Let Me Tell You

by Shirley Jackson

  “I don’t remember you.”

  “My name is Joyce Duncan now. I used to be Joyce Richards.”

  “That so?” said the woman indifferently. “Doesn’t come back to me.”

  “I guess you’ll remember when I tell you what I came for.” Now it was surprisingly easy to say. “Before I left this town, ten years ago, I did something I’ve always been sorry for, and I’ve been hunting for you all day to try and fix it up.”

  “What’s it got to do with me?” The woman glanced at the back room from which she had come, as though she wished this interminable conversation over and herself safely back in her rocking chair, or on her bed, or watching her soap operas on TV.

  “You don’t remember? The money that disappeared during gym class during senior year, and I said I saw you take it?”

  “I never took any money.”

  “I know you didn’t,” said Joyce Duncan. “I took it. It was two dollars and seventy cents and I spent it on a pair of stockings and a box of candy and a cheap pearl necklace from the five-and-ten. I said I saw you take it because I was scared, and they almost expelled you from high school. It was the dues from the Girls’ Club.”

  “We run an honest store,” the woman said. “Business is tough, but we’ve always been honest.”

  “I know. What I mean is, I once accused you of stealing, and you didn’t, and even though it wasn’t important I wanted to come back and tell you I was sorry.”

  “We give people a square deal,” said the woman dully, “and they mostly give us a square deal. That’s why we call it the Square Deal Grocery. Because we give—”

  “Don’t you mind anymore? I mean, I remember how you must have felt that day in old Martinson’s office when you kept saying you didn’t and I kept saying I saw you, and they believed me because they knew you wanted the money more than I did.”

  “I guess everyone wants money,” the woman said, with what was almost a smile.

  “But I want to make it up to you,” Joyce said helplessly.

  This time the woman did smile. “Seems as though I did remember your face there for a minute,” she said. “I remember once just seeing you come up to some other girls at some class party or something and they laughed and walked away and you were just standing there. I just remember your face there for that minute, just standing there.”

  “Really?” said Joyce. “Well, of course, now…”

  “Why worry about it?” said the woman. “I never did anything I’m sorry for, and me and Bob, we got our own little business here, and even though costs—”

  “Well, I’m sorry anyway,” Joyce said irritably. “Will you give my regards to Bob—if he remembers me, that is?”

  “I don’t suppose he would remember you,” the woman said thoughtfully. “Seems like he would of mentioned you sometimes if he did.”

  Joyce hesitated, half turning away, and then thought that it was not enough to leave like this. “Are you sure you don’t remember?” she asked, and the woman, already turning toward the other room, said wearily, “Look, lady, we keep a grocery here. I already told you that whatever’s bothering you is your worry, not mine.”

  “Well, perhaps I’d better get some cigarettes before I leave,” Joyce said. “I’ll take a carton, please. And one of those boxes of candy and a dozen oranges.” She watched silently as the woman put them into a bag. “How much is that?”

  “Two-thirty.”

  Looking around desperately, Joyce said, “Then give me—oh, say, eight—ten packs of gum.”

  Without comment, the woman counted them out and put them into the bag with the candy and the cigarettes and set the bag next to the bag of oranges on the counter. “How much?” asked Joyce.

  “Two-seventy-three, with tax.”

  “Fine,” said Joyce. She gave the woman a five-dollar bill, and counted the change carefully, thinking, after all, a person who has once been accused of stealing doesn’t always worry afterward about being too careful.

  “Will that be all?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Come again,” said the woman tonelessly, and this time she moved purposefully toward the other room and waited in the doorway while Joyce went to the outer door and the street. Is she afraid that I’ll steal something?, Joyce wondered, and called back, “Don’t forget to give my regards to Bob.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  She doesn’t even know my name any longer, Joyce thought, how could she ever tell him? She put the packages into the backseat of the car and sat down gratefully behind the wheel. “Well,” she said aloud, “that’s done.”

