Number 21 in our series of “first stories”… It is the exception that proves the rule, and Jeraldine Davis’ “Grownups Sure Are Funny” is a case in point. Although the author's theme is a dangerous one, she handles it with remarkable delicacy — indeed, Mrs. Davis’ control of her material and the discipline of her writing are amazing in и “first story” Here is a newcomer with a perception and sensitivity that many old “pros” will envy…
Mrs. Davis is in her mid-thirties. She was graduated in 1947 from the University of Colorado where she majored in philosophy and English (always an excellent combination for would-be writers). At the time we accepted her “first story!” she was earning her livelihood by running a small secretarial service in Houston, Texas.
We predict a bright future for Jeraldine Davis — if only she continues to write…
I sat in the big leather chair in daddy’s study. He sat at daddy’s desk. He said he was a policeman, but he didn’t look like one. He didn’t have on a uniform or anything — you know, the kind with shiny buttons and stars. He wore a plain suit like daddy does. He was sort of thin like maybe he didn’t get enough to eat and he looked tired like he didn’t get too much sleep. His eyes were brown and sort of sad and he wore just a plain hat pushed to the back of his head.
He asked me my name which is Jenny and how old I am. I told him nine, but I’ll be ten next week. He asked me how I got along at school, and I told him I always go away to school but that I make very good grades, which is true and I am not just bragging.
He said to tell him all about myself. I started twisting one of my braids. I guess it’s because I get nervous and I didn’t know quite what to say. He looked at me for a minute, waiting, and then he said, “Do you remember when your mother had the accident in the car?”
That was a long time ago and I was away at school. Daddy told me that Mama had been hurt in a car accident and would never walk any more, that I must not ever bother her but try to help her. It made me sad to see Mama because she was so sad. I guess it was because she used to be a dancer and now she couldn’t dance any more.
When I first came home, Mama had a nurse, but she went away in a little while. I used to go in and see Mama, but when she wasn’t asleep she’d say, “Go away, Jenny. Go and play.” Sometimes I’d go for a walk with Midget, that’s my dog. And sometimes I’d go and look through daddy’s microscope — that one over by the window, but daddy said I shouldn’t play with his things. Mostly now, I play in the cellar.
The policeman listened, but he didn’t say anything. I like to talk to grownups but they hardly ever have time and I don’t believe they really listen. The policeman did though.
He said, “Tell me about the day your mama fell down the cellar steps. Tell me from the time you first got up.”
I started biting my fingernails. I always do when I am trying to think real hard, but the policeman didn’t say anything and I decided I sort of like him. Everybody I know scolds me when I bite my fingernails.
I remember it was Wednesday because it was Martha’s day off. Martha is our housekeeper. I went to my mother’s room. Daddy told me even if Mama said to just go away and play, I was to go in and see her every day. I didn’t knock because I thought maybe she was asleep. I just went in real quiet.
Mama wasn’t in bed. She was standing up by the window looking out. Her wheel chair was next to her bed. I guess I was real surprised because I knew Mama couldn’t walk. I couldn’t figure out how she had got over to the window. I thought at first she was mad at me, then she just said, “Come here, Jenny. Help me get back in bed. I’m tired now.”
She put her arm on my shoulder and leaned on me and got back in bed. I was really happy and wanted to tell Daddy, but she said I must promise and cross my heart that I wouldn’t tell anybody. She said she wanted to surprise daddy, and if I told, it would spoil the surprise. She told me to go and play like she always did and I went down to play in the cellar.
The policeman asked me what I played when I was down in the cellar. At first I didn’t want to tell, but then I remembered it wouldn’t make any difference to Mama now, so I told him.
Mostly, I take Mama’s dresses out of the trunk and put them on and dance. I pretend I’m a famous dancer like Mama used to be. I knew that if Mama ever caught me she’d be really mad. I didn’t see how she could though, not being able to come downstairs.
Anyway, I had on Mama’s dress and her shoes when the cellar door opened. I didn’t hear it open but you can tell because it’s in the kitchen floor and light comes down the steps. I hid behind Mama’s trunk and then I heard something fall. I looked on the floor and it was Mama.
Then I looked up and saw Uncle Allen’s foot.
I ran over to Mama and called her, but she wouldn’t wake up. I ran up the stairs because I was afraid, but the door was locked. I guess Uncle Allen locked it. I got sort of excited then because I noticed Mama’s eyes were open and sort of staring, but I knew she wasn’t awake.
I ran in the house and called daddy’s office. Judy — that’s daddy’s nurse — said he wasn’t there, but if it was important she’d tell him to call me. I hardly ever called daddy because I wasn’t allowed to. But I told Judy that Mama had fallen down the stairs.
“How did you get out of the cellar?” the policeman asked. “I thought you said the door was locked.”
“There’s a coal chute that’s kind of like a tunnel. If you lie on your back and push with your heels, you can wiggle up the tunnel, and the first thing you know you come out a little window.”
“Did your daddy come right away?”
“In a little while. I went upstairs and washed and changed my dress. I knew daddy would be mad if I was all dirty when he came home.”
The policeman swung back and forth in daddy’s chair and sometimes wrote with his pencil, then he said, “Tell me about your Uncle Allen.”
“He’s nice. He looks kind of like daddy. He’s tall and his hair is brown. Once he brought me a doll. He comes to see Mama every Wednesday. I think maybe he used to help Mama when she tried to walk. The first time he came, Mama cried and laughed and cried some more and hugged him. Then the next day daddy had some men come and put those funny things on the stairs so Mama could come downstairs in her wheel chair. She hardly ever came down though except when Uncle Allen came and sometimes he would push her out in the yard. Then Mama acted real happy. She told me I must not tell anybody about Uncle Allen. I know Mama liked him though because once I saw Uncle Allen put some of Mama’s things in his pocket.”
“What kind of things?”
“A necklace that she had and some bracelets and things.”
“The foot at the top of the stairs that day, are you sure it was Uncle Allen’s foot? Men’s shoes look an awful lot alike.”
I thought real hard. “No, I guess it could have been somebody else’s like daddy’s, though not yours because they’re too big.”
The policeman sat up straight then like I had said something real interesting. “Then you’re not sure it was your Uncle Allen?”
“Oh, yes. I know it was Uncle Allen. When the door slammed shut, it sort of blew the wind down and I could smell him. He doesn’t smell like daddy. He smells sort of like ladies do, you know, like he wears perfume or something.”
I was getting tired of talking and I hoped the policeman was through. He looked at me for a long time as though he was thinking, then he said I could go and play, but to tell Martha to come and see him.
I hate Martha. She’s mean and fat with little eyes like a pig. When I told her the policeman wanted her, she just sort of grunted and wiped her hands on her fat stomach like she always does. I waited until she went down the hall, then I lifted the trap door and went down into the cellar. I wanted to hear what the policeman said to Martha and all I had to do was sit real quiet by the furnace and their voices would come down the pipe. I heard some noise like the chair scraping and I could just see Martha dropping into one. She never sits down in a chair like other people do. She falls and then she huffs and puffs when she pulls herself back out.