Just an Ordinary Day: Stories Read online

  “It’s been days and days since we went to see Tippie.”

  Without planning, they both began to skip on the same step. They did not need to ask each other if skipping might be a good idea just along here, because at this point they always began to skip, and skipped until they came just past the Browns’ driveway, where the sidewalk was broken. Then they walked again, going solemnly single file along the broken place in the sidewalk and then walking again side by side to the corner and around it, past the vacant lot where, one evening, the big boys in the neighborhood had made a Boy Scout campfire and roasted potatoes, and Carrie and Jeannie, watching curiously from the sidewalk, had each been given a toasted marshmallow, which was sticky but nice. The vacant lot belonged to the Browns, but all the big kids in the neighborhood played there, and once the boys had built a kind of hut, and no girls were allowed. Jeannie and Carrie were not allowed to play in the vacant lot because they were small, but they were allowed to walk around the block so long as they did not put one foot, not even one toe, into the street. Even when it rained and the water ran raging down the gutters and the big kids built dams and sailed leaf boats, Jeannie and Carrie were not allowed to put one toe off the sidewalk into the street. This was perfectly fair. When Jeannie and Carrie were big kids they would play in the gutter when it rained and would go to school all day and make snow forts in the vacant lot. While Jeannie and Carrie were small—it was perfectly fair—they could go all around the block, even pushing their doll carriages if they liked, but not put one toe into the street.

  Once, along this block past the vacant lot, the Harris boy had given first Carrie and then Jeannie a ride in his skate wagon, and sometimes in the early evening, just after dinner, when the sky was still green and voices sounded strangely far away, Carrie and Jeannie were allowed to walk together around the corner and watch the big kids play kick-the-can in the street, or hide-and-seek around the streetlight, or prisoner’s base. One of the big girls who played prisoner’s base came sometimes to baby-sit for Jeannie or Carrie when their mothers and fathers went out in the evening, and then she would read stories, and cut out paper dolls.

  Around the next corner was the part that Carrie and Jeannie did not like so well, but it was where Tippie lived. Through the trees behind these houses they could see the backs of their own houses, where they lived, and it was funny to see your own house from the back, when it couldn’t see you. One of the things that made this street less happy was Mrs. Branson’s garden, which was long and dark and shadowy with big drooping trees, and not at all a good place to play, even when Mrs. Branson did not come out and say she would call the police if children kept running over her lawn.

  “I wonder if Tippie’s looking for us,” Jeannie said, skipping again; they always skipped going past Mrs. Branson’s house, because they liked to get past it quickly. “I bet she’s been waiting and waiting and waiting for us to come again.”

  “I bet she’s been asking her mother could she call us on the telephone,” Carrie said.

  Tippie’s house was on the corner. It would have been shorter to go around the other way, up the other side of the block, but Carrie and Jeannie always went to Tippie’s house along the street with the vacant lot; they always had plenty of time. The other way was the way to go home; after passing Tippie’s house the only place to go was the way home. Besides, from this side they could see Tippie’s window as they went along the street.

  “I wonder if she’s there today,” Carrie said, stopping on the sidewalk to look up at the second-floor window. “I can see her dollhouse inside there.”

  They looked up anxiously. Sometimes the window caught the sun and then they could not see anything inside, but sometimes, like today, the window shone clean and sparkling in the afternoon light.

  “I can see her teddy bear and her giraffe,” Jeannie said.

  “I bet she’s got her toy shelf right along under the windowsill,” Carrie said as she had said many times before. “That way, everyone can see her toys and when she comes home she can look right up and see them waiting there for her, her teddy bear and her dollhouse.”

  “The Noah’s Ark is gone,” Jeannie said. “I bet she’s playing with her Noah’s Ark today.”

  “And the pretty doll in the blue dress is gone. I bet she has her doll and is playing dolls with it, and then she’s going to play with her Noah’s Ark.”

  “I wish she’d even wave, or something,” Jeannie said.

  “I wish she’d even come to the window and look at us and wave,” Carrie said.

