The Cat's Pajamas Read Online Free PDF Page B

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.
    â€œGood 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,
    â€œSmith.”
    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.
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    T HAT 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!”
    â€œA wonderful, wonderful day!” they both cried, almost in unison, and then laughed embarrassedly.
    â€œOh, it can’t be that good.” I smiled.
    â€œYou 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?”
    â€œYes, yes.” She blew her nose and went off a distance to pick a few flowers. I stood looking at the apple tree hung with red fruit, and at last I got the courage to inquire, “May I ask where you’re from, Mr. Smith?”
    â€œThe United States,” he said slowly, as if piecing the words together.
    â€œOh, I was rather under the impression that—”
    â€œWe were from another country?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWe are from the United States.”
    â€œWhat’s your business, Mr. Smith?”
    â€œI think .”
    â€œI see,” I said, for all the answers were less than satisfactory. “Oh, by the way, what’s Westercott’s first name?”
    â€œLionel,” said Mr. Smith, and then stared at me. The color left his face. He turned in a panic. “Please,” he cried, softly. “Why do you ask these questions?” They hurried into the house before I could apologize. From the stair window they looked out at me as if I were the spy of the world. I felt contemptible and ashamed.
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    O N S UNDAY MORNING I helped clean the house. Tapping on the Smiths’ door I received no answer. Listening, for the first time, I heard the tickings, the little clicks and murmurs of numerous clocks working away quietly in the room. I stood entranced. Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick! Two, no, three clocks. When I opened