Just an Ordinary Day: The Uncollected Stories of Shirley Jackson (36 page)

“Good
morning,” said Ellen brightly. “I’m so terribly sorry to disturb you at this hour.”

“Wah?”

“This is Ellen Webster,” said Ellen, still brightly. “I called to tell you that my clock has stopped—” “Wah?”

“—and I wonder if you could tell me what time it is?” There was a short pause at the other end of the line. Then, after a minute, his voice came back: “Tenny minna fah.”

“I beg your pardon?”

There was another short pause at the other end of the line, as of someone opening his eyes with a shock. “Twenty minutes after four,” he said.
“Twenty minutes after four.”

“The reason I thought of asking you,” Ellen said sweetly, “was that you were so
very
obliging before. About the radio, I mean.”

“—calling a person at—”

“Thanks so much,” said Ellen. “Goodbye.”

She felt fairly certain that he would not call her back, but she sat on her bed and giggled a little before she went back to sleep.

Walter’s response to this was miserably weak: He contacted a neighboring delicatessen a day or so later, and had an assortment of evil-smelling cheeses left in Ellen’s apartment while she was out. This, which required persuading the superintendent to open Ellen’s apartment so that the package might be left inside, was a poor revenge but a monstrous exercise of imagination upon Walter’s part, so that, in one sense, Ellen was already bringing out in him qualities he never knew he had. The cheese, it turned out, more than evened the score: The apartment was small, the day was warm, and Ellen did not get home until late, and long after most of the other tenants on the floor had gone to the superintendent with their complaints about something dead in the woodwork.

Since breaking and entering had thus become one of the rules of their game, Ellen felt privileged to retaliate in kind upon Walter. It was with great joy, some evenings later, that Ellen, sitting in her odorous apartment, heard Walter’s scream of pure terror when he put his feet into his slippers and found a raw
egg
in each.

Walter had another weapon, however, which he had been so far reluctant to use; it was a howitzer of such proportions that Walter felt its use would end warfare utterly. After the raw eggs he felt no compunction whatever in bringing out his heavy artillery.

It seemed to Ellen, at first, as though peace had been declared. For almost a week things went along smoothly; Walter kept his radio turned down almost to inaudibility, so that Ellen got plenty of sleep. She was over her cold, the sun had come out, and on Saturday morning she spent three hours shopping, and found exactly the dress she wanted at less than she expected to pay.

About Saturday noon she stepped out of the elevator, her packages under her arm, and walked briskly down the hall to her apartment, making, as usual, a wide half circle to avoid coming into contact with the area around Walter’s door.

Her apartment door, to her surprise, was open, but before she had time to phrase a question in her own mind, she had stepped inside and come face-to-face with a lady who—not to make any more mysteries—was Walter Nesmith’s aunt, and a wicked old lady in her own way, possessing none of Walter’s timidity and none of his tact.

“Who?” said Ellen weakly, standing in the doorway.

“Come in and close the door,” said the old lady darkly. “I don’t think you’ll want your neighbors to hear what I have to say. I,” she continued as Ellen obeyed mechanically, “am Mrs. Harold Vongarten Nesmith. Walter Nesmith, young woman, is my nephew.”

“Then you are in the wrong apartment,” said Ellen quite politely, considering the reaction which Walter Nesmith’s name was beginning by now to arouse in her. “You want Apartment Three-B, across the hall.”

“I do not,” said the old lady firmly. “I came here to see the designing young woman who has been shamelessly pursuing my nephew, and to warn her”—the old lady shook her gloves menacingly—“to warn her that
not one cent
shall she have from me if she marries Walter Nesmith.”

“Marries?” said Ellen, thoughts too great for words in her heart.

“It has long been my opinion that some young woman would be after Walter Nesmith for his money,” said Walter’s aunt with satisfaction.

“Believe me,” said Ellen wholeheartedly, “there is not that much money in the world.”

“You deny it?” The old lady leaned back and smiled triumphantly. “I expected something of the sort. Walter,” she called suddenly, and then, putting her head back and howling, “Walllllter.”

“Shhh,” said Ellen fearfully. “They’ll hear you all over.”

