Readings for English 1302—Short Story Unit
“Story of an Hour”
“The Darling”
“Eveline”
“Miss Brill”
“A Rose for Emily”
“Hills Like White Elephants”
“The Lottery”
“A&P”
“Where are you going, Where have you been?”
1
“The Story of an Hour” by Kate Chopin
Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as
possible the news of her husband's death.
It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. Her
husband's friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when
intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard's name leading the list of "killed." He
had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less
careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message.
She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its
significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister's arms. When the storm of grief
had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her.
There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a
physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul.
She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring
life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of
a distant song which some one was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the
eaves.
There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled one above the
other in the west facing her window.
She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up
into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams.
She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now
there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It
was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.
There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was
too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds,
the scents, the color that filled the air.
Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to
possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will--as powerless as her two white slender hands
would have been. When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said
it over and over under hte breath: "free, free, free!" The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it
went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and
relaxed every inch of her body.
She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and exalted perception
enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial. She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind,
tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead.
2
But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely.
And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome.
There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live for herself. There would be no
powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they have a right to
impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a
crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination.
And yet she had loved him--sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved
mystery, count for in the face of this possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest
impulse of her being!
"Free! Body and soul free!" she kept whispering.
Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhold, imploring for admission. "Louise,
open the door! I beg; open the door--you will make yourself ill. What are you doing, Louise? For heaven's sake
open the door."
"Go away. I am not making myself ill." No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through that open window.
Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days
that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had
thought with a shudder that life might be long.
She arose at length and opened the door to her sister's importunities. There was a feverish triumph in her eyes,
and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister's waist, and together they
descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.
Some one was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travelstained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of the accident, and
did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine's piercing cry; at Richards' quick motion
to screen him from the view of his wife.
When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease--of the joy that kills.
3
“The Darling” by Anton Chekhov
Olenka, the daughter of the retired collegiate assessor, Plemyanniakov, was sitting in her back porch, lost in
thought. It was hot, the flies were persistent and teasing, and it was pleasant to reflect that it would soon be
evening. Dark rainclouds were gathering from the east, and bringing from time to time a breath of moisture in
the air.
Kukin, who was the manager of an open-air theatre called the Tivoli, and who lived in the lodge, was
standing in the middle of the garden looking at the sky.
"Again!" he observed despairingly. "It's going to rain again! Rain every day, as though to spite me. I might
as well hang myself! It's ruin! Fearful losses every day."
He flung up his hands, and went on, addressing Olenka:
"There! that's the life we lead, Olga Semyonovna. It's enough to make one cry. One works and does one's
utmost, one wears oneself out, getting no sleep at night, and racks one's brain what to do for the best. And
then what happens? To begin with, one's public is ignorant, boorish. I give them the very best operetta, a
dainty masque, first rate music-hall artists. But do you suppose that's what they want! They don't understand
anything of that sort. They want a clown; what they ask for is vulgarity. And then look at the weather! Almost
every evening it rains. It started on the tenth of May, and it's kept it up all May and June. It's simply awful! The
public doesn't come, but I've to pay the rent just the same, and pay the artists."
The next evening the clouds would gather again, and Kukin would say with an hysterical laugh:
"Well, rain away, then! Flood the garden, drown me! Damn my luck in this world and the next! Let the
artists have me up! Send me to prison! -- to Siberia! -- the scaffold! Ha, ha, ha!"
And next day the same thing.
Olenka listened to Kukin with silent gravity, and sometimes tears came into her eyes. In the end his
misfortunes touched her; she grew to love him. He was a small thin man, with a yellow face, and curls combed
forward on his forehead. He spoke in a thin tenor; as he talked his mouth worked on one side, and there was
always an expression of despair on his face; yet he aroused a deep and genuine affection in her. She was
always fond of some one, and could not exist without loving. In earlier days she had loved her papa, who now
sat in a darkened room, breathing with difficulty; she had loved her aunt who used to come every other year
from Bryansk; and before that, when she was at school, she had loved her French master. She was a gentle,
soft-hearted, compassionate girl, with mild, tender eyes and very good health. At the sight of her full rosy
cheeks, her soft white neck with a little dark mole on it, and the kind, naïve smile, which came into her face
when she listened to anything pleasant, men thought, "Yes, not half bad," and smiled too, while lady visitors
could not refrain from seizing her hand in the middle of a conversation, exclaiming in a gush of delight, "You
darling!"
The house in which she had lived from her birth upwards, and which was left her in her father's will, was at
the extreme end of the town, not far from the Tivoli. In the evenings and at night she could head the band
playing, and the crackling and banging of fireworks, and it seemed to her that it was Kukin struggling with his
destiny, storming the entrenchments of his chief foe, the indifferent public; there was a sweet thrill at her
heart, she had no desire to sleep, and when he returned home at day-break, she tapped softly at her bedroom
window, and showing him only her face and one shoulder through the curtain, she gave him a friendly smile ...
He proposed to her, and they were married. And when he had a closer view of her neck and her plump, fine
shoulders, he threw up his hands, and said:
"You darling!"
He was happy, but as it rained on the day and night of his wedding, his face still retained an expression of
despair.
4
They got on very well together. She used to sit in his office, to look after things in the Tivoli, to put down the
accounts and pay the wages. And her rosy cheeks, her sweet, naïve, radiant smile, were to be seen now at the
office window, now in the refreshment bar or behind the scenes of the theatre. And already she used to say to
her acquaintances that the theatre was the chief and most important thing in life and that it was only through
the drama that one could derive true enjoyment and become cultivated and humane.
"But do you suppose the public understands that?" she used to say. "What they want is a clown. Yesterday
we gave 'Faust Inside Out,' and almost all the boxes were empty; but if Vanitchka and I had been producing
some vulgar thing, I assure you the theatre would have been packed. Tomorrow Vanitchka and I are doing
'Orpheus in Hell.' Do come."
And what Kukin said about the theatre and the actors she repeated. Like him she despised the public for
their ignorance and their indifference to art; she took part in the rehearsals, she corrected the actors, she kept
an eye on the behaviour of the musicians, and when there was an unfavourable notice in the local paper, she
shed tears, and then went to the editor's office to set things right.
The actors were fond of her and used to call her "Vanitchka and I," and "the darling"; she was sorry for
them and used to lend them small sums of money, and if they deceived her, she used to shed a few tears in
private, but did not complain to her husband.
They got on well in the winter too. They took the theatre in the town for the whole winter, and let it for short
terms to a Little Russian company, or to a conjurer, or to a local dramatic society. Olenka grew stouter, and
was always beaming with satisfaction, while Kukin grew thinner and yellower, and continually complained of
their terrible losses, although he had not done badly all the winter. He used to cough at night, and she used to
give him hot raspberry tea or lime-flower water, to rub him with eau-de-Cologne and to wrap him in her warm
shawls.
"You're such a sweet pet!" she used to say with perfect sincerity, stroking his hair. "You're such a pretty
dear!"
Towards Lent he went to Moscow to collect a new troupe, and without him she could not sleep, but sat all
night at her window, looking at the stars, and she compared herself with the hens, who are awake all night and
uneasy when the cock is not in the hen-house. Kukin was detained in Moscow, and wrote that he would be back
at Easter, adding some instructions about the Tivoli. But on the Sunday before Easter, late in the evening, came
a sudden ominous knock at the gate; some one was hammering on the gate as though on a barrel -- boom,
boom, boom! The drowsy cook went flopping with her bare feet through the puddles, as she ran to open the
gate.
"Please open," said some one outside in a thick bass. "There is a telegram for you."
Olenka had received telegrams from her husband before, but this time for some reason she felt numb with
terror. With shaking hands she opened the telegram and read as follows:
"IVAN PETROVITCH DIED SUDDENLY TO-DAY. AWAITING IMMATE INSTRUCTIONS FUFUNERAL TUESDAY."
That was how it was written in the telegram -- "fufuneral," and the utterly incomprehensible word "immate."
It was signed by the stage manager of the operatic company.
"My darling!" sobbed Olenka. "Vanka, my precious, my darling! Why did I ever meet you! Why did I know
you and love you! Your poor heart-broken Olenka is alone without you!"
Kukin's funeral took place on Tuesday in Moscow, Olenka returned home on Wednesday, and as soon as she
got indoors, she threw herself on her bed and sobbed so loudly that it could be heard next door, and in the
street.
"Poor darling!" the neighbours said, as they crossed themselves. "Olga Semyonovna, poor darling! How she
does take on!"
5
Three months later Olenka was coming home from mass, melancholy and in deep mourning. It happened
that one of her neighbours, Vassily Andreitch Pustovalov, returning home from church, walked back beside her.
He was the manager at Babakayev's, the timber merchant's. He wore a straw hat, a white waistcoat, and a gold
watch-chain, and looked more a country gentleman than a man in trade.
"Everything happens as it is ordained, Olga Semyonovna," he said gravely, with a sympathetic note in his
voice; "and if any of our dear ones die, it must be because it is the will of God, so we ought have fortitude and
bear it submissively."
After seeing Olenka to her gate, he said good-bye and went on. All day afterwards she heard his sedately
dignified voice, and whenever she shut her eyes she saw his dark beard. She liked him very much. And
apparently she had made an impression on him too, for not long afterwards an elderly lady, with whom she was
only slightly acquainted, came to drink coffee with her, and as soon as she was seated at table began to talk
about Pustovalov, saying that he was an excellent man whom one could thoroughly depend upon, and that any
girl would be glad to marry him. Three days later Pustovalov came himself. He did not stay long, only about ten
minutes, and he did not say much, but when he left, Olenka loved him -- loved him so much that she lay awake
all night in a perfect fever, and in the morning she sent for the elderly lady. The match was quickly arranged,
and then came the wedding.
Pustovalov and Olenka got on very well together when they were married.
Usually he sat in the office till dinner-time, then he went out on business, while Olenka took his place, and
sat in the office till evening, making up accounts and booking orders.
"Timber gets dearer every year; the price rises twenty per cent," she would say to her customers and
friends. "Only fancy we used to sell local timber, and now Vassitchka always has to go for wood to the Mogilev
district. And the freight!" she would add, covering her cheeks with her hands in horror. "The freight!"
It seemed to her that she had been in the timber trade for ages and ages, and that the most important and
necessary thing in life was timber; and there was something intimate and touching to her in the very sound of
words such as "baulk," "post," "beam," "pole," "scantling," "batten," "lath," "plank," etc.
At night when she was asleep she dreamed of perfect mountains of planks and boards, and long strings of
wagons, carting timber somewhere far away. She dreamed that a whole regiment of six-inch beams forty feet
high, standing on end, was marching upon the timber-yard; that logs, beams, and boards knocked together
with the resounding crash of dry wood, kept falling and getting up again, piling themselves on each other.
Olenka cried out in her sleep, and Pustovalov said to her tenderly: "Olenka, what's the matter, darling? Cross
yourself!"
Her husband's ideas were hers. If he thought the room was too hot, or that business was slack, she thought
the same. Her husband did not care for entertainments, and on holidays he stayed at home. She did likewise.
"You are always at home or in the office," her friends said to her. "You should go to the theatre, darling, or
to the circus."
"Vassitchka and I have no time to go to theatres," she would answer sedately. "We have no time for
nonsense. What's the use of these theatres?"
On Saturdays Pustovalov and she used to go to the evening service; on holidays to early mass, and they
walked side by side with softened faces as they came home from church. There was a pleasant fragrance about
them both, and her silk dress rustled agreeably. At home they drank tea, with fancy bread and jams of various
kinds, and afterwards they ate pie. Every day at twelve o'clock there was a savoury smell of beet-root soup and
of mutton or duck in their yard, and on fast-days of fish, and no one could pass the gate without feeling hungry.
In the office the samovar was always boiling, and customers were regaled with tea and cracknels. Once a week
the couple went to the baths and returned side by side, both red in the face.
"Yes, we have nothing to complain of, thank God," Olenka used to say to her acquaintances. "I wish every
one were as well off as Vassitchka and I."
6
When Pustovalov went away to buy wood in the Mogilev district, she missed him dreadfully, lay awake and
cried. A young veterinary surgeon in the army, called Smirnin, to whom they had let their lodge, used
sometimes to come in in the evening. He used to talk to her and play cards with her, and this entertained her in
her husband's absence. She was particularly interested in what he told her of his home life. He was married and
had a little boy, but was separated from his wife because she had been unfaithful to him, and now he hated her
and used to send her forty roubles a month for the maintenance of their son. And hearing of all this, Olenka
sighed and shook her head. She was sorry for him.
"Well, God keep you," she used to say to him at parting, as she lighted him down the stairs with a candle.
"Thank you for coming to cheer me up, and may the Mother of God give you health."
And she always expressed herself with the same sedateness and dignity, the same reasonableness, in
imitation of her husband. As the veterinary surgeon was disappearing behind the door below, she would say:
"You know, Vladimir Platonitch, you'd better make it up with your wife. You should forgive her for the sake
of your son. You may be sure the little fellow understands."
And when Pustovalov came back, she told him in a low voice about the veterinary surgeon and his unhappy
home life, and both sighed and shook their heads and talked about the boy, who, no doubt, missed his father,
and by some strange connection of ideas, they went up to the holy ikons, bowed to the ground before them and
prayed that God would give them children.
And so the Pustovalovs lived for six years quietly and peaceably in love and complete harmony.
But behold! one winter day after drinking hot tea in the office, Vassily Andreitch went out into the yard
without his cap on to see about sending off some timber, caught cold and was taken ill. He had the best
doctors, but he grew worse and died after four months' illness. And Olenka was a widow once more.
"I've nobody, now you've left me, my darling," she sobbed, after her husband's funeral. "How can I live
without you, in wretchedness and misery! Pity me, good people, all alone in the world!"
She went about dressed in black with long "weepers," and gave up wearing hat and gloves for good. She
hardly ever went out, except to church, or to her husband's grave, and led the life of a nun. It was not till six
months later that she took off the weepers and opened the shutters of the windows. She was sometimes seen
in the mornings, going with her cook to market for provisions, but what went on in her house and how she lived
now could only be surmised. People guessed, from seeing her drinking tea in her garden with the veterinary
surgeon, who read the newspaper aloud to her, and from the fact that, meeting a lady she knew at the postoffice, she said to her:
"There is no proper veterinary inspection in our town, and that's the cause of all sorts of epidemics. One is
always hearing of people's getting infection from the milk supply, or catching diseases from horses and cows.
The health of domestic animals ought to be as well cared for as the health of human beings."
She repeated the veterinary surgeon's words, and was of the same opinion as he about everything. It was
evident that she could not live a year without some attachment, and had found new happiness in the lodge. In
any one else this would have been censured, but no one could think ill of Olenka; everything she did was so
natural. Neither she nor the veterinary surgeon said anything to other people of the change in their relations,
and tried, indeed, to conceal it, but without success, for Olenka could not keep a secret. When he had visitors,
men serving in his regiment, and she poured out tea or served the supper, she would begin talking of the cattle
plague, of the foot and mouth disease, and of the municipal slaughterhouses. He was dreadfully embarrassed,
and when the guests had gone, he would seize her by the hand and hiss angrily:
"I've asked you before not to talk about what you don't understand. When we veterinary surgeons are
talking among ourselves, please don't put your word in. It's really annoying."
And she would look at him with astonishment and dismay, and ask him in alarm: "But, Voloditchka, what am
I to talk about?"
