Just an Ordinary Day: The Uncollected Stories of Shirley Jackson (45 page)

“Few of them have any talent, anyway,” the painting counselor said. “In any of the progressive schools
this
sort of thing—” She gestured tiredly at the canvases propped up against tree stumps or stacked upon a rock, and moved her shoulders nervously under her brand-new blue and yellow checked shirt. “Interested
psychologically
, of course,” she added quickly. “If I remember this girl, she did sort of vague stuff, almost
unwilling
. Rejection, almost—if I can find a picture you’ll see right away what I mean.” She poked unenthusiastically among the canvases stacked on the rock, pulled her hand back and said, “Why did I ever—” wiping wet paint off on her blue jeans. “Funny,” she said, “I could have taken an oath she had a canvas around here somewhere. Sort of vague stuff, though—no sense of design, no eye.”

“Did she
ever,”
Chief Hook asked Betsy, “ever ever
ever
mention anyplace she might want to go? Some foreign country, maybe?”

Old Jane’s voice had an odd tone. “The parents are arriving tomorrow.”

Chief Hook rubbed his forehead nervously. “Lost a hunter last fall on Bad Mountain,” he suggested.

It was decided to search Bad Mountain, and then, unexpectedly, a house-to-house canvass along the road leading to Bad Mountain uncovered an honest clue. A housewife, glancing out her window to see if her husband was coming home from a poker game, had seen, she thought, the figure of a girl moving along the road, lighted occasionally by the headlights of passing cars.

“I couldn’t
swear
it was a girl, though,” the housewife persisted nervously. “That is, nights when Jim is out playing, I go to bed, and this night I was only up on account we had fried clams for supper, and I like clams but they don’t—”

“What was she wearing?” Chief Hook demanded.

The woman thought. “Well,” she said finally, “the reason I figured she was one of those girls from the camp was she was wearing pants. But then, it could have been a man, you see, or a boy. Only somehow I sort of figured it was a girl.”

“Did she have on a coat? Hat?”

“A coat, I think,” the woman said, “leastways, one of those short jackets. She was going up the road toward Jones Pass.”

Jones Pass led to Bad Mountain. It was not possible to get a picture of the girl; the picture on her camp application blank was so blurred that it resembled a hundred other girls in the camp; it was assumed, however, from the picture, that she had dark hair. A man was discovered who had given a ride to a girl hitchhiking on the road to Jones Pass; she had dark hair and was wearing blue jeans and a short tan leather jacket.

“I don’t think she was a
camp
girl, though,” the man added earnestly, “not the way she talked, she wasn’t any girl from Phillips Camp, not
her,”
he said, and looked at Chief Hook, “Bill, you remember that youngest girl over to Ben Hart’s?”

Chief Hook sighed. “You see anyone else driving down the road?” he asked. The man shook his head emphatically.

One of the junior counselors at the camp, who went by the name of Piglet, had been driving home late from town that night and at one point in the road near Jones Pass had had the clear impression of someone ducking behind a tree into the shadows. She was unable to say whether or not it had been a girl, or even whether it had been a person, but Chief Hook questioned her remorselessly.

“Can you face this girl’s parents and honestly tell them you never lifted a finger to save her?” he demanded of Piglet. “That innocent girl?”

Will Scarlett had shut herself into the infirmary and refused to let go of the phenobarbital; it was announced that she could not be disturbed. The press agent for the camp was taking all calls and managing the general search. Newspaper reporters were encouraged, but the seventeen-year-old son of the owner of the local paper was given first chance at all new developments; it occurred to this young man to ensure that a search be made over Bad Mountain by helicopter, and the camp went to tremendous expense to import one, although its six-day tour of the mountains showed nothing, and the son of the newspaper owner subsequently informed his father that he preferred having a plane to inheriting the paper, which went to a distant cousin. It was said that the girl had turned up in a town seventy-five miles away, dead drunk and trying to get a job in a shoe store, but the proprietor of the shoe store was unable to identify her picture, and it was later proven that the girl in question was actually the daughter of the mayor of that town. The widowed mother of the missing girl was prostrate with grief and under the care of a physician, but her uncle arrived at the camp and took personal charge of the search. The girls from the camp, led by the counselor in nature study and the senior huntsmen, had already gone over the mountain, looking for bent twigs and rock signs, but without success, although they had the assistance of chosen boy and girl scouts from the town. It was afterward told that Old Jane, indefatigable in leather puttees and a striped bandana and known to be extraordinarily susceptible to cold, had fallen down dead drunk in front of Chief Hook and had had to be carried home on a stretcher hastily improvised by the boy scouts, leading many people to believe that the girl’s body had been found.

