Hangsaman

by Shirley Jackson

  “I would not embarrass them by watching them,” Tony said, “Look, this one here is a vampire.”

  It was, indeed, with horns and blood and black cloak and possibly a machine inside which created heartless villainy while sparing its patronizing public any sense of immediacy (“It’s only a movie; don’t be afraid to look.”) and which perhaps in some sense of ultimate justice was the kind of machine most moviegoers imagined vaguely would someday take over the world, after their children and their children’s children and any posterity they might possibly meet were gone; it was precisely the sort of machine that should take over the world (postulating, of course, that it was a world worth taking over at all, and valuable enough to any machine to justify conquest)—precisely the sort of machine to take over the world: heartless, villainous, unimaginative. “A vampire?” said Natalie. “I think it’s a werewolf. Look at its tail.”

  “More likely one of those hidden personalities, I’d say,” said Tony.

  “Look over here,” said Natalie. “It’s got hold of some girl. Girls who get caught by werewolves always look surprised, did you notice?”

  “She’d have reason to be surprised if she knew anything about werewolves,” Tony said wisely. “Perplexed, she looks to me.”

  “I remember the day Langdon got caught,” Natalie said.

  “She didn’t look surprised,” Tony said. “No, nor perplexed, neither. She just looked sort of relieved, after chasing him for years.”

  “If we were vampires,” Natalie said, falling into step beside Tony, “we would not pick on Langdon.”

  “I love my love with a V,” said Tony, “because he is a vampire. His name is Vestis and he lives in Verakovia. He—”

  “I love my love with a W,” said Natalie, “because he is a werewolf. His name is William and he lives in Williamstown.”

  “He is also a waberdasher,” Tony said. “Mine is a vixter-repairman.”

  “Not much work for him in Verakovia,” Natalie said critically. “I don’t believe I saw a single vixter out of order the whole time I was there.”

  “Ah,” said Tony, “but you were there in the rainy season.”

  “Still,” said Natalie, “what, after all, is there to fixing a vixter? A string here, a screw there—nothing.”

  “It takes a strong man,” Tony said. “Could you do it?”

  “I used to think,” Natalie said, “when I was a child, that I had only a limited stock of ‘yeses’ and ‘nos,’ and that when they were used up I couldn’t get any more and then I wouldn’t be able to answer most of the questions silly people asked me.”

  “Like, ‘What did you learn in school today?’ and ‘Tell the nice lady your name’?” Tony wanted to know.

  “I comforted myself by remembering that I could eke out my stock by things like, ‘I don’t think so,’ and, ‘Well, perhaps.’”

  “And, ‘If you don’t mind,’ and, ‘Much obliged, I’m sure,’ and, ‘You better be careful what you say or I’ll call a cop.’”

  “Which is the reason,” Natalie went on, “why I don’t answer your very pertinent questions about . . .”

  “Hanged man,” said Tony suddenly. “Hanged man.”

  “It is not,” Natalie said indignantly. “It’s not fair to use a toy.”

  “We never said it wasn’t fair.”

  Natalie stopped and stared at Tony’s hanged man. It was a toy in the shop window, a tiny figure on a trapeze which turned and swung, around and around, endlessly and irritatingly. “Hanged man,” Tony insisted.

  “The tree of sacrifice is not living wood,” Natalie pointed out.

  “You can’t ever tell,” Tony said, peering. “They make extraordinary things for children these days. Dolls that can walk, and birds that can lay eggs, and I suppose animals with real blood for butchering. Not to mention—”

  “All right,” said Natalie sullenly. “Life in death. Joy of constructive death.”

  “Reversed?”

  “Reversed, probably not practical for any smart child,” said Natalie, and walked on.

  Tony caught up with her laughing. “Let’s get something to eat.”

  “I don’t want anything to eat.”

  “I resign my hanged man,” Tony said, still laughing. “It was probably not living wood at all.”

  They walked on for a minute in silence, and then Natalie said softly, “I used to think, when I was a child, that it was an awful thing to have to go on breathing and breathing, all my life until I was dead, all those thousands of years. And then I used to think that now I was conscious of breathing it would be like everything else where I did it without thinking for a while and then became aware of it, and it would be awkward and difficult to do it as well consciously, and then by the time I had thought that I used to realize that while I was thinking it I had been breathing.”

  * * *

  The cafeteria was filled with people wearing dark clothes and rubbers, moving in sad indecision before bright colorful counters of food. A man in a wet wool overcoat held a slice of cherry pie in his hand; a woman in a coat with a damp fur collar hesitated longingly over a tomato and pepper salad, and below the strawberry shortcake and the sliced ham and the corn muffins and the hot macaroni the floor was trampled and muddy, and the silver of the trays was tarnished and reflected unclearly the plates of food set upon them. Natalie chose cinnamon buns and three kinds of pie; Tony had one kind of pie and one kind of cake and a dish of ice cream and cinnamon buns. They sat down next to the wall, setting their trays squarely on the flat marble table-top, locating the salt and pepper and the mustard and the sugar bowl and the tin container of paper napkins and the used ashtray precisely between them, and their food, colorless and tasteless once it had been separated from its parent counter, awaited them dully on the plates which would be washed and used again when the pie and cake and even the cinnamon buns were consumed.

