Dark Tales

by Shirley Jackson

  “I saw it.”

  “It is not true, you know,” he said. He was walking quickly up and down the room, slapping his gloves on his wrist, glancing nervously, now and then, at the door, at the tall windows opening out onto the marble stairway. “The house is the same as ever,” he said. “It does not change.”

  “But the worn carpet . . .” It was under his feet as he walked.

  “Nonsense,” he said violently. “Don’t you think I’d know my own house? I care for it constantly, even when they forget; without this house I could not exist; do you think it would begin to crack while I am here?”

  “How can you keep it from aging? Carpets will wear, you know, and unless they are replaced . . .”

  “Replaced?” He stared as though she had said something evil. “What could replace anything in this house?” He touched Mrs. Rhodes’s embroidery frame, softly. “All we can do is add to it.”

  There was a sound outside; it was the family coming down the great stairway to say good-by. He turned quickly and listened, and it seemed to be the sound he had been expecting. “I will always remember you,” he said to Margaret, hastily, and turned again toward the tall windows. “Good-by.”

  “It is so dark,” Margaret said, going beside him. “You will come back?”

  “I will come back,” he said sharply. “Good-by.” He stepped across the sill of the window onto the marble stairway outside; he was black for a moment against the white marble, and Margaret stood still at the window watching him go down the steps and away through the gardens. “Lost, lost,” she heard faintly, and, from far away, “All is lost.”

  She turned back to the room, and, avoiding the worn spot in the carpet and moving widely around Mrs. Rhodes’s embroidery frame, she went to the great doors and opened them. Outside, in the hall with the rose-and-white-tiled floor, Mr. and Mrs. Rhodes and Carla were standing with the captain.

  “Son,” Mrs. Rhodes was saying, “when will you be back?”

  “Don’t fuss at me,” the captain said. “I’ll be back when I can.”

  Carla stood silently, a little away. “Please be careful,” she said, and, “Here’s Margaret, come to say good-by to you, Brother.”

  “Don’t linger, m’boy,” said Mr. Rhodes. “Hard on the women.”

  “There are so many things Margaret and I planned for you while you were here,” Carla said to her brother. “The time has been so short.”

  Margaret, standing beside Mrs. Rhodes, turned to Carla’s brother (and Paul; who was Paul?) and said, “Good-by.” He bowed to her and moved to go to the door with his father.

  “It is hard to see him go,” Mrs. Rhodes said. “And we do not know when he will come back.” She put her hand gently on Margaret’s shoulder. “We must show you more of the house,” she said. “I saw you one day try the door of the ruined tower; have you seen the hall of flowers? Or the fountain room?”

  “When my brother comes again,” Carla said, “we shall have a musical evening, and perhaps he will take us boating on the river.”

  “And my visit?” said Margaret smiling. “Surely there will be an end to my visit?”

  Mrs. Rhodes, with one last look at the door from which Mr. Rhodes and the captain had gone, dropped her hand from Margaret’s shoulder and said, “I must go to my embroidery. I have neglected it while my son was with us.”

  “You will not leave us before my brother comes again?” Carla asked Margaret.

  “I have only to put the figures into the foreground,” Mrs. Rhodes said, hesitating on her way to the drawing room. “I shall have you exactly if you sit on the lawn near the river.”

  “We shall be models of stillness,” said Carla, laughing. “Margaret, will you come and sit beside me on the lawn?”

  The Good Wife

  Mr. James Benjamin poured a second cup of coffee for himself, sighed, and reached across the table for the cream. “Genevieve,” he said without troubling to turn, “has Mrs. Benjamin had her breakfast tray yet?”

  “She’s still asleep, Mr. Benjamin. I went up ten minutes ago.”

  “Poor thing,” said Mr. Benjamin, and helped himself to toast. He sighed again, discarded the newspaper as unworthy of notice, and was pleased to find that Genevieve was bringing in the mail.

  “Any letters for me?” he asked, more to contribute to some human communication and desire, even so low a one as desiring the mail, than to secure information that he might very well have in a minute; “Anything for me?”

