” Ellen said easily without more than a second’s pause in the conversation in which she had been engaged. “I think this one is somehow too—pretentious.”

“And did you see—” someone went on, and Ellen was thinking, it’s as though I were doing it; I feel guilty. They ought to be punished, she thought.

Then there was a moment when, sitting quietly across a bridge table from her husband, with Charles Acton on her left and Marjorie on her right, safe with her own home around her, Ellen turned politely to Charles, waiting for him to bid, and he said, arranging his cards, “You girls enjoy your lunch today?”

“Lunch?” Ellen said, comprehending almost at once, and angry; she had lunched alone and not agreeably on a bowl of vegetable soup at home. The king of hearts winked at her from her hand; irrepressibly she thought of some private little restaurant, where the waiter was quiet and unobtrusive and perhaps recognized them (the handsome young lovers, they came every week), and Marjorie speaking softly, leaning forward, and music, perhaps, in the background, and the conversation of romance, of undying devotion. “Of course,” she said half to herself, and Marjorie at the same time cut in swiftly, speaking ostensibly to Arthur, “Ellen and I went out to lunch together in town today. As though we were a couple of debutantes.”

“Two spades,” Charles said.

“As though we had no responsibilities at all,” Ellen said, looking at Marjorie.

“Good idea,” Arthur said, nodding. “Ellen ought to get around more. Always doing something for other people,” he told Charles, “all this planning bazaars, and concerts, and whatnot.”

“Marjorie, too,” Charles said vaguely. “I bid two spades.”

“Ellen,” Marjorie said with all appearance of sincerity, “you look
so
pretty tonight.”

No, no, oh, no, Ellen thought, she can’t pay off like that, and, almost without thinking of what she was saying, she said to her husband, “Marjorie has offered to take the boys this weekend so we can go skiing. I thought we might go back to that nice place by the lake.”

“But I—” Marjorie began, and Ellen cut in smoothly, “I saw John Forrest for a minute today in the bank,” she said to Arthur. “That’s what made me think of skiing, actually—he was talking about it. And then when Marjorie offered to take the boys…” She smiled affectionately on Marjorie.

“Two no trump,” Marjorie said, her voice sullen, and Charles glanced up reprovingly and said, “Not your turn to bid, dear.”

Skiing at the lake was wonderful, and Ellen, who had at the last moment decided to borrow Marjorie’s new scarlet snowsuit, had never enjoyed herself more; for two days she successfully forgot the precarious defense she and Marjorie held against catastrophe. Driving home from the lake, luxuriously tired and warm in her fur coat, she leaned her head back against the seat, thinking, I
have
been taking this too seriously, and asked, “Arthur, did you ever love anyone but me?”

“Millions of girls,” he said obligingly. “Movie stars, and Oriental princesses, and beautiful international spies, and—”

“What would you do if I fell madly in love with some other man?”

“Make him pay for your birthday present,” Arthur said without hesitation. “Why, have you got an offer?”

Ellen laughed happily, and fell asleep.

The boys welcomed them with enthusiasm, and Ellen, thanking Marjorie, found herself speaking and laughing with almost the old friendship. “It was
marvelous,”
she said. “You’ve simply got to—”

“I want to hear all about it,” Marjorie said, “at lunch tomorrow.” And she glanced briefly past Ellen to Charles, and then back at Ellen again.

Ellen, holding on to a hand of each of her sons, turned toward the door at once and said flatly, “Of course, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She was weak with anger and helplessness, seeing how this small fiction had been eased past her; she and Marjorie now lunched together regularly in town because dear Ellen needed more gadding about, and she recognized that her lonely lunch at home might give her more discomfort in deception and guilt than Marjorie’s clandestine appointment. She is asking too much of loyalty, Ellen thought; she is charging right ahead and expecting to sweep me before her: she thinks I can be handled easily. “Marjorie,” she said on the phone the next morning, “I’ve decided that you can manage the flower show this year. I’ve done it for three years and I’m tired of it.”

“But I can’t manage
anything
—you know I’m not any—”

“But of course you’ll do it,” Ellen said lightly. “Unless it interferes with your various social entanglements?”

“Ellen, look—”

“Shall we discuss it today at lunch?” Ellen said, and hung up. The flower show would be abominable under Marjorie’s management, but then, she thought wryly, Marjorie managed
everything
so badly.

It was more difficult to persuade Marjorie to give up little Joan’s dancing class in order to take Ellen’s boys into town to a matinee, but Ellen, who disliked unpleasant words and avoided unpleasant scenes, found that by now she and Marjorie had developed a private language where comparatively harmless words substituted for the disagreeable ones the rest of the world was required to use: “Cloakroom,” for instance, was a word of such threatening import to Marjorie that it might easily have meant “exposure” or “scandal,” and even such a trivial phrase as “lunch in town” had come to mean something close to “liar” or “hypocrite.” And yet, even though it was Marjorie whose world was endangered, it was Ellen who seemed to suffer for it; when Marjorie and John, driving together to the Golfers’ Dinner at the club, arrived half an hour late, only Ellen came, worried, to meet them at the door. “Did you get lost?” she asked, “Don’t tell me the two of you lost your way?”