And with tears in her eyes she would embrace him, begging him not to be angry, and they were both happy.
7
But this happiness did not last long. The veterinary surgeon departed, departed for ever with his regiment,
when it was transferred to a distant place -- to Siberia, it may be. And Olenka was left alone.
Now she was absolutely alone. Her father had long been dead, and his armchair lay in the attic, covered
with dust and lame of one leg. She got thinner and plainer, and when people met her in the street they did not
look at her as they used to, and did not smile to her; evidently her best years were over and left behind, and
now a new sort of life had begun for her, which did not bear thinking about. In the evening Olenka sat in the
porch, and heard the band playing and the fireworks popping in the Tivoli, but now the sound stirred no
response. She looked into her yard without interest, thought of nothing, wished for nothing, and afterwards,
when night came on she went to bed and dreamed of her empty yard. She ate and drank as it were unwillingly.
And what was worst of all, she had no opinions of any sort. She saw the objects about her and understood
what she saw, but could not form any opinion about them, and did not know what to talk about. And how awful
it is not to have any opinions! One sees a bottle, for instance, or the rain, or a peasant driving in his cart, but
what the bottle is for, or the rain, or the peasant, and what is the meaning of it, one can't say, and could not
even for a thousand roubles. When she had Kukin, or Pustovalov, or the veterinary surgeon, Olenka could
explain everything, and give her opinion about anything you like, but now there was the same emptiness in her
brain and in her heart as there was in her yard outside. And it was as harsh and as bitter as wormwood in the
mouth.
Little by little the town grew in all directions. The road became a street, and where the Tivoli and the timberyard had been, there were new turnings and houses. How rapidly time passes! Olenka's house grew dingy, the
roof got rusty, the shed sank on one side, and the whole yard was overgrown with docks and stinging-nettles.
Olenka herself had grown plain and elderly; in summer she sat in the porch, and her soul, as before, was empty
and dreary and full of bitterness. In winter she sat at her window and looked at the snow. When she caught the
scent of spring, or heard the chime of the church bells, a sudden rush of memories from the past came over
her, there was a tender ache in her heart, and her eyes brimmed over with tears; but this was only for a
minute, and then came emptiness again and the sense of the futility of life. The black kitten, Briska, rubbed
against her and purred softly, but Olenka was not touched by these feline caresses. That was not what she
needed. She wanted a love that would absorb her whole being, her whole soul and reason -- that would give
her ideas and an object in life, and would warm her old blood. And she would shake the kitten off her skirt and
say with vexation:
"Get along; I don't want you!"
And so it was, day after day and year after year, and no joy, and no opinions. Whatever Mavra, the cook,
said she accepted.
One hot July day, towards evening, just as the cattle were being driven away, and the whole yard was full of
dust, some one suddenly knocked at the gate. Olenka went to open it herself and was dumbfounded when she
looked out: she saw Smirnin, the veterinary surgeon, grey-headed, and dressed as a civilian. She suddenly
remembered everything. She could not help crying and letting her head fall on his breast without uttering a
word, and in the violence of her feeling she did not notice how they both walked into the house and sat down to
tea.
"My dear Vladimir Platonitch! What fate has brought you?" she muttered, trembling with joy.
"I want to settle here for good, Olga Semyonovna," he told her. "I have resigned my post, and have come to
settle down and try my luck on my own account. Besides, it's time for my boy to go to school. He's a big boy. I
am reconciled with my wife, you know."
"Where is she?' asked Olenka.
"She's at the hotel with the boy, and I'm looking for lodgings."
"Good gracious, my dear soul! Lodgings? Why not have my house? Why shouldn't that suit you? Why, my
goodness, I wouldn't take any rent!" cried Olenka in a flutter, beginning to cry again. "You live here, and the
lodge will do nicely for me. Oh dear! how glad I am!"
8
Next day the roof was painted and the walls were whitewashed, and Olenka, with her arms akimbo walked
about the yard giving directions. Her face was beaming with her old smile, and she was brisk and alert as
though she had waked from a long sleep. The veterinary's wife arrived -- a thin, plain lady, with short hair and
a peevish expression. With her was her little Sasha, a boy of ten, small for his age, blue-eyed, chubby, with
dimples in his cheeks. And scarcely had the boy walked into the yard when he ran after the cat, and at once
there was the sound of his gay, joyous laugh.
"Is that your puss, auntie?" he asked Olenka. "When she has little ones, do give us a kitten. Mamma is
awfully afraid of mice."
Olenka talked to him, and gave him tea. Her heart warmed and there was a sweet ache in her bosom, as
though the boy had been her own child. And when he sat at the table in the evening, going over his lessons,
she looked at him with deep tenderness and pity as she murmured to herself:
"You pretty pet! ... my precious! ... Such a fair little thing, and so clever."
" 'An island is a piece of land which is entirely surrounded by water,' " he read aloud.
"An island is a piece of land," she repeated, and this was the first opinion to which she gave utterance with
positive conviction after so many years of silence and dearth of ideas.
Now she had opinions of her own, and at supper she talked to Sasha's parents, saying how difficult the
lessons were at the high schools, but that yet the high school was better than a commercial one, since with a
high-school education all careers were open to one, such as being a doctor or an engineer.
Sasha began going to the high school. His mother departed to Harkov to her sister's and did not return; his
father used to go off every day to inspect cattle, and would often be away from home for three days together,
and it seemed to Olenka as though Sasha was entirely abandoned, that he was not wanted at home, that he
was being starved, and she carried him off to her lodge and gave him a little room there.
And for six months Sasha had lived in the lodge with her. Every morning Olenka came into his bedroom and
found him fast asleep, sleeping noiselessly with his hand under his cheek. She was sorry to wake him.
"Sashenka," she would say mournfully, "get up, darling. It's time for school."
He would get up, dress and say his prayers, and then sit down to breakfast, drink three glasses of tea, and
eat two large cracknels and a half a buttered roll. All this time he was hardly awake and a little ill-humoured in
consequence.
"You don't quite know your fable, Sashenka," Olenka would say, looking at him as though he were about to
set off on a long journey. "What a lot of trouble I have with you! You must work and do your best, darling, and
obey your teachers."
"Oh, do leave me alone!" Sasha would say.
Then he would go down the street to school, a little figure, wearing a big cap and carrying a satchel on his
shoulder. Olenka would follow him noiselessly.
"Sashenka!" she would call after him, and she would pop into his hand a date or a caramel. When he
reached the street where the school was, he would feel ashamed of being followed by a tall, stout woman, he
would turn round and say:
"You'd better go home, auntie. I can go the rest of the way alone."
She would stand still and look after him fixedly till he had disappeared at the school-gate.
Ah, how she loved him! Of her former attachments not one had been so deep; never had her soul
surrendered to any feeling so spontaneously, so disinterestedly, and so joyously as now that her maternal
9
instincts were aroused. For this little boy with the dimple in his cheek and the big school cap, she would have
given her whole life, she would have given it with joy and tears of tenderness. Why? Who can tell why?
When she had seen the last of Sasha, she returned home, contented and serene, brimming over with love;
her face, which had grown younger during the last six months, smiled and beamed; people meeting her looked
at her with pleasure.
"Good-morning, Olga Semyonovna, darling. How are you, darling?"
"The lessons at the high school are very difficult now," she would relate at the market. "It's too much; in the
first class yesterday they gave him a fable to learn by heart, and a Latin translation and a problem. You know
it's too much for a little chap."
And she would begin talking about the teachers, the lessons, and the school books, saying just what Sasha
said.
At three o'clock they had dinner together: in the evening they learned their lessons together and cried.
When she put him to bed, she would stay a long time making the Cross over him and murmuring a prayer; then
she would go to bed and dream of that far-away misty future when Sasha would finish his studies and become a
doctor or an engineer, would have a big house of his own with horses and a carriage, would get married and
have children ... She would fall asleep still thinking of the same thing, and tears would run down her cheeks
from her closed eyes, while the black cat lay purring beside her: "Mrr, mrr, mrr."
Suddenly there would come a loud knock at the gate.
Olenka would wake up breathless with alarm, her heart throbbing. Half a minute later would come another
knock.
"It must be a telegram from Harkov," she would think, beginning to tremble from head to foot. "Sasha's
mother is sending for him from Harkov ... Oh, mercy on us!"
She was in despair. Her head, her hands, and her feet would turn chill, and she would feel that she was the
most unhappy woman in the world. But another minute would pass, voices would be heard: it would turn out to
be the veterinary surgeon coming home from the club.
"Well, thank God!" she would think.
And gradually the load in her heart would pass off, and she would feel at ease. She would go back to bed
thinking of Sasha, who lay sound asleep in the next room, sometimes crying out in his sleep:
"I'll give it you! Get away! Shut up!"
10
“Eveline” by James Joyce
SHE sat at the window watching the evening invade the avenue. Her head was leaned against the window
curtains and in her nostrils was the odour of dusty cretonne. She was tired.
Few people passed. The man out of the last house passed on his way home; she heard his footsteps clacking
along the concrete pavement and afterwards crunching on the cinder path before the new red houses. One time
there used to be a field there in which they used to play every evening with other people's children. Then a man
from Belfast bought the field and built houses in it -- not like their little brown houses but bright brick houses
with shining roofs. The children of the avenue used to play together in that field -- the Devines, the Waters, the
Dunns, little Keogh the cripple, she and her brothers and sisters. Ernest, however, never played: he was too
grown up. Her father used often to hunt them in out of the field with his blackthorn stick; but usually little
Keogh used to keep nix and call out when he saw her father coming. Still they seemed to have been rather
happy then. Her father was not so bad then; and besides, her mother was alive. That was a long time ago; she
and her brothers and sisters were all grown up her mother was dead. Tizzie Dunn was dead, too, and the Waters
had gone back to England. Everything changes. Now she was going to go away like the others, to leave her
home.
Home! She looked round the room, reviewing all its familiar objects which she had dusted once a week for so
many years, wondering where on earth all the dust came from. Perhaps she would never see again those familiar
objects from which she had never dreamed of being divided. And yet during all those years she had never found
out the name of the priest whose yellowing photograph hung on the wall above the broken harmonium beside
the coloured print of the promises made to Blessed Margaret Mary Alacoque. He had been a school friend of
her father. Whenever he showed the photograph to a visitor her father used to pass it with a casual word:
"He is in Melbourne now."
She had consented to go away, to leave her home. Was that wise? She tried to weigh each side of the question.
In her home anyway she had shelter and food; she had those whom she had known all her life about her. O
course she had to work hard, both in the house and at business. What would they say of her in the Stores when
they found out that she had run away with a fellow? Say she was a fool, perhaps; and her place would be filled
up by advertisement. Miss Gavan would be glad. She had always had an edge on her, especially whenever there
were people listening.
"Miss Hill, don't you see these ladies are waiting?"
"Look lively, Miss Hill, please."
She would not cry many tears at leaving the Stores.
But in her new home, in a distant unknown country, it would not be like that. Then she would be married -- she,
Eveline. People would treat her with respect then. She would not be treated as her mother had been. Even now,
though she was over nineteen, she sometimes felt herself in danger of her father's violence. She knew it was that
that had given her the palpitations. When they were growing up he had never gone for her like he used to go for
11
Harry and Ernest, because she was a girl but latterly he had begun to threaten her and say what he would do to
her only for her dead mother's sake. And no she had nobody to protect her. Ernest was dead and Harry, who was
in the church decorating business, was nearly always down somewhere in the country. Besides, the invariable
squabble for money on Saturday nights had begun to weary her unspeakably. She always gave her entire wages
-- seven shillings -- and Harry always sent up what he could but the trouble was to get any money from her
father. He said she used to squander the money, that she had no head, that he wasn't going to give her his hardearned money to throw about the streets, and much more, for he was usually fairly bad on Saturday night. In the
end he would give her the money and ask her had she any intention of buying Sunday's dinner. Then she had to
rush out as quickly as she could and do her marketing, holding her black leather purse tightly in her hand as she
elbowed her way through the crowds and returning home late under her load of provisions. She had hard work
to keep the house together and to see that the two young children who had been left to hr charge went to school
regularly and got their meals regularly. It was hard work -- a hard life -- but now that she was about to leave it
she did not find it a wholly undesirable life.
She was about to explore another life with Frank. Frank was very kind, manly, open-hearted. She was to go
away with him by the night-boat to be his wife and to live with him in Buenos Ayres where he had a home
waiting for her. How well she remembered the first time she had seen him; he was lodging in a house on the
main road where she used to visit. It seemed a few weeks ago. He was standing at the gate, his peaked cap
pushed back on his head and his hair tumbled forward over a face of bronze. Then they had come to know each
other. He used to meet her outside the Stores every evening and see her home. He took her to see The Bohemian
Girl and she felt elated as she sat in an unaccustomed part of the theatre with him. He was awfully fond of
music and sang a little. People knew that they were courting and, when he sang about the lass that loves a sailor,
she always felt pleasantly confused. He used to call her Poppens out of fun. First of all it had been an
excitement for her to have a fellow and then she had begun to like him. He had tales of distant countries. He had
started as a deck boy at a pound a month on a ship of the Allan Line going out to Canada. He told her the names
of the ships he had been on and the names of the different services. He had sailed through the Straits of
Magellan and he told her stories of the terrible Patagonians. He had fallen on his feet in Buenos Ayres, he said,
and had come over to the old country just for a holiday. Of course, her father had found out the affair and had
forbidden her to have anything to say to him.
"I know these sailor chaps," he said.
One day he had quarrelled with Frank and after that she had to meet her lover secretly.
The evening deepened in the avenue. The white of two letters in her lap grew indistinct. One was to Harry; the
other was to her father. Ernest had been her favourite but she liked Harry too. Her father was becoming old
lately, she noticed; he would miss her. Sometimes he could be very nice. Not long before, when she had been
laid up for a day, he had read her out a ghost story and made toast for her at the fire. Another day, when their
mother was alive, they had all gone for a picnic to the Hill of Howth. She remembered her father putting on her
mothers bonnet to make the children laugh.
Her time was running out but she continued to sit by the window, leaning her head against the window curtain,
inhaling the odour of dusty cretonne. Down far in the avenue she could hear a street organ playing. She knew
12
the air Strange that it should come that very night to remind her of the promise to her mother, her promise to
keep the home together as long as she could. She remembered the last night of her mother's illness; she was
again in the close dark room at the other side of the hall and outside she heard a melancholy air of Italy. The
organ-player had been ordered to go away and given sixpence. She remembered her father strutting back into
the sickroom saying:
"Damned Italians! coming over here!"
As she mused the pitiful vision of her mother's life laid its spell on the very quick of her being -- that life of
commonplace sacrifices closing in final craziness. She trembled as she heard again her mother's voice saying
constantly with foolish insistence:
"Derevaun Seraun! Derevaun Seraun!"
She stood up in a sudden impulse of terror. Escape! She must escape! Frank would save her. He would give her
life, perhaps love, too. But she wanted to live. Why should she be unhappy? She had a right to happiness. Frank
would take her in his arms, fold her in his arms. He would save her.
She stood among the swaying crowd in the station at the North Wall. He held her hand and she knew that he
was speaking to her, saying something about the passage over and over again. The station was full of soldiers
with brown baggages. Through the wide doors of the sheds she caught a glimpse of the black mass of the boat,
lying in beside the quay wall, with illumined portholes. She answered nothing. She felt her cheek pale and cold
and, out of a maze of distress, she prayed to God to direct her, to show her what was her duty. The boat blew a
long mournful whistle into the mist. If she went, tomorrow she would be on the sea with Frank, steaming
towards Buenos Ayres. Their passage had been booked. Could she still draw back after all he had done for her?
