“Where are you going?” said the conductor.
Would they put her off the train? For the first time, Joe turned and looked at her, eagerly and with hope. Would they possibly, hopefully, desperately, put her off the train? “I’m going to Merrytown,” she said, and Joe’s convictions about the generally weak-minded attitudes of the adult world were all confirmed: The conductor tore a slip from a pad he carried, punched a hole in it, and told the woman, “Two seventy-three.” While she was searching her pocketbook for her money—if she knew she was going to have to buy a ticket, Joe thought disgustedly, whyn’t she have her money ready?—the conductor took Joe’s ticket and grinned at him. “Your boy got his ticket all right,” he pointed out.
The woman smiled. “He got to the station ahead of me,” she said.
The conductor gave her her change, and went on down the car. “That was funny, when he thought you were my little boy,” the woman said.
“Yeah,” said Joe.
“What’re you reading?”
Wearily, Joe put his comic book down.
“Comic,” he said.
“Interesting?”
“Yeah,” said Joe.
“Say, look at the policeman,” the woman said.
Joe looked where she was pointing and saw—he would not have believed this, since he knew perfectly well that most women cannot tell the difference between a policeman and a mailman—that it was undeniably a policeman, and that he was regarding the occupants of the car very much as though there might be a murderer or an international jewel thief riding calmly along on the train. Then, after surveying the car for a moment, he came a few steps forward to the last seat, where Joe and the woman were sitting.
“Name?” he said sternly to the woman.
“Mrs. John Aldridge, Officer,” said the woman promptly. “And this is my little boy, Joseph.”
“Hi, Joe,” said the policeman.
Joe, speechless, stared at the policeman and nodded dumbly.
“Where’d you get on?” the policeman asked the woman.
“Ashville,” she said.
“See anything of a woman about your height and build, wearing a fur jacket, getting on the train at Ashville?”
“I don’t think so,” said the woman. “Why?”
“Wanted,” said the policeman tersely.
“Keep your eyes open,” he told Joe. “Might get a reward.”
He passed on down the car, and stopped occasionally to speak to women who seemed to be alone. Then the door at the far end of the car closed behind him and Joe turned and took a deep look at the woman sitting beside him. “What’d you do?” he asked.
“Stole some money,” said the woman, and grinned.
Joe grinned back. If he had been sorely pressed, he might in all his experience until now have been able to identify only his mother as a woman both pretty and lovable; in this case, however—and perhaps it was enhanced by a sort of outlaw glory—he found the woman sitting next to him much more attractive than he had before supposed. She looked nice, she had soft hair, she had a pleasant smile and not a lot of lipstick and stuff on, and her fur jacket was rich and soft against Joe’s hand. Moreover, Joe knew absolutely when she grinned at him that there were not going to be any more questions about nonsense like people’s ages and whether they liked school, and he found himself grinning back at her in quite a friendly manner.
“They gonna catch you?” he asked.
“Sure,” said the woman. “Pretty soon now. But it was worth it.”
“Why?” Joe asked; crime, he well knew, did not pay.
“See,” said the woman, “I wanted to spend about two weeks having a good time there in Ashville. I wanted this coat, see? And I wanted just to buy a lot of clothes and things.”
“So?” said Joe.
“So I took the money from the old tightwad I worked for and I went off to Ashville and bought some clothes and went to a lot of movies and things and had a fine time.”
“Sort of a vacation,” Joe said.
“Sure,” the woman said. “Knew all the time they’d catch me, of course. For one thing, I always knew I had to come home again. But it was worth it!”
“How much?” said Joe.
“Two thousand dollars,” said the woman.
“Boy!” said Joe.
They settled back comfortably. Joe, without more than a moment’s pause to think, offered the woman his comic book about the African headhunters, and when the policeman came back through the car, eyeing them sharply, they were leaning back shoulder to shoulder, the woman apparently deep in African adventure, Joe engrossed in the adventures of a flying newspaper reporter who solved vicious gang murders.