  Their table was long enough to seat eight (crowded in, hot and thirsty after the chase, raising their glasses to salute the lord of the manor, shouting to be heard from below the salt), but they sat alone because they had chosen a table far back, and seemingly destined to be empty except for themselves. Tony said softly, “She said she’d be here at twelve sharp, and it’s almost twenty after now.”

  “She might have sent a message,” Natalie said. “You know how reliable she always is. Perhaps someone is looking for us with a message now. I’m sure there’s a message on its way; it’s not like Langdon to be late.”

  “She wouldn’t trust just anybody, though,” Tony said. “Not with a message for us, not Langdon. We’ll have to be ready to take the message no matter how strange it sounds. No matter what it sounds like, it will be of course a message for us.”

  “Do you suppose she got the jewels?” Natalie asked. “And the papers and the guns?”

  “Do you suppose that extraordinary woman on the other side is looking for us? What will the message be? ‘I have lived long enough, having seen one thing . . .’”

  “I believe it’s the boy in the black cap; he seems to have lost something. Or the old man there with the cheese sandwich.”

  “Save those whereout she presses for dead men deadly wine,” Tony said happily. “There’s a message to send someone.”

  A tray was set down heavily on the table, next to Natalie, and she was silent, although she had started to tell Tony a line which began, “So Satan spake . . .” She looked across at Tony to see the reflection of the newcomer in Tony’s eyes; Tony looked up once, briefly, and then down again, and Natalie had to look cautiously sideways, and saw only a checkered jacket and, presumably, a man under it. He was taking things slowly off his tray, putting them down on the table as though he liked food and even this food; he was eating the meat loaf, unbelievably checkered like his jacket, and string beans and mashed potatoes cupping gravy (Ace of cups? Natalie thought; No we’ve used that.) an
d vanilla ice cream and coffee; he could not have chosen a more disagreeable lunch, Natalie thought, even if he had said to himself, “Now let’s see, what looks positively worst? What will I remember with least pleasure? What am I most likely to have for dinner tonight?” When he leaned over to set the tray on the floor his head touched against Natalie’s shoulder and she moved back abruptly.

  “Pardon,” the man said, and Natalie nodded, assuming that he noticed, and drew even farther away.

  “Five of pentacles,” Tony said suddenly to Natalie, and Natalie, shocked, stared at her. “What?” Natalie said, thinking, Material trouble, no charity; reversed, earthly love. She looked at Tony and then looked down anxiously at the thick dirty hand maneuvering the coffee cup just beyond her own plates, where the cinnamon bun had suddenly turned stale and sticky.

  “Mind?” the man said. Natalie saw that he was holding out a knife. “What?” she said again.

  “I’ll do it,” Tony said abruptly. She reached across the table and, astonishingly, took the knife from the man and pulled his plate of rolls toward her. When Tony had buttered the rolls and pushed the plate back across the table Natalie at last turned openly and stared at the man; he had only one arm.

  Of course, Natalie thought, trying not to giggle, he couldn’t butter his own rolls, and of course that’s why he’s eating meat loaf, but you would have thought he’d buy a jacket that didn’t look quite so much . . .

  “Always got to ask for help,” the man said genially. He smiled at Natalie around a mouthful of bread and butter. “Rather ask a nice young lady any time.”

  “Knight of swords reversed,” Tony said, seemingly to her coffee.

  Quarrel with a fool, Natalie thought. “It’s getting late,” she said meaninglessly to Tony; it seemed the sort of thing to say to indicate to the man beside her that they were two busy persons, who had better things to do than buttering someone’s rolls.

  “Salt, please,” said the man to Natalie.

  She wondered insanely if she would have to salt his meat for him, but, passing the grimy saltcellar, thought, It only takes one hand if he puts down his fork for a minute. “Surprised how obliging most people are,” the man said.

  “You seem to get along so well,” Natalie said, watching Tony.

  The man turned around in his chair and smiled at her, as though his armlessness gave him an automatic right to ask anyone he chose for help, and so begin informal relationships at a point usually achieved through many confidences and confessions, but as though, too, it was not often that he were congratulated upon this rare talent.

  “It’s been a long time,” he said. “You get used to it.”

  “If it’s been such a long time,” Tony said, “how come you never learned to butter your own bread?”

  The man looked across at her and then back to Natalie. “You eat here often?” he asked. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you here before.”

  “Not very often,” Natalie said nervously.

  The man shoved away his plate and took a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. He offered them to Natalie and, not knowing what else to do (it was a fresh pack and it occurred to her wildly that unless someone took out the first cigarette he would never be able to get it), she took one; when he reached into his pocket again and took out a package of matches Natalie waited politely, but he handed her the matches and said, as before, “Mind?”

  “Here,” Tony said sharply from across the table. She held out a lighted match, first to Natalie and then to the man.

  “Matter with your girl friend?” the man asked, leaning back to look at Tony and exhaling smoke while he talked. “She helpless?”

