Just an Ordinary Day: Stories

by Shirley Jackson

  Go forth and face your lover,

  go forth and face your lover,

  go forth and face your lover,

  as we have done before.

  … Far off among the trees there was a little girl sitting, and when I came to her she looked at me and frowned.

  “Leaves will fall on you,” I said.

  “I don’t mind; I’m hiding,” she explained.

  “Why are you hiding here?” I said.

  “It’s darker than most places,” she explained.

  “Who are you hiding from?” I said.

  “Everybody,” she explained.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “They want me to comb my hair,” she explained.

  And now you two are parted,

  and now you two are parted,

  and now you two are parted,

  as we have done before.

  That was the way she talked, but I don’t think I ever saw her laugh.

  GNARLY THE KING OF THE JUNGLE

  GNARLY THE KING OF the Jungle had been Ellen Jane’s special property ever since her mother first told her about him; Gnarly was a lion who had been born years and years ago and had run away from the other lions to live with a little girl (like Ellen Jane) and had learned to talk to children, but not to grown-ups. “No matter how you try,” Ellen Jane told her mother over and over again, “you can’t hear Gnarly the King of the Jungle or even get him to talk to you.” Gnarly’s adventures were many: Sometimes he fought (and defeated) a band of monkeys who were teasing a small boy; once a cruel man made Gnarly substitute for a horse on a merry-go-round and his lot was made bearable only by the children who came to talk to him; once, even, Gnarly found a buried treasure and gave it to all the children in the world to spend on candy. (Ellen Jane got a piece of the candy; it was by her pillow one morning marked “From Gnarly the King of the Jungle.”)

  Ellen Jane’s mother had invented Gnarly and all her friends told her she should put him in a book. “The way Ellen Jane loves it,” her friends would say to her, “you could make a lot of money with a book.”

  Ellen Jane’s mother was kept busy all day trying to invent new adventures for Gnarly to have each night before Ellen Jane went to bed. In all of his adventures Gnarly had to be friendly with children and talk to them. It was not until two weeks before Ellen Jane’s sixth birthday that her mother completely solved the question of Gnarly’s future adventures. “Ellen Jane,” she had asked, “what would you like for your birthday?” And Ellen Jane had replied, as though it were the most natural thing in the world: “I only want Gnarly the King of the Jungle. I want him to come live with me.”

  And so Ellen Jane’s mother, desperate, looked in the telephone book for places that might conceivably sell wooden lions, hunted through junk shops and secondhand stores, and finally found a huge wooden lion which had, incredibly, come off a merry-go-round, and which, with a new coat of paint and a pair of red jeweled eyes, might pass as Gnarly the King of the Jungle. Ellen Jane’s mother took the lion to a carpenter and had it set on a pair of huge wooden rockers and had a cheerful grin carved on in place of the ferocious scowl that had graced the merry-go-round. Finally, she had her own dressmaker compose a green velvet saddle for Gnarly. He made an imposing picture at last, when he was smuggled into the house and placed beside the breakfast table, along with Ellen Jane’s other birthday presents.

  The morning of her sixth birthday, Ellen Jane came downstairs saying, “Has Gnarly come yet, Mother? Where is Gnarly?” and when her mother proudly escorted her to Gnarly, Ellen Jane only stood in the doorway with her hands clasped and said, “Hello, Gnarly.”

  While Ellen Jane’s mother stood by the breakfast table, watching, Ellen Jane gravely climbed onto Gnarly’s back, rocked tentatively three or four times, and then announced: “I want my breakfast here, and my lunch and my dinner and my breakfast tomorrow morning and my lunch tomorrow and my dinner tomorrow and my breakfast the next day and my lunch…” Ellen Jane became interested in Gnarly’s ears. “Look, Mother,” she said, “his ears are different, one is up and one is down.”

  “Shall I ask Veronica to serve your breakfast up there, then, dear?” asked Ellen Jane’s mother.

  “I’m going to live on Gnarly from now on,” Ellen Jane said absently, twisting around to look into Gnarly’s face.

  Ellen Jane’s mother opened the kitchen door. “Veronica,” she said, “would you give Ellen Jane her breakfast on her rocking horse, please?”

  “Rocking lion,” said Ellen Jane. “Look, V’ronica. This is Gnarly.”

  Veronica had been doing general cooking and housework for Ellen Jane’s mother long enough to have heard about Gnarly the King of the Jungle, and now she inspected the rocking lion cautiously from behind the tray with Ellen Jane’s breakfast. “Ellen Jane,” she said, “that’s certainly a nice toy. You’re certainly a lucky little girl.”

