Just an Ordinary Day: The Uncollected Stories of Shirley Jackson (8 page)

Trying to do so unobtrusively, she slid off her blue gloves and rolled them up and put them into her pocketbook. The pocketbook itself she put down behind the package. She buttoned her coat to hide the blue suit, and thought, I’ll go into a ladies’ room somewhere and take the feather out of my hat; if they know I tried to look different, they can’t blame me. Ahead of her on the sidewalk she saw a young man with a microphone; he was wearing a blue suit and she thought humorously, put a blue hat on him and he’d do, when she realized that he was trying to stop people and talk about Miss X.

“Are you Miss X?” he was saying. “Sorry, lady, red topcoat, you know, and carrying a package. Are you Miss X?” People were walking wider to avoid him, and he called to ladies passing, and sometimes they looked at him curiously. Now and then, apparently, he would catch hold of someone and try to ask them questions, but usually the women passed him without looking, and the men glanced at him once, and then away. He’s going to catch me, Miss Morgan thought in panic, he’s going to speak to
me
. She could see him looking through the crowds while he said into the microphone, loudly enough so that anyone passing could hear, “Miss X is due to come down this street, folks, and it’s about time for Miss X to be passing by here. She’ll be along any minute, folks, and maybe you’ll be the one who walks up to her and says ‘Are you Miss X?’ and then you’ll get those beautiful awards, folks, the golden tea service, and the library of ten thousand of the world’s greatest books, folks, ten thousand books, and fifty thousand dollars. All you have to do is find Miss X, folks, just find the one girl who is walking around this city alone, and all you have to do is say ‘You are Miss X,’ folks, and the prizes are yours. And I’ll tell you, folks, Miss X is now wearing her coat buttoned up so you can’t see her blue suit, and she’s taken off her gloves. It’s getting colder, folks, let’s find Miss X before her hands get cold without her gloves.”

He’s going to speak to me, Miss Morgan thought, and she slipped over to the curb and signaled wildly for a taxi. “Taxi,” she called, raising her voice shrilly, “taxi!” Over her own voice she could hear the man with the microphone saying, “Find Miss X, folks, find Miss X.” When no taxi would stop, Miss Morgan hurried to the other side of the sidewalk, next to the buildings, and tried to slip past the man at the microphone. He saw her, and his eyes jeered at her as she went by. “Find Miss X, folks,” he said, “find the poor girl before her hands get cold.”

I must be crazy, Miss Morgan thought. I’m just getting self-conscious because I’m tired of walking. I’ll definitely get a taxi on the next corner.

“Find Miss X,” the sound truck shouted from the curb next to her.

“She’s gone past here now,” the man with the microphone said behind her, “she’s passed us now, folks, but she’s gone on down the street, find Miss X, folks.”

“Blue hat,” the sound truck said, “blue shoes, carrying a large package.” Miss Morgan went frantically out into the street, not looking where she was going, crossed directly in front of the sound truck, and reached the other side, to meet a man wearing a huge cardboard poster saying “Miss X, Miss X, find Miss X. CARRYING A LARGE PACKAGE. Blue shoes, blue hat, red and gray tweed coat, CARRYING A LARGE PACKAGE.” The man was distributing leaflets right and left, and people let them fall to the ground without taking them. Miss Morgan stepped on one of the leaflets and “Find Miss X” glared up at her from the ground under her foot.

She was going past a millinery shop, when she had a sudden idea; moving quickly, she went inside, into the quiet. There were no posters in there, and Miss Morgan smiled gratefully at the quiet-looking woman who came forward to her. They don’t do much business in
here
, Miss Morgan thought, they’re so eager for customers, they come out right away. Her well-bred voice came back to her; “I beg your pardon,” she said daintily, “but would it be possible, do you think, for you to let me have either a hat bag or a hatbox?”

“A hatbox?” the woman said vaguely. “You mean, empty?”

“I’d be willing to purchase it, of
course,”
Miss Morgan said, and laughed lightly. “It just so happens,” she said, “that I have decided to carry my hat in this beautiful weather, and one feels so foolish going down the street
carrying
a hat. So I thought a bag… or a hatbox…”

The woman’s eyes lowered to the package Miss Morgan was carrying. “Another package?” she asked.