  Genevieve was too well bred to turn over the letters, but she said “It’s all here, Mr. Benjamin” as though he might have suspected her of abstracting vital letters, about business, perhaps, or from women.

  There were of course—it was the third of the month—bills from various department stores, the latest of them dated on the tenth of the previous month, when Mrs. Benjamin had first taken to her room. They were trifling, and Mr. Benjamin set them aside, along with the circulars that advertised underwear, and dishes, and cosmetics, and furniture; it would amuse Mrs. Benjamin to look these over later. There was a bank statement, and Mr. Benjamin threw it irritably away toward the coffeepot, to be looked over later. There were three personal letters—one to himself, from a friend in Italy, praising the weather there at the moment, and two for Mrs. Benjamin. The first of these, which Mr. Benjamin opened without hesitation, was from her mother, and read,

  Dear, just a hurried line to let you know that we’re leaving on the tenth. I still hope you might come with us and of course up until the minute we leave for the boat we’ll be waiting for word from you. You won’t even need a trunk—we’re planning to do all our shopping in Paris, of course, anyway, and of course you wouldn’t need much for the boat. But do as you please. You know how we both counted on your coming and cannot understand your changing your mind at the last minute, but of course if James says so I suppose you have no choice. Anyway, if there’s any chance of you and James both joining us later, do let me know. I’ll send you our address. Meanwhile, take care of yourself, and remember we are always thinking of you, love, Mother.

  Mr. Benjamin set this letter aside to be answered, and opened the other letter addressed to his wife. It was, he assumed, from an old school friend, because he did not know the name, and it read:

  Helen, darling, just saw your name in the paper, being married, and how marvelous. Do we know the lucky man? Anyway, we always said you’d be the first married and now here you are, the last—at least, Smitty hasn’t married yet, but we never counted her. Anyway, Doug and I are just dying to see you, and now that we’re in touch again I’ll be waiting for word from you about when you and your new hubby can run up and pay us a visit. Any weekend at all, and let us know what train you’ll make. Just loads of love and congratulations, Joanie.

  This letter did not absolutely require an answer, but Mr. Benjamin set it aside anyway. He poured himself a third cup of coffee, and drank it peacefully, regarding the department store advertisements superimposed upon the horrors of the morning paper. When he had finished this cup of coffee, he rose, and collected the advertisements and the paper and said, when he saw Genevieve standing in the kitchen doorway, “I’m finished, thanks, Genevieve. Is Mrs. Benjamin awake?”

  “I just took up her tray, Mr. Benjamin,” Genevieve said.

  “Right,” said Mr. Benjamin. “I’ll be leaving for the office on the eleven-fifteen train, Genevieve. I’ll drive myself to the station, and I’ll be back about seven. You and Mrs. Carter will take care of Mrs. Benjamin while I’m gone?”

  “Of course, Mr. Benjamin.”

  “Good.” With his little collection of papers, Mr. Benjamin turned resolutely toward the stairs, leaving behind him the breakfast dishes and the coffeepot and Genevieve’s incurious eyes.

  His wife’s room was at the head of the stairs, a heavy oaken door with brass-trimmed knobs and hinges. The key hung always on a hook just beside the
doorway, and Mr. Benjamin sighed a third time as he lifted it down and weighed it for a minute in his hand. When he fitted the key to the lock in the door he heard the first split second of stunned silence within, and then the rattle of dishes as his wife set aside her breakfast tray and waited for the door to open. Sighing, Mr. Benjamin turned the key and opened the door.

  “Good morning,” he said, avoiding looking at her and going instead to the window, which showed him the same view of the garden that he had seen from the dining room, the same flowers a little farther away, the same street beyond, the same rows of houses. “How are you feeling this morning?”

  “Very well, thank you.”

  The lawn, seen from this angle, showed more clearly that it needed trimming, and he said, “Have to get hold of that fellow to do the lawn.”

  “His name’s in the little telephone book,” she said. “The one where I keep numbers like the laundry’s, and the grocer’s.” There was the sound of her coffee cup being moved. “Kept,” she said.

  “It’s going to be another nice day,” he said, still looking out.

  “Splendid. Will you play golf?”