  It was not until she was almost in Milltown, nearly seventeen miles from Prospect, that she recalled that she had not returned, after all, to look at her old house again. I’ll never see it now, she thought, knowing that she would never go back again, but everything’s all right anyway; I didn’t need to worry at all; I told that woman I took the money, but it was a long time ago and she doesn’t even remember my name. Lucky I didn’t take her any flowers or anything; she would have been suspicious.

  Stopping the car in front of her own apartment and seeing the light upstairs that meant Jed was home, she laughed aloud, thinking of her triumph, and she ran upstairs because the elevator would be too slow.

  “Jed,” she said, as the door opened before her, “it’s all right, I fixed it all.”

  He raised his eyes calmly to regard her. “No more lie?” he asked.

  “I saw her and I told her all about it and she said it was perfectly all right, and she wouldn’t take the money so I bought some cigarettes and things—she runs a little grocery, I forgot to tell you—and gave her the money back that way. And we can always smoke the cigarettes.”

  “I hope you got our brand,” Jed said without humor.

  “Of course, idiot. And what do you think? She married my old boyfriend, and I went back and saw my old high school and my old house and a few old neighbors, and I told everyone about how I was married and everything.”

  She looked at him, at his serious eyes apparently waiting for her to say something more, and her voice faltered. “So now,” she said, “everything’s going to be all right—isn’t it?”

  She Says the Damnedest Things

  “She’s bats, that girl,” said Dottie. “I mean, honestly, bats. She does the damnedest things.”

  “She must be charming,” I said.

  “Honestly, though!” said Dottie. “You should see her. She’ll sit down here and talk about the craziest notions she’s got, like buying the university and turning it into a pig farm because no one would ever notice the difference.”

  “Already I like her,” I said.

  “Yeah,” said Dottie, “and she’ll read all the time, or go banging away on that damned old typewriter of hers, and then she’ll talk and talk. She can spout poetry by the hour, honest.”

  “When can I meet her?” I asked.

  “God, you don’t wanna,” said Dottie. “She says the damnedest things, honest. She’s liable to get you into an argument on some screwy subject like religion, and then make you talk all night, or she’ll tell you about some damned book she’s been reading, about logic or pyramids or some other crazy thing, honest, and you’ll go nuts.”

  “That strikes a chord,” I said.

  “Really,” said Dottie. “But she can tell some swell stories, I’ll say that for her. She’s all the time got some wild line about something. Honestly, you’d die if you heard her.”

  “She sounds familiar,” I said.

  “Oh, and yeah!” said Dottie. “I almost forgot the screwiest thing of all. She’s gonna be a writer! Honest—can you imagine? A writer? God, the things some people will think of. She’s some screwy dame, I’m telling you, honest.”

  “I think I know her,” I said.

  Remembrance of Things Past

  Mr. Waggoner came wearily into the living room. His wife was sitting by the fireplace, knitting. Mr. Waggoner realized with some surprise that he had forgo
tten his wife’s name.

  “Good morning, my dear,” Mr. Waggoner said to his wife.

  “Good morning, William,” his wife said.

  Mr. Waggoner sat looking at his wife, wondering what her name was. He found himself thinking of a lot of names, none, he knew, belonging to his wife.

  Sandra?, he thought tentatively. He wished he had married a girl named Sandra.

  “Was your breakfast all right, William?” Mrs. Waggoner asked casually. “I told the maid only one egg this morning. You ate a little too much last night.”

  “I had an excellent breakfast, thank you, my dear,” Mr. Waggoner said. Annabelle?

  “And what are you going to do today, William?” Mrs. Waggoner asked.

  “I really hadn’t thought.” Clarice?

  “A little gardening, perhaps? Or some golf?”

  “I played golf yesterday,” Mr. Waggoner said, annoyed.

  “You want to be playing your best when we go south this year, William.”