In the town it was generally believed that the girl had been killed and
“You
know,” and her body buried in a shallow grave somewhere east of Jones Pass, where the woods were deepest and ran downhill and for miles along the edge of Muddy River; knowing folk in town who had hunted the pass and Bad Mountain were quoted as saying that it would be mighty easy for anyone to miss a body in them woods; go ten feet off the path and you’re lost, and the mud that deep already; it was generally conceded in the town that the girl had been followed in the darkness by a counselor from the camp, preferably one of the quiet ones, until she was out of sight or sound of help. The townspeople remembered their grandfathers had known of people disposed of in just that way, and no one had ever heard about it, either.

In the camp it was generally believed that one of the low bloods around the town—and try to match them for general vulgarity and insolence, and the generations of inbreeding that had led to idiocy in half the families and just plain filth in the rest—had enticed the girl off into an assignation on the mountain, and there outraged and murdered her and buried her body. The camp people believed that it was possible to dispose of a body by covering it with lime—heaven knew these country farmhands had enough lime in a barn to dispose of a dozen bodies—and that by the time the search started there wasn’t enough left of the body to find. The camp people further believed that it was no more than you might expect of a retarded village in an isolated corner of the world, and they thought you might go far before you met up with a lower and a stupider group of clods; they pointed with triumph to the unusual lack of success of the Camp Talent Show early in the summer, to which the townspeople had been invited.

On the eleventh day of the search, Chief Hook, who perceived clearly that he might very well lose his job, sat down quietly for a conference with the girl’s uncle, Old Jane, and Will Scarlett, who had emerged from the infirmary on the ninth day, to announce that she had for a long time been renowned as a minor necromancer and seer, and would gladly volunteer her services in any possible psychic way.

“I think,” said Chief Hook despondently, “that we might as well give it up. The boy scouts quit a week ago, and today the girl scouts went.”

The girl’s uncle nodded. He had gained weight on Mrs. Hook’s cooking and he had taken to keeping his belt as loose as Chief Hook’s. “We haven’t made any progress, certainly,” he said.

“I told you to look under the fourth covered bridge from the blasted oak,” said Will Scarlett sullenly. “I
told
you.”

“Miss Scarlett,
we
couldn’t find no blasted oak,” Chief Hook said, “and we looked and looked—No oaks in this part of the country at all,” he told the girl’s uncle.

“Well, I told you to keep looking,” said the seer. “I told you also look on the left-hand side of the road to Exeter.”

“We looked there, too,” Chief Hook said. “Nothing.”

“You know,” said the girl’s uncle, as though it were a complete statement. He passed his hand tiredly across his forehead and looked long and soberly at Chief Hook, and then long and soberly at Old Jane, who sat quietly at her desk with papers in her hands. “You know,” he said again. Then, addressing himself to Old Jane and speaking rapidly, he went on. “My sister wrote to me today, and she’s very upset. Naturally,” he added, and looked around at Old Jane, at Will Scarlett, at Chief Hook, all of whom nodded appreciatively, “but listen,” he went on, “what she says is that of course she loves Martha and all that, and of course
no
one would want to say anything about a girl like this that’s missing, and probably had something horrible done to her…” He looked around again, and again everyone nodded. “But she says,” he went on, “that in spite of all that… well… she’s pretty sure, what I mean, that she decided against Phillips Educational Camp for Girls. What I
mean
” he said, looking around again, “she has three girls and a boy, my sister, and of course we both feel
terribly
sorry and of course we’ll still keep in our end of the reward and all that, but what I
mean
is…” He brushed his hand across his forehead again. “… What I mean is this. The oldest girl, that’s Helen, she’s married and out in San Francisco, so that’s
her
. And—I’ll show you my sister’s letter—the second girl, that’s Jane, well,
she’s
married and
she
lives in Texas somewhere, has a little boy about two years old. And then the third girl—well,
that’s
Mabel, and she’s right at home with her mother, around the house and whatnot. Well—you see what I mean?”

No one nodded this time, and the girl’s uncle went on nervously. “The boy,
he’s
in Denver, and his name is—”

“Never mind,” said Chief Hook. He rose wearily and reached into his pocket for a cigar. “Nearly suppertime,” he said to no one in particular.