  “Not a toy,” Ellen Jane said. “It’s Gnarly.”

  “Gnarly,” Veronica said.

  “Look, V’ronica. He has eyes.”

  “Miz Curtain,” Veronica said in sudden panic, “ain’t Ellen Jane going to open her other presents? Her other presents?” she repeated significantly, gesturing toward the little heap of gifts on the table.

  “Ellen Jane, dear,” her mother said.

  “Yow know,” Veronica said, her voice rising, “that little box—” she pointed at herself, and then gestured violently at the gifts.

  Ellen Jane’s mother made her voice persuasive. “Dear,” she said, “don’t you want to see the pretty things everyone else has given you for your birthday?”

  “Sure,” Ellen Jane said. “Gnarly wants to see them, too. Bring them on over, V’ronica.”

  Veronica picked up one of the boxes. “Open this one first,” she said eagerly. Ellen Jane ripped the tissue paper off the little box. “What is it?” she asked.

  “It’s a lovely gift, dear,” her mother said.

  Ellen Jane opened the box and took out a thick gold chain bracelet with a plaque set in. “It says ‘Ellen Jane,’” she said, reading the engraving on the plaque. “Who’s it from?” She hung the bracelet over the lion’s ear. “There, Gnarly,” she said. “You wear that while I open everything else.”

  “That’s from me,” Veronica said, pointing at the bracelet. “Ellen Jane, I gave you that bracelet.”

  “Did you?” Ellen Jane said, rocking on Gnarly so fast that the bracelet flew off. “It’s pretty, V’ronica. Get it back for me, will you? It’s under the table.”

  “Put the bracelet on, dear,” her mother said as Ellen Jane took it from Veronica. “It’s perfectly beautiful, Veronica, and so thoughtful of you.”

  “I got it from a fellow I know, Miz Curtain,” Veronica said, pride in her voice. “He gets stuff like that wholesale and so I got this here bracelet for Ellen Jane when it was her birthday.”

  “Thank you, Veronica,” Ellen Jane’s mother said.

  Satisfied, Veronica passed the other gifts up to Ellen Jane, one by one. A scarf was taken from its box and tied around Gnarly’s neck, a pair of gloves sat comically on his ears, a painting set was placed on one rocker for his inspection, a lapel pin was fastened onto the saddle next to Ellen Jane.

  “Well, dear, I think you’ve had a lovely birthday,” Ellen Jane’s mother said as Veronica carried out the tissue paper and ribbons. “I think we had better sit right down after breakfast and write little letters to everyone—your grandmothers and your aunt Alice and everyone to tell them how much you enjoyed the presents.”

  “We don’t have to write V’ronica,” Ellen Jane said, “she’s right here.”

  “Dear,” her mother said, “I thought that since it was your birthday we might go into town and have lunch and go to a movie—would you like that?”

  “I can’t go on Gnarly,” Ellen Jane said.

  “I see,” said her mother. “Veronica, you can clear the breakfast dishes whenever you’re ready.”

  She got up to leave the roo
m but in the doorway she turned. “Lunch at Schrafft’s?” she said pleadingly. But Ellen Jane was looking into Gnarly’s face again and did not hear; her mother sighed and went out.

  For a minute Ellen Jane hung with her arms around Gnarly’s neck, carefully examining his face and front legs. Then she rose and turned around in the green velvet saddle and bent over again, looking at his hind feet and his tail. She was curled around the saddle, investigating his stomach, when Veronica came in to clear the breakfast dishes.

  “Good God, child,” Veronica gasped, “what are you doing?”

  Ellen Jane lifted her head disdainfully. “I’m getting to know Gnarly,” she said.

  Veronica sat down in the chair recently occupied by Ellen Jane’s mother. “You gave me a scare,” she said. “I thought you was falling off that thing.”

  “Look at him, V’ronica. He has ears and red eyes and on his stomach he’s all smooth and then up here it gets to be a mane and around his neck he’s got a big collar of fur. Look.”

  Veronica approached gingerly. “Is that supposed to be this here King of the Jungle your mother tells of?” she asked.

  “This is Gnarly. Look at his ears, V’ronica, He can talk, too.”

  “Let’s hear him,” Veronica said immediately.

  “He can’t talk to you; he wouldn’t talk to anyone but me. Not around here, anyway. He talks only to children. Look. Gnarly, this is Ellen Jane talking. Tell me something.” She bent around and put her ear to his mouth, and then rose, turning to Veronica. “He says this is the nicest place he was ever in and he likes me more than anything in the world.”