“I expect them to,” said the old lady. “Walllll—oh, there you are.”

Ellen turned, and saw Walter Nesmith, with triumph in his eyes, peering around the edge of the door. “Did it work?” he asked.

“She denies everything,” said his aunt.

“About the eggs?” Walter said, confused. “You mean, she denies about the eggs and the phone call and—”

“Look,” Ellen said to Walter, stamping across the floor to look at him straight in the eye, “of all the insufferable, conceited, rude, self-satisfied—”

“What?” said Walter.

“I wouldn’t want to marry you,” said Ellen, “if—if—” She stopped for a word, helpless.

“If he were the last man on earth,” Walter’s aunt supplied obligingly. “I think she’s really after your
money
, Walter.”

Walter stared at his aunt. “I didn’t tell you to tell her—” he began. He gasped, and tried again. “I mean,” he said, “I never thought—” He appealed to Ellen. “I don’t want to marry you, either,” he said, and then gasped again, and said, “I mean, I told my aunt to come and tell you—”

“If this is a proposal,” Ellen said coldly, “I decline.”

“All I wanted her to do was scare you,” Walter said finally.

“It’s a good way,” his aunt said complacently. “Turned out to be the only way with your uncle Charles and a Hungarian adventuress.”

“I mean,” Walter said desperately to Ellen, “she owns this building. I mean, I wanted her to tell you that if you didn’t stop—I mean, I wanted her to scare you—”

“Apartments are too hard to get these days,” his aunt said. “That would have been
too
unkind.”

“That’s how I got my apartment at all, you see,” Walter said to Ellen, still under the impression he was explaining something Ellen wanted to understand.

“Since you
have
got an apartment,” Ellen said with restraint, “may I suggest that you take your aunt and the both of you—”

The phone rang.

“Excuse me,” said Ellen mechanically, moving to answer it. “Hello?” she said.

“Hello, may I speak to Walter, please?”

Ellen smiled rather in the manner that Lady Macbeth might have smiled if she found a run in her stocking.

“It’s for you,” she said, holding the phone out to Walter.

“For me?” he said, surprised. “Who is it?”

“I really could not say,” said Ellen sweetly. “Since you have so many friends that one phone is not adequate to answer all their calls—”

Since Walter made no move to take the phone, she put it gently back on the hook.

“They’ll call again,” she assured him, still smiling in that terrible fashion.

“I ought to turn you both out,” said Walter’s aunt. She turned to Ellen. “Young woman,” she said, “do you deny that all this nonsense with eggs and telephone calls is an attempt to entangle my nephew into matrimony?”

“Certainly not,” Ellen said. “I mean, I
do
deny it.”

“Walter Nesmith,” said his aunt, “do you admit that all your finagling with cheeses and radios is an attempt to strike up an acquaintance with this young woman?”

“Certainly,” said Walter. “I mean, I do
not
admit it.”

“Good,” said Walter’s aunt. “You are precisely the pair of silly fools I would have picked out for each other.” She rose with great dignity, motioned Walter away from her, and started for the door. “Remember,” she said, shaking her gloves again at Ellen, “not one cent.”

She opened the door and started down the hall, her handkerchief over her eyes, and—a surprising thing in such an old lady—laughing until she had to stop and lean against the wall near the elevator.

“I’m sorry,” Walter was saying to Ellen, almost babbling. “I’m
really
sorry this time—please believe me, I had
no
idea—I wouldn’t for the world—nothing but the most profound respect—a joke, you know—hope you didn’t really think—”

“I understand perfectly,” Ellen said icily. “It is all perfectly clear. It only goes to show what I have always believed about young men who think that all they have to do is—”

The phone rang.

Ellen waited a minute before she spoke. Then she said, “You might as well answer it.”

“I’m
terribly
sorry,” Walter said, not moving toward the phone. “I mean, I’m
terribly
sorry.” He waved his hands in the air. “About what she said about what she thought about what you wanted me to do—” His voice trailed off miserably.

Suddenly Ellen began to giggle.

