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

you had to? I mean, with the cops and all?”
    “Well, then” someone said. “If it was the cops.”
    “But he didn’t.” Two or three of them spoke at once. “And that girl,” said someone.
    There was a brief, disapproving silence. Then Joey’s voice rose. “If it was me,” Joey said, “if it was me , I’da done what was right.”
    “Yeah, you would.” “Well, you sweet thing.” “I believe that.”
    I stopped the car in front of the theater. “Now, look, Laurie,” I said. “Be careful with that money, and don’t go running around town, and I’ll be back at four-thirty and don’t fill up on junk because dinner will be—”
    “Sure, Ma, sure,” Laurie said. “My old lady,” he remarked generally. “She’s tipped.”
    I bit my lip. “Have a nice time,” I said.
    “Yeah.” They climbed out one after another, great feet stumbling, shoving and pushing; they had to go out the door next to Barry, and each one, struggling through, patted Barry on the head as he passed. Barry chuckled, I beamed nervously, trying to memorize hats and jackets to ensure returning our guests in the approximate order they came, and Laurie ordered everyone around. “Hey, wait,” he kept saying.
    “Be careful,” I said involuntarily.
    Laurie looked at me. “You’re tipped,” he said.
    They crossed the street like the legions of Mars coming out of their flying saucer; halfway across, Laurie hesitated, thought, and turned back.
    “Hey,” he said, coming to the car window, “I almost forgot. Get some old piece of junk for Joey, will you? Model car or something?”
    “For Joey?”
    “It’s his birthday, too. Hey, wait up.” And he turned and raced back across the street while I was still saying, “But why didn’t you tell me? I would have—”
    I craned my neck out the car window, still asking, and watched them go into the movie, snatching at one another and clearly heading for the popcorn counter. Then, telling myself firmly that they would all probably grow up to be nice boys someday, I dug into my change purse for a penny for the parking meter, gathered Barry out of the car, and headed, still telling myself about how they would surely, surely be nice boys someday, for the toy shop and a piece of junk for Joey.
    With the delayed reaction that I believe to be common to all mothers, I still feel toward Joey a mingled irritation and tolerance; he is six inches taller than the other boys and used to beat Laurie up every morning on the way to school. Although he is now a completely accepted member of Laurie’s group of friends, I cannot lose the uneasy feeling that, crossed, Joey is always apt to heave a rock at something, even though he always calls me “Ma’am,” and is one of the few boys who remembers to take off his hat when he comes into the house. I am not altogether successful at concealing my nervousness, so I make a great point of smiling largely at Joey when he comes into the house (he is, after all, two inches taller than I) and at P.T.A. meetings Oliver’s mother and Tommy’s mother and Willie’s mother and I tell one another that a boy like Joey is, after all, someone who needs sympathy , not punishment; that kind of mischief making, we tell one another, is only because Joey feels insecure. Joey lives with his grandmother because his parents are dead, and the day Joey’s older brother went off to reform school Willie’s mother called me and we told each other that if Joey would be made to feel that he was, after all, an accepted member of the group, he might yet grow up to be a credit to his old grandmother. We have all made a point of being very earnest about this, and of course no one can actually prove that it was Joey who dumped the cement into the school furnace, but all the same I could not help feeling slightly wild-eyed at the idea that Joey had birthdays like other children.
    However, if Joey was not to receive an irrevocable setback in the process of reformation, I knew I had