  Veronica was impressed. “Does he hear everything we say?”

  “Sure. Ask him anything and I’ll tell you what he says.”

  Veronica thought deeply. “Ask him how old I am,” she said triumphantly.

  Ellen Jane listened to Gnarly. “He says you’re thirty-four.”

  Veronica, awed, approached to look more closely into Gnarly’s face.

  “I know that’s right,” Ellen Jane added, “because you told me only the other day how old you are, V’ronica. Just the other day you said to me that you were thirty-four years old.”

  Veronica giggled. “Ask him does he want to help me with these dishes?” She began to stack the dishes. Suddenly she started and turned around.

  “Ellen Jane,” she said, “did you say something?”

  Ellen Jane stared, and Veronica shrugged. “I must be crazy,” she said.

  “What was it, V’ronica? What did you hear?”

  “Oh, nothing,” Veronica said teasingly. “I just thought I heard something, that’s all.”

  “What, Veronica?”

  “Well,” Veronica began slowly. “I did think I heard someone say, ‘Sure, I’ll help you with those dishes.’ As plain as day I heard it.”

  “It wasn’t me,” Ellen Jane said.

  “I sure thought I heard it,” Veronica said. She paused, a stack of dishes in each hand. “Couldn’t have been that horse, now, could it?”

  “Gnarly?” Ellen Jane began to laugh.

  “Well…” Veronica shrugged again and went through the swinging doors to the kitchen.

  Suddenly she put her head back through the doors. “You call me, Ellen Jane?”

  “No,” Ellen Jane said. “I didn’t say anything.”

  Veronica looked at the lion and sighed. Then she frowned and walked over to Gnarly.

  “Now, you stop teasing me, do you hear?” she said firmly to the lion. “I won’t have my whole morning’s work busted up by your making fun of me. If you want to come help with those dishes—”

  “V’ronica!” Ellen Jane’s voice was horrified. “Are you talking to Gnarly?”

  Veronica looked at her. “I certainly am,” she said. “And if this fresh horse thinks he can get away with any—”

  Ellen Jane bounced up and down in the saddle angrily. “You’re not,” she screamed, “you’re not talking to Gnarly at all. He’s my lion and you can’t have him talking to you. It’s only your imagination, nasty V’ronica, and you’re making believe he talks to you just to be mean!”

  Veronica looked at her for a minute and then turned around and went back into the kitchen.

  “Mother!” Ellen Jane shouted. “Mother, come here right away!”

  “That’s right, call your mother”—Veronica raised her voice from the kitchen—“and when she comes I’ll tell her what a selfish little girl she has, and how you yelled at me just because Gnarly talks to me, too.”

  Ellen Jane’s mother came running to the door. “Ellen Jane,” she cried, “is something wrong, dear? Did you fall? What is it?”

  Ellen Jane began to cry. “V’ronica did a terrible thing,” she wailed.

  “Veronica did?” Ellen Jane’s mother was puzzled. She went to the kitchen door and swung it open. “Veronica?” she said. “What happened to Ellen Jane?”

  Ellen Jane thought quickly. She and Gnarly had to do something bad to Veronica, something very bad. “She frightened me awfully, Mother,” Ellen Jane said.

  “But how, Ellen Jane?”

  “By telling me about her brother, that’s how,” Ellen Jane said deliberately. “Her brother’s a mean awful man and she told me he’d come and get me. He’s in jail.”

  The kitchen door slammed back against the wall and Veronica cried, “Ellen Jane, you promised you’d never tell!”

  Ellen Jane looked at her mother. “He’s in jail for stealing and killing people and robbing a bank and all sorts of awful things.”

  “Miz Curtain,” Veronica said, “please don’t believe her.”

  “And for murdering and hitting policemen and taking a million dollars out of a man’s pockets.”

  “Veronica,” Ellen Jane’s mother said, “how much truth is there in all this?”

  “It’s all true,” Ellen Jane said, “she told me herself, a long time ago, and she made me promise not to tell anyone ever because she said if you knew you’d have her put in jail, too.”

  “Veronica,” Ellen Jane’s mother said, “I think we had better talk this over in the kitchen.”

  Veronica turned silently and held the kitchen door open for Ellen Jane’s mother to pass through. Ellen Jane watched the door close behind Veronica, and then she threw her arms around the lion’s neck and began to whisper in his ear, looking at the kitchen door and now and then giggling softly.

  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, Smithy 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?”