the kitchen murmuring, their voices barely audible. And when Sally entered the room and Swill fell silent, Mason would
say something like, How ’b-b-bout that trolley line proposed for Amity?
Sally didn’t want to hear about a trolley line!
Well, then. D-did she want a second serving of the p-p-pound cake Swill’s wife made?
No thank you!
Sometimes, maybe just three or four times during the two and a half years she lived at Mason Jackson’s house, he’d lift his
eyes while she was staring at him and return her stare with a force that wasn’t in any way cruel but involved a kind of penetrating
vision, so she felt that he was reflecting the look she’d aimed at him. He’d give her a gentle nod, as though to reassure
her that she’d done nothing wrong. But after he left the room she’d feel dirty from her own sorry struggle to see beyond what
words could tell her. She’d feel like she’d been found out. And worse. She’d feel pitied by the look in his eyes when he’d
returned her stare.
I’m not a thief.
Of course you’re not.
She hadn’t stolen any money. She’d never taken anything that Uncle Mason hadn’t given her. But what was he planning to do
with all that money? she wanted to ask him.
What money? he probably would have said, playing stupid.
The money up there.
Where?
In the box.
What box?
On a bright June morning, three months after she’d first opened the wooden box, she climbed up on a chair to check the shelf
and make sure the box was still there. Finding it, she couldn’t resist opening it. And after she opened it, she couldn’t resist
running her fingers across the soft paper of the bills. She was reminded of the stacks of bills she’d seen in the drawer of
the cash register at Liggett’s. She’d always wondered what all those bills in the cash register added up to. Five plus ten,
ten plus twenty, twenty plus —
Quick, he’s coming.
No, Uncle Mason wasn’t coming right then. He’d gone off pheasant-hunting with his brother for the day. Funny about those hunting
trips. Anything Uncle Mason ever brought back for Sally to dress and cook had been shot by his brother. If an animal was dead,
Swill was the one who’d killed it. But he never shot a doe, no, not even if he happened to be standing in the yard, aligning
the target in the kitchen in the back sight of his gun, aiming the barrel —
She cried out, startled by the shadow of a branch moving in the breeze outside the window. But no one was there. Of course
no one was there. She quickly closed the box and returned it to the shelf. She was sorry afterward that she hadn’t finished
counting the money. But what did she care about how much money Mason Jackson kept in the box?
They were at Lawson’s counter one day after they’d gone to see an Abbott and Costello monster movie at the Amity theater,
waiting for their order, when Sally cleared her throat too loudly and said, “Georgie, I’ve been wondering.”
Georgie was lost in a daydream, probably thinking about that Mr. Harvey Fitzgerald, the cement factory foreman who in eleven
months was going to be her husband.
But Sally wanted to know if…
“I’m going to suck your blood!” Stevie bunched his shoulders into a high collar and made fangs with his fingers. Sally gave
him a quick laugh and turned the seat of his stool to spin him.
“What were you saying?” Georgie asked.
“I was wondering what happened to Mason’s wife.”
The waitress set the coffees and root beer float on the counter and promised to bring the pie straightaway. The boy occupied
himself poking his straw at the bobbing mound of ice cream in his glass. Sally tried to take a sip from her cup, but the rim
was too hot. With her eyes fixed on the clock above the kitchen door, she asked if Mason Jackson had ever been married.
Yes, he’d been married, Georgie said. He was married to a woman named Shirley. For how long? For all Georgie knew, they were
say something like, How ’b-b-bout that trolley line proposed for Amity?
Sally didn’t want to hear about a trolley line!
Well, then. D-did she want a second serving of the p-p-pound cake Swill’s wife made?
No thank you!
Sometimes, maybe just three or four times during the two and a half years she lived at Mason Jackson’s house, he’d lift his
eyes while she was staring at him and return her stare with a force that wasn’t in any way cruel but involved a kind of penetrating
vision, so she felt that he was reflecting the look she’d aimed at him. He’d give her a gentle nod, as though to reassure
her that she’d done nothing wrong. But after he left the room she’d feel dirty from her own sorry struggle to see beyond what
words could tell her. She’d feel like she’d been found out. And worse. She’d feel pitied by the look in his eyes when he’d
returned her stare.
I’m not a thief.
Of course you’re not.
She hadn’t stolen any money. She’d never taken anything that Uncle Mason hadn’t given her. But what was he planning to do
with all that money? she wanted to ask him.
What money? he probably would have said, playing stupid.
The money up there.
Where?
In the box.
What box?
On a bright June morning, three months after she’d first opened the wooden box, she climbed up on a chair to check the shelf
and make sure the box was still there. Finding it, she couldn’t resist opening it. And after she opened it, she couldn’t resist
running her fingers across the soft paper of the bills. She was reminded of the stacks of bills she’d seen in the drawer of
the cash register at Liggett’s. She’d always wondered what all those bills in the cash register added up to. Five plus ten,
ten plus twenty, twenty plus —
Quick, he’s coming.
No, Uncle Mason wasn’t coming right then. He’d gone off pheasant-hunting with his brother for the day. Funny about those hunting
trips. Anything Uncle Mason ever brought back for Sally to dress and cook had been shot by his brother. If an animal was dead,
Swill was the one who’d killed it. But he never shot a doe, no, not even if he happened to be standing in the yard, aligning
the target in the kitchen in the back sight of his gun, aiming the barrel —
She cried out, startled by the shadow of a branch moving in the breeze outside the window. But no one was there. Of course
no one was there. She quickly closed the box and returned it to the shelf. She was sorry afterward that she hadn’t finished
counting the money. But what did she care about how much money Mason Jackson kept in the box?
They were at Lawson’s counter one day after they’d gone to see an Abbott and Costello monster movie at the Amity theater,
waiting for their order, when Sally cleared her throat too loudly and said, “Georgie, I’ve been wondering.”
Georgie was lost in a daydream, probably thinking about that Mr. Harvey Fitzgerald, the cement factory foreman who in eleven
months was going to be her husband.
But Sally wanted to know if…
“I’m going to suck your blood!” Stevie bunched his shoulders into a high collar and made fangs with his fingers. Sally gave
him a quick laugh and turned the seat of his stool to spin him.
“What were you saying?” Georgie asked.
“I was wondering what happened to Mason’s wife.”
The waitress set the coffees and root beer float on the counter and promised to bring the pie straightaway. The boy occupied
himself poking his straw at the bobbing mound of ice cream in his glass. Sally tried to take a sip from her cup, but the rim
was too hot. With her eyes fixed on the clock above the kitchen door, she asked if Mason Jackson had ever been married.
Yes, he’d been married, Georgie said. He was married to a woman named Shirley. For how long? For all Georgie knew, they were
Similar Books