Her distress awoke a nausea in her body and she kept moving her lips in silent fervent prayer.
A bell clanged upon her heart. She felt him seize her hand:
"Come!"
All the seas of the world tumbled about her heart. He was drawing her into them: he would drown her. She
gripped with both hands at the iron railing.
"Come!"
No! No! No! It was impossible. Her hands clutched the iron in frenzy. Amid the seas she sent a cry of anguish.
"Eveline! Evvy!"
He rushed beyond the barrier and called to her to follow. He was shouted at to go on but he still called to her.
She set her white face to him, passive, like a helpless animal. Her eyes gave him no sign of love or farewell or
recognition.
13
“MISS BRILL” by Katherine Mansfield
ALTHOUGH it was so brilliantly fine–the blue sky powdered with gold and great spots of light like white wine
splashed over the Jardins Publiques–Miss Brill was glad that she had decided on her fur. The air was
motionless, but when you opened your mouth there was just a faint chill, like a chill from a glass of iced water
before you sip, and now and again a leaf came drifting–from nowhere, from the sky. Miss Brill put up her hand
and touched her fur. Dear little thing! It was nice to feel it again. She had taken it out of its box that afternoon,
shaken out the moth powder, given it a good brush, and rubbed the life back into the dim little eyes. "What has
been happening to me?" said the sad little eyes. Oh, how sweet it was to see them snap at her again from the red
eiderdown! . . . But the nose, which was of some black composition, wasn't at all firm. It must have had a
knock, somehow. Never mind–a little dab of black sealing-wax when the time came–when it was absolutely
necessary . . . Little rogue! Yes, she really felt like that about it. Little rogue biting its tail just by her left ear.
She could have taken it off and laid it on her lap and stroked it. She felt a tingling in her hands and arms, but
that [Page 183] came from walking, she supposed. And when she breathed, something light and sad–no, not
sad, exactly–something gentle seemed to move in her bosom.
There were a number of people out this afternoon, far more than last Sunday. And the band sounded louder and
gayer. That was because the Season had begun. For although the band played all the year round on Sundays, out
of season it was never the same. It was like some one playing with only the family to listen; it didn't care how it
played if there weren't any strangers present. Wasn't the conductor wearing a new coat, too? She was sure it was
new. He scraped with his foot and flapped his arms like a rooster about to crow, and the bandsmen sitting in the
green rotunda blew out their cheeks and glared at the music. Now there came a little "flutey" bit–very pretty!–a
little chain of bright drops. She was sure it would be repeated. It was; she lifted her head and smiled.
Only two people shared her "special" seat: a fine old man in a velvet coat, his hands clasped over a huge carved
walking-stick, and a big old woman, sitting upright, with a roll of knitting on her embroidered apron. They did
not speak. This was disappointing, for Miss Brill always looked forward to the conversation. She had become
really quite expert, she thought, at listening as though she didn't listen, at sitting in other people's lives just for a
minute while they talked round her. [Page 184]
She glanced, sideways, at the old couple. Perhaps they would go soon. Last Sunday, too, hadn't been as
interesting as usual. An Englishman and his wife, he wearing a dreadful Panama hat and she button boots. And
she'd gone on the whole time about how she ought to wear spectacles; she knew she needed them; but that it
was no good getting any; they'd be sure to break and they'd never keep on. And he'd been so patient. He'd
suggested everything–gold rims, the kind that curve round your ears, little pads inside the bridge. No, nothing
would please her. "They'll always be sliding down my nose!" Miss Brill had wanted to shake her.
The old people sat on a bench, still as statues. Never mind, there was always the crowd to watch. To and fro, in
front of the flower beds and the band rotunda, the couples and groups paraded, stopped to talk, to greet, to buy a
handful of flowers from the old beggar who had his tray fixed to the railings. Little children ran among them,
swooping and laughing; little boys with big white silk bows under their chins, little girls, little French dolls,
dressed up in velvet and lace. And sometimes a tiny staggerer came suddenly rocking into the open from under
the trees, stopped, stared, as suddenly sat down "flop," until its small high-stepping mother, like a young hen,
rushed scolding to its rescue. Other people sat on the benches and green chairs, but they were nearly always the
same, Sunday after Sunday, [Page 185] and–Miss Brill had often noticed–there was something funny about
nearly all of them. They were odd, silent, nearly all old, and from the way they stared they looked as though
they'd just come from dark little rooms or even–even cupboards!
Behind the rotunda the slender trees with yellow leaves down drooping, and through them just a line of sea, and
beyond the blue sky with gold-veined clouds.
14
Tum-tum-tum tiddle-um! tiddle-um! tum tiddley-um tum ta! blew the band.
Two young girls in red came by and two young soldiers in blue met them, and they laughed and paired and went
off arm-in-arm. Two peasant women with funny straw hats passed, gravely, leading beautiful smoke-coloured
donkeys. A cold, pale nun hurried by. A beautiful woman came along and dropped her bunch of violets, and a
little boy ran after to hand them to her, and she took them and threw them away as if they'd been poisoned. Dear
me! Miss Brill didn't know whether to admire that or not! And now an ermine toque and a gentleman in gray
met just in front of her. He was tall, stiff, dignified, and she was wearing the ermine toque she'd bought when
her hair was yellow. Now everything, her hair, her face, even her eyes, was the same colour as the shabby
ermine, and her hand, in its cleaned glove, lifted to dab her lips, was a tiny yellowish paw. Oh, she was so
pleased to see him–delighted! She rather thought they were going [Page 186] to meet that afternoon. She
described where she'd been–everywhere, here, there, along by the sea. The day was so charming–didn't he
agree? And wouldn't he, perhaps? . . . But he shook his head, lighted a cigarette, slowly breathed a great deep
puff into her face, and even while she was still talking and laughing, flicked the match away and walked on.
The ermine toque was alone; she smiled more brightly than ever. But even the band seemed to know what she
was feeling and played more softly, played tenderly, and the drum beat, "The Brute! The Brute!" over and over.
What would she do? What was going to happen now? But as Miss Brill wondered, the ermine toque turned,
raised her hand as though she'd seen someone else, much nicer, just over there, and pattered away. And the band
changed again and played more quickly, more gayly than ever, and the old couple on Miss Brill's seat got up
and marched away, and such a funny old man with long whiskers hobbled along in time to the music and was
nearly knocked over by four girls walking abreast.
Oh, how fascinating it was! How she enjoyed it! How she loved sitting here, watching it all! It was like a play.
It was exactly like a play. Who could believe the sky at the back wasn't painted? But it wasn't till a little brown
dog trotted on solemn and then slowly trotted off, like a little "theatre" dog, a little dog that had been drugged,
that Miss Brill discovered what it was [Page 187] that made it so exciting. They were all on stage. They
weren't only the audience, not only looking on; they were acting. Even she had a part and came every Sunday.
No doubt somebody would have noticed if she hadn't been there; she was part of the performance after all. How
strange she'd never thought of it like that before! And yet it explained why she made such point of starting from
home at just the same time each week–so as not to be late for the performance–and it also explained why she
had a queer, shy feeling at telling her English pupils how she spent her Sunday afternoons. No wonder! Miss
Brill nearly laughed out loud. She was on the stage. She thought of the old invalid gentleman to whom she read
the newspaper four afternoons a week while he slept in the garden. She had got quite used to the frail head on
the cotton pillow, the hollowed eyes, the open mouth and the high pinched nose. If he'd been dead she mightn't
have noticed for weeks; she wouldn't have minded. But suddenly he knew he was having the paper read to him
by an actress! "An actress!" The old head lifted; two points of light quivered in the old eyes. "An actress–are
ye?" And Miss Brill smoothed the newspaper as though it were the manuscript of her part and said gently; "Yes,
I have been an actress for a long time."
The band had been having a rest. Now they started again. And what they played was warm, [Page 188] sunny,
yet there was just a faint chill–a something, what was it?–not sadness–no, not sadness–a something that made
you want to sing. The tune lifted, lifted, the light shone; and it seemed to Miss Brill that in another moment all
of them, all the whole company, would begin singing. The young ones, the laughing ones who were moving
together, they would begin and the men's voices, very resolute and brave, would join them. And then she too,
she too, and the others on the benches–they would come in with a kind of accompaniment–something low, that
scarcely rose or fell, something so beautiful–moving. . . . And Miss Brill's eyes filled with tears and she looked
smiling at all the other members of the company. Yes, we understand, we understand, she thought–though what
they understood she didn't know.
15
Just at that moment a boy and girl came and sat down where the old couple had been. They were beautifully
dressed; they were in love. The hero and heroine, of course, just arrived from his father's yacht. And still
soundlessly singing, still with that trembling smile, Miss Brill prepared to listen.
"No, not now," said the girl. "Not here, I can't."
"But why? Because of that stupid old thing at the end there?" asked the boy. "Why does she come here at all–
who wants her? Why doesn't she keep her silly old mug at home?" [Page 189]
"It's her fu-ur which is so funny," giggled the girl. "It's exactly like a fried whiting."
"Ah, be off with you!" said the boy in an angry whisper. Then: "Tell me, ma petite chère–"
"No, not here," said the girl. "Not yet."
.......
On her way home she usually bought a slice of honeycake at the baker's. It was her Sunday treat. Sometimes
there was an almond in her slice, sometimes not. It made a great difference. If there was an almond it was like
carrying home a tiny present–a surprise–something that might very well not have been there. She hurried on the
almond Sundays and struck the match for the kettle in quite a dashing way.
But to-day she passed the baker's by, climbed the stairs, went into the little dark room–her room like a
cupboard–and sat down on the red eiderdown. She sat there for a long time. The box that the fur came out of
was on the bed. She unclasped the necklet quickly; quickly, without looking, laid it inside. But when she put the
lid on she thought she heard something crying.
16
“A Rose for Emily” by William Faulkner
I
WHEN Miss Emily Grierson died, our whole town went to her funeral: the men through a sort of respectful
affection for a fallen monument, the women mostly out of curiosity to see the inside of her house, which no one
save an old man-servant--a combined gardener and cook--had seen in at least ten years.
It was a big, squarish frame house that had once been white, decorated with cupolas and spires and scrolled
balconies in the heavily lightsome style of the seventies, set on what had once been our most select street. But
garages and cotton gins had encroached and obliterated even the august names of that neighborhood; only Miss
Emily's house was left, lifting its stubborn and coquettish decay above the cotton wagons and the gasoline
pumps-an eyesore among eyesores. And now Miss Emily had gone to join the representatives of those august
names where they lay in the cedar-bemused cemetery among the ranked and anonymous graves of Union and
Confederate soldiers who fell at the battle of Jefferson.
Alive, Miss Emily had been a tradition, a duty, and a care; a sort of hereditary obligation upon the town, dating
from that day in 1894 when Colonel Sartoris, the mayor--he who fathered the edict that no Negro woman
should appear on the streets without an apron-remitted her taxes, the dispensation dating from the death of her
father on into perpetuity. Not that Miss Emily would have accepted charity. Colonel Sartoris invented an
involved tale to the effect that Miss Emily's father had loaned money to the town, which the town, as a matter of
business, preferred this way of repaying. Only a man of Colonel Sartoris' generation and thought could have
invented it, and only a woman could have believed it.
When the next generation, with its more modern ideas, became mayors and aldermen, this arrangement created
some little dissatisfaction. On the first of the year they mailed her a tax notice. February came, and there was no
reply. They wrote her a formal letter, asking her to call at the sheriff's office at her convenience. A week later
the mayor wrote her himself, offering to call or to send his car for her, and received in reply a note on paper of
an archaic shape, in a thin, flowing calligraphy in faded ink, to the effect that she no longer went out at all. The
tax notice was also enclosed, without comment.
They called a special meeting of the Board of Aldermen. A deputation waited upon her, knocked at the door
through which no visitor had passed since she ceased giving china-painting lessons eight or ten years earlier.
They were admitted by the old Negro into a dim hall from which a stairway mounted into still more shadow. It
smelled of dust and disuse--a close, dank smell. The Negro led them into the parlor. It was furnished in heavy,
leather-covered furniture. When the Negro opened the blinds of one window, they could see that the leather was
cracked; and when they sat down, a faint dust rose sluggishly about their thighs, spinning with slow motes in
the single sun-ray. On a tarnished gilt easel before the fireplace stood a crayon portrait of Miss Emily's father.
They rose when she entered--a small, fat woman in black, with a thin gold chain descending to her waist and
vanishing into her belt, leaning on an ebony cane with a tarnished gold head. Her skeleton was small and spare;
perhaps that was why what would have been merely plumpness in another was obesity in her. She looked
bloated, like a body long submerged in motionless water, and of that pallid hue. Her eyes, lost in the fatty ridges
of her face, looked like two small pieces of coal pressed into a lump of dough as they moved from one face to
another while the visitors stated their errand.
She did not ask them to sit. She just stood in the door and listened quietly until the spokesman came to a
stumbling halt. Then they could hear the invisible watch ticking at the end of the gold chain.
17
Her voice was dry and cold. "I have no taxes in Jefferson. Colonel Sartoris explained it to me. Perhaps one of
you can gain access to the city records and satisfy yourselves."
"But we have. We are the city authorities, Miss Emily. Didn't you get a notice from the sheriff, signed by him?"
"I received a paper, yes," Miss Emily said. "Perhaps he considers himself the sheriff . . . I have no taxes in
Jefferson."
"But there is nothing on the books to show that, you see We must go by the--"
"See Colonel Sartoris. I have no taxes in Jefferson."
"But, Miss Emily--"
"See Colonel Sartoris." (Colonel Sartoris had been dead almost ten years.) "I have no taxes in Jefferson. Tobe!"
The Negro appeared. "Show these gentlemen out."
II
So SHE vanquished them, horse and foot, just as she had vanquished their fathers thirty years before about the
smell.
That was two years after her father's death and a short time after her sweetheart--the one we believed would
marry her --had deserted her. After her father's death she went out very little; after her sweetheart went away,
people hardly saw her at all. A few of the ladies had the temerity to call, but were not received, and the only
sign of life about the place was the Negro man--a young man then--going in and out with a market basket.
"Just as if a man--any man--could keep a kitchen properly, "the ladies said; so they were not surprised when the
smell developed. It was another link between the gross, teeming world and the high and mighty Griersons.
A neighbor, a woman, complained to the mayor, Judge Stevens, eighty years old.
"But what will you have me do about it, madam?" he said.
"Why, send her word to stop it," the woman said. "Isn't there a law? "
"I'm sure that won't be necessary," Judge Stevens said. "It's probably just a snake or a rat that nigger of hers
killed in the yard. I'll speak to him about it."
The next day he received two more complaints, one from a man who came in diffident deprecation. "We really
must do something about it, Judge. I'd be the last one in the world to bother Miss Emily, but we've got to do
something." That night the Board of Aldermen met--three graybeards and one younger man, a member of the
rising generation.
"It's simple enough," he said. "Send her word to have her place cleaned up. Give her a certain time to do it in,
and if she don't. .."
18
"Dammit, sir," Judge Stevens said, "will you accuse a lady to her face of smelling bad?"