  Like birds, William thought. What was the woman’s name?

  Lucrece?

  This has gone far enough, Mr. Waggoner thought. His first concern had changed to anger. This woman had no right to go on being anonymous.

  “My dear,” he said.

  “Yes, William?” said his wife.

  Mr. Waggoner thought deeply. “You remember when we were first married?”

  Mrs. Waggoner thought deeply. “Not very well,” she said.

  “You know,” Mr. Waggoner said. “When we were first married.”

  “Yes?” Mrs. Waggoner said.

  Mr. Waggoner took a deep breath. “Remember how silly we were? What did I used to call you?”

  Mrs. Waggoner frowned. “I used to call you Bubbles,” she said.

  Mr. Waggoner winced. “Ah, but what did I used to call you?” He made his voice deliberately coy.

  Mrs. Waggoner compressed her lips. “Bumpo,” she said.

  “I see,” Mr. Waggoner said. “Well…” he began.

  Evidently considering the subject closed, Mrs. Waggoner said briskly, “I had a letter from Becky this morning. She and the baby will be here on the tenth.”

  “Very nice,” Mr. Waggoner said. Becky. Rebecca. That was his daughter. Had she been named after her mother?

  Reba?

  “You must get your hair cut this week,” said Mrs. Waggoner.

  Delilah?

  The phone rang.

  “Will you answer it, William, my dear?” said Mrs. Waggoner.

  William my dear went to the phone. “Hello,” he said vaguely.

  “Oh, William,” said a female voice. “May I speak to Jane, please?”

  Jane. Jane. Furiously angry, Mr. Waggoner put down the phone.

  “Jane,” he bawled. “Telephone. Oh, Jane…”

  Let Me Tell You

  (An Unfinished Story)

  Let me tell you about this girl, she’s prettier than I am, but she’s my best friend. We have fun together. When we go to a party or to the country club dancing or horseback riding—we ride at Becket’s; no one rides at Wilson’s anymore—or ice skating or even just out for a walk, we make jokes together and tell each other everything. She’s got dark hair and dark eyes and she wears black a lot; her mother doesn’t mind. Her name’s Hilda. She’s fourteen, like me, and neither one of us believes in going steady. That’s no fun.

  I try to do a lot of the things she does, but of course she’s always better. When I steal something from a store I always get caught and they call my father. Hilda has lots of things like slips and sweaters that she’s stolen from stores, and once she even stole a coat but of course she never wears it. We get all our clothes from the fashion shop. Everybody does. You just don’t wear a coat from anywhere else. She’s allowed to drink gin; her father’s a psychiatrist. I’m allowed champagne and a pink lady if my father makes it. My father’s a lawyer. It’s important what your father is. Also it’s important to have a swimming pool, only not the biggest swimming pool. One family moved into our part of town and right away they built the biggest swimming pool of all and of course no one would dream of going near it. But the most fun Hilda and I have is with the common people. The riffraff. The hoi polloi.

  The way we have fun is this: We get a ride into town with someone, usually Hilda’s mother or mine, when they are going into the doctor’s or to a matinee, or on one of their shopping trips. Then we make all kinds of promises about when we will be home, and how, and usually when to meet somewhere to get home. Then we take a streetcar to some part of town where the common people live and go around and eat and talk and all the other things that people without advantages like them do. They drink beer—we’ve watched them do that—and buy clothes in department stores, and they talk to each other a lot. That’s where we have our fun, talking to the common people. They all have bad teeth. They don’t take care of themselves. They bathe, of course—everybody does, after all—but they don’t know how to cook. They eat hamburgers and French fries.