Anger is certainly a problem that will bear much analysis. It is hardly surprising that one person may be angry at another, particularly if these are two people who are gentle, usually, and rarely angry, whose emotions tend to be mild and who would rather be friends with everyone than be enemies with anyone. Such an anger argues a situation so acute that only the most drastic readjustment can remedy it.

Either Walter Nesmith or Ellen Webster could have moved, of course. But, as Walter’s aunt had pointed out, apartments are not that easy to come by, and their motives and their telephone numbers were by now so inextricably mixed that on the whole it seemed more reasonable not to bother.

Moreover, Walter’s aunt, who still snickers when her nephew’s name is mentioned, did not keep them long in suspense, after all. She was not lavish, certainly, but she wrote them a letter that both of them found completely confusing, and enclosed a check adequate for a down payment on the extremely modest house in the country they decided upon without disagreement. They even compromised and had four children—two boys and two girls.

M
RS
. M
ELVILLE
M
AKES A
P
URCHASE

Charm,
October 1951

M
RS
. R
ANDOLPH
H
ENRY
M
ELVILLE
was not accustomed to being kept waiting by a salesgirl. Mrs. Melville believed that salesgirls who were not at the moment waiting upon herself were standing at the other end of the counter gossiping with other salesgirls about the private life of the floorwalker, or engaged in secret transactions with other customers, no doubt involving special and unusually unobtainable merchandise. Now, ordinarily, it was adequate for Mrs. Melville to rap sharply upon the counter and say “Miss!” Sometimes it was necessary, however, for Mrs. Melville to go up to the salesgirl and interrupt her private conversation with some cutting remark such as “How long do I have to wait for service here?,” emphasizing the
service
so that the salesgirl understood clearly, if she had not before, that she was there to serve Mrs. Melville, to obey her, to follow abjectly her orders, and not to stand around and gossip.

This time—and it is to Mrs. Melville’s everlasting glory that she was not angrier, even, than she was—Mrs. Melville had rapped and said “Miss!,” had marched down the counter and said with heavy accent, “How long do I have to wait for
service
here?,” had stood first on one foot and then on the other, had sighed, tapped her fingers, looked around irritably, had made, for no one’s benefit, a great display of impatience, fingering and tossing away blouses, and finally, and with great emphasis, had said aloud to the store in general, “Well,
really
!” And all the while, all the blessed while that Mrs. Melville waited, the salesgirl stood at the other end of the counter, gossiping and smiling and presumably not selling a blouse at all to the timid woman in the gray coat who could not make up her mind.

When Mrs. Melville had said “Miss!” the salesgirl had turned and smiled at her, and nodded; when Mrs. Melville had asked how long she had to wait, the salesgirl had said politely that she would be with Mrs. Melville in a minute; when Mrs. Melville had said “Well,
really
!” the salesgirl had said in a voice almost as sharp as Mrs. Melville’s now, “Madam, I cannot help you until I am finished with my customer.” Mrs. Melville had reported employees, and probably had had them discharged, for less than this. She would at least have gone to the floorwalker to describe the salesgirl’s insolence if she had not wanted this blouse so very much. It was precisely the style for her black faille suit, for one thing. It had the rare, the almost-despaired-of, neckline, the half sleeve, the buttoned back, the curved collar. No other store in town—and Mrs. Melville was positive that she had tried them all—had this blouse. It was Mrs. Melville’s blouse, if—and she tried not to think of this—they had it in her size.

She could see the blouses stacked neatly on the shelves behind the counter. One precious stack contained
her
blouse. She could not see the sizes, but she could see that the blouse came in shocking pink, which Mrs. Melville secretly adored, and which tempted her very much; in chartreuse, which she thought she would take as a second choice; in a sort of palish blue, which she was convinced made her complexion look sallow; in white, which was impractical in her eyes; in black, which would be odd with a black suit; and in several plaids, which Mrs. Melville had regretfully abandoned when her age turned forty overnight and her size passed almost imperceptibly from a thirty-eight into something more than her age. If the shocking pink came in her size… or the chartreuse…

“May I help you?”

