Sunday afternoon
when Mason was at Swill’s? She had to dust those cobwebs in the corner, after all, up there above the shelf. It sure was dusty
up there. She’d never thought to get up that high, not until she’d heard Mason and Swill talking about the box. And there
it was, a nice, dark, shellacked oak box, there on top of the highest of the built-in shelves in the kitchen, above the shelf
of canned vegetables.
It wouldn’t do any harm, would it, to lift the box down and set it on the kitchen table and lift the tiny latch? It wasn’t
even locked, after all. The hinges creaked slightly. The wind preceding a spring storm rattled the windowpanes. Sally was
hardly breathing as she lifted the lid. And then she forgot to breathe entirely, so baffled was she by the money — thick stacks
of bills in denominations of ten and twenty, secured with rubber bands.
She’d expected to find money in the box. But not stacks of money — enough money to last a lifetime; money that smelled like
fresh-cut grass, pipe smoke, and sanded wood, all at once; so much money that if she tucked a whole stack of bills in her
pocket, it probably wouldn’t be missed.
What a terrible thought. She almost apologized aloud. She wanted also, weirdly, to laugh, for she was conscious of the possibility
that the whole thing was a trap set out for her, which she’d sprung, and she was being watched, the effect of the joke measured
by spying eyes. Aha! Caught red-handed! Young ladies shouldn’t pry into the affairs of old men. Who said that? Who said what?
Hurry up and close the box.
She closed the box.
Now put it back where you found it
.
She put it back.
Now get off the chair
.
She got off the chair.
Now breathe, Sally Werner
.
She breathed.
She lived at Mason Jackson’s house for a little more than two years, from the fall of 1947 to the spring of 1950, much as
a niece might live with her elderly uncle for a time. She didn’t manage to save much of her wages, as generous as Mason was.
She spent the money thoughtlessly, buying straw hats she’d wear only once, going out to the Saturday matinees in Amity to
see the same movies over again, getting fancy hairdos at Erna’s Beauty Parlor on Main Street. Erna knew how to do a beehive
before Sally had even seen a beehive in the magazines. She dyed Sally’s red hair a silky blond. She could tame Sally’s waves
or curl them into corkscrews, and she and the other ladies there always had something interesting to say.
Though she was grateful to have shelter and secure work, Sally couldn’t help but long for more out of life than she was getting.
Her chores didn’t come close to filling up the week. On Sunday afternoons, when everything in town was closed and people were
home with their families, she stayed in, singing along with the player piano. But singing didn’t keep her from growing restless.
Georgie had met a foreman at the cement factory in the spring of 1948 and within a year was engaged to be married, but she
still invited Sally to go to the movies every Saturday afternoon. She made it a point to introduce Sally to other eligible
young men from the factory and even succeeded in setting up some blind dates with friends of her fiancé. But nothing came
of it. Sally didn’t mind, though. She wasn’t in any hurry to give up her freedom.
She found she was always welcome at Erna’s Beauty Parlor. Sometimes she even helped with customers, setting up the hair dryers
and answering the phone when the parlor got busy. She met Erna’s sister, an older woman named Gladdy Toffit, who drove in
once a week, nearly an hour each way, from Helena, a hamlet north of Amity. Gladdy was in her forties and, to Sally’s fascination,
had been divorced twice. She had one child, a grown daughter who had broken Gladdy’s heart by eloping to California with a
man she met at the tavern where she’d been working. Gladdy didn’t work at all. She lived off
when Mason was at Swill’s? She had to dust those cobwebs in the corner, after all, up there above the shelf. It sure was dusty
up there. She’d never thought to get up that high, not until she’d heard Mason and Swill talking about the box. And there
it was, a nice, dark, shellacked oak box, there on top of the highest of the built-in shelves in the kitchen, above the shelf
of canned vegetables.
It wouldn’t do any harm, would it, to lift the box down and set it on the kitchen table and lift the tiny latch? It wasn’t
even locked, after all. The hinges creaked slightly. The wind preceding a spring storm rattled the windowpanes. Sally was
hardly breathing as she lifted the lid. And then she forgot to breathe entirely, so baffled was she by the money — thick stacks
of bills in denominations of ten and twenty, secured with rubber bands.
She’d expected to find money in the box. But not stacks of money — enough money to last a lifetime; money that smelled like
fresh-cut grass, pipe smoke, and sanded wood, all at once; so much money that if she tucked a whole stack of bills in her
pocket, it probably wouldn’t be missed.
What a terrible thought. She almost apologized aloud. She wanted also, weirdly, to laugh, for she was conscious of the possibility
that the whole thing was a trap set out for her, which she’d sprung, and she was being watched, the effect of the joke measured
by spying eyes. Aha! Caught red-handed! Young ladies shouldn’t pry into the affairs of old men. Who said that? Who said what?
Hurry up and close the box.
She closed the box.
Now put it back where you found it
.
She put it back.
Now get off the chair
.
She got off the chair.
Now breathe, Sally Werner
.
She breathed.
She lived at Mason Jackson’s house for a little more than two years, from the fall of 1947 to the spring of 1950, much as
a niece might live with her elderly uncle for a time. She didn’t manage to save much of her wages, as generous as Mason was.
She spent the money thoughtlessly, buying straw hats she’d wear only once, going out to the Saturday matinees in Amity to
see the same movies over again, getting fancy hairdos at Erna’s Beauty Parlor on Main Street. Erna knew how to do a beehive
before Sally had even seen a beehive in the magazines. She dyed Sally’s red hair a silky blond. She could tame Sally’s waves
or curl them into corkscrews, and she and the other ladies there always had something interesting to say.
Though she was grateful to have shelter and secure work, Sally couldn’t help but long for more out of life than she was getting.
Her chores didn’t come close to filling up the week. On Sunday afternoons, when everything in town was closed and people were
home with their families, she stayed in, singing along with the player piano. But singing didn’t keep her from growing restless.
Georgie had met a foreman at the cement factory in the spring of 1948 and within a year was engaged to be married, but she
still invited Sally to go to the movies every Saturday afternoon. She made it a point to introduce Sally to other eligible
young men from the factory and even succeeded in setting up some blind dates with friends of her fiancé. But nothing came
of it. Sally didn’t mind, though. She wasn’t in any hurry to give up her freedom.
She found she was always welcome at Erna’s Beauty Parlor. Sometimes she even helped with customers, setting up the hair dryers
and answering the phone when the parlor got busy. She met Erna’s sister, an older woman named Gladdy Toffit, who drove in
once a week, nearly an hour each way, from Helena, a hamlet north of Amity. Gladdy was in her forties and, to Sally’s fascination,
had been divorced twice. She had one child, a grown daughter who had broken Gladdy’s heart by eloping to California with a
man she met at the tavern where she’d been working. Gladdy didn’t work at all. She lived off
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