Let Me Tell You

by Shirley Jackson

  A man came into the park from one of the side entrances. He stopped just inside the entrance to pat a dog on the head and speak to the owner, and then walked on slowly, looking for a place to sit down. He was middle-aged, partly bald, and, judging by his clothes, not very well off. As he walked he watched the people in the park with a bright interest, stopping to listen to an argument between a mother and child, and later to pick up a ball for a group of older boys. One of them said, “Throw it back here, mister,” and held out his hands. The man threw the ball clumsily and it bounced twice before the boy scooped it up. The boy said, “Thanks,” and turned and threw it easily far across the grass to another boy.

  The man watched for a minute and then walked on. Finally he stopped in front of a bench with an empty place at one end. Beside it sat a woman with a baby carriage. “May I sit here?” he asked. She looked up and said, “It’s not taken,” and the man sat down. He sighed and sat still for a minute before reaching into his pocket for a cigarette.

  The woman looked at him irritably and then turned away. A baby was lying in the carriage on its stomach, asleep, wearing only a diaper. The baby’s back was brown, except for a sharp white edge where the diaper began. The woman was tirelessly rocking the carriage back and forth.

  “Will the smoke bother the baby?” the man asked.

  “I just got her to sleep,” the woman said. “Just about anything wakes her.”

  The man leaned over and dropped the cigarette onto the ground and put his foot on it. “She looks like a fine, healthy baby,” he said.

  The woman smiled. “She’s only six months old,” she said, “and never even had a cold.”

  “A fine baby,” the man said. “You see so many around here looking pale and white.”

  “They’re not healthy,” the woman said. “Some of the children in this park are really unhealthy.”

  “It’s hard for children in the city.”

  “Their mothers should keep them out of the park if they have things other children can catch,” the woman said.

  While he was talking, the man had been fingering his billfold, riffling through the papers in it absentmindedly. Now he pulled one out—a magazine clipping. “Want to see my little girl?” he asked.

  The woman reached out with the hand that was not rocking the carriage. “Of course,” she said. “I could tell from the way you talked that you had one of your own.”

  The clipping was of a little blond girl of about six, with a pretty, adult face and a lot of makeup. “She’s lovely,” the woman said. “She has such a sweet face.”

  “She’s a nice kid,” the man said. He hesitated. “Know who she is?” he asked finally.

  The woman shook her head.

  “Her name’s Angela Foster now.”

  “Of course,” the woman said. “In the movies!”

  “That’s right.” The man took the clipping and looked at it fondly. “It used to be Martin—that’s my name. Her mother changed it. Angela Martin’s not good for the movies,” he said.

  “What a lucky little girl!” the woman said, reaching over to adjust the hood of the carriage. “In the movies!”

  “She’ll be a second Shirley Temple someday,” the man said. “She’s got talent—everything.”

  “You must be very proud of her.”

  “I’ll tell you,” the man began carefully, “I’m proud of her, of course. And it isn’t the money I mind, either. She’s making plenty right now, and I don’t grudge it to her. But it’s like this. Before her mother took her out to Hollywood, I was always kicking about the dancing lessons and the singing lessons and the costumes and the late nights when her dance class gave a recital. And now I know I just didn’t have sense enough to see the baby had talent.”

  “It’s hard to tell,” the woman said. “All children have a natural sense of rhythm. Even at six months—”

  “It isn’t the money I mind,” the man said again. “I don’t think a six-year-old girl should have to support her father.”

  “Well, there’s a lot of luck connected with it,” the woman said.

  “I saw this article about her in a movie magazine,” the man went on. “It said she was five years old, but she must be six now. And she’s already getting fan mail.”

  “Really?” the woman said.

  “I thought of writing to her and asking for a picture,” the man said. “Her own father.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be very proud of her,” the woman said. He reached into his pocket again for his cigarettes, and she frowned and shook her head. The man rose.