Mrs. Melville jumped; she had been lost in dreams of herself in the black faille suit with the shocking pink (or the chartreuse?) blouse. (“I hunted all over town,” she was telling some unidentified friend with whom she was lunching in a terribly smart restaurant, “and I simply couldn’t find the blouse I wanted. Until one day—I don’t know why I was there, it was just by chance, I never
thought
of looking at blouses—anyway, I said to myself that it wouldn’t do any harm just to run in here and…”) “I’ve been waiting here for half an hour,” Mrs. Melville said. “Is there any
reason
why I should wait half an hour for service?”

“I’m sorry,” said the salesgirl, obviously refraining with an effort from telling Mrs. Melville that she had been there no more than four minutes. “I had a customer.”

“Well, are you the only person here? Aren’t there more salesgirls?”

“The other girl is out to lunch, madam. What was it you wished to see?”

“Lunch?” said Mrs. Melville crossly.

The salesgirl sighed, hesitated, and said, “May I show you anything?”

Mrs. Melville decided to secure her blouse first and be angry afterward. “Well,” she said reluctantly, “I might just like to look at the blouse on this figure.”

“What size, please?”

Mrs. Melville glanced at her nervously. “Fairly large, I think,” she said. “I always like to get my blouses good and large.” The salesgirl waited. “Forty-four,” Mrs. Melville said softly.

“Forty-four,” repeated the salesgirl loudly. “What color?”

“The pink,” said Mrs. Melville, “or the chartreuse.”

“I’m not sure I have it in your size, madam,” said the salesgirl. Her voice still seemed overloud for the circumstances. She turned without enthusiasm and began to leaf through the blouses in the stack. “Forty,” she said. “Forty-two. I don’t think
any
of these come in forty-four.”

“Not even the pink?” said Mrs. Melville. “Are you sure you’re looking in the right place?”

“I have the black,” said the salesgirl. “Most large figures prefer the black.”

“Young lady,” said Mrs. Melville, “I am buying a
blouse
, not your
opinions.”

The salesgirl looked at Mrs. Melville over her shoulder. “I can’t give you what I haven’t got,” she said.

“The chartreuse?” said Mrs. Melville. “Don’t I see a chartreuse in there?”

The girl pulled it out of the stack rudely. “Does that look like a forty-four?” she said.

“Forty-two,” said Mrs. Melville, consulting the tag. “I
could
wear a forty-two,” she said earnestly to the girl. “I just like to get my blouses large.”

The girl shrugged. “I have the pink
and
the green in forty-two,” she said. “That is, if you think you can wear a forty-two. That blouse is twelve ninety-five.”

“That’s very expensive,” said Mrs. Melville immediately.

“It’s what it says on the tag,” said the girl. “I don’t set the prices.”

“I’m not at
all
sure about that pink,” said Mrs. Melville.

“I have that blouse in pink, chartreuse, blue, black, and white,” said the girl wearily.

“Well,” said Mrs. Melville, “I
can’t
take black, and white just isn’t right for me. I need color near my face.”

The girl looked up at Mrs. Melville and said without interest, “It comes in black, white, blue, pink, or chartreuse.”

“The pink is very nice,” said Mrs. Melville, considering. She held it up against herself and looked at herself in the mirror over the counter. Then she put it down and held up the chartreuse. “I really think the pink does more for me,” she said.

The girl yawned, covering her mouth politely, and said, “They’re both very good numbers.”

“But, on the other hand,” said Mrs. Melville, “the chartreuse… somehow, it’s more sophisticated. Don’t you think so?”

“The chartreuse is a very good number,” said the girl. “So is the pink.”

“Which one do
you
think?” said Mrs. Melville.

“I really couldn’t say,” said the girl.

Mrs. Melville looked at her sharply; this girl was really being very annoying. “I’ll take
this
one,” Mrs. Melville said abruptly. The girl nodded without interest, not glancing at the blouse Mrs. Melville held out. She took the blouse indifferently, with Mrs. Melville’s money, and went off. Mrs. Melville had to wait again.

By the time the girl came back with Mrs. Melville’s blouse in a bag and her change, Mrs. Melville was angry again. “Before I leave,” she said to the girl in a voice that implied that the quality of service Mrs. Melville had been vouchsafed in this store was very low indeed, “will you please give me your name and number?”