Old Jane nodded and shuffled the papers in her hand. “I have all the records here,” she said. “Although a girl named Martha Alexander applied for admission to the Phillips Educational Camp for Girls Twelve to Sixteen, her application was put into the file marked ‘possibly undesirable’ and there is no record of her ever having come to the camp. Although her name has been entered upon various class lists, she is not noted as having participated personally in any activity; she has not, so far as we know, used any of her dining room tickets or her privileges with regard to laundry and bus services, not to mention country dancing. She has not used the golf course nor the tennis courts, nor has she taken out any riding horses. She has never, to our knowledge, and our records are fairly complete, sir, attended any local church—”

“She hasn’t taken advantage of the infirmary,” said Will Scarlett, “or psychiatric services.”

“You see?” said the girl’s uncle to Chief Hook.

“Nor,” finished Old Jane quietly, “nor has she been vaccinated or tested for any vitamin deficiency whatsoever.”

A body that might have been Martha Alexander’s was found, of course, something over a year later, in the late fall when the first light snow was drifting down. The body had been stuffed away among some thorn bushes, which none of the searchers had cared to tackle, until two small boys looking for a cowboy hideout had wormed their way through the thorns. It was impossible to say, of course, how the girl had been killed—at least Chief Hook, who still had his job, found it impossible to say—but it was ascertained that she had been wearing a black corduroy skirt, a reversible raincoat, and a blue scarf.

She was buried quietly in the local cemetery; Betsy, a senior huntsman the past summer but rooming alone, stood for a moment by the grave, but was unable to recognize any aspect of the clothes or the body. Old Jane attended the funeral, as befitted the head of the camp, and she and Betsy stood alone in the cemetery by the grave. Although she did not cry over her lost girl, Old Jane touched her eyes occasionally with a plain white handkerchief, since she had come up from New York particularly for the services.

T
HE
O
MEN

Fantasy and Science Fiction,
March 1958

I
T WOULD BE PUSHING
truth too far to say that Grandma Williams was the finest person in the world to live with. As her daughter said sometimes, but only after the greatest professions of loyalty, “She’s just the
sweetest
old lady in the world, of course, but sometimes she’s
very
trying.” And her son-in-law, whose patience was immense, and whose courtesy was unfailing, had been heard to say with an affectionate smile to his wife, “Granny seems to be aging rapidly these days.” Even her grandchildren, of whom there were two, sometimes found themselves exasperated by her, and would say in such cases, “Oh,
Granny
,” or
“Gosh,”
in the tone of voice used by children when words fail them.

Ordinarily, however, everyone loved Grandma Williams almost as much as she loved them, and they ate the custards she prepared so tenderly, and bore with the small surprises she invented for them, and gave her warm scarves and gloves for Christmas, and homemade valentines on Valentine’s Day, and gardenias on Mother’s Day, and took her out to dinner and the theater on her birthday, and saw that her glasses were found when she lost them, and brought her home books from the lending library, and remembered to kiss her good night, and to be polite to the two or three old friends who still remained to her, and who came sometimes to call. And when Granny announced brightly at breakfast one morning that today she was going shopping, no one criticized her, or even smiled.

“Isn’t it something I can do for you, dear?” her daughter asked, looking into the coffeepot. “I may go into town today, and I’d be glad to do any errands you want.”

“Happy to get you anything myself,” said her son-in-law. “Easy to stop off somewhere on my way home.”

Granny shook her head vehemently. “This is important shopping,” she said. “I have to do it myself.”

“Can I go with you?” asked her younger grandchild, who was eight years old, and who was named Ellen and was commonly supposed to resemble Granny as a girl.

“Indeed you may not,” Granny said. “This is a surprise.”

If a slight sigh went around the breakfast table, Granny did not notice. “A surprise for everyone,” she said. “You remember yesterday?”

Everyone remembered yesterday; yesterday had been an event. Yesterday Granny had received in the morning mail a check for thirteen dollars and seventy-four cents, with a covering letter saying that the sender had owed it to Granny’s husband for nearly fifty years, and so was paying it now to his widow, with interest. Granny’s son-in-law had figured out the interest for her, and it was quite proper. Granny, today, was rich. “A surprise for everyone,” she repeated happily, “with my new money.”

