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Authors: Grace Metalious
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Home and The Ladies’ Home Journal. In disgust, Selena thought of her friend Allison, who mooned over a photograph and whispered, “Isn't he handsome? That's my father.”
“He's dead—and you're better off, kid,” Selena had wanted to say. But she hadn't, because Mrs. MacKenzie might not like it, and Selena never wanted to do anything in the world to offend Allison's mother.
I'll get out, thought Selena as she stepped into the clearing in front of the Cross shack. Someday, I'll get out, and when I do, I'll always wear beautiful clothes and talk in a soft voice, just like Mrs. MacKenzie.
As Selena fell asleep, she was thinking of the way the fire in the MacKenzie fireplace had made shining, shimmering lights in Constance's hair. For Ted Carter, she had not a single thought to spare, although in his bed Ted was picturing Selena's face and the way she smiled at him when she said, “Well, then, walk with us.”
Darned if I wouldn't, thought Ted, turning over on his side, if Miss Prissy Allison hadn't been with her. Ma's groceries could have waited.
“Selena,” he whispered her name aloud in his darkened room. “Selena,” he said, tasting the word on his tongue.
His heart lurched within him in an odd way that caused him to feel a peculiar mixture of fear and anticipation, and something else that was almost pain.
♦ 10 ♦
Dr. Matthew Swain was a tall, big-boned man with a head of thick and wavy silver hair. The doctor's hair was his best feature, and he was proud of it in an unobtrusive way. He kept it carefully brushed, and every morning he examined it closely to make sure that it held no yellow streaks.
“A man's entitled to one vanity,” he excused himself, and Isobel Crosby, who kept house for the doctor, said that it was a good thing that the old man was vain about something. He certainly didn't care what the rest of himself looked like. His suits always needed pressing, and he had a terrible habit of eating in the living room. The doctor's coffee cups, strewn all over the house, were Isobel's cross.
“It ain't a backbreakin’ job to carry a half-empty cup into the kitchen,” she often complained. “It ain't gonna rupture you to lift one little cup.”
“If I never do anything worse than leave a coffee cup hanging around, Isobel, you can count yourself lucky,” replied the doctor.
“It ain't just the cups,” said Isobel. “You let your clothes lay wherever they drop, you sprinkle the house with cigar ashes, and your shoes always look like you just came from a long session in somebody's barn.”
“Count your blessings, Isobel,” said the doctor. “Would you rather keep house for some lecherous old devil? At least I haven't always got a hand up your skirt. Maybe that's what ails you.”
“And on top of it all,” said Isobel, who had known the doctor for too many years to be shocked at anything he said, “you've got a dirty tongue and an evil mind.”
“Oh, go starch some antimacassars,” said the doctor crossly.
Everyone in Peyton Place liked Doc Swain. He had warm, blue eyes of the type which, to his eternal disgust, were termed “twinkling,” and his kindness was legend in the town. Matthew Swain was one of a rapidly disappearing species, the small-town general practitioner. The word “specialist” was anathema to him.
“Yes, I'm a specialist,” he had once roared at a famous ear, eye, nose and throat man. “I specialize in sick people. What do you do?”
At sixty, the doctor still went out on calls day or night, summer and winter, and it was his habit to send birthday cards to every child he had ever delivered.
“You're nothing but a soggy sentimentalist at heart,” Seth Buswell often teased. “Birthday cards, indeed!”
“Sentimental, hell,” replied the doctor good-naturedly. “It just gives me a continuous feeling of accomplishment to stop every day and realize all the work I've done.”
“Work, work, work,” said Seth. “That's your favorite word. I think
“He's dead—and you're better off, kid,” Selena had wanted to say. But she hadn't, because Mrs. MacKenzie might not like it, and Selena never wanted to do anything in the world to offend Allison's mother.
I'll get out, thought Selena as she stepped into the clearing in front of the Cross shack. Someday, I'll get out, and when I do, I'll always wear beautiful clothes and talk in a soft voice, just like Mrs. MacKenzie.
As Selena fell asleep, she was thinking of the way the fire in the MacKenzie fireplace had made shining, shimmering lights in Constance's hair. For Ted Carter, she had not a single thought to spare, although in his bed Ted was picturing Selena's face and the way she smiled at him when she said, “Well, then, walk with us.”
Darned if I wouldn't, thought Ted, turning over on his side, if Miss Prissy Allison hadn't been with her. Ma's groceries could have waited.
“Selena,” he whispered her name aloud in his darkened room. “Selena,” he said, tasting the word on his tongue.
His heart lurched within him in an odd way that caused him to feel a peculiar mixture of fear and anticipation, and something else that was almost pain.
♦ 10 ♦
Dr. Matthew Swain was a tall, big-boned man with a head of thick and wavy silver hair. The doctor's hair was his best feature, and he was proud of it in an unobtrusive way. He kept it carefully brushed, and every morning he examined it closely to make sure that it held no yellow streaks.
“A man's entitled to one vanity,” he excused himself, and Isobel Crosby, who kept house for the doctor, said that it was a good thing that the old man was vain about something. He certainly didn't care what the rest of himself looked like. His suits always needed pressing, and he had a terrible habit of eating in the living room. The doctor's coffee cups, strewn all over the house, were Isobel's cross.
“It ain't a backbreakin’ job to carry a half-empty cup into the kitchen,” she often complained. “It ain't gonna rupture you to lift one little cup.”
“If I never do anything worse than leave a coffee cup hanging around, Isobel, you can count yourself lucky,” replied the doctor.
“It ain't just the cups,” said Isobel. “You let your clothes lay wherever they drop, you sprinkle the house with cigar ashes, and your shoes always look like you just came from a long session in somebody's barn.”
“Count your blessings, Isobel,” said the doctor. “Would you rather keep house for some lecherous old devil? At least I haven't always got a hand up your skirt. Maybe that's what ails you.”
“And on top of it all,” said Isobel, who had known the doctor for too many years to be shocked at anything he said, “you've got a dirty tongue and an evil mind.”
“Oh, go starch some antimacassars,” said the doctor crossly.
Everyone in Peyton Place liked Doc Swain. He had warm, blue eyes of the type which, to his eternal disgust, were termed “twinkling,” and his kindness was legend in the town. Matthew Swain was one of a rapidly disappearing species, the small-town general practitioner. The word “specialist” was anathema to him.
“Yes, I'm a specialist,” he had once roared at a famous ear, eye, nose and throat man. “I specialize in sick people. What do you do?”
At sixty, the doctor still went out on calls day or night, summer and winter, and it was his habit to send birthday cards to every child he had ever delivered.
“You're nothing but a soggy sentimentalist at heart,” Seth Buswell often teased. “Birthday cards, indeed!”
“Sentimental, hell,” replied the doctor good-naturedly. “It just gives me a continuous feeling of accomplishment to stop every day and realize all the work I've done.”
“Work, work, work,” said Seth. “That's your favorite word. I think
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