Read Online Let Me Tell You by Shirley Jackson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Shirley Jackson
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called. “Dorothy?”
The high school girl who watched over Donnie and Irma in the afternoons when Mrs. Spencer had her committee meetings and her book club meetings and her Wednesday Club meetings unwound herself from a chair in the living room. She had been watching television, Mrs. Spencer saw with one shocked glance; there was an apple core in the ashtray on the end table. “
What?
” Mrs. Spencer said, gasping, “
Dorothy?
”
“Mr. Spencer—”
“Garbage in my living room? Where are the children?”
“They’re not here,” Dorothy said. Carefully, daintily, she took up the apple core. “I’ll wash the ashtray if you like,” she said sweetly.
“Watching
television
?”
“I only stayed around,” Dorothy said, giving Mrs. Spencer one level, rude stare, “because Mr. Spencer asked me to. He said to tell you that he had taken the children out to the picnic. He said to tell you that they would be expecting you to join them when you got back. That,” said Dorothy, “is what I stayed here to tell you.”
“A
picnic
?”
“Everyone in town is going. At the Oberons’. I’m going too.” For a moment Dorothy’s voice trembled with adolescent outrage. “I could even be late,” she said, “just because I wanted to do you a favor.”
“Really, Dorothy.” Mrs. Spencer lifted her chin. “I don’t need people doing me favors. You could have left a note.”
“Mr. Spencer asked me to, and I could have been at the picnic a long time ago.” Dorothy stopped, schoolbooks and jacket in her arms, one hand fumbling for the front doorknob. “My mother says I don’t have to babysit for you anymore if I don’t want to,” she said, with enormous dignity. “So I just guess I won’t be back anymore.”
“Just as you please, Dorothy,” Mrs. Spencer said, but the door slammed behind Dorothy and her words trailed off. The house was very still; Mrs. Spencer’s planning had somehow never taken into account the fact that someday she might come home and not find Harry and the children. Uncertain, she turned toward the stairs, thinking to go and change her stockings, and then hesitated. She had told Harry and the children, had she not, that the Oberons were socially unacceptable? This was just like her sister, this pushing and climbing and refusing to take no for an answer, until nice people were forced to visit out of sheer weariness; they will be making a great fuss over Harry and the children to get at
me,
Mrs. Spencer thought; I must go at once and put a stop to it.
Running again, not even sparing time to change her stockings, she went out to her car. It’s like everyone back home, she was thinking, picnics and last-minute invitations, and everything confused and grimy and noisy, taking people away from their homes and their dinners without ever stopping to think how inconvenient it might be for the orderly routine of their houses. Mrs. Spencer remembered, with a little shiver of fury, the troops of laughing friends her sister was always apt to bring home, always, somehow, when the house was freshly cleaned and things put in order.
Potluck, Mrs. Spencer thought, as though it were a word from a nightmare. A picnic at dinnertime. Children being fed all kinds of things they shouldn’t have. Grown-ups laughing and drinking and probably never getting anything to eat until all hours. People trampling through the house, wrinkling rugs, upsetting ashtrays, pressing into the kitchen to help make a salad, dropping cigarettes, putting glasses down on polished furniture, making noise. It’s vulgar, Mrs. Spencer whispered fearfully to herself, vulgar and untidy and nasty.
She did not often drive along the river road; many of the houses along there were only shacks set by the water, and Mrs. Spencer had been on a committee that stopped the people living in them from throwing their garbage into the river. She had to follow the main highway to the edge of the town, and then turn off, and as she came to the entrance
The high school girl who watched over Donnie and Irma in the afternoons when Mrs. Spencer had her committee meetings and her book club meetings and her Wednesday Club meetings unwound herself from a chair in the living room. She had been watching television, Mrs. Spencer saw with one shocked glance; there was an apple core in the ashtray on the end table. “
What?
” Mrs. Spencer said, gasping, “
Dorothy?
”
“Mr. Spencer—”
“Garbage in my living room? Where are the children?”
“They’re not here,” Dorothy said. Carefully, daintily, she took up the apple core. “I’ll wash the ashtray if you like,” she said sweetly.
“Watching
television
?”
“I only stayed around,” Dorothy said, giving Mrs. Spencer one level, rude stare, “because Mr. Spencer asked me to. He said to tell you that he had taken the children out to the picnic. He said to tell you that they would be expecting you to join them when you got back. That,” said Dorothy, “is what I stayed here to tell you.”
“A
picnic
?”
“Everyone in town is going. At the Oberons’. I’m going too.” For a moment Dorothy’s voice trembled with adolescent outrage. “I could even be late,” she said, “just because I wanted to do you a favor.”
“Really, Dorothy.” Mrs. Spencer lifted her chin. “I don’t need people doing me favors. You could have left a note.”
“Mr. Spencer asked me to, and I could have been at the picnic a long time ago.” Dorothy stopped, schoolbooks and jacket in her arms, one hand fumbling for the front doorknob. “My mother says I don’t have to babysit for you anymore if I don’t want to,” she said, with enormous dignity. “So I just guess I won’t be back anymore.”
“Just as you please, Dorothy,” Mrs. Spencer said, but the door slammed behind Dorothy and her words trailed off. The house was very still; Mrs. Spencer’s planning had somehow never taken into account the fact that someday she might come home and not find Harry and the children. Uncertain, she turned toward the stairs, thinking to go and change her stockings, and then hesitated. She had told Harry and the children, had she not, that the Oberons were socially unacceptable? This was just like her sister, this pushing and climbing and refusing to take no for an answer, until nice people were forced to visit out of sheer weariness; they will be making a great fuss over Harry and the children to get at
me,
Mrs. Spencer thought; I must go at once and put a stop to it.
Running again, not even sparing time to change her stockings, she went out to her car. It’s like everyone back home, she was thinking, picnics and last-minute invitations, and everything confused and grimy and noisy, taking people away from their homes and their dinners without ever stopping to think how inconvenient it might be for the orderly routine of their houses. Mrs. Spencer remembered, with a little shiver of fury, the troops of laughing friends her sister was always apt to bring home, always, somehow, when the house was freshly cleaned and things put in order.
Potluck, Mrs. Spencer thought, as though it were a word from a nightmare. A picnic at dinnertime. Children being fed all kinds of things they shouldn’t have. Grown-ups laughing and drinking and probably never getting anything to eat until all hours. People trampling through the house, wrinkling rugs, upsetting ashtrays, pressing into the kitchen to help make a salad, dropping cigarettes, putting glasses down on polished furniture, making noise. It’s vulgar, Mrs. Spencer whispered fearfully to herself, vulgar and untidy and nasty.
She did not often drive along the river road; many of the houses along there were only shacks set by the water, and Mrs. Spencer had been on a committee that stopped the people living in them from throwing their garbage into the river. She had to follow the main highway to the edge of the town, and then turn off, and as she came to the entrance
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