Just an Ordinary Day: Stories by Shirley Jackson
The blue eyes moved over to Mrs. Hartley and then away again. “What do I say?” the girl demanded. “How do you do?”
Mrs. Hartley tried to smile, but could only grin unenthusiastically. “I’m so glad you’re in here with me,” she said, looking squarely at Mac.
“How long do I have to stay here?” the girl asked.
“As long as it takes to get you feeling fine again,” Mac said, and moved toward the door. “Supper soon,” she said, and pinched Mrs. Hartley’s toe before she went out.
“I’m sorry you don’t like it here,” Mrs. Hartley said after a minute.
“Why don’t they leave me alone?” said the girl.
Mrs. Hartley laughed. “They can’t, very well,” she said. “You’re sick.”
“I am not,” said the girl. She moved again, stirring irritably under the bedclothes, and Mrs. Hartley again reached apprehensively for the light button. But the girl only said, “You sick, too?”
“I am,” said Mrs. Hartley shortly, hoping to discourage other questions.
The girl continued the conversation. “What’s the matter with you? You look all right.”
“I’m nearly all right,” Mrs. Hartley said evasively. “I ought to be going home in a few days.”
“Me, too,” said the girl. “They’re not going to keep me here.”
“How did you happen to come? I mean,” Mrs. Hartley went on, embarrassed, “what made you pick this hospital if you didn’t like it?”
“I wish I knew,” said the girl; her voice was emphatic. “It must have been that busybody on the bus. I wasn’t feeling very well and she chafed my hands; and then the bus stopped and she helped me off and she was going to get me some coffee and then—well, I guess then they must have brought me here, because I don’t remember any more.”
She hasn’t even asked about her baby, Mrs. Hartley thought suddenly, appalled; could anyone be that callous? “What were you doing on a bus, for heaven’s sake?” she asked, and added gracefully, “in your condition?”
“My condition!” said the girl, and laughed. “Who cared about my condition?—me?” She thought for a minute. “Maybe that woman on the bus,” she conceded. “I was going home, you know. My father lives upstate and I was going there, only he didn’t even know I was coming.”
Mrs. Hartley hesitated, debated with herself for a minute, started to speak, and then hesitated again. What do I care? she thought; it’s not my worry. Finally, she said, “Isn’t there anyone else who might care?”
“No,” said the girl.
Mrs. Hartley plunged. “What about your husband?”
There was a short silence, and then the girl said, as though she clearly recognized Mrs. Hartley’s hesitation and wanted the subject closed at once, “He’s in the army, overseas. Somewhere.” She raised her hands and let them fall helplessly, and spoke louder because Mrs. Hartley tried to interrupt. “We never figured on having any children,” she said. “We don’t either of us like kids, and he certainly wasn’t planning on coming back to find a whole family waiting for him…” Her voice trailed off, bitterly, and Mrs. Hartley could not find anything to say. “He’d be better off if he never found either of us again,” the girl said with finality.
“Mrs. Williams,” Mrs. Hartley began, and then stopped. I’m not a welfare society, she thought; I don’t care if this disagreeable girl and her disagreeable husband never see each other again. I’m sorry about the baby, it’s too bad about the baby, but what business is it of mine? No one worries about me. “It’s none of my business,” Mrs. Hartley began again, “but—”
“That’s right,” the girl said. “It’s not.”
They were lying silent, separated by four feet of space and a world of animosity, when Mac’s step, heavier because she was carrying a bowl of warm water in each hand, forced them both to stir and smile slightly. I’ll catch Mac after this girl is asleep, Mrs. Hartley was telling herself; she’s got to get her out of here tomorrow. A great feeling of self-pity had filled Mrs. Hartley; it seemed just too much that after all she had been through, and the long days she had spent alone in this room, she should now be forced to endure this flat and insolent company. I am really really annoyed with Mac, Mrs. Hartley thought.
“Wash for supper, girls,” Mac said cheerfully. “Can’t have any supper till your hands are clean.”
“Suppose I don’t want any supper?” the girl asked sourly.
“Then you don’t have to eat it. But you’ll be clean anyway.”
Mrs. Hartley, who was allowed to have the head of her bed slightly raised, had learned to wash her face inadequately with a damp washcloth, and to scrub her hands almost without being able to see them; the bed table was raised enough above eye level to make normal gestures impossible. Her favorite joke with Mac was a remembrance of the evening when supper had been spaghetti and Mrs. Hartley had tried to eat it lying down. Tonight, she glanced across at the other bed, where Mrs. Williams, lying flat on her back, was irritably struggling to wash her hands. “Careful not to tip the bowl,” Mrs. Hartley said.
“How do they expect anybody—”
“Wait till you try to eat,” Mrs. Hartley said. “You know, the first night I was here they served spaghetti, and—”
“I’ll bet the food is terrible,” Mrs. Williams said. She gave a disgusted little shove to her bed table, and the water in the bowl spilled a little. “I hate this place,” she said.
“They always serve supper,” Mac said, sweeping wildly into the room and scooping up the bowls, “before my ladies are clean. Always, always—you washed?” she demanded severely of Mrs. Williams as she darted outside for the trays.
“I don’t want any supper,” Mrs. Williams said.
“Too bad,” said Mac, reappearing. “Chicken soup, veal cutlet, mashed potatoes, asparagus, chocolate pudding.”
“I don’t want any,” Mrs. Williams said sullenly. “I hate this place.”
“Suppose I just set the tray down anyway,” Mac said. “No place else to put it.” She put the tray down on the table in front of Mrs. Williams, and came over to stand by the foot of Mrs. Hartley’s bed. “How is it tonight?” she asked softly. “You doing any better?”
“Fine,” Mrs. Hartley said, avoiding looking at Mac. “I’m doing beautifully.”
“It’s a shame, sometimes,” Mac said. “If they could only fix it so we all could stop thinking altogether.”
Mrs. Hartley laughed. “I don’t believe you have time to think,” she said.
Mac glanced cautiously at Mrs. Williams, who was now taking quick mouthfuls of her chocolate pudding. “Sometimes I manage to get an idea,” she said.
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. Hartl
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—”
THE FRIENDS
Charm, November 1953
ELLEN LANSDOWNE 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 eve
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.