  “You know I don’t play golf on Mondays,” he said, turning to her in surprise; once he had looked at her, even without intending to, he found it not difficult; she was always the same, these mornings now, and it came as more of a shock to him daily to realize that although, throughout the rest of the house, she existed as a presence made up half of recollection and half of intention, here in her room she was the same as always, and not influential at all. She sometimes wore a blue bed jacket and had an egg on her tray, and she sometimes put her hair onto the top of her head with combs instead of letting it fall about her shoulders, and she sometimes sat in the chair next to the window, and she was sometimes reading the books he brought her from the library, but essentially she was the same, and the same woman as the one he had married and probably the same woman that he might one day bury.

  Her voice, when she spoke to him, was the one she had used for many years, although recently she had learned to keep it lower and without emotion; at first, that had been because she disliked the thought of Genevieve and Mrs. Carter hearing her, but now it was because it did so little good to shout at him, and frequently drove him away. “Any mail?” she asked.

  “A letter from your mother, one from someone named Joanie.”

  “Joanie?” she said, frowning. “I don’t know anyone named Joanie.”

  “Helen,” he said irritably, “will you please stop talking like that?”

  She hesitated, and then took up her coffee cup again with a gesture that made it clear that whatever she had intended to say, she was persuaded that there was no reason to say it again.

  “I don’t know her name,” he said patiently, “but it was on her letter. She said Smitty wasn’t married yet. She said how wonderful that you were married and would you and your hubby visit her soon.”

  “Joan Morris,” she said. “Why didn’t you say so instead of letting me—” She stopped.

  “There were no other letters,” he said deliberately.

  “I wasn’t expecting any but Mother’s.”

  “Has Mr. Ferguson forgotten you, do you suppose? Or perhaps given up a difficult job?”

  “I don’t know Mr. Ferguson.”

  “So easily discouraged . . .” he said. “It could hardly have been a very . . . passionate affair.”

  “I don’t know anyone named Ferguson.” She kept her voice quiet, as she always did now, but she moved her coffee cup slightly in its saucer, and looked at it with interest, the thin cup moving in a tiny delicate circle on the saucer. “There wasn’t any affair.”

  He went on, speaking as quietly as she did, and watching the coffee cup, but he sounded almost wistful. “You gave him up so easily,” he said. “Hardly a word from me, and poor Mr. Ferguson was abandoned. And now he seems to be weakening in his efforts to release you.” He thought. “I don’t believe there’s been a letter for nearly a week,” he said.

  “I don’t know who writes the letters. I don’t know anyone named Ferguson.”

  “Perhaps not. Perhaps he saw you in a bus, or across a restaurant, and had since that magic moment dedicated his life to you; perhaps, even, you succeeded in dropping a note out the window, or Genevieve took pity on you . . . perhaps Genevieve’s fur coat was a bribe?”

  “It hardly seemed likely that I should be needing a fur coat,” she said.

  “It was a present from me, originally, was it not? You will be pleased to know that Genevieve came directly to me and offered to return the coat.”

  “I suppose you did take it back?”

  “I did,” he said. “I prefer not to have Genevieve indebted to you.”

  He was already tired of her this morning; it was not possible to communicate with her because she would not abandon her coffee cup, and she knew already of course that he had taken the coat and the jewelry away from Genevieve. There was not even the hope between them that he believed she had actually dropped a note from the window, or somehow gotten word to the outside world; there was not even, they both knew, any way in which she might sit down and, hands trembling and with nervous glances at the door, set upon paper any statement of her position which might bring someone to unlock the door and let her out. Even if she had been allowed pencil and paper or had found it possible to scrawl with a lipstick upon a handkerchief, she was not capable anymore of expressions such as “I am kept prisoner by my husband, help me” or “Save an unfortunate woman unjustly confined” or “Get the police” or even “Help”; there had been a period when she had tried to force her way out of the room when the door was opened, but that had been only at first. She had then fallen into a sullen indifference and during that time he had watched her closely, since the (then almost daily) letters from Ferguson had suggested methods for release and he had suspected then that she was trying to communicate with her mother. Now, however, in this fairly new attitude of hers, which had begun when she gave away her clothes to Genevieve and began to stay in bed all day, and the letters from Ferguson were not as frequent, he had become easier in his mind about her, and even allowed her books and magazines, and had once brought her a dozen roses for her room. He did not for a minute believe that she was crafty enough to be planning an escape, or to use this apparent resigned state of mind to deceive him into thinking she had accepted his authority. “You still remember,” he asked her, thinking of this, “that you may at any time resume your normal life, and wear your pretty clothes again, and return to normal?”