So the next night, after midnight, four men crossed Miss Emily's lawn and slunk about the house like burglars,
sniffing along the base of the brickwork and at the cellar openings while one of them performed a regular
sowing motion with his hand out of a sack slung from his shoulder. They broke open the cellar door and
sprinkled lime there, and in all the outbuildings. As they recrossed the lawn, a window that had been dark was
lighted and Miss Emily sat in it, the light behind her, and her upright torso motionless as that of an idol. They
crept quietly across the lawn and into the shadow of the locusts that lined the street. After a week or two the
smell went away.
That was when people had begun to feel really sorry for her. People in our town, remembering how old lady
Wyatt, her great-aunt, had gone completely crazy at last, believed that the Griersons held themselves a little too
high for what they really were. None of the young men were quite good enough for Miss Emily and such. We
had long thought of them as a tableau, Miss Emily a slender figure in white in the background, her father a
spraddled silhouette in the foreground, his back to her and clutching a horsewhip, the two of them framed by the
back-flung front door. So when she got to be thirty and was still single, we were not pleased exactly, but
vindicated; even with insanity in the family she wouldn't have turned down all of her chances if they had really
materialized.
When her father died, it got about that the house was all that was left to her; and in a way, people were glad. At
last they could pity Miss Emily. Being left alone, and a pauper, she had become humanized. Now she too would
know the old thrill and the old despair of a penny more or less.
The day after his death all the ladies prepared to call at the house and offer condolence and aid, as is our custom
Miss Emily met them at the door, dressed as usual and with no trace of grief on her face. She told them that her
father was not dead. She did that for three days, with the ministers calling on her, and the doctors, trying to
persuade her to let them dispose of the body. Just as they were about to resort to law and force, she broke down,
and they buried her father quickly.
We did not say she was crazy then. We believed she had to do that. We remembered all the young men her
father had driven away, and we knew that with nothing left, she would have to cling to that which had robbed
her, as people will.
III
SHE WAS SICK for a long time. When we saw her again, her hair was cut short, making her look like a girl,
with a vague resemblance to those angels in colored church windows--sort of tragic and serene.
The town had just let the contracts for paving the sidewalks, and in the summer after her father's death they
began the work. The construction company came with riggers and mules and machinery, and a foreman named
Homer Barron, a Yankee--a big, dark, ready man, with a big voice and eyes lighter than his face. The little boys
would follow in groups to hear him cuss the riggers, and the riggers singing in time to the rise and fall of picks.
Pretty soon he knew everybody in town. Whenever you heard a lot of laughing anywhere about the square,
Homer Barron would be in the center of the group. Presently we began to see him and Miss Emily on Sunday
afternoons driving in the yellow-wheeled buggy and the matched team of bays from the livery stable.
19
At first we were glad that Miss Emily would have an interest, because the ladies all said, "Of course a Grierson
would not think seriously of a Northerner, a day laborer." But there were still others, older people, who said that
even grief could not cause a real lady to forget noblesse oblige- without calling it noblesse oblige. They just said, "Poor Emily. Her kinsfolk should come to her." She had some
kin in Alabama; but years ago her father had fallen out with them over the estate of old lady Wyatt, the crazy
woman, and there was no communication between the two families. They had not even been represented at the
funeral.
And as soon as the old people said, "Poor Emily," the whispering began. "Do you suppose it's really so?" they
said to one another. "Of course it is. What else could . . ." This behind their hands; rustling of craned silk and
satin behind jalousies closed upon the sun of Sunday afternoon as the thin, swift clop-clop-clop of the matched
team passed: "Poor Emily."
She carried her head high enough--even when we believed that she was fallen. It was as if she demanded more
than ever the recognition of her dignity as the last Grierson; as if it had wanted that touch of earthiness to
reaffirm her imperviousness. Like when she bought the rat poison, the arsenic. That was over a year after they
had begun to say "Poor Emily," and while the two female cousins were visiting her.
"I want some poison," she said to the druggist. She was over thirty then, still a slight woman, though thinner
than usual, with cold, haughty black eyes in a face the flesh of which was strained across the temples and about
the eyesockets as you imagine a lighthouse-keeper's face ought to look. "I want some poison," she said.
"Yes, Miss Emily. What kind? For rats and such? I'd recom--"
"I want the best you have. I don't care what kind."
The druggist named several. "They'll kill anything up to an elephant. But what you want is--"
"Arsenic," Miss Emily said. "Is that a good one?"
"Is . . . arsenic? Yes, ma'am. But what you want--"
"I want arsenic."
The druggist looked down at her. She looked back at him, erect, her face like a strained flag. "Why, of course,"
the druggist said. "If that's what you want. But the law requires you to tell what you are going to use it for."
Miss Emily just stared at him, her head tilted back in order to look him eye for eye, until he looked away and
went and got the arsenic and wrapped it up. The Negro delivery boy brought her the package; the druggist didn't
come back. When she opened the package at home there was written on the box, under the skull and bones:
"For rats."
IV
So THE NEXT day we all said, "She will kill herself"; and we said it would be the best thing. When she had
first begun to be seen with Homer Barron, we had said, "She will marry him." Then we said, "She will persuade
him yet," because Homer himself had remarked--he liked men, and it was known that he drank with the younger
20
men in the Elks' Club--that he was not a marrying man. Later we said, "Poor Emily" behind the jalousies as they
passed on Sunday afternoon in the glittering buggy, Miss Emily with her head high and Homer Barron with his
hat cocked and a cigar in his teeth, reins and whip in a yellow glove.
Then some of the ladies began to say that it was a disgrace to the town and a bad example to the young people.
The men did not want to interfere, but at last the ladies forced the Baptist minister--Miss Emily's people were
Episcopal-- to call upon her. He would never divulge what happened during that interview, but he refused to go
back again. The next Sunday they again drove about the streets, and the following day the minister's wife wrote
to Miss Emily's relations in Alabama.
So she had blood-kin under her roof again and we sat back to watch developments. At first nothing happened.
Then we were sure that they were to be married. We learned that Miss Emily had been to the jeweler's and
ordered a man's toilet set in silver, with the letters H. B. on each piece. Two days later we learned that she had
bought a complete outfit of men's clothing, including a nightshirt, and we said, "They are married." We were
really glad. We were glad because the two female cousins were even more Grierson than Miss Emily had ever
been.
So we were not surprised when Homer Barron--the streets had been finished some time since--was gone. We
were a little disappointed that there was not a public blowing-off, but we believed that he had gone on to
prepare for Miss Emily's coming, or to give her a chance to get rid of the cousins. (By that time it was a cabal,
and we were all Miss Emily's allies to help circumvent the cousins.) Sure enough, after another week they
departed. And, as we had expected all along, within three days Homer Barron was back in town. A neighbor
saw the Negro man admit him at the kitchen door at dusk one evening.
And that was the last we saw of Homer Barron. And of Miss Emily for some time. The Negro man went in and
out with the market basket, but the front door remained closed. Now and then we would see her at a window for
a moment, as the men did that night when they sprinkled the lime, but for almost six months she did not appear
on the streets. Then we knew that this was to be expected too; as if that quality of her father which had thwarted
her woman's life so many times had been too virulent and too furious to die.
When we next saw Miss Emily, she had grown fat and her hair was turning gray. During the next few years it
grew grayer and grayer until it attained an even pepper-and-salt iron-gray, when it ceased turning. Up to the day
of her death at seventy-four it was still that vigorous iron-gray, like the hair of an active man.
From that time on her front door remained closed, save for a period of six or seven years, when she was about
forty, during which she gave lessons in china-painting. She fitted up a studio in one of the downstairs rooms,
where the daughters and granddaughters of Colonel Sartoris' contemporaries were sent to her with the same
regularity and in the same spirit that they were sent to church on Sundays with a twenty-five-cent piece for the
collection plate. Meanwhile her taxes had been remitted.
Then the newer generation became the backbone and the spirit of the town, and the painting pupils grew up and
fell away and did not send their children to her with boxes of color and tedious brushes and pictures cut from
the ladies' magazines. The front door closed upon the last one and remained closed for good. When the town got
free postal delivery, Miss Emily alone refused to let them fasten the metal numbers above her door and attach a
mailbox to it. She would not listen to them.
Daily, monthly, yearly we watched the Negro grow grayer and more stooped, going in and out with the market
basket. Each December we sent her a tax notice, which would be returned by the post office a week later,
unclaimed. Now and then we would see her in one of the downstairs windows--she had evidently shut up the
top floor of the house--like the carven torso of an idol in a niche, looking or not looking at us, we could never
21
tell which. Thus she passed from generation to generation--dear, inescapable, impervious, tranquil, and
perverse.
And so she died. Fell ill in the house filled with dust and shadows, with only a doddering Negro man to wait on
her. We did not even know she was sick; we had long since given up trying to get any information from the
Negro
He talked to no one, probably not even to her, for his voice had grown harsh and rusty, as if from disuse.
She died in one of the downstairs rooms, in a heavy walnut bed with a curtain, her gray head propped on a
pillow yellow and moldy with age and lack of sunlight.
V
THE NEGRO met the first of the ladies at the front door and let them in, with their hushed, sibilant voices and
their quick, curious glances, and then he disappeared. He walked right through the house and out the back and
was not seen again.
The two female cousins came at once. They held the funeral on the second day, with the town coming to look at
Miss Emily beneath a mass of bought flowers, with the crayon face of her father musing profoundly above the
bier and the ladies sibilant and macabre; and the very old men --some in their brushed Confederate uniforms-on the porch and the lawn, talking of Miss Emily as if she had been a contemporary of theirs, believing that they
had danced with her and courted her perhaps, confusing time with its mathematical progression, as the old do,
to whom all the past is not a diminishing road but, instead, a huge meadow which no winter ever quite touches,
divided from them now by the narrow bottle-neck of the most recent decade of years.
Already we knew that there was one room in that region above stairs which no one had seen in forty years, and
which would have to be forced. They waited until Miss Emily was decently in the ground before they opened it.
The violence of breaking down the door seemed to fill this room with pervading dust. A thin, acrid pall as of the
tomb seemed to lie everywhere upon this room decked and furnished as for a bridal: upon the valance curtains
of faded rose color, upon the rose-shaded lights, upon the dressing table, upon the delicate array of crystal and
the man's toilet things backed with tarnished silver, silver so tarnished that the monogram was obscured.
Among them lay a collar and tie, as if they had just been removed, which, lifted, left upon the surface a pale
crescent in the dust. Upon a chair hung the suit, carefully folded; beneath it the two mute shoes and the
discarded socks.
The man himself lay in the bed.
For a long while we just stood there, looking down at the profound and fleshless grin. The body had apparently
once lain in the attitude of an embrace, but now the long sleep that outlasts love, that conquers even the grimace
of love, had cuckolded him. What was left of him, rotted beneath what was left of the nightshirt, had become
inextricable from the bed in which he lay; and upon him and upon the pillow beside him lay that even coating of
the patient and biding dust.
Then we noticed that in the second pillow was the indentation of a head. One of us lifted something from it, and
leaning forward, that faint and invisible dust dry and acrid in the nostrils, we saw a long strand of iron-gray hair.
22
“Hills Like White Elephants” by Ernest Hemingway
The hills across the valley of the Ebro were long and white. On this siode there was no shade and no trees and
the station was between two lines of rails in the sun. Close against the side of the station there was the warm
shadow of the building and a curtain, made of strings of bamboo beads, hung across the open door into the bar,
to keep out flies. The American and the girl with him sat at a table in the shade, outside the building. It was very
hot and the express from Barcelona would come in forty minutes. It stopped at this junction for two minutes and
went to Madrid.
'What should we drink?' the girl asked. She had taken off her hat and put it on the table.
'It's pretty hot,' the man said.
'Let's drink beer.'
'Dos cervezas,' the man said into the curtain.
'Big ones?' a woman asked from the doorway.
'Yes. Two big ones.'
The woman brought two glasses of beer and two felt pads. She put the felt pads and the beer glass on the
table and looked at the man and the girl. The girl was looking off at the line of hills. They were white in the sun
and the country was brown and dry.
'They look like white elephants,' she said.
'I've never seen one,' the man drank his beer.
'No, you wouldn't have.'
'I might have,' the man said. 'Just because you say I wouldn't have doesn't prove anything.'
The girl looked at the bead curtain. 'They've painted something on it,' she said. 'What does it say?'
'Anis del Toro. It's a drink.'
'Could we try it?'
The man called 'Listen' through the curtain. The woman came out from the bar.
'Four reales.' 'We want two Anis del Toro.'
'With water?'
'Do you want it with water?'
23
'I don't know,' the girl said. 'Is it good with water?'
'It's all right.'
'You want them with water?' asked the woman.
'Yes, with water.'
'It tastes like liquorice,' the girl said and put the glass down.
'That's the way with everything.'
'Yes,' said the girl. 'Everything tastes of liquorice. Especially all the things you've waited so long for,
like absinthe.'
'Oh, cut it out.'
'You started it,' the girl said. 'I was being amused. I was having a fine time.'
'Well, let's try and have a fine time.'
'All right. I was trying. I said the mountains looked like white elephants. Wasn't that bright?'
'That was bright.'
'I wanted to try this new drink. That's all we do, isn't it - look at things and try new drinks?'
'I guess so.'
The girl looked across at the hills.
'They're lovely hills,' she said. 'They don't really look like white elephants. I just meant the colouring of
their skin through the trees.'
'Should we have another drink?'
'All right.'
The warm wind blew the bead curtain against the table.
'The beer's nice and cool,' the man said.
'It's lovely,' the girl said.
'It's really an awfully simple operation, Jig,' the man said. 'It's not really an operation at all.'
The girl looked at the ground the table legs rested on.
24
'I know you wouldn't mind it, Jig. It's really not anything. It's just to let the air in.'
The girl did not say anything.
'I'll go with you and I'll stay with you all the time. They just let the air in and then it's all perfectly
natural.'
'Then what will we do afterwards?'
'We'll be fine afterwards. Just like we were before.'
'What makes you think so?'
'That's the only thing that bothers us. It's the only thing that's made us unhappy.'
The girl looked at the bead curtain, put her hand out and took hold of two of the strings of beads.
'And you think then we'll be all right and be happy.'
'I know we will. Yon don't have to be afraid. I've known lots of people that have done it.'
'So have I,' said the girl. 'And afterwards they were all so happy.'
'Well,' the man said, 'if you don't want to you don't have to. I wouldn't have you do it if you didn't want
to. But I know it's perfectly simple.'
'And you really want to?'
'I think it's the best thing to do. But I don't want you to do it if you don't really want to.'
'And if I do it you'll be happy and things will be like they were and you'll love me?'
'I love you now. You know I love you.'
'I know. But if I do it, then it will be nice again if I say things are like white elephants, and you'll like it?'
'I'll love it. I love it now but I just can't think about it. You know how I get when I worry.'
'If I do it you won't ever worry?'
'I won't worry about that because it's perfectly simple.'
'Then I'll do it. Because I don't care about me.'
'What do you mean?'
'I don't care about me.'
25
'Well, I care about you.'
'Oh, yes. But I don't care about me. And I'll do it and then everything will be fine.'
'I don't want you to do it if you feel that way.'
The girl stood up and walked to the end of the station. Across, on the other side, were fields of grain and
trees along the banks of the Ebro. Far away, beyond the river, were mountains. The shadow of a cloud moved
across the field of grain and she saw the river through the trees.
'And we could have all this,' she said. 'And we could have everything and every day we make it more
impossible.'
'What did you say?'