“How is your book, Ma?” Joe said loudly as the policeman passed, and the woman laughed and said, “Fine, fine.”
As the door closed behind the policeman the woman said softly, “You know, I like to see how long I can keep out of their way.”
“Can’t keep it up forever,” Joe pointed out.
“No,” said the woman, “but I’d like to go back by myself and just give them what’s left of the money. I had my good time.”
“Seems to me,” Joe said, “that if it’s the first time you did anything like this they probably wouldn’t punish you so much.”
“I’m not ever going to do it again,” the woman said. “I mean, you sort of build up all your life for one real good time like this, and then you can take your punishment and not mind it so much.”
“I don’t know,” Joe said reluctantly, various small sins of his own with regard to matches and his father’s cigars and other people’s lunch boxes crossing his mind; “seems to me that even if you do think now that you’ll never do it again, sometimes—well, sometimes, you do it anyway.” He thought. “I always say I’ll never do it again, though.”
“Well, if you do it again,” the woman pointed out, “you get punished twice as bad the next time.”
Joe grinned. “I took a dime out of my mother’s pocketbook once,” he said. “But I’ll never do that again.”
“Same thing I did,” said the woman.
Joe shook his head. “If the policemen plan to spank you the way my father spanked me…” he said.
They were companionably silent for a while, and then the woman said, “Say, Joe, you hungry? Let’s go into the dining car.”
“I’m supposed to stay here,” Joe said.
“But I can’t go without you,” the woman said. “They think I’m all right because the woman they want wouldn’t be traveling with her little boy.”
“Stop calling me your little boy,” Joe said.
“Why?”
“Call me your son or something,” Joe said. “No more little-boy stuff.”
“Right,” said the woman. “Anyway, I’m sure your mother wouldn’t mind if you went into the dining car with me.”
“I bet,” Joe said, but he got up and followed the woman out of the car and down through the next car; people glanced up at them as they passed and then away again, and Joe thought triumphantly that they would sure stare harder if they knew that this innocent-looking woman and her son were outsmarting the cops every step they took.
They found a table in the dining car and sat down. The woman took up the menu and said, “What’ll you have, Joe?”
Blissfully, Joe regarded the woman, the waiters moving quickly back and forth, the shining silverware, the white tablecloth and napkins. “Hard to say right off,” he said.
“Hamburger?” said the woman. “Spaghetti? Or would you rather just have two or three desserts?”
Joe stared. “You mean, like, just blueberry pie with ice cream and a hot fudge sundae?” he asked. “Like that?”
“Sure,” said the woman. “Might as well celebrate one last time.”
“When I took that dime out of my mother’s pocketbook,” Joe told her, “I spent a nickel on gum and a nickel on candy.”
“Tell me,” said the woman, leaning forward earnestly, “the candy and g
um—was it all right? I mean, the same as usual?”
Joe shook his head. “I was so afraid someone would see me,” he said, “I ate all the candy in two mouthfuls standing on the street and I was scared to open the gum at all.”
The woman nodded. “That’s why I’m going back so soon, I guess,” she said, and sighed.
“Well,” said Joe practically, “might as well have blueberry pie first, anyway.”
They ate their lunch peacefully, discussing baseball and television and what Joe wanted to be when he grew up; once the policeman passed through the car and nodded to them cheerfully, and the waiter opened his eyes wide and laughed when Joe decided to polish off his lunch with a piece of watermelon. When they had finished and the woman had paid the check, they found that they were due in Merrytown in fifteen minutes, and they hurried back to their seat to gather together Joe’s comic books and suitcase.
“Thank you very much for the nice lunch,” Joe said to the woman as they sat down again, and congratulated himself upon remembering to say it.
“Nothing at all,” the woman said. “Aren’t you my little boy?”
“Watch that little-boy stuff,” Joe said warningly, and she said, “I mean, aren’t you my son?”
The porter who had been delegated to keep an eye on Joe opened the car door and put his head in. He smiled reassuringly at Joe and said, “Five minutes to your station, boy.”
