Just an Ordinary Day: The Uncollected Stories of Shirley Jackson (50 page)

“My only, truest love,” Joan mourned.

“He writes now with a golden pen.”

“A great writer is a great man writing.”

“It was worth coming down for,” Martin said, coming over to take Katherine’s arm. “I talked to Angelí for a minute, and he said to call him tomorrow.” Impatient now, Martin led Katherine through the crowd to the doorway and out into the hall.

“Goodbye,” the nurse said.

Slowly, a little ahead of the others, who lingered, laughing a little now, gathering around Joan, listening to Weasel, Katherine and Martin went down the hospital hallway. “He might have a spot for me now in that lecture series,” Martin said. He gestured upward. “Now that
he’s
gone, I could do a talk on
his
work. His personal tragedy, maybe.”

“It was hot in there,” Katherine said.

Weasel caught up with them, and said quickly, “We’re all going on to Joan’s. I don’t think she should be alone right now. You two come along?”

“Thanks,” Martin said, “but Katherine’s pretty broken up, too. I’m going to take her directly home.”

Weasel glanced quickly at Katherine and said, “Terribly sad, the whole business, wasn’t it? I nearly
died
when I heard he was gone, and absolutely
no
one there who cared! I mean really
cared
.”

“We paid him what tribute we could,” Martin said.

“The responsibility of the intellectual,” Weasel said vaguely. “Come over to Joan’s later if you can make it?”

He pattered away, back down the hall to Joan and Martin, and Katherine came down the steps of the hospital into the unexpectedly dark afternoon.

“My only, truest love,” Katherine said.

“Hmm?” said Martin. “You ask me something?”

“No,” said Katherine, and laughed.

“Anyplace special you want to go for dinner?” Martin asked.

“Yes,” Katherine said. “That nice little place where they make sweetbreads, I was thinking about it earlier.”

A
LL
s
HE
S
AID
W
AS
Y
ES

Vogue,
November 1962 (Other titles: “Cassandra”; “Not a Tear”; “Vicky”)

W
HAT CAN YOU DO
? Howard and Dorrie are always telling me I’m too sensitive, and let myself get worked up about things, but really, even Howard had to admit that the Lansons’ accident just couldn’t have happened at a worse time. It sounds awful when you come right out and say it, but I’d always rather be frank and open than mealy-mouthed, and even though it was a dreadful thing to happen
anytime
, it really made
me furious
to have our trip to Maine ruined.

We’d lived next door to Don and Helen Lanson for sixteen years, since before our Dorrie and their Vicky were born, and of course, living next door and with the girls growing up together, we’d always been friendly enough, even though you don’t have to get along with people
all
the time, and frankly, some of the crowd the Lansons knew were a little too fancy for us. Besides, they were never secret about things and expected us to be the same, and it bothered me sometimes when I stopped to think that for sixteen years we hadn’t had a day’s privacy; I like friendly neighbors as well as the next one, but it was a little too much, sometimes. I used to tell Howard that Helen Lanson always knew what we were having for dinner, and of course it worked the other way around, too; whenever the Lansons had one of their fights we had to close the windows and go down to the cellar to keep from hearing, and even then Helen Lanson was sure to be over the next morning to cry on my shoulder. I hope the new neighbors are a little more—well—reticent.

Howard and I felt terrible when it happened, naturally. Howard went out with the State Police, and I offered to go over and tell Vicky. It wasn’t the kind of thing I relished, you can imagine, but someone had to do it, and I’d known her since she was born. I was thankful that Dorrie was away at camp, because
she
would have been heartbroken, living next door to them all her life. When I went over to ring the doorbell that night I really couldn’t think how the child was going to take it; I never did think much of parents going out and leaving a fifteen-year-old girl alone in the house—you read all the time about men breaking into houses where girls are alone—but I supposed Helen always figured Vicky was all right with us home next door; we certainly don’t go out nearly every night like the Lansons did.

But then, Vicky was never much of a one for minding things, anyway; I know that she opened the door that night right away, without even asking who it was or making sure it wasn’t some man; I never let Dorrie open the door at night unless she knows who is on the other side. Well, I might as well come right out with it—I don’t
like
Vicky. Even that night, with all the trouble ahead for her, I couldn’t make myself like her. I was terribly sorry for her, certainly, and at the same time all I could keep thinking was what I was going to do when she heard the news. She was so big and clumsy and ugly that I really couldn’t face the thought of having to put my arms around her and comfort her—I hated the idea of patting her hand, or stroking her hair, and yet I was the only person to do it. All the way over from our house I had been wondering how I was going to say it, and then when she opened the door and just stood there looking at me—and never a “hello” or anything from her; she just wasn’t the kind who offered things, if you know what I mean—I almost lost my courage. Finally I asked her if I could come in, because I had to talk to her, and she only opened the door wider and stood away, and I came in and she closed the door behind me and stood there waiting. Well, I know that house almost as well as I know my own, and so I walked into the living room and sat down and she came along after me and sat down, too, and looked at me.