'I said we could have everything.'
'No, we can't.'
'We can have the whole world.'
'No, we can't.'
'We can go everywhere.'
'No, we can't. It isn't ours any more.'
'It's ours.'
'No, it isn't. And once they take it away, you never get it back.'
'But they haven't taken it away.'
'We'll wait and see.'
'Come on back in the shade,' he said. 'You mustn't feel that way.'
'I don't feel any way,' the girl said. 'I just know things.'
'I don't want you to do anything that you don't want to do -'
'Nor that isn't good for me,' she said. 'I know. Could we have another beer?'
'All right. But you've got to realize - '
'I realize,' the girl said. 'Can't we maybe stop talking?'
26
They sat down at the table and the girl looked across at the hills on the dry side of the valley and the
man looked at her and at the table.
'You've got to realize,' he said, ' that I don't want you to do it if you don't want to. I'm perfectly willing to
go through with it if it means anything to you.'
'Doesn't it mean anything to you? We could get along.'
'Of course it does. But I don't want anybody but you. I don't want anyone else. And I know it's perfectly
simple.'
'Yes, you know it's perfectly simple.'
'It's all right for you to say that, but I do know it.'
'Would you do something for me now?'
'I'd do anything for you.'
'Would you please please please please please please please stop talking?'
He did not say anything but looked at the bags against the wall of the station. There were labels on them
from all the hotels where they had spent nights.
'But I don't want you to,' he said, 'I don't care anything about it.'
'I'll scream,' the girl siad.
The woman came out through the curtains with two glasses of beer and put them down on the damp felt
pads. 'The train comes in five minutes,' she said.
'What did she say?' asked the girl.
'That the train is coming in five minutes.'
The girl smiled brightly at the woman, to thank her.
'I'd better take the bags over to the other side of the station,' the man said. She smiled at him.
'All right. Then come back and we'll finish the beer.'
He picked up the two heavy bags and carried them around the station to the other tracks. He looked up
the tracks but could not see the train. Coming back, he walked through the bar-room, where people waiting for
the train were drinking. He drank an Anis at the bar and looked at the people. They were all waiting reasonably
for the train. He went out through the bead curtain. She was sitting at the table and smiled at him.
'Do you feel better?' he asked.
27
'I feel fine,' she said. 'There's nothing wrong with me. I feel fine.'
28
“The Lottery” by Shirley Jackson
The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full-summer day; the flowers
were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green. The people of the village began to gather in the
square, between the post office and the bank, around ten o'clock; in some towns there were so many people that
the lottery took two days and had to be started on June 2th. but in this village, where there were only about three
hundred people, the whole lottery took less than two hours, so it could begin at ten o'clock in the morning and
still be through in time to allow the villagers to get home for noon dinner.
The children assembled first, of course. School was recently over for the summer, and the feeling of
liberty sat uneasily on most of them; they tended to gather together quietly for a while before they broke into
boisterous play. and their talk was still of the classroom and the teacher, of books and reprimands. Bobby
Martin had already stuffed his pockets full of stones, and the other boys soon followed his example, selecting
the smoothest and roundest stones; Bobby and Harry Jones and Dickie Delacroix-- the villagers pronounced this
name "Dellacroy"--eventually made a great pile of stones in one corner of the square and guarded it against the
raids of the other boys. The girls stood aside, talking among themselves, looking over their shoulders at the
boys. and the very small children rolled in the dust or clung to the hands of their older brothers or sisters.
Soon the men began to gather. surveying their own children, speaking of planting and rain, tractors and
taxes. They stood together, away from the pile of stones in the corner, and their jokes were quiet and they
smiled rather than laughed. The women, wearing faded house dresses and sweaters, came shortly after their
menfolk. They greeted one another and exchanged bits of gossip as they went to join their husbands. Soon the
women, standing by their husbands, began to call to their children, and the children came reluctantly, having to
be called four or five times. Bobby Martin ducked under his mother's grasping hand and ran, laughing, back to
the pile of stones. His father spoke up sharply, and Bobby came quickly and took his place between his father
and his oldest brother.
29
The lottery was conducted--as were the square dances, the teen club, the Halloween program--by Mr.
Summers. who had time and energy to devote to civic activities. He was a round-faced, jovial man and he ran
the coal business, and people were sorry for him. because he had no children and his wife was a scold. When he
arrived in the square, carrying the black wooden box, there was a murmur of conversation among the villagers,
and he waved and called. "Little late today, folks." The postmaster, Mr. Graves, followed him, carrying a threelegged stool, and the stool was put in the center of the square and Mr. Summers set the black box down on it.
The villagers kept their distance, leaving a space between themselves and the stool. and when Mr. Summers
said, "Some of you fellows want to give me a hand?" there was a hesitation before two men. Mr. Martin and his
oldest son, Baxter. came forward to hold the box steady on the stool while Mr. Summers stirred up the papers
inside it.
The original paraphernalia for the lottery had been lost long ago, and the black box now resting on the
stool had been put into use even before Old Man Warner, the oldest man in town, was born. Mr. Summers
spoke frequently to the villagers about making a new box, but no one liked to upset even as much tradition as
was represented by the black box. There was a story that the present box had been made with some pieces of the
box that had preceded it, the one that had been constructed when the first people settled down to make a village
here. Every year, after the lottery, Mr. Summers began talking again about a new box, but every year the subject
was allowed to fade off without anything's being done. The black box grew shabbier each year: by now it was
no longer completely black but splintered badly along one side to show the original wood color, and in some
places faded or stained.
Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, held the black box securely on the stool until Mr. Summers had
stirred the papers thoroughly with his hand. Because so much of the ritual had been forgotten or discarded, Mr.
Summers had been successful in having slips of paper substituted for the chips of wood that had been used for
generations. Chips of wood, Mr. Summers had argued. had been all very well when the village was tiny, but
now that the population was more than three hundred and likely to keep on growing, it was necessary to use
something that would fit more easily into he black box. The night before the lottery, Mr. Summers and Mr.
Graves made up the slips of paper and put them in the box, and it was then taken to the safe of Mr. Summers'
coal company and locked up until Mr. Summers was ready to take it to the square next morning. The rest of the
year, the box was put way, sometimes one place, sometimes another; it had spent one year in Mr. Graves's barn
and another year underfoot in the post office. and sometimes it was set on a shelf in the Martin grocery and left
there.
30
There was a great deal of fussing to be done before Mr. Summers declared the lottery open. There were
the lists to make up--of heads of families. heads of households in each family. members of each household in
each family. There was the proper swearing-in of Mr. Summers by the postmaster, as the official of the lottery;
at one time, some people remembered, there had been a recital of some sort, performed by the official of the
lottery, a perfunctory. tuneless chant that had been rattled off duly each year; some people believed that the
official of the lottery used to stand just so when he said or sang it, others believed that he was supposed to walk
among the people, but years and years ago this p3rt of the ritual had been allowed to lapse. There had been,
also, a ritual salute, which the official of the lottery had had to use in addressing each person who came up to
draw from the box, but this also had changed with time, until now it was felt necessary only for the official to
speak to each person approaching. Mr. Summers was very good at all this; in his clean white shirt and blue
jeans. with one hand resting carelessly on the black box. he seemed very proper and important as he talked
interminably to Mr. Graves and the Martins.
Just as Mr. Summers finally left off talking and turned to the assembled villagers, Mrs. Hutchinson came
hurriedly along the path to the square, her sweater thrown over her shoulders, and slid into place in the back of
the crowd. "Clean forgot what day it was," she said to Mrs. Delacroix, who stood next to her, and they both
laughed softly. "Thought my old man was out back stacking wood," Mrs. Hutchinson went on. "and then I
looked out the window and the kids was gone, and then I remembered it was the twenty-seventh and came arunning." She dried her hands on her apron, and Mrs. Delacroix said, "You're in time, though. They're still
talking away up there."
Mrs. Hutchinson craned her neck to see through the crowd and found her husband and children standing
near the front. She tapped Mrs. Delacroix on the arm as a farewell and began to make her way through the
crowd. The people separated good-humoredly to let her through: two or three people said. in voices just loud
enough to be heard across the crowd, "Here comes your, Missus, Hutchinson," and "Bill, she made it after all."
Mrs. Hutchinson reached her husband, and Mr. Summers, who had been waiting, said cheerfully. "Thought we
were going to have to get on without you, Tessie." Mrs. Hutchinson said. grinning, "Wouldn't have me leave
m'dishes in the sink, now, would you. Joe?," and soft laughter ran through the crowd as the people stirred back
into position after Mrs. Hutchinson's arrival.
"Well, now." Mr. Summers said soberly, "guess we better get started, get this over with, so's we can go
back to work. Anybody ain't here?"
"Dunbar." several people said. "Dunbar. Dunbar."
31
Mr. Summers consulted his list. "Clyde Dunbar." he said. "That's right. He's broke his leg, hasn't he?
Who's drawing for him?"
"Me. I guess," a woman said. and Mr. Summers turned to look at her. "Wife draws for her husband." Mr.
Summers said. "Don't you have a grown boy to do it for you, Janey?" Although Mr. Summers and everyone else
in the village knew the answer perfectly well, it was the business of the official of the lottery to ask such
questions formally. Mr. Summers waited with an expression of polite interest while Mrs. Dunbar answered.
"Horace's not but sixteen vet." Mrs. Dunbar said regretfully. "Guess I gotta fill in for the old man this
year."
"Right." Sr. Summers said. He made a note on the list he was holding. Then he asked, "Watson boy
drawing this year?"
A tall boy in the crowd raised his hand. "Here," he said. "I m drawing for my mother and me." He
blinked his eyes nervously and ducked his head as several voices in the crowd said thin#s like "Good fellow,
lack." and "Glad to see your mother's got a man to do it."
"Well," Mr. Summers said, "guess that's everyone. Old Man Warner make it?"
"Here," a voice said. and Mr. Summers nodded.
A sudden hush fell on the crowd as Mr. Summers cleared his throat and looked at the list. "All ready?"
he called. "Now, I'll read the names--heads of families first--and the men come up and take a paper out of the
box. Keep the paper folded in your hand without looking at it until everyone has had a turn. Everything clear?"
The people had done it so many times that they only half listened to the directions: most of them were
quiet. wetting their lips. not looking around. Then Mr. Summers raised one hand high and said, "Adams." A
man disengaged himself from the crowd and came forward. "Hi. Steve." Mr. Summers said. and Mr. Adams
said. "Hi. Joe." They grinned at one another humorlessly and nervously. Then Mr. Adams reached into the black
box and took out a folded paper. He held it firmly by one corner as he turned and went hastily back to his place
in the crowd. where he stood a little apart from his family. not looking down at his hand.
"Allen." Mr. Summers said. "Anderson.... Bentham."
"Seems like there's no time at all between lotteries any more." Mrs. Delacroix said to Mrs. Graves in the
back row.
"Seems like we got through with the last one only last week."
"Time sure goes fast.-- Mrs. Graves said.
"Clark.... Delacroix"
32
"There goes my old man." Mrs. Delacroix said. She held her breath while her husband went forward.
"Dunbar," Mr. Summers said, and Mrs. Dunbar went steadily to the box while one of the women said.
"Go on. Janey," and another said, "There she goes."
"We're next." Mrs. Graves said. She watched while Mr. Graves came around from the side of the box,
greeted Mr. Summers gravely and selected a slip of paper from the box. By now, all through the crowd there
were men holding the small folded papers in their large hand. turning them over and over nervously Mrs.
Dunbar and her two sons stood together, Mrs. Dunbar holding the slip of paper.
"Harburt.... Hutchinson."
"Get up there, Bill," Mrs. Hutchinson said. and the people near her laughed.
"Jones."
"They do say," Mr. Adams said to Old Man Warner, who stood next to him, "that over in the north
village they're talking of giving up the lottery."
Old Man Warner snorted. "Pack of crazy fools," he said. "Listening to the young folks, nothing's good
enough for them. Next thing you know, they'll be wanting to go back to living in caves, nobody work any more,
live hat way for a while. Used to be a saying about 'Lottery in June, corn be heavy soon.' First thing you know,
we'd all be eating stewed chickweed and acorns. There's always been a lottery," he added petulantly. "Bad
enough to see young Joe Summers up there joking with everybody."
"Some places have already quit lotteries." Mrs. Adams said.
"Nothing but trouble in that," Old Man Warner said stoutly. "Pack of young fools."
"Martin." And Bobby Martin watched his father go forward. "Overdyke.... Percy."
"I wish they'd hurry," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son. "I wish they'd hurry."
"They're almost through," her son said.
"You get ready to run tell Dad," Mrs. Dunbar said.
Mr. Summers called his own name and then stepped forward precisely and selected a slip from the box.
Then he called, "Warner."
"Seventy-seventh year I been in the lottery," Old Man Warner said as he went through the crowd.
"Seventy-seventh time."
"Watson" The tall boy came awkwardly through the crowd. Someone said, "Don't be nervous, Jack," and
Mr. Summers said, "Take your time, son."
"Zanini."
33
After that, there was a long pause, a breathless pause, until Mr. Summers. holding his slip of paper in the
air, said, "All right, fellows." For a minute, no one moved, and then all the slips of paper were opened.
Suddenly, all the women began to speak at once, saving. "Who is it?," "Who's got it?," "Is it the Dunbars?," "Is
it the Watsons?" Then the voices began to say, "It's Hutchinson. It's Bill," "Bill Hutchinson's got it."
"Go tell your father," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son.
People began to look around to see the Hutchinsons. Bill Hutchinson was standing quiet, staring down at
the paper in his hand. Suddenly. Tessie Hutchinson shouted to Mr. Summers. "You didn't give him time enough
to take any paper he wanted. I saw you. It wasn't fair!"
"Be a good sport, Tessie." Mrs. Delacroix called, and Mrs. Graves said, "All of us took the same
chance."
"Shut up, Tessie," Bill Hutchinson said.
"Well, everyone," Mr. Summers said, "that was done pretty fast, and now we've got to be hurrying a
little more to get done in time." He consulted his next list. "Bill," he said, "you draw for the Hutchinson family.
You got any other households in the Hutchinsons?"
"There's Don and Eva," Mrs. Hutchinson yelled. "Make them take their chance!"
"Daughters draw with their husbands' families, Tessie," Mr. Summers said gently. "You know that as
well as anyone else."
"It wasn't fair," Tessie said.
"I guess not, Joe." Bill Hutchinson said regretfully. "My daughter draws with her husband's family;
that's only fair. And I've got no other family except the kids."
"Then, as far as drawing for families is concerned, it's you," Mr. Summers said in explanation, "and as
far as drawing for households is concerned, that's you, too. Right?"
"Right," Bill Hutchinson said.
"How many kids, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked formally.
"Three," Bill Hutchinson said.
"There's Bill, Jr., and Nancy, and little Dave. And Tessie and me."
"All right, then," Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you got their tickets back?"
Mr. Graves nodded and held up the slips of paper. "Put them in the box, then," Mr. Summers directed.
"Take Bill's and put it in."
34
"I think we ought to start over," Mrs. Hutchinson said, as quietly as she could. "I tell you it wasn't fair.
You didn't give him time enough to choose. Everybody saw that."
Mr. Graves had selected the five slips and put them in the box. and he dropped all the papers but those
onto the ground. where the breeze caught them and lifted them off.
"Listen, everybody," Mrs. Hutchinson was saying to the people around her.