“It’s on the sales slip,” said the girl. “In the bag.”

“You may as well know,” said Mrs. Melville, “that I intend to report you for insolence. I think that your attitude toward this sale has been perfectly dreadful, and I shall make every effort to—”

“Excuse me,” said the girl. “I have to go and wait on another customer.”

She was smiling as she went off, and then she turned and came back. “The complaint department,” she said. “Report your complaints to the complaint department. On the ninth floor, near the elevator.”

Mrs. Melville turned with anger and marched away.

She was on the second floor. She knew from past experience that it would do her no good at all to report the insolent girl to the floorwalker or to the elevator operator. With her jaw set and her package under her arm, Mrs. Melville headed for the escalator and the ninth floor, thinking as she went that in any well-regulated store the complaint department would be more accessible. When she came to the escalator she stepped on as one who goes toward a duty not entirely unpleasant.

The third floor was to Mrs. Melville nothing more than a brief display of bathing suits, all obviously size nine, and, Mrs. Melville thought righteously, all far too shocking to be seen on a public beach. The fourth floor was suits, extravagantly cut, overdecorated, and seeming to come no larger than about a fourteen. The fifth floor was china and glassware and Mrs. Melville thought, as she passed, that they must lose a lot of sales because they had placed their tables full of china displays so close together that no one but a very slim person could pass between them without danger of upsetting something.

On the sixth floor was the restaurant. It was called Ye Olde Taverne, and was heavily decorated in dark red and old oak. The walls were paneled and tapestried, with small leaded windows looking out onto the rug and credit departments on one side, facing a blank wall on the other.

Mrs. Melville was not able to pass by a restaurant. Restaurant, her mind ran, food, sit down, menu, eat. The complaint department, it occurred to her, would be there as well in an hour. The salesgirl, kept in suspense that much longer, would probably learn a more severe lesson. With no more resistance than a glance at the escalator, Mrs. Melville passed through the ornamental wooden portals and into Ye Olde Taverne. She sat down at a table comfortably near the back, and stretched her feet out with a sigh.

A waitress in a full, starched yellow skirt came over to take her order, and when Mrs. Melville looked at the menu, she was wholeheartedly glad she had stopped. By some extraordinarily lucky chance, she had hit the exact moment when the Shopper’s Lunch gives way before the Shopper’s Tea, and so, if she wished, she might choose from either. Her eye was caught by the tuna fish salad on the Shopper’s Lunch, and by the cinnamon toast on the Shopper’s Tea. Hot roast beef sandwich? Mrs. Melville—who had lunched two hours before on chicken croquettes and French fried potatoes and chocolate cream pie—wondered if the beef was lean. Or the assorted tea sandwiches? Mrs. Melville dwelt lovingly on the thought of tiny crustless delicacies, filled perhaps with cream cheese and jelly, or a rich salmon filling, or peanut butter and bacon, and sighed again. She read the Fountain Suggestions, the lists of possible beverages, the desserts, and hesitated long over the butterscotch nut sundae. Perhaps a deviled
egg?
An English muffin? Mrs. Melville tapped the menu against her cheek in a long moment of indecision.

Finally, with the waitress standing impatiently over her, Mrs. Melville hesitated one last time, and chose the tuna fish salad. With another sigh, this time a sigh of pure satisfaction, Mrs. Melville carefully set her package on the chair beside her and slipped her coat from her shoulders. Easing her tired feet under the table, she leaned back and closed her eyes for a minute. Shopping was tiring, particularly with everything so hard to find and salesgirls so impudent and the complaint department so far away.

Her tuna fish salad, when it arrived, was not quite all that Mrs. Melville could have wished. The tuna fish was scanty, with little mayonnaise and much celery, the lettuce was wilted, and the waitress had, for some reason, decided to serve Mrs. Melville Ry-Krisp instead of the hot muffins promised by the menu. Finger upraised, Mrs. Melville summoned the waitress.

“I thought I was supposed to have hot muffins?” she said.

“Sorry,” said the waitress. “All out of muffins.”

“Rolls?”

“All gone.”

“Bread?” said Mrs. Melville, her voice rising slightly.