“Thanks,” said Joe. He turned to the woman. “Maybe,” he said urgently, “if you tell them you’re really sorry—”
“Wouldn’t do at all,” said the woman. “I really had a fine time.”
“I guess so,” Joe said. “But you won’t do it again.”
“Well, I knew when I started I’d be punished sooner or later,” the woman said.
“Yeah,” Joe said. “Can’t get out of it now.”
The train pulled slowly to a stop and Joe leaned toward the window to see if his grandfather was waiting.
“We better not get off together,” the woman said; “might worry your grandpa to see you with a stranger.”
“Guess so,” said Joe. He stood up, and took hold of his suitcase. “Goodbye, then,” he said reluctantly.
“Goodbye, Joe,” said the woman. “Thanks.”
“Right,” said Joe, and as the train stopped he opened the door and went out onto the steps. The porter helped him to get down with his suitcase and Joe turned to see his grandfather coming down the platform.
“Hello, fellow,” said his grandfather. “So you made it.”
“Sure,” said Joe. “No trick at all.”
“Never thought you wouldn’t,” said his grandfather. “Your mother wants you to—”
“Telephone as soon as I get here,” Joe said. “I know.”
“Come along, then,” his grandfather said. “Grandma’s waiting at home.”
He led Joe to the parking lot and helped him and his suitcase into the car. As his grandfather got into the front seat beside him, Joe turned and looked back at the train and saw the woman walking down the platform with the policeman holding her arm. Joe leaned out of the car and waved violently. “So long,” he called.
“So long, Joe,” the woman called back, waving.
“It’s a shame the cops had to get her after all,” Joe remarked to his grandfather.
His grandfather laughed. “You read too many comic books, fellow,” he said. “Everyone with a policeman isn’t being arrested—he’s probably her brother or something.”
“Yeah,” said Joe.
“Have a good trip?” his grandfather asked. “Anything happen?”
Joe thought. “Saw a boy sitting on a fence,” he said. “I didn’t wave to him, though.”
THE MOST WONDERFUL THING
Good Housekeeping, June 1952
YOUNG MRS. HARTLEY, WHO could still remember most clearly the pain and bitterness and injustice she had known so recently, lay absolutely flat on the hospital bed, trying to count to a thousand by sevens, or to recite from memory as many recipes as she could. When a nurse (young Rose, who came singing down the halls) glanced quickly in through the doorway, Mrs. Hartley smiled and lifted a hand to wave to her, and the nurse smiled back and went on. They’re so sure I’m all right, Mrs. Hartley thought. When she lost count at four hundred and twenty, or could not remember a half teaspoonful of rosemary, Mrs. Hartley raised herself on her elbow to sip water through the glass straw, or she counted the squares in the ceiling—such clean, perfect squares, so sanitary and neat, like the beds, and the food, and even Mrs. Hartley herself—or she did crossword puzzles, worrying irritably over a ten-letter word meaning “hopeless.” Today, her pencil well within reach on the bed table, she took up her watch instead. It was just after three: an hour and a half to washing-for-supper, six hours to bedtime, fifteen hours to waking-tomorrow-morning. She glanced at the stack of mystery stories conveniently close on the table, and sighed. Only an hour and a half to washing-for-supper, she told herself as though it were a kind of magic, only six hours to—
“Now, then,” said Mac, and Mrs. Hartley said without turning, “I’m all right, Mac.” Mac was the nurse who took care of Mrs. Hartley and heaven only knew how many others; who had probably not been called Miss MacIntyre since she first shook a thermometer; who prided herself on her natural talents with the enema bag and the hypodermic needle; who brought daily bulletins about whether or not the sun was warm outside the hospital. “Now, then,” said Mac.
Mrs. Hartley turned, frowning. “Mac,” she began, “I said—” She interrupted herself to stare. “Look,” she went on after a minute, “this is supposed to be a private room, Mac. I’m paying for a private room.”
“So?” said Mac amiably. “I’m the one will be getting into trouble for it, I suppose. But be quiet, please; this lady is sleeping.”
