cw.imarriedadeadman-第3章

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　The　anonymous　silence　became　a　voice　at　last。　But　not　the　one　she　wanted；　not　the　one　she　was　waiting　for。
　〃I　am　sorry；　but　I　have　already　told　you。　There　is　no　use　waiting　on　the　line。　That　number　has　been　discontinued；　and　there　is　no　further　information　I　can　give　you。〃
　Her　hand　dropped　off　her　shoulder；　carrying　the　receiver　with　it；　and　fell　into　her　lap；　dead。　As　if　to　match　something　else　within　her　that　was　dead；　by　the　final　way　it　fell　and　stirred　no　more。
　But　life　won't　grant　a　decent　dignity　even　to　its　epitaphs；　sometimes。
　〃May　I　have　my　nickel　back？〃　she　whispered。　〃Please。　I　didn't　get　my　party；　and　it's…it's　the　last　one　I've　got。〃
　
　
　3
　
　She　climbed　the　rooming…house　stairs　like　a　puppet　dangling　from　slack　strings。　A　light　bracketed　against　the　wall；　drooping　upsidedown　like　a　withered　tulip　in　its　bell…shaped　shade　of　scalloped　glass；　cast　a　smoky　yellow　glow。　A　carpet…strip　ground　to　the　semblance　of　decayed　vegetable…matter；　all　pattern；　all　color；　long　erased；　adhered　to　the　middle　of　the　stairs；　like　a　form　of　pollen　or　fungus　encrustation。　The　odor　matched　the　visual　imagery。　She　climbed　three　ifights　of　them；　and　then　turned　off　toward　the　back。
　She　stopped；　at　the　last　door　there　was；　and　took　out　a　longshanked　iron　key。　Then　she　looked　down　at　the　bottom　of　the　door。　There　was　a　triangle　of　white　down　by　her　foot；　protruding　from　under　the　seam。　It　expanded　into　an　envelope　as　the　door　swept　back　above　it。
　She　reached　into　the　darkness；　and　traced　her　hand　along　the　wall　beside　the　door；　and　a　light　went　on。　It　had　very　little　shine。　It　had　very　little　to　shine　on。
　She　closed　the　door　and　then　she　picked　up　the　envelope。　It　had　been　lying　on　its　face。　She　turned　it　over。　Her　hand　shook　a　little。　Her　heart　did　too。
　It　had　on　it；　in　hasty；　heedless　pencil；　only　this：
　
　〃HELEN　GEORGESSON。〃
　
　No　Miss；　no　Mrs。；　no　other　salutation　whatever。
　She　seemed　to　e　alive　more　fully。　Some　of　the　blank　hopelessness　left　her　eyes。　Some　of　the　pinched　strain　left　her　face。　She　grasped　the　envelope　tight；　until　it　pleated　a　little　in　her　hold。　She　moved　more　briskly　than　she　had　until　now。　She　took　it　over　with　her　to　the　middle　of　the　room；　beside　the　bed；　where　the　light　shone　more　fully。
　She　stood　still　there　and　looked　at　it　again；　as　though　she　were　a　little　afraid　of　it。　There　was　a　sort　of　burning　eagerness　in　her　face；　not　joyous；　but　rather　of　desperate　urgency。
　She　ripped　hastily　at　the　flap　of　it；　with　upward　swoops　of　her　hand；　as　though　she　were　taking　long　stitches　in　it　with　invisible　needle　and　thread。
　Her　hand　plunged　in；　to　pull　out　what　it　said；　to　read　what　it　told　her。　For　envelopes　carry　words　that　tell　you　things；　that's　what　envelopes　are　for。
　Her　hand　came　out　again　empty；　frustrated。　She　turned　the　envelope　over　and　shook　it　out；　to　free　what　it　must　hold；　what　must　have　stubbornly　resisted　her　fingers　the　first　time。
　No　words　came；　no　writing。
　Two　things　fell　out；　onto　the　bed。　Only　two　things。
　One　was　a　five…dollar　bill。　Just　an　impersonal；　anonymous　five…dollar　bill；　with　Lincoln's　picture　on　it。　And　over　to　the　side　of　that；　the　neat　little　cachet　they　all　bear；　in　small…size　capitals：　〃This　certificate　is　legal　tender　for　all　debts　public　and　private。〃　For　all　debts；　public　and　private。　How　could　the　engraver　guess　that　that　might　break　somebody's　heart；　some　day；　somewhere？
　And　the　second　thing　was　a　strip　of　railroad…tickets；　running　consecutively　from　starting…point　to　terminus；　as　railroad　tickets　do。　Each　coupon　to　be　detached　progressively　en　route。　The　first　coupon　was　inscribed　〃New　York〃；　here；　where　she　was　now。　And　the　last　was　inscribed　〃San　Francisco〃；　where　she'd　e　from；　a　hundred　years　ago…last　spring。
　There　was　no　return…ticket。　It　was　for　a　one…way　trip。　There　and…to　stay。
　So　the　envelope　had　spoken　to　her　after　all；　though　it　had　no　words　in　it。　Five　dollars　legal　tender；　for　all　debts；　public　and　private。　San　Francisco…and　no　return。
　The　envelope　plummeted　to　the　floor。