Miss Morgan made a nervous gesture of putting the package behind her, and said, her voice a little sharper, “Really, it doesn’t seem like such a
strange
thing to
ask
. A hatbox or a bag.”

“Well…” the woman said. She turned to the back of the shop and went to a counter behind which were stacked piles of hatboxes. “You see,” she said, “I’m alone in the shop right now, and around here very often people come in just to make nuisances of themselves. There’ve been at least two burglaries in the neighborhood since we’ve been here, you know,” she added, looking uneasily at Miss Morgan.

“Really?” Miss Morgan said, her voice casual. “And how long, may I ask, have you been here?”

“Well…” the woman said. “Seventeen years.” She took down a hatbox, and then, suddenly struck with an idea, said, “Would you like to look at some hats while you’re here?”

Miss Morgan started to say no, and then her eye was caught by a red and gray caplike hat, and she said with mild interest, “I might just try
that
one on, if I might.”

“Indeed, yes,” the woman said. She reached up and took the hat off the figure that held it. “This is one of our best numbers,” she said, and Miss Morgan sat down in front of a mirror while the woman tried the hat on her.

“It’s lovely on you,” the woman said, and Miss Morgan nodded. “It’s just the red in my coat,” she said, pleased.

“You really ought to wear a red hat with that coat,” the woman said.

Miss Morgan thought suddenly, what would Mr. Lang say if he knew I was in here trying on hats when I’m supposed to be going on his errands. “How much is it?” she asked hastily.

“Well…” the woman said. “Eight ninety-five.”

“It’s
far
too much for this hat,” Miss Morgan said. “I’ll just take the box.”

“That’s eight ninety-five
with
the box,” the woman said unpleasantly.

Helplessly, Miss Morgan stared from the woman to the mirror to the package she had put down on the counter. There was a ten-dollar bill in her pocketbook. “All right,” she said finally. “Put my old hat in a box and I’ll wear this one.”

“You’ll never be sorry you bought that hat,” the woman said. She picked up Miss Morgan’s blue hat and set it inside a box. While she was tying the box she said cheerfully, “For a minute I was afraid you were one of the sort comes into a shop like this for no good.
You
know what I mean. Do you know, we’ve had two burglaries in the neighborhood since we’ve been here?”

Miss Morgan took the hatbox out of her hand and handed her the ten-dollar bill. “I’m in rather a hurry,” Miss Morgan said. The woman disappeared behind a curtain at the back of the shop and came back after a minute with the change. Miss Morgan put the change in her pocketbook; I won’t have enough for a taxi there and back, she thought.

Wearing the new hat, and carrying the hatbox and her pocketbook and the package, she left the shop, while the woman stared curiously after her. Miss Morgan found that she was a block and a half away from her bus stop, so she started again for it, and she was nearly on the corner before the sound truck came out of a side street, blaring, “Find Miss X, find Miss X, win a Thoroughbred horse and a castle on the Rhine.”

Miss Morgan settled herself comfortably inside her coat. She had only to cross the street to get to her bus stop, and the bus was coming; she could see it a block away. She stopped to get the fare out of her pocketbook, shifting the package and the hatbox to do so, when the sound truck went slowly past her, shouting, “Miss X has changed her clothes now, but she is still walking alone through the streets of the city, find Miss X! Miss X is now wearing a gray and red hat, and is carrying
two
packages; don’t forget,
two
packages.”

Miss Morgan dropped her pocketbook and the hatbox, and stopped to pick up the small articles that had rolled out of her pocketbook, hiding her face. Her lipstick was in the gutter, her compact lay shattered, her cigarettes had fallen out of the case and rolled wide. She gathered them together as well as she could and turned and began to walk back the way she had come. When she came to a drugstore she went inside and to the phones. By the clock in the drugstore she had been gone just an hour and was only three or four blocks away from her office. Hastily, her hatbox and the package on the floor of the phone booth, she dialed her office number. A familiar voice answered—Miss Martin in the back room, Miss Walpole?—and Miss Morgan said, “Mr. Lang, please?”

“Who is calling, please?”

“This is Toni Morgan. I’ve got to speak to Mr. Lang right away, please.”

“He’s busy on another call. Will you wait, please?”