  “I remember it,” she said, and laughed.

  He came toward her, toward the bed and the coffee cup and toward her blue bed jacket, until he could see clearly the combs on the top of her head and the small hairs that escaped. “Just tell me,” he said beggingly. “All you have to do is to tell me—only a few words—tell me about Ferguson, and where you met him and what—” He stopped. “Confess,” he said sternly, and she lifted her head to look at him.

  “I don’t know anyone named Ferguson. I never loved anyone in my life. I never had any affairs. I have nothing to confess. I do not want to wear my pretty clothes again.”

  He sighed, and turned toward the door. “I wonder why not,” he said.

  “Don’t forget to lock the door,” she said, turning to take her book from the table. Mr. Benjamin locked the door behind him and stood for a minute holding the key in his hand before he hung it again on its hook. Then he turned wearily and went down the stairs. Genevieve was dusting the living room and he stopped in the doorway and said, “Genevieve, Mrs. Benjamin would like something light for lunch; perhaps a salad.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Benjamin,” Genevieve said.

  “I won’t have dinner home,” Mr. Benjamin said. “I thought I might, but I believe I’ll stay in town after all. I believe Mrs. Benjamin needs new library books; will you take care of
that for her?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Benjamin,” Genevieve said again.

  He felt oddly hesitant, almost as though he would rather stand there and talk to Genevieve than go on into his study; perhaps that was because Genevieve would certainly answer “Yes, Mr. Benjamin.” He moved abruptly before he could say anything else, and went into his study and closed and locked the door, thinking as he did so, two rooms locked and shut away from the rest of the house, two rooms far apart, and all the house in between not being used, the living room and the dining room and the hall and the stairs and the bedrooms all just lying there, shutting two locked rooms away from each other. He shook his head violently; he was tired. He slept in the bedroom next to his wife’s and sometimes at night the temptation to unlock her door and go inside and tell her she was forgiven was very strong for him; he was fortunately kept from this by the frightful recollection of the one time he had unlocked his wife’s door during the night and she had driven him out with her fists and had locked the door from the inside, returning the key to him in the morning without a word; he suspected that soon it would not be possible for him to enter her room even by day.

  He sat down at his desk and pressed his hand to his forehead irritably. It had to be done, however, and he took a sheet of her monogrammed notepaper and opened his fountain pen. “Dearest Mommy,” he wrote, “my mean old finger is still too painful to write with—James says he thinks I may have sprained it, but I think he is just tired of taking dictation from me—as if he had ever done anything else; anyway, we’re both just sick that we can’t join you in Paris after all, but I really think we’re wiser not to. After all, we only came back from our honeymoon in July, and James just has to spend some time at his old office. He says maybe this winter we can fly down to South America for a couple of weeks, and not let anyone know where we’re going or when we’re coming back or anything. Anyway, have a lovely time in Paris, and buy lots of lovely clothes, and don’t forget to write me.” Mr. Benjamin sat and regarded his letter and then, sighing, took up his pen and added, “Love, Helen and James.” He sealed and addressed the letter and then, sitting quietly at his desk with his hands folded in front of him, he spent a moment thinking. He reached a sudden decision and opened the bottom drawer of the desk and took out a box of rather cheap notepaper, faintly colored, and a fountain pen filled with brown ink. With a sober air which made his gesture somehow ominous, he took the pen into his left hand and began to write in a bold hand, “My dearest, I have finally thought of a way to get around the jealous old fool. I’ve spoken to the girl a couple of times at the library and I think she’ll help us if she’s sure she won’t get into trouble. Here’s what I want to do . . .”