  One day we rode into town with Hilda’s mother and said we would meet her on the corner of Nation and Main at five o’clock, and I guess she thought we were going to a movie. She said did we have enough money and Hilda said sure, and then she said well, have a good time, and we said sure. She never worries about our meeting bad men or something the way my mother does. My mother always wants to know exactly where we’ve been and whether any dirty men spoke to us, and Hilda and I always have to think of something to tell her, although I don’t remember ever seeing a dirty man in my life. Once we told her a man had spoken to us because Hilda had read about it in a book. She’s allowed to read anything she likes. My mother told my father and for a while they wouldn’t let me go anywhere except with people they knew. Now that I’m fourteen, though, my father says it’s time I got used to the idea of the world being the way it is. My mother just says if any men speak to us we must run, unless there is a policeman nearby. Hilda’s mother doesn’t care, Hilda’s allowed to speak to anyone she wants to.

  This day Hilda’s mother drove us into town, she was annoyed because Hilda was wearing her brown coat, and Hilda couldn’t tell her that where we were going she couldn’t wear her fur. Anyway she let us off and said did we have enough money? and then she drove away, and Hilda and I stood on the corner for a minute arguing. I wanted to go downtown to some of the stores first, but Hilda had it in her mind that she wanted to go far out on the streetcar to the end of the line. Hilda won, of course; she always does because she says she won’t be friends anymore. We got on the streetcar and Hilda sat down next to a girl about twenty who was really dressed in a most ghastly fashion and I sat down next to an old man who smelled. We never got to the end of the line because Hilda kept looking at the girl next to her out of the corners of her eyes and kind of smiling, and when the girl got up to get off Hilda waved her head at me and got up and we followed the girl off the bus. We like to follow people sometimes and this girl had taken Hilda’s fancy. “Did you ever see such clothes?” Hilda whispered to me when she got off the streetcar and I had to admit I never did. She was all kind of cheap perfume and everything too tight. “I think she’s a prostitute,” Hilda said, “and when we follow her we’ll find out where prostitutes go.”

  She was a very disappointing prostitute if she was one because she didn’t stop anyone or talk to anyone or anything, just went on down the street, and we walked along some distance behind her, talking and trying to pretend we weren’t following. We were in a very common neighborhood; there were little dirty stores and little dirty houses, and everything close up together and dirty in the streets. There were a lot of people, probably because it was a Saturday afternoon, and Saturday afternoon is when the common people come out and sit on their front porches and watch ball games on television and drink beer. The girl we were following went right down the street without stopping and then she turned suddenly as though she had just thought of it and went into a little grocery store, so we hurried and went right into the store after
her. It was a small store, and dark, and we stopped near the door because there were quite a few people inside and our girl was standing waiting her turn.

  I don’t much care for getting up close to people, and I certainly don’t like being close enough for them to touch me, but Hilda doesn’t care about anything, so I kind of stayed near the doorway while Hilda went a little farther in, kind of touching things and looking as though she had something she wanted to buy. Hilda has nerve, and she’s fun, and I wouldn’t do some of the things she does. If my mother ever found out, I wouldn’t get a car for my birthday.

  Anyway, Hilda was poking at loaves of bread and taking down cans and putting them back and no one was paying any attention to us because they were all talking and even the girl we followed had turned around to listen because one woman was doing most of the talking and she was mad.

  “No right,” she kept saying, “they hadn’t any right. I never knew the boy myself but his mother and father were decent people and they brought their kids up decent and no one had any right to accuse him without the facts.”

  “They go to church, the Andersons,” someone else said, and the girl we followed said, kind of hesitating, “Wasn’t it in the paper? They found some of the stuff in his room?”

  “He never did a thing,” the woman who talked so much said. “I know for a fact that boy was brought up right, and when he says the other kids gave him those watches, I for one believe him.”

  Now I’ll show you how Hilda has fun. She kind of stepped up to the woman talking and shook her head, and when the woman noticed her, Hilda said, very little-girl, “Please, I couldn’t help hearing what you said, and I guess you don’t know everything about it because we used to know the Anderson boy and he stole things all the time.”

  “What?” said the woman, and then, “I just simply don’t believe it.”