Well, there was nothing like getting right to it, so I tried to say something gentle first; what I finally settled on was looking very serious and saying, “Vicky, you’re going to have to be brave.”

I must say she didn’t help me much. She just sat there looking at me, and I suddenly thought that maybe all the unusual excitement, with Howard driving off in the middle of the night like that, and all the lights on in our house and my coming over the way I did, might have let on to her that something was wrong, and she might even have guessed already that it had to do with her parents, so the sooner she heard the truth, the better, I thought, and I said, “There’s been an accident, Vicky. Corporal Atkins of the State Police phoned us a few minutes ago, because he knew you were alone here and he wanted someone to be with you.” It wasn’t much of a way to go about it, I know, but I would much rather have sat there talking all around the subject than tell her what I had to say next. I took a deep breath and said, “It’s your mother and father, Vicky. There’s been an accident.”

Well, so far she hadn’t said a word, not a single word since I came through the door, and now all she said was, “Yes.”

I thought it must be shock, and I was glad that Howard had thought to call Doctor Hart before he left, to come and help me with Vicky, and I began to wonder how long it would be before the doctor came, because I’m simply no good with sick people, and would be sure to do the wrong thing. I was thinking about the doctor, and I said, “They always drove too fast—” and she said, “I know.” I sat there waiting for her to cry, or whatever a girl like that does when she finds out her parents have been killed, and then I remembered that she didn’t know yet that they were killed, but only that they had been in an accident, so I took another deep breath and said, “They’re both—” I couldn’t say it, though, just couldn’t bring out the word. Finally I said, “Gone.”

“I know,” she said. So I needn’t have worried.

“We’re so sorry, Vicky,” I said, wondering if now was the time to go over and pat her head.

“Do you think they really believed they were going to die?” she asked me.

“Well, I guess no one ever really
believes
…”I started to say, but she wasn’t listening to me; she was looking down at her hands and shaking her head. “I told them, you know,” she said. “I told my mother a couple of months ago that it was going to happen, the accident and their dying, but she wouldn’t listen to me, no one ever does. She said it was an adolescent fantasy.”

Well, that was Helen Lanson for you, of course.
Adolescent fantasy
is the way she talked, and pretended she was being honest with the child. It wasn’t any of my business, of course, but I can tell you that Dorrie got spanked when she did something wrong, and none of this psychological jargon to make her think it was my fault, either. “I guess everybody told them,” I said to Vicky. “You can’t drive the way they did without asking for trouble. I spoke to Helen about it once myself—”

“That’s when I got over being sad,” she said, as though she thought she ought to excuse herself. “I told her, and she wouldn’t believe me. I even told her I’d have to go and live with Aunt Cynthia in London, England.” She smiled at me. “I’m going to like London, England; I’ll go to a big school there and study hard.”

Well, as far as I knew, Aunt Cynthia in London, England, hadn’t even been notified yet, but if this child could sit there coolly not five minutes after hearing that her parents had been killed in an accident and make plans for her future—well, all I could say is that maybe some of Helen Lanson’s psychology paid off, in a way she might not like so much, and I just hope that if ever anything happens to me,
my
daughter will have the grace to sit there and shed a tear. Although it’s probably kinder to believe that Vicky was in shock.

“It’s a terrible thing,” I said, wondering how long before the doctor could make it.

“Aunt Cynthia will get here on Tuesday,” she said to me. “The first plane will have to turn back because of engine trouble. I’m sorry about your trip to Maine.”

I was touched. Here was this girl, after the most terrible disaster that can happen to a child, and she could spare a thought for our trip to Maine. It was certainly just the worst luck in the world for us, but you can’t always expect a child to see things from a grown-up’s point of view, and even if the news about her parents didn’t bring a tear, I was pleased to see that the girl could still feel for somebody. “Try not to worry about it,” I told her. Of course we just couldn’t take off for Maine the morning after our next-door neighbors had been killed in an accident, but there was no point in Vicky’s bothering about that, too. “Please don’t be upset,” I said.