"Ready, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked. and Bill Hutchinson, with one quick glance around at his wife and
children. nodded.
"Remember," Mr. Summers said. "take the slips and keep them folded until each person has taken one.
Harry, you help little Dave." Mr. Graves took the hand of the little boy, who came willingly with him up to the
box. "Take a paper out of the box, Davy." Mr. Summers said. Davy put his hand into the box and laughed.
"Take just one paper." Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you hold it for him." Mr. Graves took the child's hand and
removed the folded paper from the tight fist and held it while little Dave stood next to him and looked up at him
wonderingly.
"Nancy next," Mr. Summers said. Nancy was twelve, and her school friends breathed heavily as she
went forward switching her skirt, and took a slip daintily from the box "Bill, Jr.," Mr. Summers said, and Billy,
his face red and his feet overlarge, near knocked the box over as he got a paper out. "Tessie," Mr. Summers
said. She hesitated for a minute, looking around defiantly. and then set her lips and went up to the box. She
snatched a paper out and held it behind her.
"Bill," Mr. Summers said, and Bill Hutchinson reached into the box and felt around, bringing his hand
out at last with the slip of paper in it.
The crowd was quiet. A girl whispered, "I hope it's not Nancy," and the sound of the whisper reached
the edges of the crowd.
"It's not the way it used to be." Old Man Warner said clearly. "People ain't the way they used to be."
"All right," Mr. Summers said. "Open the papers. Harry, you open little Dave's."
Mr. Graves opened the slip of paper and there was a general sigh through the crowd as he held it up and
everyone could see that it was blank. Nancy and Bill. Jr.. opened theirs at the same time. and both beamed and
laughed. turning around to the crowd and holding their slips of paper above their heads.
"Tessie," Mr. Summers said. There was a pause, and then Mr. Summers looked at Bill Hutchinson, and
Bill unfolded his paper and showed it. It was blank.
"It's Tessie," Mr. Summers said, and his voice was hushed. "Show us her paper. Bill."
35
Bill Hutchinson went over to his wife and forced the slip of paper out of her hand. It had a black spot on
it, the black spot Mr. Summers had made the night before with the heavy pencil in the coal company office. Bill
Hutchinson held it up, and there was a stir in the crowd.
"All right, folks." Mr. Summers said. "Let's finish quickly."
Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the original black box, they still remembered to
use stones. The pile of stones the boys had made earlier was ready; there were stones on the ground with the
blowing scraps of paper that had come out of the box Delacroix selected a stone so large she had to pick it up
with both hands and turned to Mrs. Dunbar. "Come on," she said. "Hurry up."
Mrs. Dunbar had small stones in both hands, and she said. gasping for breath. "I can't run at all. You'll
have to go ahead and I'll catch up with you."
The children had stones already. And someone gave little Davy Hutchinson few pebbles.
Tessie Hutchinson was in the center of a cleared space by now, and she held her hands out desperately
as the villagers moved in on her. "It isn't fair," she said. A stone hit her on the side of the head.
Old Man Warner was saying, "Come on, come on, everyone." Steve Adams was in the front of the
crowd of villagers, with Mrs. Graves beside him.
"It isn't fair, it isn't right," Mrs. Hutchinson screamed, and then they were upon her.
36
“A&P” by John Updike
In walks these three girls in nothing but bathing suits. I'm in the third check-out slot, with my back to the door,
so I don't see them until they're over by the bread. The one that caught my eye first was the one in the plaid
green two-piece. She was a chunky kid, with a good tan and a sweet broad soft-looking can with those two
crescents of white just under it, where the sun never seems to hit, at the top of the backs of her legs. I stood
there with my hand on a box of HiHo crackers trying to remember if I rang it up or not. I ring it up again and
the customer starts giving me hell. She's one of these cash-register-watchers, a witch about fifty with rouge on
her cheekbones and no eyebrows, and I knowit made her day to trip me up. She'd been watching cash registers
forty years and probably never seen a mistake before.
By the time I got her feathers smoothed and her goodies into a bag -- she gives me alittle snort in passing, if
she'd been born at the right time they would have burned her over in Salem -- by the time I get her on her way
the girls had circled around the bread and were coming back, without a pushcart, back my way along the
counters, in the aisle between the check-outs and the Special bins. They didn't even have shoes on. There was
this chunky one, with the two-piece -- it was bright green and the seams on the bra were still sharp and her belly
was still pretty pale so I guessed she just got it (the suit) -- there was this one, with one of those chubby berryfaces, the lips all bunched together under her nose, this one, and a tall one, with black hair that hadn't quite
frizzed right, and one of these sunburns right across under the eyes, and a chin that was too long -- you know,
the kind of girl other girls think is very "striking" and "attractive" but never quite makes it, as they very well
know, which is why they like her so much -- and then the third one, that wasn't quite so tall. She was the queen.
She kind of led them, the other two peeking around and making their shoulders round. She didn't look around,
not this queen, she just walked straight on slowly, on these long white prima donna legs. She came down a little
hard on her heels, as if she didn't walk in her bare feet that much, putting down her heels and then letting the
weight move along to her toes as if she was testing the floor with every step, putting a little deliberate extra
action into it. You never know for sure how girls' minds work (do you really think it's a mind in there or just a
little buzz like a bee in a glassjar?) but you got the idea she had talked the other two into coming in here with
her, and now she was showing them how to do it, walk slow and hold yourself straight.
She had on a kind of dirty-pink - - beige maybe, I don't know -- bathing suit with a little nubble all over it and,
what got me, the straps were down. They were off her shoulders looped loose around the cool tops of her arms,
and I guess as a result the suit had slipped a little on her, so all around the top of the cloth there was this shining
rim. If it hadn't been there you wouldn't have known there could have been anything whiter than those
shoulders. With the straps pushed off, there was nothing between the top of the suit and the top of her head
except just her, this clean bare plane of the top of her chest down from the shoulder bones like a dented sheet of
metal tilted in the light. I mean, it was more than pretty.
She had sort of oaky hair that the sun and salt had bleached, done up in a bun that was unravelling, and a kind of
prim face. Walking into the A & P with your straps down, I suppose it's the only kind of face you can have. She
held her head so high her neck, coming up out o fthose white shoulders, looked kind of stretched, but I didn't
mind. The longer her neck was, the more of her there was.
She must have felt in the corner of her eye me and over my shoulder Stokesie in the second slot watching, but
she didn't tip. Not this queen. She kept her eyes moving across the racks, and stopped, and turned so slow it
made my stomach rub the inside of my apron, and buzzed to the other two, who kind of huddled against her for
relief, and they all three of them went up the cat-and-dog-food-breakfast-cereal-macaroni-ri ce-raisinsseasonings-spreads-spaghetti-soft drinks- rackers-and- cookies aisle. From the third slot I look straight up this
aisle to the meat counter, and I watched them all the way. The fat one with the tan sort of fumbled with the
cookies, but on second thought she put the packages back. The sheep pushing their carts down the aisle -- the
girls were walking against the usual traffic (not that we have one-way signs or anything) -- were pretty
37
hilarious. You could see them, when Queenie's white shoulders dawned on them, kind of jerk, or hop, or hiccup,
but their eyes snapped back to their own baskets and on they pushed. I bet you could set off dynamite in an A &
P and the people would by and large keep reaching and checking oatmeal off their lists and muttering "Let me
see, there was a third thing, began with A, asparagus, no, ah, yes, applesauce!" or whatever it is they do mutter.
But there was no doubt, this jiggled them. A few house-slaves in pin curlers even looked around after pushing
their carts past to make sure what they had seen was correct.
You know, it's one thing to have a girl in a bathing suit down on the beach, where what with the glare nobody
can look at each other much anyway, and another thing in the cool of the A & P, under the fluorescent lights,
against all those stacked packages, with her feet paddling along naked over our checkerboard green-and-cream
rubber-tile floor.
"Oh Daddy," Stokesie said beside me. "I feel so faint."
"Darling," I said. "Hold me tight." Stokesie's married, with two babies chalked up on his fuselage already, but as
far as I can tell that's the only difference. He's twenty-two, and I was nineteen this April.
"Is it done?" he asks, the responsible married man finding his voice. I forgot to say he thinks he's going to be
manager some sunny day, maybe in 1990 when it's called the Great Alexandrov and Petrooshki Tea Company
or something.
What he meant was, our town is five miles from a beach, with a big summer colony out on the Point, but we're
right in the middle of town, and the women generally put on a shirt or shorts or something before they get out of
the car into the street. And anyway these are usually women with six children and varicose veins mapping their
legs and nobody, including them, could care less. As I say, we're right in the middle of town, and if you stand at
our front doors you can see two banks and the Congregational church and the newspaper store and three realestate offices and about twenty-seven old free-loaders tearing up Central Street because the sewer broke again.
It's not as if we're on the Cape; we're north of Boston and there's people in this town haven't seen the ocean for
twenty years.
The girls had reached the meat counter and were asking McMahon something. He pointed, they pointed, and
they shuffled out of sight behind a pyramid of Diet Delight peaches. All that was left for us to see was old
McMahon patting his mouth and looking after them sizing up their joints. Poor kids, I began to feel sorry for
them, they couldn't help it.
Now here comes the sad part of the story, at:least my family says it's sad but I don't think it's sad myself. The
store's pretty empty, it being Thursday afternoon, so there was nothing much to do except lean on the register
and wait for the girls to show up again. The whole store was like a pinball machine and I didn't know which
tunnel they'd come out of. After a while they come around out of the far aisle, around the light bulbs, records at
discount of the Caribbean Six or Tony Martin Sings or some such gunk you wonder they waste the wax on,
sixpacks of candy bars, and plastic toys done up in cellophane that faIl apart when a kid looks at them anyway.
Around they come, Queenie still leading the way, and holding a little gray jar in her hand. Slots Three through
Seven are unmanned and I could see her wondering between Stokes and me, but Stokesie with his usual luck
draws an old party in baggy gray pants who stumbles up with four giant cans of pineapple juice (what do these
bums do with all that pineapple juice' I've often asked myself) so the girls come to me. Queenie puts down the
jar and I take it into my fingers icy cold. Kingfish Fancy Herring Snacks in Pure Sour Cream: 49¢. Now her
hands are empty, not a ring or a bracelet, bare as God made them, and I wonder where the money's coming
from. Still with that prim look she lifts a folded dollar bill out of the hollow at the center of her nubbled pink
top. The jar went heavy in my hand. Really, I thought that was so cute.
38
Then everybody's luck begins to run out. Lengel comes in from haggling with a truck full of cabbages on the lot
and is about to scuttle into that door marked MANAGER behind which he hides all day when the girls touch his
eye. Lengel's pretty dreary, teaches Sunday school and the rest, but he doesn't miss that much. He comes over
and says, "Girls, this isn't the beach."
Queenie blushes, though maybe it's just a brush of sunburn I was noticing for the first time, now that she was so
close. "My mother asked me to pick up a jar of herring snacks." Her voice kind of startled me, the way voices
do when you see the people first, coming out so flat and dumb yet kind of tony, too, the way it ticked over "pick
up" and "snacks." All of a sudden I slid right down her voice into her living room. Her father and the other men
were standing around in ice-cream coats and bow ties and the women were in sandals picking up herring snacks
on toothpicks off a big plate and they were all holding drinks the color of water with olives and sprigs of mint in
them. When my parents have somebody over they get lemonade and if it's a real racy affair Schlitz in tall
glasses with "They'll Do It Every Time" cartoons stencilled on.
"That's all right," Lengel said. "But this isn't the beach." His repeating this struck me as funny, as if it hadjust
occurred to him, and he had been thinking all these years the A & P was a great big dune and he was the head
lifeguard. He didn't like my smiling -- -as I say he doesn't miss much -- but he concentrates on giving the girls
that sad Sunday- school-superintendent stare.
Queenie's blush is no sunburn now, and the plump one in plaid, that I liked better from the back -- a really sweet
can -- pipes up, "We weren't doing any shopping. We just came in for the one thing."
"That makes no difference," Lengel tells her, and I could see from the way his eyes went that he hadn't noticed
she was wearing a two-piece before. "We want you decently dressed when you come in here."
"We are decent," Queenie says suddenly, her lower lip pushing, getting sore now that she remembers her place,
a place from which the crowd that runs the A & P must look pretty crummy. Fancy Herring Snacks flashed in
her very blue eyes.
"Girls, I don't want to argue with you. After this come in here with your shoulders covered. It's our policy." He
turns his back. That's policy for you. Policy is what the kingpins want. What the others want is juvenile
delinquency.
All this while, the customers had been showing up with their carts but, you know, sheep, seeing a scene, they
had all bunched up on Stokesie, who shook open a paper bag as gently as peeling a peach, not wanting to miss a
word. I could feel in the silence everybody getting nervous, most of all Lengel, who asks me, "Sammy, have
you rung up this purchase?"
I thought and said "No" but it wasn't about that I was thinking. I go through the punches, 4, 9, GROC, TOT -it's more complicated than you think, and after you do it often enough, it begins to make a lttle song, that you
hear words to, in my case "Hello (bing) there, you (gung) hap-py pee-pul (splat)"-the splat being the drawer
flying out. I uncrease the bill, tenderly as you may imagine, it just having come from between the two
smoothest scoops of vanilla I had ever known were there, and pass a half and a penny into her narrow pink
palm, and nestle the herrings in a bag and twist its neck and hand it over, all the time thinking.
The girls, and who'd blame them, are in a hurry to get out, so I say "I quit" to Lengel quick enough for them to
hear, hoping they'll stop and watch me, their unsuspected hero. They keep right on going, into the electric eye;
the door flies open and they flicker across the lot to their car, Queenie and Plaid and Big Tall Goony-Goony
(not that as raw material she was so bad), leaving me with Lengel and a kink in his eyebrow.
39
"Did you say something, Sammy?"
"I said I quit."
"I thought you did."
"You didn't have to embarrass them."
"It was they who were embarrassing us."
I started to say something that came out "Fiddle-de-doo." It's a saying of my grand- mother's, and I know she
would have been pleased.
"I don't think you know what you're saying," Lengel said.
"I know you don't," I said. "But I do." I pull the bow at the back of my apron and start shrugging it off my
shoulders. A couple customers that had been heading for my slot begin to knock against each other, like scared
pigs in a chute.
Lengel sighs and begins to look very patient and old and gray. He's been a friend of my parents for years.
"Sammy, you don't want to do this to your Mom and Dad," he tells me. It's true, I don't. But it seems to me that
once you begin a gesture it's fatal not to go through with it. I fold the apron, "Sammy" stitched in red on the
pocket, and put it on the counter, and drop the bow tie on top of it. The bow tie is theirs, if you've ever
wondered. "You'll feel this for the rest of your life," Lengel says, and I know that's true, too, but remembering
how he made that pretty girl blush makes me so scrunchy inside I punch the No Sale tab and the machine whirs
"pee-pul" and the drawer splats out. One advantage to this scene taking place in summer, I can follow this up
with a clean exit, there's no fumbling around getting your coat and galoshes, I just saunter into the electric eye
in my white shirt that my mother ironed the night before, and the door heaves itself open, and outside the
sunshine is skating around on the asphalt.
I look around for my girls, but they're gone, of course. There wasn't anybody but some young married
screaming with her children about some candy they didn't get by the door of a powder-blue Falcon station
wagon. Looking back in the big windows, over the bags of peat moss and aluminum lawn furniture stacked on
the pavement, I could see Lengel in my place in the slot, checking the sheep through. His face was dark gray
and his back stiff, as if he'djust had an injection of iron, and my stomach kind of fell as I felt how hard the
world was going to be to me hereafter.