  “I wish she’d come outdoors and play sometimes,” Jeannie said.

  “Maybe she was disobedient and her mother said she had to stay in her room all day,” Carrie said as she had said many times before.

  “Maybe she was sick and her mother said she had to stay in bed till her temperature went down,” Jeannie said as she had said many times before.

  “Maybe she has a friend who comes to play with her every afternoon.”

  “Maybe she has a baby kitten and can’t leave it all alone.”

  “I wish she’d even wave, sometimes,” Carrie said.

  “I bet she’s glad when we come to see her, though.”

  Sighing, Carrie turned away. “I guess she doesn’t want to play with us today, either.”

  They stood for a minute, looking up at the window. “Bye, Tippie,” Jeannie said softly. “Bye, Tippie,” Carrie said.

  Then they began to skip, going on along the sidewalk, and skipped around the corner and most of the way down the next street; this was the longest skipping they did, because this street was not interesting at all, just houses with no children unless you counted the Andovers’ little tiny baby which might just be outside in its baby carriage and Jeannie and Carrie could tiptoe up very very softly and peek in, smiling with incredulous delight at the tiny hands and the little pink sleeping face. Today not even the Andovers’ baby was outside, and so they skipped all the way down to the corner and around that corner to Jeannie’s front steps, where the flower ladies still lingered over their dainty lunch, and Rosabelle and Amelia slept on.

  “I’m going to ask my mother why Tippie can’t come out and play,” Jeannie said suddenly.

  “Then your mother could call her mother on the telephone and say could Tippie come over,” Carrie pointed out. “I’m going to ask my mother can Tippie please come to my birthday party.”

  “I’m going to ask my mother can Tippie come over tomorrow.”

  “I’m going to ask my mother can Tippie come and live with us.” Giggling wildly, they reeled down the sidewalk just as the back door of Carrie’s house opened and Carrie’s mother called, “Carrie? Carrie? Time to come in now.”

  Sitting in the kitchen on the high stool beside the counter, Jeannie watched her mother peeling potatoes, and sang quietly to herself. Outside it was getting darker; the leaves were changing color, and soon it would be the end of summer and the big kids would go back to school. In another year Jeannie and Carrie would go to school, would walk off each morning with the big kids, would even, perhaps, carry a book or a pencil box or lunch in a paper bag; “Mommy,” Jeannie said absently, “will Tippie go to school someday?”

  “I suppose so. Who is Tippie?”

  “The little girl.”

  “If she’s a little girl she will certainly go to school. Where does she live?”

  “Around the corner. We go to see her all the time, me and Carrie.”

  Jeannie’s mother hesitated, frowning. “Another little girl around here?” she asked, and then, worried, “Baby,” she said, “have you and Carrie been crossing the street?”

  “No, no, not a toe,” Jeannie said, and giggled. “Tippie lives on our block. Around the corner. Past Mrs. Branson’s dark old garden.”

  “Which house, baby?”

  “On the corner, after Mrs. Branson’s garden. We start from our own front walk and we go to the corner and we go around and we go past the vacant lot and then we go around that corner and we go p
ast Mrs. Branson’s and then on the next corner is Tippie’s house.”

  Mrs. Dawson put down the potato she was peeling and came to lean on the counter across from Jeannie; she put out one finger and touched Jeannie’s nose and both of them laughed. “Silly small thing,” Mrs. Dawson said. “That’s the Archers’ house.”

  “And Tippie lives there. We go and look up at the window and we see her playing but she doesn’t come outside. We go and watch her.”

  Mrs. Dawson stopped laughing and came around the end of the counter and gathered Jeannie up off the stool and then sat down with Jeannie in her lap. Jeannie curled herself up and sighed luxuriously. “Baby,” Mrs. Dawson said, “did someone talk to you about Mrs. Archer and her little girl? Maybe Helen, when she came to baby-sit?”

  “No,” Jeannie said, wondering. “But can you call Mrs. Archer and ask her can Tippie come over and play sometime?”

  “Baby,” Mrs. Dawson said, and stopped. Then she took a breath and asked slowly, “Baby, did you ever hear of people dying?”