  “I’ll just finish my walk while I smoke this,” he said. He smiled at the woman and leaned over the carriage for a minute. “Such a pretty baby,” he said. He bowed slightly to the woman and went rapidly down the path.

  —

  When the man got around the next turn, he began to walk more slowly. A little boy just learning to walk staggered out from a bench and grabbed him by the leg. The man said, “Where you going, champ?,” turned the little boy around, and started him back to his mother. The man stopped for a minute to watch a checkers game and then went on again, only to stop a minute later and help a little girl of about two push her stroller around a difficult turn. The man called her “honey.” Her mother, who was standing nearby, thanked him, and he said, “Lovely little girl.” The mother smiled and went on, pulling the little girl and talking to her as she went.

  The broad circle the man had been making had by now taken him back in the direction he had come. As he passed the group of boys playing ball, he saw the ball strike a tree and bounce in his direction. He scooped it up awkwardly and, holding it in his hand, walked over to the boys. They were waiting impatiently for the ball, and as he stepped across a low railing and handed the ball to the nearest one, he smiled apologetically and said, “Don’t have the muscle I used to.”

  “Thanks,” the boy said. He threw the ball, and the boys began to scatter. One of them caught the ball and threw it to another. The man said, “Bud,” and the nearest boy turned around. The man, taking out his billfold, said, “Know who this is?” He pulled forth a newspaper clipping and held it out to the boy.

  The boy glanced over his shoulder at his friends and then went over to the man. “Sure,” he said, looking at the clipping, but without making any attempt to hold it. “Nicky Lopez. The middleweight challenger.”

  A couple of the boys nearby had also turned when the man called, and now they came slowly over. “Nicky Lopez,” one of them said. “Let’s see Nicky Lopez.” The man handed him the clipping, and the boy looked at it and said professionally, “There’s a guy that can fight.”

  “He’s pretty good,” another of the boys said, taking the clipping in turn.

  “I used to manage Nicky,” the man said, watching the boys’ heads turn slowly toward him. “Yeah,” he said reminiscently, “I used to manage Nicky, until the syndicate got him away from me.” He looked around at the boys and then went on, “It isn’t the money I mind, you understand, but I sure hated to lose that boy.”

  Company for Dinner

  Mr. Shapiro came whistling down the street, swinging his briefcase cheerfully. Getting dark early these days, he thought; mustn’t forget to tell Marjorie what Hargreaves said to me today. “Hi, fellows,” he said to the kids sitting on the curb, their faces turned around to watch him go down the street. Streetlights are on already, he thought, sure gets dark early these days. He trotted briskly up the steps of number 1018, saw that the door was open a crack, let himself in, and slammed the door behind him.

  “Dear?” he called experimentally toward the kitchen at the end of the hall.

  The sound of the can opener stopped, and she said, “That you, dear? Dinner’s almost ready.”

  “Good,” said Mr. Shapiro, and stopped at the hall closet to hang up his coat. Gray hat’s getting sort of shabby, he thought, looking at it where it sat on the shelf; wish I could persuade Marjorie to hang up her coat in here instead of leaving it on the bed. Have to
speak to Marjorie about getting a new gray hat. Wonder what’s for dinner.

  “Dinner almost ready, dear?” he called as he passed the kitchen door.

  “Ready in a minute.”

  Dining room looks pretty good, he thought, on his way to the living room. He took an olive from the dish on the table, then stood looking at the table, thinking: Something different, something. New long scratch in my chair, must be the kid; something else different, though. New dishes? New silverware? Clean tablecloth? That’s it, best tablecloth. Company for dinner? Only three places…Probably the laundry didn’t come.

  Must speak to Marjorie about the laundry, he thought, going into the living room, three of my handkerchiefs last week…“ ’Lo, fella.” The little boy in the middle of the living room floor was making a toy dump truck go back and forth, back and forth, and barely looked up. “ ’Lo,” he said.

  “Got a kiss for Daddy?” Mr. Shapiro asked.

  “No,” the little boy said.

