Just an Ordinary Day: The Uncollected Stories of Shirley Jackson by Shirley Jackson Page A

minute and then asked with enormous courtesy whether it would be all right if he just asked Robert over for the afternoon, and they could play chess?
    I told him that our dining room could hold eight twelve-year-old boys comfortably, provided they didn’t run footraces or fence with the table knives—or perhaps, I suggested, he might like to have an evening party, with a little supper? In that case, I pointed out, I could make lots of sandwiches and a nice fruit punch, and he could invite as many as half a dozen boys and half a dozen gir—At that point Laurie left the room, remarking poignantly that sometimes he got to thinking that everyone in the world but him was crazy.
    He finally decided that a Saturday afternoon movie was the thing, with supper afterward, and he invited his seven closest friends, all of whom could be depended upon to bring sensible presents, such as the latest popular records, and chemical retorts, and Tarzan books, which are very much in demand in Laurie’s set. It was particularly specified in the invitations that formal dress was not expected. The guests arrived by bicycle, neatly wrapped packages dangling from the handlebars. The packages were put on the dining room table, to be opened at supper, the bicycles were lined up by our back porch, and Laurie and his seven friends wrestled one another happily into my car, to be driven into town to see “The Mad Fiend from the Lost Planet,” and “Pride of the Rancho Grande,” and “Tattooed by the Ape Men,” and two serials and a cartoon, not to mention the news-reel and the coming attractions. I had cashed a check in the morning, and given Laurie enough money to pay eight admissions into the movie, with popcorn and a candy bar apiece, and I was to pick them up again after the movie.
    My younger son, Barry, who is not quite three and regards his brother’s friends with vast admiration as a superior order of being, infinitely tall and wise and able to fix any number of small toys, accompanied us to town, peering worshipfully over the car seat at the birthday party, which had crushed itself mercilessly into the back half of my station wagon. Barry and I had plenty of room in the front seat, since no party member was prepared to admit himself effeminate enough to sit with us. The eight of them seemed considerably jammed together in back—every now and then a wildly waving foot, or an arm upraised in protest, showed in the rearview mirror—and I kept wondering all the way into town if they were not all secretly hoping that I would run into something.
    “Chees,” came a voice from the back, which I was able to identify as Stuart’s, “chees, I sure would hate to miss this week’s serial. Remember—they were caught by the A-rabs?”
    “Yeah, well, listen?” Oliver insisted. “You know they’re going to get away?”
    “Well, if it was you was that guy, well, now, what would you do?”
    “But hey, he lied , din’t he?”
    “Yeah, but only because they said they were gonna shoot. I mean, what would you do? Not give up or something?”
    “But sure, hey, because gosh—”
    “But he did . You were there—he did.”
    “Well, if it was me, I mean that guy there, I wouldn’t of.”
    “Hey, you guys.” It was Laurie, reminiscent. “Hey, remember last week? We sure heard from that usher, boy.”
    “Boys,” I said. “Remember, no fighting. Behave like—”
    “Jeeps,” Laurie said. “I forgot you were here.”
    “I’m not,” I said testily. “Barry is driving.”
    “I am driving,” Barry confirmed. “I am right now turning on the wipeshield winders.”
    “Yeah, but.” The conversation continued after a cautious pause. “Suppose it was you. Would you?”
    “Well.” This was Tommy, considering. “It’s like if you took something din’t belong to you. You wouldn’t just give it back, would you, if you meant to take it? Just because they said?”
    “No,” said several voices at once. “But,” Willie said, “suppose