Miss Morgan waited; through the dirty glass of the phone booth she could see, dimly, the line of the soda fountain, the busy clerk, the office girls sitting on the high stools.

“Hello?” Miss Morgan said impatiently. “Hello, hello?”

“Who did you wish to speak to, please?” the voice said—it might have been Miss Kittredge, in accounting.

“Mr. Lang, please,” Miss Morgan said urgently. “It’s important.”

“Just a moment, please.” There was silence, and Miss Morgan waited. After a few minutes impatience seized her again and she hung up and found another nickel and dialed the number again. A different voice, a man’s voice this time, one Miss Morgan did not know, answered.

“Mr. Lang, please,” Miss Morgan said.

“Who’s calling, please?”

“This is Miss Morgan, I must speak to Mr. Lang at once.”

“Just a moment, please,” the man said.

Miss Morgan waited, and then said, “Hello? Hello? What
is
the matter here?”

“Hello?” the man said.

“Is Mr. Lang there?” Miss Morgan said. “Let me speak to him at once.”

“He’s busy on another call. Will you wait?”

He’s answering my other call, Miss Morgan thought wildly, and hung up. Carrying the package and the hatbox, she went out again into the street. The sound truck was gone and everything was quiet except for the “Find Miss X” posters on all the lampposts. They all described Miss X as wearing a red and gray cap and carrying two packages. One of the prizes, she noticed, was a bulletproof car, another was a life membership in the stock exchange.

She decided that whatever else, she must get as far from the neighborhood as she could, and when a taxi stopped providentially to let off passengers at the curb next to her, she stepped in, and gave the driver the address on the package. Then she leaned back, her hatbox and the package on the seat next to her, and lit one of the cigarettes she had rescued when her pocketbook fell. I’ve been dreaming, she told herself, this has all been so silly. The thing she most regretted was losing her presence enough, first, to speak so to the driver of the sound truck, and then to drop her pocketbook and make herself conspicuous stooping to pick everything up on the street corner. As the taxi drove downtown she noticed the posters on every lamppost, and smiled. Poor Miss X, she thought, I wonder if they
will
find her?

“I’ll have to stop here, lady,” the taxi driver said, turning around.

“Where are we?” Miss Morgan said.

“Times Square,” the driver said. “No cars getting through downtown on account of the parade.”

He opened the door and held out his hand for her money. Unable to think of anything else to do, Miss Morgan paid him and gathered her hatbox and package together and stepped out of the taxi. The street ahead was roped off and policemen were guarding the ropes. Miss Morgan tried to get through the crowd of people, but there were too many of them and she was forced to stand still. While she was wondering what to do, she heard the sound of a band and realized that the parade was approaching. Just then the policeman guarding the curb opened the ropes to let traffic cross the street for the last time before the parade, and all the people who had been standing with Miss Morgan crossed to the other side and all the people who had been on the other side crossed to stand on Miss Morgan’s side, turning in order to cross again on the side street at right angles to the way they had crossed before, but the policemen and the crowds held them back and they waited, impatient for the next crossing. Miss Morgan had been forced to the curb and now she could see the parade coming downtown. The band was leading the parade; twelve drum majorettes in scarlet jackets and skirts and wearing silver boots and carrying silver batons marched six abreast down the street, stepping high and flinging their batons into the air in unison; following them was the band, all dressed in scarlet, and on each of the big drums was written a huge X in scarlet. Following the band were twelve heralds dressed in black velvet, blowing on silver trumpets, and they were followed by a man dressed in black velvet on a white horse with red plumes on its head; the man was shouting, “Find Miss X, find Miss X, find Miss X.”

Then followed a float preceded by two girls in scarlet who carried a banner inscribed in red, “Win magnificent prizes,” and the float represented, in miniature, a full symphony orchestra; all the performers were children in tiny dress suits, and the leader, who was very tiny, stood on a small platform on the float and led the orchestra in a small rendition of “Afternoon of a Faun”; following this float was one bearing a new refrigerator, fifty times larger than life, with the door swinging open to show its shelves stocked with food. Then a float bearing a model of an airplane, with twelve lovely girls dressed as clouds. Then a float holding a golden barrel full of enormous dollar bills, with a grinning mannequin who dipped into the barrel, brought up a handful of the great dollar bills, and ate them, then dipped into the barrel again.