  Mr. Shapiro sat down in his chair. Something wrong, he thought. The whole house is on edge tonight. Pictures a little crooked, chairs not quite in place, carpet a little more faded near the window. Bridge club come today? he thought; no, that’s Thursday. Girl, that’s it. Girl came to clean.

  “Dinner almost ready?” he called out.

  “Yeah, when’s dinner?” the little boy yelled. “When’s dinner, Mom?”

  “It’ll be on the table in a minute.”

  “Meat loaf tonight,” the little boy said.

  “Good,” Mr. Shapiro replied absently. He was looking at the books on the table next to his chair. They Were Expendable—must have brought that home from the office, he thought, must have brought that home a few nights ago and meant to read it. Ought to read that book tonight, talking about it at lunch today.

  “Dinner’s on the table!”

  “Yaaay,” the little boy shrieked, shooting past Mr. Shapiro, who walked slowly through the dining room. “Got to wash my hands,” he explained to the kitchen door.

  “One night in your life you might wash your hands before I…” Her voice followed him into the bathroom, and he closed the door gently on it.

  When he reached the dinner table and pulled back his chair, his eyes fell onto the bowl at his place.

  “Didn’t we have tomato soup last night?” he asked. He lifted his eyes to the woman at the head of the table, and then turned to the little boy. They were staring at him.

  The woman rose. “I thought you were early tonight,” she said blankly.

  “Why…” said Mr. Shapiro. He put down his napkin, went over to the hall closet, and took out his coat and hat. Gray hat looks a little shabby, he thought. The woman and the little boy watched him until the door closed behind him.

  Mr. Shapiro went swiftly down the steps and then up the steps of number 1016. He let himself in with his key and slammed the door behind him.

  “Dear?” he called out. “The funniest thing…”

  The sound of the can opener stopped, and she said, “That you, dear? Dinner’s almost ready.”

  I Cannot Sing the Old Songs

  The greatest guy in the world, she thought, looking at her father. She glanced over her shoulder a moment. The couch, she thought. I sat there last time.

  “I think you owe us an explanation,” her father said.

  The easy start, she thought. Allowance for excitement or backtracking. Better not say anything.

  “Your mother and I are terribly disappointed in you.”

  The catch in the voice, she thought, the appropriate quaver.

  “I don’t suppose there’s any way we can tell you how we feel; you don’t seem to have any consideration for us or for anything but your own selfish plans.”

  Don’t get mad, she thought. They’re only just starting to work on me.

  “I suppose you think it was very gracious of you to come home for two days to tell us about this young man?”

  A long pause. Better say something, she thought. This is getting one-sided.

  “You knew about him a long time ago,” she said.

  “But why do you have to—” her mother asked. She began to cry.

  “We think you could have shown us a little more consideration, that’s all,” her father said.

  The greatest guy in the world, she thought. And he’s letting her crying work on me for a while right now. Better not talk again for a few minutes.

  “After all,” her father was saying again, “you know that we don’t like this young man.”

  What do you want me to do? she thought, say okay, the whole thing’s off, I won’t get married?

  “If it were only someone—” her mother began again.

  “Well, Mother,” her father said, “I never thought we’d be ashamed of her, did you?”

  Wait now, she thought. Go very slow on this one. Her mother was crying again.

  “Why, for God’s sake?” her father said, slamming his hand down on the arm of the chair. “If it were only someone fair and honest and aboveboard…”

  He just thought up those words, she thought. Take it very slow.

  “I want to be proud of you,” her father said. “I want to be able to tell the whole world how proud I am of my daughter. And now—”

  Okay, she thought. Take it now. “I’ll leave tonight,” she said, “if you’re too ashamed of me.” I can work up a good quaver too, she thought.

  “No, please, listen,” her mother said.

  “Don’t get high-handed with me, young woman,” her father said. “I won’t listen to that sort of talk from you. You’re still my daughter, you know, until…”

  As long as she could hold on with both hands she could keep from laughing. You can’t just walk out in the middle of it, she thought. They’d have to say it all to each other, then.