  Natalie also looked at Tony and began immediately to gather her coat around her. The man helped her competently with his one arm and when Natalie rose he waved his hand at her and said, “Come back again sometime, when you haven’t got your friend.”

  “Goodbye,” Natalie said politely.

  He laughed, and said, “So long, kid.”

  * * *

  When they came out of the cafeteria it was unusually dark for early afternoon. It seemed that the light had been withdrawn from the day, as though fearing to face a storm, as though sunlight and clear air, anticipating from several days ago the arrival of enemies, had taken long-planned steps to consolidate their positions elsewhere to visit, perhaps, others of their kingdoms, abandoning this one for a while to the forces of rain and now, this afternoon, to storm. People who ordinarily walked looking down at the sidewalk, perhaps in hopes of finding a penny, now walked looking up at the sky nervously, and the rain which had filled the air inconclusively for almost a week now took on a certain firmness with the knowledge of reinforcements in sight.

  Tony and Natalie came out onto the sidewalk wearing their raincoats, but it was for the first time as though they were going somewhere, toward a place now, where before they had only wandered happily. Although they walked with their shoulders together going through the wide main street of the town, it was necessary for Natalie to put her hand under Tony’s arm to keep up with her, and neither of them spoke. Natalie did not now know what Tony had thought of the one-armed man, nor did she know why Tony had spoken to him as she did; she did not know, even, where Tony was going. It was, at any rate, away from the cafeteria.

  “Well?” said Tony, as they reached the first corner.

  Natalie could not decide what to say. There were a number of statements which should be able to bring back their former peaceful state, but saying them consciously and with deliberation was somehow not the same, and then too said consciously and with intention they might not at all bring back the former peaceful state, but introduce rather a new state which would begin by being false. Something new, then? Previously unsaid? Previously unthought? I’m tired, Natalie told herself sadly, and was quiet.

  “The question is,” Tony said slowly as they stood on the corner, “whether we can still escape, or whether they will have us after all.”

  “I should think,” Natalie said tentatively, “that if we hurried . . .”

  Tony laughed. “Don’t you see,” she said, “if we’re running and they’re running, then we’re not hurrying at all?”

  “No, I don’t see.”

  “Better go slowly, anyway,” Tony said. “Not back to the college.”

  “No, not back to the college.”

  Tony hesitated. “Are you sure you’re not tired?”

  “No.”

  “Will you come somewhere with me? It’s a long way.”

  “Yes,” said Natalie.

  “You don’t even know where it is.”

  “All right.”

  “You see,” said Tony, her voice still soft so as not to be overheard, but somehow fierce and angry, “it frightens me when people try to grab at us like that. I can’t sit still and just let people watch me and talk to me and ask me questions. You see,” she said again, as though trying to moderate her words and explain, “they want to pull us back, and start us all over again just like them and doing the things they want to do and acting the way they want to act and saying and thinking and wanting all the things they live with every day. And,” she added her voice dropping still lower, “I know a place where we can go and no one can trouble us.”

  “I want to go there, then.”

  “You won’t be afraid?”

  “No.”

  Tony stood on the street corner and looked around, looking even at Natalie. Ahead of them, there was the intersection, with its stores and streets and the natives hurrying about their concerns, gathering their wares together to be finished before sundown, or before the storm came upon them. Behind Natalie and Tony the main street ended abruptly, about two blocks down, in a sudden, insistent stopping of stores, and a beginning of railroads and country lots beyond. To their right was the Hotel Washington, with its murals in the lobby of Washington writing
the Declaration of Independence, Washington making peace with the Indians, Washington—a local god—founding the city’s first bank. To their left was the far-off tower of the electric company, and the beacon of the radio station. Tony saw all these things, which she had seen before, and looked again at Natalie.

  “You ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come on, then.”

  They crossed the main street to the spot where buses drew in and waited asthmatically for passengers. They did not usually ride on things, Tony and Natalie, and it was odd to both of them to push into the crowd of people waiting, to climb up the narrow steps and push farther into the bus even as it moved swiftly, leaving behind it still-hurrying figures on the street, raising imperative gloved hands, brandishing coins, still hurrying.

  Natalie, pushing with the rest down the aisle of the bus, fell rather than sat voluntarily; there was an empty seat next to the aisle and before she could catch Tony the crowd of people had pressed her into it and Tony was gone.

  For a minute she only sat, trying to draw herself in and avoid the pressures of people on all sides of her. She felt as though she could not breathe, with someone in the seat next to her, someone on the aisle beside her, someone in front of her and someone in back of her and Tony out of sight. The man on the seat next to her was large and seemed to overflow onto Natalie and she could see that he was pressed against the window as well. She thought that she might be less crushed when the bus swung into the middle of the street and the people inside settled into place, but instead they swayed against her from one side or the other. The thought of escaping from the bus came to her, and she wanted to fight and claw and scream when she realized that she could not even stand up, much less wriggle through the people to get to either door. They were holding her by sheer weight, leaning all together around her so that she might move her hands, if she liked, or turn her head, but could only tantalize herself so because beyond that she was paralyzed. She found herself hardly able to breathe and for a minute thought wildly of pushing against the man next to her until his weight broke the window.