“But she can’t come in here,” Mrs. Hartley said. “This is a mistake, Mac.”
Mac grinned, and Mrs. Hartley had to smile back, even though Mac continued to maneuver the wheeled stretcher past Mrs. Hartley’s bed and toward the other bed in the room.
“You’ll only have to move her right out again,” Mrs. Hartley said.
Mac left the front of the stretcher and came over to shake a warning finger under Mrs. Hartley’s nose. “Just scream,” she said. “Raise your voice and get everyone in here and tell them I brought a sick lady into a hospital room. But unless you’re going to scream, you keep quiet and let me get her into bed.”
“What’s wrong with her?” Mrs. Hartley asked suspiciously.
Mac scowled, then laughed. “She’s got a baby she didn’t have before,” Mac said. “What else would be wrong with her?”
Silently Mrs. Hartley watched, raised on one elbow, while Mac and another nurse lifted the slight body from the stretcher and onto the other bed, left vacant for so long because Mrs. Hartley had insisted on a private room. The girl’s blond head lay quietly on the pillow, and she seemed to be scarcely breathing, but now and then in the silence she stirred a little and murmured.
“She’ll be awake soon,” Mac said. “Let me know, will you?” She pinched Mrs. Hartley’s toe under the covers, and wheeled the stretcher through the door.
“Mac, listen,” Mrs. Hartley began, and then fell silent as the girl on the other bed stirred. What if she tried to get out of bed? Mrs. Hartley thought nervously, what could I do? It wasn’t fair of Mac to do this; I could even complain about her—Mrs. Hartley took a firm hold of the small button that turned on the light outside the door and summoned Mac, and then, ready, she told herself firmly that tomorrow morning, first thing, this girl was leaving her private room. Was the girl’s breathing weaker? Her finger hovering over the light button, Mrs. Hartley watched, looking from the door to the other bed and back again.
“Jimmie?” the girl on the other bed said clearly. “Jimmie?”
Mrs. Hartley stared for a minute, but when the girl said again, insistently, “Jimmie?” Mrs. Hartley said, “He’ll be here soon.”
“Mother?”
Mrs. Hartley cleared her throat nervously. “Right here, dear,” she said.
“Jimmie?” said the girl. She turned her head. Horrified, Mrs. Hartley saw that her eyes were open.
“What happened?” asked the girl. Her voice was suddenly different, conscious instead of unaware, firm instead of wavering. “Where am I now?”
“In the hospital. Everything’s fine.”
The girl frowned. “I don’t understand,” she said fretfully. “First you’re on a bus and everything’s fine, and then you’re in a hospital and everything’s fine, and what’s happened? I mean, why am I here?” She turned and looked accusingly at Mrs. Hartley. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Beth Hartley. You’re not supposed to move.” The girl on the other bed tried to sit up, and Mrs. Hartley put her finger down hard on the nurse button. “Please lie still,” she said.
“I want to get out of here,” the girl said.
“So do I,” Mrs. Hartley said wryly. And I want you out of here, too, she thought; you couldn’t be more anxious to leave than I am to have you. “I tell you, you’d better lie still,” she said, her voice more gentle because of what she was thinking.
Briskly, Mac swept into the room. “Well, well,” she said, “are we awake? So soon?” She glanced professionally at Mrs. Hartley. “Any trouble?”
“I’m not the nurse,” Mrs. Hartley said sulkily.
“Why am I here?” the girl demanded, her voice rising. “I wake up all of a sudden and find myself in a strange room with a strange woman and no one will take the least bit of trouble to explain to me—”
“This lady is Mrs. Hartley,” Mac said. “And you’re here because not five minutes ago I personally wheeled you in on a stretcher. My name’s Mac.” She smiled engagingly, then turned to Mrs. Hartley. “This lady” she said, “is Mrs. Williams, Mrs. Molly Williams. And now we’ve all been introduced.”
Just an Ordinary Day: Stories Page 34