Her daughter opened her mouth to protest, and then stopped. Nothing that Granny could possibly buy with thirteen dollars and seventy-four cents would give her more pleasure than surprises for everybody. “I think that’s
wonderful
” her daughter said finally, eyeing her family around the table.

“Very kind of you,” said Granny’s son-in-law.

“I want—” began Ellen.

“Dear,” said her mother, “this is to be a surprise.”

“But I want to
know
” said Granny. “Robert, will you get me a pencil and paper?” Her older grandchild, who was ten, departed and returned in haste, partly because he had been carefully taught to treat his granny courteously, and partly because surprises did not come every day.

“Now,” said Granny, her pencil poised over the paper. “Margaret?”

“You mean what do I want?” said her daughter. She thought. “I don’t really know,” she said slowly. “A handkerchief, perhaps? Or a box of candy?”

“If I were to get you a bottle of perfume,” said Granny with great cunning, “what kind would you most like?”

Her daughter considered again. “Well,” she said, “I usually wear a kind called Carnation.”

“Carnation”
Granny said. She wrote on her paper. Then she looked inquiringly at her son-in-law. “John,” she said. “What for you?”

He frowned soberly. “Let me see,” he said. “I suppose what I most need is a few good cigars. El Signo, I generally smoke.”

“Cigars,” Granny said complacently. “A very good thing in a man. Your grandfather used to say that cigarettes were for women and children. What kind, again?”

“El Signo,” said her son-in-law.

“I can’t possibly write such an outlandish name,” said Granny. “What is it in English?”

“The sign,” he told her, not looking at his wife.

“The sign”
Granny said as she wrote. “You see,” she explained, “I can always ask the man what it means, in cigars.”

“Now me?” said Ellen.

“Now you, Granddaughter.”

“A doll’s house with real glass in the windows,” said Ellen immediately, “and a bride doll, and a live kitty and—”

“Not a live kitty,” said her mother hastily.

“A stuffed kitty?” said Ellen, wide-eyed. “A blue stuffed kitty?”

“Splendid,” said Granny.
“Blue cat,”
she wrote. “Robert?” she said.

“Roller skates,” said Robert. “Walkie-talkie.”

“What?” said Granny.

“Walkie-talkie,” said Robert. “It’s a sort of telephone, like.”

Granny stared at her son-in-law, who smiled and shrugged.
“Telephone,”
Granny said, and wrote it down. Then she leaned back and looked farsightedly at her list.
“Carnation,”
she read.
“The sign. Blue cat. Telephone.”
She smiled around the table at the family. “Now me,” she said. “I want a ring.”

“A ring?” said her daughter. “Granny, you
have
rings. You have your diamond ring, and the little one set with a cameo, and Dad’s silver seal ring, and—”

“Not any of those,” said Granny, shaking her head vigorously. “I saw a little ring I wanted, in the five and ten the other day. It cost twenty-nine cents, and it was silver-plated and it had on it two hearts set together. I
liked
that ring.”

Her daughter and son-in-law exchanged glances. “If you’ll wait till your birthday,” said her daughter, “perhaps you might have the same ring in real silver; if it’s something you like, we could easily have it made.”

“I want this one,” said Granny. She rose from the table, picked up her list, and put it carefully into her pocket. “Now,” she said. “Now I am going shopping.”

She departed for her room to get her coat and hat, and her daughter said anxiously to her son-in-law, “Do you think it’s all right? I could insist on going along.”

“She’s getting so much pleasure out of it,” said the son-in-law, “it would be a real shame to spoil it. And of course she’ll be all right.”

“Everyone’s always glad to help an old lady, anyway,” said the daughter. “If she gets into any difficulty, that is.”

Granny, stylish in her neat black coat and a small rakish hat trimmed with violets, set out at precisely ten o’clock, an hour after her son-in-law had gone off to his office, and an hour and ten minutes after her grandchildren had climbed noisily into the school bus. Her daughter stood in the doorway and waved to her as she went down the street; Granny had insisted upon traveling into town on the bus, instead of taking a taxi, and her daughter stood in the doorway until she saw Granny reach the corner, signal competently to the bus driver with her umbrella, and climb aboard, helped, as she always was, somehow, by the driver and two friendly passengers. People would be taking care of Granny like that all day, her daughter thought, and, with an admiring smile, she turned back inside to finish the breakfast dishes. I’ll just dress later, she thought, and run into town myself. I might meet her somewhere and bring her home.

