The Cat's Pajamas

It was then that the man and his wife, as suddenly as if they had sprung up out of the wet dark grass, appeared at the bottom of the steps, looking up at us like the spectators in a summer night circus. They had no luggage. I always remembered that. They had no luggage. And their clothes did not seem to fit them.

“Is there a place for food and sleep?” said the man, in a halting voice.

Everyone was startled. Perhaps I was the one who saw them first, then Mrs. Fiske smiled and got out of her wicker chair and came forward. “Yes, we have rooms.”

“How much is the money?” asked the man in the broiling dark.

“Twenty dollars a day, with meals.”

They did not seem to understand. They looked at each other.

“Twenty dollars,” said Grandma.

“We’ll move into here,” said the man.

“Don’t you want to look first?” asked Mrs. Fiske.

They came up the steps, looking back, as if someone was following them.

That was the first night of the crying.

BREAKFAST WAS SERVED EVERY MORNING at seven-thirty, large, toppling stacks of pancakes, huge jugs of syrup, islands of butter, toast, many pots of coffee, and cereal if you wished. I was working on my cereal when the new couple came down the stairs, slowly. They did not come into the dining room immediately, but I had a sense they were just looking at everything. Since Mrs. Fiske was busy I went in to fetch them, and there they were, the man and wife, just looking out the front window, looking and looking at the green grass and the big elm trees and the blue sky. Almost as if they had never seen them before.

“Good morning,” I said.

They ran their fingers over antimacassars or through the bead-curtain-rain that hung in the dining room doorway. Once I thought I saw them both smile very broadly at some secret thing. I asked them their name. At first they puzzled over this but then said,

“Smith.”

I introduced them around to everyone eating and they sat and looked at the food and at last began to eat.

They spoke very little, and only when spoken to, and I had an opportunity to remark the beauty in their faces, for they had fine and graceful bone structures in their chins and cheeks and brows, good straight noses, and clear eyes, but always that tiredness about the mouths.

Half through the breakfast, an event occurred to which I must call special attention. Mr. Britz, the garage mechanic, said, “Well, the president has been out fund-raising again today, I see by the paper.”

The stranger, Mr. Smith, snorted angrily. “That terrible man! I’ve always hated Westercott.”

Everyone looked at him. I stopped eating.

Mrs. Smith frowned at her husband. He coughed slightly and went on eating.

Mr. Britz scowled momentarily, and then we all finished breakfast, but I remember it now. What Mr. Smith had said was, “That terrible man! I’ve always hated Westercott.”

I never forgot.

THAT NIGHT SHE CRIED AGAIN, as if she was lost in the woods, and I stayed awake for an hour, thinking.

There were so many things I suddenly wanted to ask them. And yet it was almost impossible to see them, for they stayed locked in the room constantly.

The next day, however, was Saturday. I caught them momentarily in the garden looking at the pink roses, just standing and looking, not touching, and I said, “A fine day!”

“A wonderful, wonderful day!” they both cried, almost in unison, and then laughed embarrassedly.

“Oh, it can’t be that good.” I smiled.

“You don’t know how good it is, you don’t know how wonderful it is—you can’t possibly guess,” she said, and then quite suddenly there were tears in her eyes.

I stood bewildered. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Are you all right?”