40
Where are you going, Where have you been?”
By Joyce Carol Oates
for Bob Dylan
Her name was Connie. She was fifteen and she had a quick, nervous giggling habit of craning her neck to
glance into mirrors or checking other people's faces to make sure her own was all right. Her mother, who
noticed everything and knew everything and who hadn't much reason any longer to look at her own face, always
scolded Connie about it. "Stop gawking at yourself. Who are you? You think you're so pretty?" she would say.
Connie would raise her eyebrows at these familiar old complaints and look right through her mother, into a
shadowy vision of herself as she was right at that moment: she knew she was pretty and that was everything.
Her mother had been pretty once too, if you could believe those old snapshots in the album, but now her looks
were gone and that was why she was always after Connie.
"Why don't you keep your room clean like your sister? How've you got your hair fixed—what the hell stinks?
Hair spray? You don't see your sister using that junk."
Her sister June was twenty-four and still lived at home. She was a secretary in the high school Connie attended,
and if that wasn't bad enough—with her in the same building—she was so plain and chunky and steady that
Connie had to hear her praised all the time by her mother and her mother's sisters. June did this, June did that,
she saved money and helped clean the house and cookedand Connie couldn't do a thing, her mind was all filled
with trashy daydreams. Their father was away at work most of the time and when he came home he wanted
supper and he read the newspaper at supper and after supper he went to bed. He didn't bother talking much to
them, but around his bent head Connie's mother kept picking at her until Connie wished her mother was dead
and she herself was dead and it was all over. "She makes me want to throw up sometimes," she complained to
her friends. She had a high, breathless, amused voice that made everything she said sound a little forced,
whether it was sincere or not.
There was one good thing: June went places with girl friends of hers, girls who were just as plain and steady as
she, and so when Connie wanted to do that her mother had no objections. The father of Connie's best girl friend
drove the girls the three miles to town and left them at a shopping plaza so they could walk through the stores or
go to a movie, and when he came to pick them up again at eleven he never bothered to ask what they had done.
They must have been familiar sights, walking around the shopping plaza in their shorts and flat ballerina
slippers that always scuffed the sidewalk, with charm bracelets jingling on their thin wrists; they would lean
together to whisper and laugh secretly if someone passed who amused or interested them. Connie had long dark
blond hair that drew anyone's eye to it, and she wore part of it pulled up on her head and puffed out and the rest
of it she let fall down her back. She wore a pull-over jersey blouse that looked one way when she was at home
and another way when she was away from home. Everything about her had two sides to it, one for home and
one for anywhere that was not home: her walk, which could be childlike and bobbing, or languid enough to
make anyone think she was hearing music in her head; her mouth, which was pale and smirking most of the
time, but bright and pink on these evenings out; her laugh, which was cynical and drawling at home—"Ha, ha,
very funny,"—but highpitched and nervous anywhere else, like the jingling of the charms on her bracelet.
Sometimes they did go shopping or to a movie, but sometimes they went across the highway, ducking fast
across the busy road, to a drive-in restaurant where older kids hung out. The restaurant was shaped like a big
bottle, though squatter than a real bottle, and on its cap was a revolving figure of a grinning boy holding a
41
hamburger aloft. One night in midsummer they ran across, breathless with daring, and right away someone
leaned out a car window and invited them over, but it was just a boy from high school they didn't like. It made
them feel good to be able to ignore him. They went up through the maze of parked and cruising cars to the
bright-lit, fly-infested restaurant, their faces pleased and expectant as if they were entering a sacred building that
loomed up out of the night to give them what haven and blessing they yearned for. They sat at the counter and
crossed their legs at the ankles, their thin shoulders rigid with excitement, and listened to the music that made
everything so good: the music was always in the background, like music at a church service; it was something
to depend upon.
A boy named Eddie came in to talk with them. He sat backwards on his stool, turning himself jerkily around in
semicircles and then stopping and turning back again, and after a while he asked Connie if she would like
something to eat. She said she would and so she tapped her friend's arm on her way out—her friend pulled her
face up into a brave, droll look—and Connie said she would meet her at eleven, across the way. "I just hate to
leave her like that," Connie said earnestly, but the boy said that she wouldn't be alone for long. So they went out
to his car, and on the way Connie couldn't help but let her eyes wander over the windshields and faces all
around her, her face gleaming with a joy that had nothing to do with Eddie or even this place; it might have
been the music. She drew her shoulders up and sucked in her breath with the pure pleasure of being alive, and
just at that moment she happened to glance at a face just a few feet from hers. It was a boy with shaggy black
hair, in a convertible jalopy painted gold. He stared at her and then his lips widened into a grin. Connie slit her
eyes at him and turned away, but she couldn't help glancing back and there he was, still watching her. He
wagged a finger and laughed and said, "Gonna get you, baby," and Connie turned away again without Eddie
noticing anything.
She spent three hours with him, at the restaurant where they ate hamburgers and drank Cokes in wax cups that
were always sweating, and then down an alley a mile or so away, and when he left her off at five to eleven only
the movie house was still open at the plaza. Her girl friend was there, talking with a boy. When Connie came
up, the two girls smiled at each other and Connie said, "How was the movie?" and the girl said, 'You should
know." They rode off with the girl's father, sleepy and pleased, and Connie couldn't help but look back at the
darkened shopping plaza with its big empty parking lot and its signs that were faded and ghostly now, and over
at the drive-in restaurant where cars were still circling tirelessly. She couldn't hear the music at this distance.
Next morning June asked her how the movie was and Connie said, "So-so."
She and that girl and occasionally another girl went out several times a week, and the rest of the time Connie
spent around the house—it was summer vacation—getting in her mother s way and thinking, dreaming about
the boys she met. But all the boys fell back and dissolved into a single face that was not even a face but an idea,
a feeling, mixed up with the urgent insistent pounding of the music and the humid night air of July. Connie's
mother kept dragging her back to the daylight by finding things for her to do or saying suddenly, 'What's this
about the Pettinger girl?"
And Connie would say nervously, "Oh, her. That dope." She always drew thick clear lines between herself and
such girls, and her mother was simple and kind enough to believe it. Her mother was so simple, Connie thought,
that it was maybe cruel to fool her so much. Her mother went scuffling around the house in old bedroom
slippers and complained over the telephone to one sister about the other, then the other called up and the two of
them complained about the third one. If June's name was mentioned her mother's tone was approving, and if
Connie's name was mentioned it was disapproving. This did not really mean she disliked Connie, and actually
Connie thought that her mother preferred her to June just because she was prettier, but the two of them kept up a
pretense of exasperation, a sense that they were tugging and struggling over something of little value to either of
them. Sometimes, over coffee, they were almost friends, but something would come up—some vexation that
was like a fly buzzing suddenly around their heads—and their faces went hard with contempt.
42
One Sunday Connie got up at eleven—none of them bothered with church—and washed her hair so that it could
dry all day long in the sun. Her parents and sister were going to a barbecue at an aunt's house and Connie said
no, she wasn't interested, rolling her eyes to let her mother know just what she thought of it. "Stay home alone
then," her mother said sharply. Connie sat out back in a lawn chair and watched them drive away, her father
quiet and bald, hunched around so that he could back the car out, her mother with a look that was still angry and
not at all softened through the windshield, and in the back seat poor old June, all dressed up as if she didn't
know what a barbecue was, with all the running yelling kids and the flies. Connie sat with her eyes closed in the
sun, dreaming and dazed with the warmth about her as if this were a kind of love, the caresses of love, and her
mind slipped over onto thoughts of the boy she had been with the night before and how nice he had been, how
sweet it always was, not the way someone like June would suppose but sweet, gentle, the way it was in movies
and promised in songs; and when she opened her eyes she hardly knew where she was, the back yard ran off
into weeds and a fence-like line of trees and behind it the sky was perfectly blue and still. The asbestos ranch
house that was now three years old startled her—it looked small. She shook her head as if to get awake.
It was too hot. She went inside the house and turned on the radio to drown out the quiet. She sat on the edge of
her bed, barefoot, and listened for an hour and a half to a program called XYZ Sunday Jamboree, record after
record of hard, fast, shrieking songs she sang along with, interspersed by exclamations from "Bobby King":
"An' look here, you girls at Napoleon's—Son and Charley want you to pay real close attention to this song
coming up!"
And Connie paid close attention herself, bathed in a glow of slow-pulsed joy that seemed to rise mysteriously
out of the music itself and lay languidly about the airless little room, breathed in and breathed out with each
gentle rise and fall of her chest.
After a while she heard a car coming up the drive. She sat up at once, startled, because it couldn't be her father
so soon. The gravel kept crunching all the way in from the road—the driveway was long—and Connie ran to
the window. It was a car she didn't know. It was an open jalopy, painted a bright gold that caught the sunlight
opaquely. Her heart began to pound and her fingers snatched at her hair, checking it, and she whispered,
"Christ. Christ," wondering how bad she looked. The car came to a stop at the side door and the horn sounded
four short taps, as if this were a signal Connie knew.
She went into the kitchen and approached the door slowly, then hung out the screen door, her bare toes curling
down off the step. There were two boys in the car and now she recognized the driver: he had shaggy, shabby
black hair that looked crazy as a wig and he was grinning at her.
"I ain't late, am I?" he said.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" Connie said.
"Toldja I'd be out, didn't I?"
"I don't even know who you are."
She spoke sullenly, careful to show no interest or pleasure, and he spoke in a fast, bright monotone. Connie
looked past him to the other boy, taking her time. He had fair brown hair, with a lock that fell onto his forehead.
His sideburns gave him a fierce, embarrassed look, but so far he hadn't even bothered to glance at her. Both
boys wore sunglasses. The driver's glasses were metallic and mirrored everything in miniature.
"You wanta come for a ride?" he said.
43
Connie smirked and let her hair fall loose over one shoulder.
"Don'tcha like my car? New paint job," he said. "Hey."
"What?"
"You're cute."
She pretended to fidget, chasing flies away from the door.
"Don'tcha believe me, or what?" he said.
"Look, I don't even know who you are," Connie said in disgust.
"Hey, Ellie's got a radio, see. Mine broke down." He lifted his friend's arm and showed her the little transistor
radio the boy was holding, and now Connie began to hear the music. It was the same program that was playing
inside the house.
"Bobby King?" she said.
"I listen to him all the time. I think he's great."
"He's kind of great," Connie said reluctantly.
"Listen, that guy's great. He knows where the action is."
Connie blushed a little, because the glasses made it impossible for her to see just what this boy was looking at.
She couldn't decide if she liked him or if he was just a jerk, and so she dawdled in the doorway and wouldn't
come down or go back inside. She said, "What's all that stuff painted on your car?"
"Can'tcha read it?" He opened the door very carefully, as if he were afraid it might fall off. He slid out just as
carefully, planting his feet firmly on the ground, the tiny metallic world in his glasses slowing down like
gelatine hardening, and in the midst of it Connie's bright green blouse. "This here is my name, to begin with, he
said. ARNOLD FRIEND was written in tarlike black letters on the side, with a drawing of a round, grinning
face that reminded Connie of a pumpkin, except it wore sunglasses. "I wanta introduce myself, I'm Arnold
Friend and that's my real name and I'm gonna be your friend, honey, and inside the car's Ellie Oscar, he's kinda
shy." Ellie brought his transistor radio up to his shoulder and balanced it there. "Now, these numbers are a
secret code, honey," Arnold Friend explained. He read off the numbers 33, 19, 17 and raised his eyebrows at her
to see what she thought of that, but she didn't think much of it. The left rear fender had been smashed and
around it was written, on the gleaming gold background: DONE BY CRAZY WOMAN DRIVER. Connie had
to laugh at that. Arnold Friend was pleased at her laughter and looked up at her. "Around the other side's a lot
more —you wanta come and see them?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Why should I?"
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"Don'tcha wanta see what's on the car? Don'tcha wanta go for a ride?"
"I don't know."
"Why not?"
"I got things to do."
"Like what?"
"Things."
He laughed as if she had said something funny. He slapped his thighs. He was standing in a strange way,
leaning back against the car as if he were balancing himself. He wasn't tall, only an inch or so taller than she
would be if she came down to him. Connie liked the way he was dressed, which was the way all of them
dressed: tight faded jeans stuffed into black, scuffed boots, a belt that pulled his waist in and showed how lean
he was, and a white pull-over shirt that was a little soiled and showed the hard small muscles of his arms and
shoulders. He looked as if he probably did hard work, lifting and carrying things. Even his neck looked
muscular. And his face was a familiar face, somehow: the jaw and chin and cheeks slightly darkened because he
hadn't shaved for a day or two, and the nose long and hawklike, sniffing as if she were a treat he was going to
gobble up and it was all a joke.
"Connie, you ain't telling the truth. This is your day set aside for a ride with me and you know it," he said, still
laughing. The way he straightened and recovered from his fit of laughing showed that it had been all fake.
"How do you know what my name is?" she said suspiciously.
"It's Connie."
"Maybe and maybe not."
"I know my Connie," he said, wagging his finger. Now she remembered him even better, back at the restaurant,
and her cheeks warmed at the thought of how she had sucked in her breath just at the moment she passed him—
how she must have looked to him. And he had remembered her. "Ellie and I come out here especially for you,"
he said. "Ellie can sit in back. How about it?"
"Where?"
"Where what?"
"Where're we going?"
He looked at her. He took off the sunglasses and she saw how pale the skin around his eyes was, like holes that
were not in shadow but instead in light. His eyes were like chips of broken glass that catch the light in an
amiable way. He smiled. It was as if the idea of going for a ride somewhere, to someplace, was a new idea to
him.
"Just for a ride, Connie sweetheart."
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"I never said my name was Connie," she said.
"But I know what it is. I know your name and all about you, lots of things," Arnold Friend said. He had not
moved yet but stood still leaning back against the side of his jalopy. "I took a special interest in you, such a
pretty girl, and found out all about you—like I know your parents and sister are gone somewheres and I know
where and how long they're going to be gone, and I know who you were with last night, and your best girl
friend's name is Betty. Right?"
He spoke in a simple lilting voice, exactly as if he were reciting the words to a song. His smile assured her that
everything was fine. In the car Ellie turned up the volume on his radio and did not bother to look around at
them.
"Ellie can sit in the back seat," Arnold Friend said. He indicated his friend with a casual jerk of his chin, as if
Ellie did not count and she should not bother with him.
"How'd you find out all that stuff?" Connie said.
"Listen: Betty Schultz and Tony Fitch and Jimmy Pettinger and Nancy Pettinger," he said in a chant. "Raymond
Stanley and Bob Hutter—"
"Do you know all those kids?"
"I know everybody."
"Look, you're kidding. You're not from around here."
"Sure."
"But—how come we never saw you before?"
"Sure you saw me before," he said. He looked down at his boots, as if he were a little offended. "You just don't
remember."
"I guess I'd remember you," Connie said.
"Yeah?" He looked up at this, beaming. He was pleased. He began to mark time with the music from Ellie's
radio, tapping his fists lightly together. Connie looked away from his smile to the car, which was painted so
bright it almost hurt her eyes to look at it. She looked at that name, ARNOLD FRIEND. And up at the front
fender was an expression that was familiar—MAN THE FLYING SAUCERS. It was an expression kids had
used the year before but didn't use this year. She looked at it for a while as if the words meant something to her
that she did not yet know.