  “Mother,” her father asked, “what are we going to tell our friends?”

  The greatest guy in the world, she thought. Jesus, you poor old man.

  The New Maid

  It was the first golden week of spring, and Mrs. Arthur William Morgan was almost completely unaffected by it. To begin with, she rarely saw the spring weather anyway, since she got on a commuter train every morning before the weather had rightly settled itself for the day, and took a commuter train home again in the evening, after everything the weather could do with itself in one day was over with, and spent the time in between in her fancy air-conditioned office designing clothes for fashionable women to wear the following autumn.

  On Saturdays and Sundays, Mrs. Morgan frequently caught a passing glimpse of the weather between getting up and running off to somewhere to see someone, but spring weather is a thing to soak in, and it had no time to do any real affecting of Mrs. Morgan. Mr. Morgan, who habitually caught a commuter train four minutes later than his wife’s in the morning, and seven minutes earlier than his wife’s in the evening, could hardly have been expected to call his wife’s attention to the soft air, the gentle sun, or the warm breeze.

  At any rate, in this first really golden week of spring, Mrs. Morgan had hired a new maid. Not actually hired, that is, and she wasn’t really a maid, if you stopped to think about it, but Mrs. Arthur William Morgan was so indiscriminate about the persons in her employ, since they all merged in her mind, eventually, into one inferior character, that you might as well say that Mrs. Morgan had hired a new maid, and be done with it. The person had come in answer to an advertisement in the local paper: “Wanted, housekeeper and governess for twin children, seven years old. Good salary. Best of references required. Write for appointment.”

  Out of all the letters, Mrs. Morgan had selected one neatly written in a fine, old-fashioned hand on heavy, expensive paper; anything expensive appealed to Mrs. Morgan. She had gone so far as to give up one of her precious Sunday afternoons to an interview, and perhaps in some subtle way the spring weather touched Mrs. Morgan that day, because the applicant was no sooner seen than hired, and Mrs. Morgan felt that she had made her usual good bar
gain. The applicant was a smiling, cheerful woman, perhaps a shade older than Mrs. Morgan expected, but she certainly seemed lively enough to keep up with seven-year-old twins.

  And, although it was not important, the twins liked her too. As Andy said to Anne, that strange spring night when the lights were out and only the moonlight enabled them to see each other, sitting up in their twin beds, “I like her because she smiles a lot.”

  “I like her,” said Anne, “because she has candy in her pocket.”

  “Always thinking about candy and stuff,” Andy said scornfully. “Anyway, she said she always has candy in her pocket.”

  “That’s a good thing,” said Anne. “I wish it was already tomorrow,” she added wistfully. “I’m going to be tiny and live in the dollhouse all day.”

  “I’d like to be a squirrel, I guess,” Andy said. “Maybe a bear, or a cowboy, only that’s way out west, and I guess I better stay around home the first time. Maybe a tiger. Or I guess a squirrel.”

  “You could be a pig,” Anne suggested hopefully. “I wish it was tomorrow. She said we could do anything we liked, and I’m going to be tiny and live in the dollhouse. Maybe you want to be a puppy?”

  “Old Anne,” Andy said.

  “Or a cow?” Anne was getting sleepy. “Or a horse?”

  “Old Anne.” They began to giggle softly.

  “Or a cat?”

  “Old Anne.”

  “Or a pig,” Anne said, her voice muffled in the pillow. “Pig,” she added, and was asleep. Andy, with his masculine superiority, outlasted her valiantly; he heard her take two deep breaths before his own eyes shut. “Squirrel,” he said, and smiled in his sleep.

  Downstairs, Mrs. Arthur William Morgan said to her husband, in that soft and persuasive voice wives use sometimes, “After all, I have my work, too. Please let’s not forget, dear, that my work is almost as important as yours. Almost,” she said again, and her voice, slipping away into silence, implied strongly that she was being wonderfully flattering to his work.