  “Sure,” Jeannie said, surprised. “Great-grandmother died, and Carrie’s goldfish.”

  “Mrs. Archer had a little girl, and she died,” Mrs. Dawson said, still speaking very carefully. “You must have heard someone talking about it; it didn’t happen very long ago.”

  “Tippie stays in her room all the time. We watch her put her toys on the windowsill and take them down again. She has a Noah’s Ark and a doll in a blue dress and a yellow giraffe.”

  “Jeannie.” Mrs. Dawson gave her a little shake. “There is no little girl at the Archers’ house. There are no children there at all now,” and she held Jeannie tighter. “There are certainly no toys. I know.” She hesitated again. “I packed them away myself,” she said. “They gave everything away.”

  “Why did you have to pack the things if they belonged to Mrs. Archer’s little girl? Why didn’t Mrs. Archer pack them herself?”

  “Mrs. Archer wasn’t feeling very well. Carrie’s mother and Mrs. Brown and I went over to help her.”

  “That was nice of you.” Jeannie wriggled comfortably. “Helping her pack when she didn’t feel well.”

  “But you must promise me something, baby. You must promise me that you will never never say anything to Mrs. Archer about pretending to see a little girl—”

  Jeannie sat up indignantly. “It’s not pretending,” she said. “We go all the time and watch Tippie. It’s our third-favorite game.”

  Mrs. Dawson started to speak, and then stopped. Instead, she put her cheek down on Jeannie’s bright head. “Why do you call her Tippie?” she asked after a minute.

  Jeannie giggled. “We thought sometimes we could see just the tip of her head or the tip of her hand waving, so we called her Tippie. It’s a name we made up, Carrie and me.”

  “I see,” Mrs. Dawson said. Then she went on brightly, “You know, young lady, if I don’t get my potatoes peeled pretty soon, your daddy will come home and he’ll say ‘WHERE’S MY DINNER,’ and when there isn’t any dinner what do you think he’ll do?”

  “He’ll spank us,” Jeannie said delightedly. “He’ll spank us both.”

  She slid off her mother’s lap and landed on the floor, laughing and sitting. “Mommy,” she asked, “would you feel bad if I died like Tippie?”

  Mrs. Dawson reached out and touched Jeannie’s nose quickly and lightly. “Yes,” she said. “I would feel very bad indeed.”

  “Listen,” Jeannie said, scrambling to her feet, “there’s Carrie calling me. Why do you suppose she came over again just before dinner?”

  Scurrying, she raced through the dining room and through the hall and tugged open the front door. “Hi, Carrie,” she said.

  “I forgot Rosabelle Jemima,” Carrie said. “I had to come and get her so she wouldn’t catch cold being outside so late.”

  “Did you ask your mother could Tippie come over?”

  “Yes, but she said no,” Carrie said. “Did you?”

  “Yes, but she said no. Ask your mother can I come to your house for lunch tomorrow.”

  “I’ll ask her. And you ask your mother can I come to your house for lunch tomorrow. Then we can call each other on the telephone and say.”

  “All right. You can bring Rosabelle Jemima if she doesn’t catch cold.”

  “All right. Goodbye, Jeannie.”

  “Goodbye, Carrie.”

  Carrie turned the doll stroller and started off down the walk. “Listen,” Jeannie called, “you ask your mother.”

  “I will. And you ask yours.”

  “Don’t forget.”

  “You don’t forget either.”

  “Goodbye, Carrie.”

  “Goodbye, Jeannie.”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  “Goodbye, Rosabelle Jemima.”

  “Goodbye, Amelia Marian.”

  “Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye.”