　She　couldn't　seem　to　understand　for　a　long　time。　It　was　as　though　she'd　never　seen　a　five…dollar　bill　before。　It　was　as　though　she'd　never　seen　an　accordion…pleated　strip　of　railroad…tickets　like　that　before。　She　kept　staring　down　at　them。
　Then　she　started　to　shake　a　little。　At　first　without　sound。　Her　face　kept　twitching　intermittently；　up　alongside　the　eyes　and　down　around　the　corners　of　the　mouth；　as　if　her　expression　were　struggling　to　burst　forth　into　some　kind　of　fulminating　emotion。　For　a　moment　or　two　it　seemed　that　when　it　did；　it　would　be　weeping。　But　it　wasn't。
　It　was　laughter。
　Her　eyes　wreathed　into　oblique　slits；　and　her　lips　slashed　back；　and　harsh　broken　sounds　came　through。　Like　rusty　laughter。　Like　laughter　left　in　the　rain　too　long；　that　has　got　all　mildewed　and　spoiled。
　She　was　still　laughing　when　she　brought　out　the　battered　valise；　and　placed　it　atop　the　bed；　and　threw　the　lid　back。　She　was　still　laughing　when　she'd　filled　it　and　closed　it　again。
　She　never　seemed　to　get　through　laughing。　Her　laughter　never　stopped。　As　at　some　long…drawn　joke；　that　goes　on　and　on；　and　is　never　done　with　in　its　telling。
　But　laughter　should　be　merry；　vibrant　and　alive。
　This　wasn't。
　
　
　4
　
　The　train　had　already　ticked　off　fifteen　minutes'　solid；　steady　headway；　and　she　hadn't　yet　found　a　seat。　The　seats　were　full　with　holiday　crowds　and　the　aisles　were　full　and　the　very　vestibules　were　full；　she'd　never　seen　a　train　like　this　before。　She'd　been　too　far　behind　at　the　dammed…up　barrier；　and　too　slow　and　awkward　with　her　cumbersome　valise；　and　too　late　getting　on。　Her　ticket　only　allowed　her　to　get　aboard；　it　gave　her　no　priority　on　any　place　to　sit。
　Flagging；　wilting；　exhausted；　she　struggled　down　car…aisle　after　car…aisle；　walking　backward　against　the　train…pull；　eddying；　teetering　from　side　to　side；　leaden　valise　pulling　her　down。
　They　were　all　packed　with　standees；　and　this　was　the　last　one　now。　No　more　cars　after　this。　She'd　been　through　them　all。　No　one　offered　her　a　seat。　This　was　a　through　train；　no　stops　for　whole　States　at　a　time；　and　an　act　of　courtesy　now　would　have　e　too　high。　This　was　no　trolley　or　bus　with　a　few　moments'　running　time。　Once　you　were　gallant　and　stood；　you　stood　for　hundreds　and　hundreds　of　miles。
　She　stopped　at　last；　and　stayed　where　she'd　stopped；　for　sheer　inability　to　turn　and　go　back　again　to　where　she'd　e　from。　No　use　going　any　further。　She　could　see　to　the　end　of　the　car；　and　there　weren't　any　left。
　She　let　her　valise　down　parallel　to　the　aisle；　and　tried　to　seat　herself　upon　its　upturned　edge　as　she　saw　so　many　others　doing。　But　she　floundered　badly　for　a　moment；　out　of　her　own　topheaviness；　and　almost　tumbled　in　lowering　herself。　Then　when　she'd　succeeded；　she　let　her　head　settle　back　against　the　sideward　edge　of　the　seat　she　was　adjacent　to；　and　stayed　that　way。　Too　tired　to　know；　too　tired　to　care；　too　tired　even　to　close　her　eyes。
　What　makes　you　stop；　when　you　have　stopped；　just　where　you　have　stopped？　What　is　it；　what？　Is　it　something；　or　is　it　nothing？　Why　not　a　yard　short；　why　not　a　yard　more？　Why　just　there　where　you　are；　and　nowhere　else？
　Some　say：　It's　just　blind　chance；　and　if　you　hadn't　stopped　there；　you　would　have　stopped　at　the　next　place。　Your　story　would　have　been　different　then。　You　weave　your　own　story　as　you　go　along。
　But　others　say：　You　could　not　have　stopped　any　place　else　but　this　even　if　you　had　wanted　to。　It　was　decreed；　it　was　ordered；　you　were　meant　to　stop　at　this　spot　and　no　other。　Your　story　is　there　waiting　for　you；　it　has　been　waiting　for　you　there　a　hundred　years；　long　before　you　were　born；　and　you　cannot　change　a　ma　of　it。　Everything　you　do；　you　have　to　do。　You　are　the　twig；　and　the　water　you　float　on　swept　you　here。　You　are　the　leaf　and　the　breeze　you　were　borne　on　blew　you　here。　This　is　your　story；　and　you　cannot　escape　it；　you　are　only　the　player；　not　the　stage　manager。　Or　so　some　say。
　On　the　floor　before　her　downcast　eyes；　just　over　the　rim　of　the　seat…arm；　she　could　see　two　pairs　of　shoes　uptilted；　side　by　side。　On　the　inside；　toward　the　window；　a　diminutive　pair　of　pumps；　pert；　saucy；　without　ba