Raising Demons

Raising Demons by Shirley Jackson Page B

Book: Raising Demons by Shirley Jackson Read Free Book Online
Authors: Shirley Jackson
Ads: Link
what Daddy is going to say,” Jannie remarked brightly.
    â€œOoh,” I said, and doubled up again.
    â€œ
You
’re hurt?” the other woman said, and laughed shortly. “What about
me
?” She rubbed her forehead and brought her hand down and looked at it hopefully for blood. “You insured?” she asked.
    â€œOh, shut up,” I said.
    â€œ
My
little boy got hurt,” she said. “He’s still in the car, hurt too bad to move.”
    â€œ
What
?
” Hastily, I made my way past her, thinking that she must surely be stunned or shocked, and got over to their car, where the man was leaning in through the front door, arguing. It was so slippery that I had to hold on to the fenders of the cars to keep on my feet.
    â€œCome on
out
,” the man was saying. “No one’s going to hurt you.” Finally he reached in and pulled out a small boy about six years old. “You all right?” he asked the boy.
    â€œSure,” the little boy said.
    â€œHe is
not
all right,” the woman said, pushing past me to grab the little boy. “He is
not
all right,” she insisted, her voice rising, “he’s covered with blood.”
    â€œGood lord,” I said helplessly.
    â€œWhere you hurt?” The woman began to run her hands frantically along the little boy, feeling the outside of his snowsuit. “You hurt in the head, like me?”
    â€œNo,” the little boy said, “I feel fine.” He smiled at me, and I smiled back nervously.
    â€œThere’s blood on his
hand
,” the woman announced loudly. “Look, blood all over his hand.” She held up his hand and the man and I leaned forward and saw a small scratch and a little blood. The man wiped the blood off with his handkerchief and looked deeply at the scratch. “You hadn’t ought to do that,” the woman told him. “Leave it for them to see.”
    â€œI did it before, anyway,” the little boy said. “I did it over to Grandma’s house, on the door.”
    â€œIt’s awful,” the woman said hastily. She put her hand to her head. “I feel faint,” she said.
    â€œI should think so,” I told her sweetly, “traveling at that rate of speed. We’re supposed to call the state troopers,” I said to the man. “We can’t move either of these cars, and no one can get past us along this road, and anyway an accident has got to be reported. Will you call them,” I said, “or shall I?”
    He looked at his wife for a minute, and then said, “I’ll do it.”
    I watched with irritation as he looked again at his wife, and then moved off toward the nearest house. “Mom,” Laurie called, “can we get out
now
?”
    â€œJust be patient,” I said. “Sing or something.”
    Jannie struck up halfheartedly with “The Old Chisholm Trail,” and the woman said, “Are you insured?”
    I opened my mouth and then shut it again, reminding myself of the explicit instructions on my insurance papers, instructions about not discussing an accident with any but properly constituted authorities. I turned instead to look at the damage to my car. “Junior’s hurt bad,” the woman said as I walked away. The road was covered with bright fragments of chromium grillwork and broken glass, my fenders were crumpled unrecognizably, the front license plate leaned drunkenly sideways, bent almost double. “Oh, brother,” I said, thinking of my husband peacefully asleep at home. The other car gave a momentary impression of deep embarrassment, as though it were hoping to tiptoe away when no one was looking; it leaned backward, somehow, and it was not until I looked at it clearly now that I saw that what I had assumed from a brief glance earlier was wholesale destruction was actually the car’s natural condition; the lopsided body and buckled doors were rusty, the back window had

Similar Books

The Hound of Rowan

Henry H. Neff

All Men Fear Me

Donis Casey

Stella Bain

Anita Shreve

Queen of Denial

Selina Rosen