Granny sat proudly in the bus, perfectly aware of the attention she was attracting. Her son-in-law had kindly cashed her check, and Granny had thirteen dollars and seventy-four cents in her pocketbook. Her list, she thought, was safely tucked into her pocket, but, as a matter of fact, it had slipped out, and lay unnoticed on the seat when Granny alighted in the center of town, assisted by the bus driver, a kind gentleman, and two schoolgirls.

Not everyone had had such a pleasant two days as Granny had. Miss Edith Webster, for instance, had put in forty-eight hours (and this the first week of her vacation!) of unpleasant and fruitless argument. Edith loved her mother quite as much as Granny’s daughter loved Granny, but Edith’s mother was perhaps a shade more selfish than Granny—Granny, as Edith would have pointed out if she had known about it, had at least allowed her daughter to get married. Edith’s mother was explicit upon this point.

“If you marry this Jerry fellow,” she told Edith—as she had gone on telling Edith, over and over, for three years—“you will be leaving your poor old mother all alone, not that I think you
cares
about me—no, by now I know better than to think my only daughter
cares
about what happens to her poor old mother—but you’d always have it on your conscience, I hope, that you left your poor old mother to starve.”

“You wouldn’t starve,” Edith had pointed out over and over for three years, although by now the words had no meaning, from being said so often. “Aunt Martha has been wanting you to come and live with her for a long time, and Jerry and I could always give you enough money to get along.”

“Aunt Martha? What would I want to live with Aunt Martha for? You certainly couldn’t have much respect for my
comfort
if you tried to make me go and live with Aunt
Martha
.”

On the morning that Granny set out so blithely, Edith had finally said with more anger than she had ever shown her mother before, “I have every right in the world to get married and have a family of my own, and it’s not fair for you to try and stop me.”

“You’re my daughter,” her mother retorted, “and you owe me all your education and all the care and love I’ve given you all these years. And I’m not going to let you throw yourself away on some good-for-nothing, and leave your poor old mother to starve.”

At that point Edith snatched up her hat and fled from the house, leaving her mother still talking, dwelling lovingly upon the symptoms of starvation, and how Edith might possibly remember to show up at her deathbed—not, however, to be forgiven.

Walking down the street, Edith, who was actually an agreeable and pleasant girl, and who did not enjoy quarreling, told herself firmly that a decision must be reached, and immediately. Her mother did not show any signs of ever changing her mind, and, no matter how hard she tried to ignore it, there was the telling fact that Jerry, who had waited patiently for three years, was beginning to remark restlessly that all his friends were married, that a man expected to settle down before he was thirty, that he personally thought that Edith’s mother would never give in, and that
he
thought the thing to do was up and get married, and let the old lady give her consent afterward. Edith thought he was right,
if
she tried to be impartial about it, but still the courage required to defy her mother was more than she could muster.

Going down the street (and she was at this time approximately two miles from Granny Williams, who was just then marching boldly down her own street on her way to a different bus), Edith, in her neat dark blue coat and red hat (as opposed to Granny, who was wearing a black coat and a hat with violets), sighed deeply, and thought: If I only had an idea of what to do; if only somebody, something, somehow, would show me the way, make up my mind for me, give me an omen.

All of which is, of course, a most dangerous way of thinking.

Edith, on her own bus, reached the center of town almost the same time Granny did, and, by an odd coincidence, Edith even passed Granny on the street without noticing her; nor did Granny notice Edith. Perhaps, indeed, Edith thought swiftly:
look at the nice old lady in the hat with flowers;
perhaps the thought passed through Granny’s mind:
look at the pretty girl with the sad frown
. These things happen daily, among the thousands of people who pass one another in crowds. At any rate, Edith, whose ultimate destination was the home of a girl friend on the other side of town (someone to whom Edith could pour out her troubles, and who would give her sympathy, if no kind of help), got on the wrong bus. She was worried, and thinking about something else, and there were a lot of people waiting at the bus stop, and Edith did not look up in time to see the sign on the front of the bus, and a man in the crowd near her said loudly, “It’s the Long Avenue bus,” which was the one Edith wanted, so Edith got on, and paid her fare, and sat down in the first seat she came to, which was the seat vacated by Granny not long ago, and on the seat, Granny’s list was waiting to be an omen to Edith. Edith picked it up and put it into her pocket, thinking it was something she herself had dropped, such as a transfer or a scrap of envelope with an address on it; she did not even look at it as she put it into her pocket.