  INDIANS LIVE IN TENTS

  36 Elm St.

  Tuesday

  Dear Miss Griswold,

  This is just a note of thanks, to say that I want you to know how much I certainly appreciate your kindness in letting me have this apartment. Every time I come home at night and look around my own little room-and-a-half I think of you, and I think of how if I didn’t speak to Timmy Richards and Timmy Richards hadn’t known Eve Martin and Eve Martin hadn’t gotten in touch with Bill Ireland and Bill Ireland hadn’t known you, then I would still be living out in Staten Island with my sister and her kids, and I remember how grateful I am to you for giving me your apartment. I wish you could see it now. Of course your stuff was good-looking, and I guess I could never make this place look as pretty as you had it, but of course the first thing I had to do was put away all that stuff with the ruffles and the curtains and things, and now I’ve got my ship models and my college pictures up and it sure looks swell. Whenever you want your stuff, of course, it’s right here. I wouldn’t touch it for anything.

  Well, thanks again, and I sure hope you’re happy in your new place. You sure were lucky to get it and whenever you want to send for your furniture I’ll send it along to you and then get my furniture from Bill Ireland and he can get his stuff from Timmy Richards and Timmy can get his back from his mother. So thanks again, and yours very sincerely,

  Allan Burlingame

  101 Eastern Square

  Thursday

  Dear Mr. Burlingame,

  I’m so glad you like my apartment, and of course I’m truly delighted that I was able to pass it along to you. Naturally I’m not even beginning to be settled here yet, so of course can’t send for my furniture right away. However, as soon as I get my sublease straightened out, we can fix everything. As you know, I’m having a little trouble with the landlord, because we didn’t want to tell him right away about how I was subleasing the place—he wanted it for his aunt or something—so of course it’s not really legal yet, my being here. As a result I’d be very grateful if you didn’t address your letters such as the last one to me direct. Address them to me care of Tuttle, which is the name of the people I’m subleasing from. Or better still, if you have any problems, telephone. The number is listed under the name of J. T. Maloney, which is the name of the people the Tuttles subleased from, and of course no one liked to have the phone changed because the landlord never really liked having the Tuttles sublease from the Maloneys.

  As a matter of fact, it’s just me and the telephone here now. I managed to wear two blankets in under my coat when I came in so I can roll up in them at night, and I had my toothbrush in my pocketbook and I’ve sneaked in a towel and a cake of soap, but otherwise it’s sort of empty. The Tuttles took their furniture out piece by piece and put it into the back of their car covered with a rug, and yesterday the bed went and I must say it looked like the janitor was going to catch us taking the springs down the back stairs.

  If you know of any way you can sneak some kind of a folding chair up to me, I’d appreciate it.

&n
bsp; Yours very truly,

  Marian Griswold

  36 Elm St.

  Monday

  Dear Miss Griswold,

  Sorry to hear of your roughing it. There is nothing I would like better than turning over all your furniture to you right away, since my friends think it is sort of funny my sleeping in a bed with a pink canopy and keeping my watch and loose change on a dresser with a gauze skirt thing on it. I finally found the telephone under that little doll effect you had, and would call you instead of writing except that the telephone book is holding up one foot of the bathtub and I can’t get it out. I also wish you could get some of your clothes out of the closet partly because I could use the hangers and partly because my aunt brought me over a chocolate cake yesterday and when she went to the closet to hang up her coat I had a terrible time explaining to her. Can you think of anything?

  Sincerely,

  Allan Burlingame

  101 Eastern Square

  Wednesday

  Dear Mr. Burlingame,

  I am having enough trouble getting in and out of my apartment myself without trying to carry a dresser with a gauze skirt. If you don’t like it, move. I have to go up the stairs one flight at a time, hiding in the shadows on every landing for fear someone should see me and tell the landlord there is someone strange living in the Tuttles’ apartment. I gave the janitor five dollars and I told him I was visiting the Tuttles and they never came out of the apartment because they all had influenza, but I’m pretty sure he knows they moved out and I am living there because I think he saw the living room chairs in the elevator, and I know he saw me moving in the cot, but I told him it was because the Tuttles didn’t have enough beds, and then I gave him the five dollars.

  At any rate I have a place to sleep now and I hope to get in a coffeepot tomorrow or the next day. As soon as I tell the landlord that the Tuttles have moved and I am leasing the apartment I will be able to send for my furniture.

  Yours very truly,

  Marian Griswold