“You won’t be able to go later in the year because it will be too cold at the lodge. You’ll have to go somewhere else, but please don’t go on a boat. Please?”

“Of course not,” I said; I didn’t want the doctor to come in and find us talking about my worries, so I said, “You’ll come over and stay with us until your aunt comes.”

“In Dorrie’s room,” she said.

Well, I hadn’t really planned anything yet, but of course Dorrie’s room was the best place for her; you never know when you’re going to need the guest room for company, and Dorrie would be away at camp for the next two weeks. “We’ll pretend that you’re my little girl for a while,” I said, and wondered if it was the right thing to say—it certainly sounded silly enough—and then thought that after all, I had had as much of a shock as she had, and then I heard the doctor’s car outside and I confess it was a relief. I still don’t think it was natural for a child to sit there and listen to news like that and not even jump.

I left her with the doctor and went upstairs—as I say, I know that house as well as I know my own—and tried to find some things for her to bring over with her; I could come over in the morning and get anything she wanted, of course, so I just took a pair of clean pajamas out of the drawer and one of her good school dresses out of the closet; she was going to have to see a good many people in the next day or so and there was no harm in her looking as neat and clean as I could make her. I got her toothbrush out of the bathroom—and I’m no stickler for housework, but I’d be ashamed to keep a bathroom the way Helen Lanson did—and then I thought that maybe she had some kind of a toy dog or doll or something to comfort her; Dorrie may be fifteen years old, but she still has a little blue lion I gave her when she was small, and you can always tell when Dorrie’s upset about something because she takes her blue lion to bed with her. But in this girl’s room there was nothing. You would have been shocked. Books, of course, and a picture of her mother and father, and a set of paints and a game or so, but nothing… well, soft. I finally lifted her pillow and underneath it was a little notebook with a red cover, like a school notebook or something, and since it was under her pillow I thought it must be something she valued—I’ve seen Dorrie’s diary under her pillow, like that, and even though of course I’ve never looked inside it I know how excited she gets if she thinks someone’s gotten to it. I thought maybe Vicky might want to keep this little book safe, so I folded it in with the nightgown and a pair of clean socks, and after thinking for a minute (after all, wouldn’t I want someone to do the same for Dorrie?) I took the picture of her mother and father and put that in, too. When I went downstairs she was still sitting there and the doctor was sitting with her, and when I came in he looked at me and shrugged, so I suppose he hadn’t gotten any more tears from her than I had. I went out into the hall with the doctor and he said he had given her a sedative and I said I was taking her right next door and would put her to sleep in Dorrie’s bed. “She doesn’t seem to care one way or another,” I told him.

“Sometimes it takes a while,” he said. “It’s a terrible thing; too much, probably, for her mind to take in all at once. I expect that by tomorrow she’ll be feeling it more, and I’ll stop in and see her in the morning.”

Well, I saw that all the lights were turned out and the doors locked and then I took Vicky’s things and we went next door and it was a relief to me to be back in my own house, even though I admit I felt a good twinge when I saw our suitcases all packed and standing in the hall. We had planned to get a good early start in the morning, and now here I had to unpack everything again. I asked Vicky if she would like a cup of cocoa and she said yes—I never did see that girl when she wouldn’t eat—so I left her in the kitchen with her cocoa and a piece of my good chocolate cake and I went upstairs and fixed up Dorrie’s room for her. I took out a lot of Dorrie’s things because somehow—and I don’t want to sound nasty, but it’s true—you couldn’t think of that great dull girl sleeping with Dorrie’s pretty little pictures and dolls and necklaces and dance souvenirs all around her; she fit in Dorrie’s room like Dorrie would fit in a dollhouse. I made the bed all neat, and I put on Dorrie’s blue comforter, because it would have to be cleaned anyway before Dorrie came home, and then I brought her upstairs and waited while she got undressed. When I went in to tuck her in I had made up my mind of course that I wasn’t going to be hesitant or anything, and I was going to kiss her good night, because after all the girl was alone in the world now, except for the kindness of neighbors who took her in. When I came in she was in bed and I think the doctor’s sedative—or my hot cocoa—was affecting her, because she looked sleepy and kind of full, like a big cat that’s had a mouse. She looked much too big for Dorrie’s bed, I can tell you that. She was trying to be brave, though; when she turned her head on the pillow and looked at me she gave a little smile, and I thought maybe she was getting ready to cry, but she only said, “I
did
tell them. I’ve known about it for two months.”