"What're you thinking about? Huh?" Arnold Friend demanded. "Not worried about your hair blowing around in
the car, are you?"
"No."
"Think I maybe can't drive good?"
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"How do I know?"
"You're a hard girl to handle. How come?" he said. "Don't you know I'm your friend? Didn't you see me put my
sign in the air when you walked by?"
"What sign?"
"My sign." And he drew an X in the air, leaning out toward her. They were maybe ten feet apart. After his hand
fell back to his side the X was still in the air, almost visible. Connie let the screen door close and stood perfectly
still inside it, listening to the music from her radio and the boy's blend together. She stared at Arnold Friend. He
stood there so stiffly relaxed, pretending to be relaxed, with one hand idly on the door handle as if he were
keeping himself up that way and had no intention of ever moving again. She recognized most things about him,
the tight jeans that showed his thighs and buttocks and the greasy leather boots and the tight shirt, and even that
slippery friendly smile of his, that sleepy dreamy smile that all the boys used to get across ideas they didn't want
to put into words. She recognized all this and also the singsong way he talked, slightly mocking, kidding, but
serious and a little melancholy, and she recognized the way he tapped one fist against the other in homage to the
perpetual music behind him. But all these things did not come together.
She said suddenly, "Hey, how old are you?"
His smiled faded. She could see then that he wasn't a kid, he was much older—thirty, maybe more. At this
knowledge her heart began to pound faster.
"That's a crazy thing to ask. Can'tcha see I'm your own age?"
"Like hell you are."
"Or maybe a couple years older. I'm eighteen."
"Eighteen?" she said doubtfully.
He grinned to reassure her and lines appeared at the corners of his mouth. His teeth were big and white. He
grinned so broadly his eyes became slits and she saw how thick the lashes were, thick and black as if painted
with a black tarlike material. Then, abruptly, he seemed to become embarrassed and looked over his shoulder at
Ellie. "Him, he's crazy," he said. "Ain't he a riot? He's a nut, a real character." Ellie was still listening to the
music. His sunglasses told nothing about what he was thinking. He wore a bright orange shirt unbuttoned
halfway to show his chest, which was a pale, bluish chest and not muscular like Arnold Friend's. His shirt collar
was turned up all around and the very tips of the collar pointed out past his chin as if they were protecting him.
He was pressing the transistor radio up against his ear and sat there in a kind of daze, right in the sun.
"He's kinda strange," Connie said.
"Hey, she says you're kinda strange! Kinda strange!" Arnold Friend cried. He pounded on the car to get Ellie's
attention. Ellie turned for the first time and Connie saw with shock that he wasn't a kid either—he had a fair,
hairless face, cheeks reddened slightly as if the veins grew too close to the surface of his skin, the face of a
forty-year-old baby. Connie felt a wave of dizziness rise in her at this sight and she stared at him as if waiting
for something to change the shock of the moment, make it all right again. Ellie's lips kept shaping words,
mumbling along with the words blasting in his ear.
"Maybe you two better go away," Connie said faintly.
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"What? How come?" Arnold Friend cried. "We come out here to take you for a ride. It's Sunday." He had the
voice of the man on the radio now. It was the same voice, Connie thought. "Don'tcha know it's Sunday all day?
And honey, no matter who you were with last night, today you're with Arnold Friend and don't you forget it!
Maybe you better step out here," he said, and this last was in a different voice. It was a little flatter, as if the heat
was finally getting to him.
"No. I got things to do."
"Hey."
"You two better leave."
"We ain't leaving until you come with us."
"Like hell I am—"
"Connie, don't fool around with me. I mean—I mean, don't fool around," he said, shaking his head. He laughed
incredulously. He placed his sunglasses on top of his head, carefully, as if he were indeed wearing a wig, and
brought the stems down behind his ears. Connie stared at him, another wave of dizziness and fear rising in her
so that for a moment he wasn't even in focus but was just a blur standing there against his gold car, and she had
the idea that he had driven up the driveway all right but had come from nowhere before that and belonged
nowhere and that everything about him and even about the music that was so familiar to her was only half real.
"If my father comes and sees you—"
"He ain't coming. He's at a barbecue."
"How do you know that?"
"Aunt Tillie's. Right now they're uh—they're drinking. Sitting around," he said vaguely, squinting as if he were
staring all the way to town and over to Aunt Tillie's back yard. Then the vision seemed to get clear and he
nodded energetically. "Yeah. Sitting around. There's your sister in a blue dress, huh? And high heels, the poor
sad bitch—nothing like you, sweetheart! And your mother's helping some fat woman with the corn, they're
cleaning the corn—husking the corn—"
"What fat woman?" Connie cried.
"How do I know what fat woman, I don't know every goddamn fat woman in the world!" Arnold Friend
laughed.
"Oh, that's Mrs. Hornsby . . . . Who invited her?" Connie said. She felt a little lightheaded. Her breath was
coming quickly.
"She's too fat. I don't like them fat. I like them the way you are, honey," he said, smiling sleepily at her. They
stared at each other for a while through the screen door. He said softly, "Now, what you're going to do is this:
you're going to come out that door. You re going to sit up front with me and Ellie's going to sit in the back, the
hell with Ellie, right? This isn't Ellie's date. You're my date. I'm your lover, honey."
"What? You're crazy—"
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"Yes, I'm your lover. You don't know what that is but you will," he said. "I know that too. I know all about you.
But look: it's real nice and you couldn't ask for nobody better than me, or more polite. I always keep my word.
I'll tell you how it is, I'm always nice at first, the first time. I'll hold you so tight you won't think you have to try
to get away or pretend anything because you'll know you can't. And I'll come inside you where it's all secret and
you'll give in to me and you'll love me "
"Shut up! You're crazy!" Connie said. She backed away from the door. She put her hands up against her ears as
if she'd heard something terrible, something not meant for her. "People don't talk like that, you're crazy," she
muttered. Her heart was almost too big now for her chest and its pumping made sweat break out all over her.
She looked out to see Arnold Friend pause and then take a step toward the porch, lurching. He almost fell. But,
like a clever drunken man, he managed to catch his balance. He wobbled in his high boots and grabbed hold of
one of the porch posts.
"Honey?" he said. "You still listening?"
"Get the hell out of here!"
"Be nice, honey. Listen."
"I'm going to call the police—"
He wobbled again and out of the side of his mouth came a fast spat curse, an aside not meant for her to hear.
But even this "Christ!" sounded forced. Then he began to smile again. She watched this smile come, awkward
as if he were smiling from inside a mask. His whole face was a mask, she thought wildly, tanned down to his
throat but then running out as if he had plastered make-up on his face but had forgotten about his throat.
"Honey—? Listen, here's how it is. I always tell the truth and I promise you this: I ain't coming in that house
after you."
"You better not! I'm going to call the police if you—if you don't—"
"Honey," he said, talking right through her voice, "honey, I m not coming in there but you are coming out here.
You know why?"
She was panting. The kitchen looked like a place she had never seen before, some room she had run inside but
that wasn't good enough, wasn't going to help her. The kitchen window had never had a curtain, after three
years, and there were dishes in the sink for her to do—probably—and if you ran your hand across the table
you'd probably feel something sticky there.
"You listening, honey? Hey?" "—going to call the police—"
"Soon as you touch the phone I don't need to keep my promise and can come inside. You won't want that."
She rushed forward and tried to lock the door. Her fingers were shaking. "But why lock it," Arnold Friend said
gently, talking right into her face. "It's just a screen door. It's just nothing." One of his boots was at a strange
angle, as if his foot wasn't in it. It pointed out to the left, bent at the ankle. "I mean, anybody can break through
a screen door and glass and wood and iron or anything else if he needs to, anybody at all, and specially Arnold
Friend. If the place got lit up with a fire, honey, you'd come runnin' out into my arms, right into my arms an'
safe at home—like you knew I was your lover and'd stopped fooling around. I don't mind a nice shy girl but I
don't like no fooling around." Part of those words were spoken with a slight rhythmic lilt, and Connie somehow
49
recognized them—the echo of a song from last year, about a girl rushing into her boy friend's arms and coming
home again—
Connie stood barefoot on the linoleum floor, staring at him. "What do you want?" she whispered.
"I want you," he said.
"What?"
"Seen you that night and thought, that's the one, yes sir. I never needed to look anymore."
"But my father's coming back. He's coming to get me. I had to wash my hair first—'' She spoke in a dry, rapid
voice, hardly raising it for him to hear.
"No, your daddy is not coming and yes, you had to wash your hair and you washed it for me. It's nice and
shining and all for me. I thank you sweetheart," he said with a mock bow, but again he almost lost his balance.
He had to bend and adjust his boots. Evidently his feet did not go all the way down; the boots must have been
stuffed with something so that he would seem taller. Connie stared out at him and behind him at Ellie in the car,
who seemed to be looking off toward Connie's right, into nothing. This Ellie said, pulling the words out of the
air one after another as if he were just discovering them, "You want me to pull out the phone?"
"Shut your mouth and keep it shut," Arnold Friend said, his face red from bending over or maybe from
embarrassment because Connie had seen his boots. "This ain't none of your business."
"What—what are you doing? What do you want?" Connie said. "If I call the police they'll get you, they'll arrest
you—"
"Promise was not to come in unless you touch that phone, and I'll keep that promise," he said. He resumed his
erect position and tried to force his shoulders back. He sounded like a hero in a movie, declaring something
important. But he spoke too loudly and it was as if he were speaking to someone behind Connie. "I ain't made
plans for coming in that house where I don't belong but just for you to come out to me, the way you should.
Don't you know who I am?"
"You're crazy," she whispered. She backed away from the door but did not want to go into another part of the
house, as if this would give him permission to come through the door. "What do you . . . you're crazy, you. . . ."
"Huh? What're you saying, honey?"
Her eyes darted everywhere in the kitchen. She could not remember what it was, this room.
"This is how it is, honey: you come out and we'll drive away, have a nice ride. But if you don't come out we're
gonna wait till your people come home and then they're all going to get it."
"You want that telephone pulled out?" Ellie said. He held the radio away from his ear and grimaced, as if
without the radio the air was too much for him.
"I toldja shut up, Ellie," Arnold Friend said, "you're deaf, get a hearing aid, right? Fix yourself up. This little
girl's no trouble and's gonna be nice to me, so Ellie keep to yourself, this ain't your date right? Don't hem in on
me, don't hog, don't crush, don't bird dog, don't trail me," he said in a rapid, meaningless voice, as if he were
running through all the expressions he'd learned but was no longer sure which of them was in style, then rushing
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on to new ones, making them up with his eyes closed. "Don't crawl under my fence, don't squeeze in my
chipmonk hole, don't sniff my glue, suck my popsicle, keep your own greasy fingers on yourself!" He shaded
his eyes and peered in at Connie, who was backed against the kitchen table. "Don't mind him, honey, he's just a
creep. He's a dope. Right? I'm the boy for you, and like I said, you come out here nice like a lady and give me
your hand, and nobody else gets hurt, I mean, your nice old bald-headed daddy and your mummy and your
sister in her high heels. Because listen: why bring them in this?"
"Leave me alone," Connie whispered.
"Hey, you know that old woman down the road, the one with the chickens and stuff—you know her?"
"She's dead!"
"Dead? What? You know her?" Arnold Friend said.
"She's dead—"
"Don't you like her?"
"She's dead—she's—she isn't here any more—"
But don't you like her, I mean, you got something against her? Some grudge or something?" Then his voice
dipped as if he were conscious of a rudeness. He touched the sunglasses perched up on top of his head as if to
make sure they were still there. "Now, you be a good girl."
'What are you going to do?"
"Just two things, or maybe three," Arnold Friend said. "But I promise it won't last long and you'll like me the
way you get to like people you're close to. You will. It's all over for you here, so come on out. You don't want
your people in any trouble, do you?"
She turned and bumped against a chair or something, hurting her leg, but she ran into the back room and picked
up the telephone. Something roared in her ear, a tiny roaring, and she was so sick with fear that she could do
nothing but listen to it—the telephone was clammy and very heavy and her fingers groped down to the dial but
were too weak to touch it. She began to scream into the phone, into the roaring. She cried out, she cried for her
mother, she felt her breath start jerking back and forth in her lungs as if it were something Arnold Friend was
stabbing her with again and again with no tenderness. A noisy sorrowful wailing rose all about her and she was
locked inside it the way she was locked inside this house.
After a while she could hear again. She was sitting on the floor with her wet back against the wall.
Arnold Friend was saying from the door, "That's a good girl. Put the phone back."
She kicked the phone away from her.
"No, honey. Pick it up. Put it back right."
She picked it up and put it back. The dial tone stopped.
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"That's a good girl. Now, you come outside."
She was hollow with what had been fear but what was now just an emptiness. All that screaming had blasted it
out of her. She sat, one leg cramped under her, and deep inside her brain was something like a pinpoint of light
that kept going and would not let her relax. She thought, I'm not going to see my mother again. She thought, I'm
not going to sleep in my bed again. Her bright green blouse was all wet.
Arnold Friend said, in a gentle-loud voice that was like a stage voice, "The place where you came from ain't
there any more, and where you had in mind to go is cancelled out. This place you are now—inside your daddy's
house—is nothing but a cardboard box I can knock down any time. You know that and always did know it. You
hear me?"
She thought, I have got to think. I have got to know what to do.
"We'll go out to a nice field, out in the country here where it smells so nice and it's sunny," Arnold Friend said.
"I'll have my arms tight around you so you won't need to try to get away and I'll show you what love is like,
what it does. The hell with this house! It looks solid all right," he said. He ran a fingernail down the screen and
the noise did not make Connie shiver, as it would have the day before. "Now, put your hand on your heart,
honey. Feel that? That feels solid too but we know better. Be nice to me, be sweet like you can because what
else is there for a girl like you but to be sweet and pretty and give in?—and get away before her people come
back?"
She felt her pounding heart. Her hand seemed to enclose it. She thought for the first time in her life that it was
nothing that was hers, that belonged to her, but just a pounding, living thing inside this body that wasn't really
hers either.
"You don't want them to get hurt," Arnold Friend went on. "Now, get up, honey. Get up all by yourself."
She stood.
"Now, turn this way. That's right. Come over here to me.—Ellie, put that away, didn't I tell you? You dope. You
miserable creepy dope," Arnold Friend said. His words were not angry but only part of an incantation. The
incantation was kindly. "Now come out through the kitchen to me, honey, and let's see a smile, try it, you re a
brave, sweet little girl and now they're eating corn and hot dogs cooked to bursting over an outdoor fire, and
they don't know one thing about you and never did and honey, you're better than them because not a one of
them would have done this for you."
Connie felt the linoleum under her feet; it was cool. She brushed her hair back out of her eyes. Arnold Friend let
go of the post tentatively and opened his arms for her, his elbows pointing in toward each other and his wrists
limp, to show that this was an embarrassed embrace and a little mocking, he didn't want to make her selfconscious.
She put out her hand against the screen. She watched herself push the door slowly open as if she were back safe
somewhere in the other doorway, watching this body and this head of long hair moving out into the sunlight
where Arnold Friend waited.
"My sweet little blue-eyed girl," he said in a half-sung sigh that had nothing to do with her brown eyes but was
taken up just the same by the vast sunlit reaches of the land behind him and on all sides of him—so much land
that Connie had never seen before and did not recognize except to know that she was going to it.
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