Miriam
A Short
Story
For several years, Mrs. H. T.
Miller lived alone in a pleasant apartment (two rooms with kitchenette) in a
remodeled brownstone near the East River. She was a widow: Mr. H. T. Miller had
left a reasonable amount of insurance. Her interests were narrow, she had no
friends to speak of, and she rarely journeyed farther than the corner grocery.
The other people in the house never seemed to notice her: her clothes were
matter-of-fact, her hair iron-gray, clipped and casually waved; she did not use
cosmetics, her features were plain and inconspicuous, and on her last birthday
she was sixty-one. Her activities were seldom spontaneous: she kept the two
rooms immaculate, smoked an occasional cigarette, prepared her own meals and
tended a canary.
Then she met Miriam. It was
snowing that night. Mrs. Miller had finished drying the supper dishes and was
thumbing through an afternoon paper when she saw an advertisement of a picture
playing at a neighborhood theatre. The title sounded good, so she struggled
into her beaver coat, laced her galoshes and left the apartment, leaving one
light burning in the foyer: she found nothing more disturbing than a sensation
of darkness.
The snow was fine, falling
gently, not yet making an impression on the pavement. The wind from the river
cut only at street crossings. Mrs. Miller hurried, her head bowed, oblivious as
a mole burrowing a blind path. She stopped at a drugstore and bought a package
of peppermints.
A long line stretched in front of
the box office; she took her place at the end. There would be (a tired voice
groaned) a short wait for all seats. Mrs. Miller rummaged in her leather
handbag till she collected exactly the correct change for admission. The line
seemed to be taking its own time and, looking around for some distractions, she
suddenly became conscious of a little girl standing under the edge of the
marquee.
Her hair was the longest and
strangest Mrs. Miller had ever seen: absolutely silver-white, like an albino’s.
It flowed waist-length in smooth, loose lines. She was thin and fragilely
constructed. There was a simple, special elegance in the way she stood with her
thumbs in the pockets of a tailored plum-velvet coat.
Mrs. Miller felt oddly excited,
and when the little girl glanced toward her, she smiled warmly. The little girl
walked over and said, “Would you care to do me a favor?”
“I’d be glad to if I can,” said
Mrs. Miller.
“Oh, it’s quite easy. I merely
want you to buy a ticket for me; they won’t let me in otherwise. Here, I have
the money.” And gracefully she handed Mrs. Miller two dimes and a nickel.
They went over to the theatre
together. An usherette directed them to a lounge; in twenty minutes the picture
would be over.
“I feel just like a genuine
criminal,” said Mrs. Miller gaily, as she sat down. “I mean that sort of
thing’s against the law, isn’t it? I do hope I haven’t done the wrong thing.
You mother knows where you are, dear? I mean she does, doesn’t she?”
The little girl said nothing. She
unbuttoned her coat and folded it across her lap. Her dress underneath was prim
and dark blue. A gold chain dangled about her neck, and her fingers, sensitive
and musical looking, toyed with it. Examining her more attentively, Mrs. Miller
decided the truly distinctive feature was not her hair, but her eyes; they were
hazel, steady, lacking any childlike quality whatsoever and, because of their
size, seemed to consume her small face.
Mrs. Miller offered a peppermint.
“What’s your name, dear?”
“Miriam,” she said, as though, in
some curious way, it were information already familiar.
“Why, isn’t that funny—my name’s
Miriam, too. And it’s not a terribly common name either. Now, don’t tell me
your last name’s Miller!”
“Just Miriam.”
“But isn’t that funny?”
“Moderately,” said Miriam, and
rolled a peppermint on her tongue.
Mrs. Miller flushed and shifted
uncomfortably. “You have such a large vocabulary for such a young girl.”
“Do I?”
“Well, yes,” said Mrs. Miller,
hastily changing the topic to: “Do you like the movies?”
“I really wouldn’t know,” said
Miriam. “I’ve never been before.”
Women began filling the lounge;
the rumble of the newsreel bombs exploded in the distance. Mrs. Miller rose,
tucking her purse under her arm. “I guess I’d better be running now if I want
to get a seat,” she said. “It was nice to have met you.”
Miriam nodded ever so slightly.
It snowed all week. Wheels and
footsteps moved soundlessly on the street, as if the business of living
continued secretly behind a pale but impenetrable curtain. In the falling quiet
there was no sky or earth, only snow lifting in the wind, frosting the window
glass, chilling the rooms, deadening and hushing the city. At all hours it was
necessary to keep a lamp lighted, and Mrs. Miller lost track of the days:
Friday was no different from Saturday and on Sunday she went to the grocery
story; closed, of course.
That evening she scrambled eggs
and fixed a bowl of tomato soup. Then, after putting on a flannel robe and
cold-creaming her face, she propped herself up in bed with a hot-water bottle
under her feet. She was reading the Times when the doorbell rang. At first she
thought it must be a mistake and whoever it was would go away. But it rang and
rang and settled to a persistent buzz. She looked at the clock: a little after
eleven; it did not seem possible, she was always asleep by ten.
Climbing out of bed, she trotted
barefoot across the living room. “I’m coming, please be patient.” The latch was
caught; she turned it this way and that way and the bell never stopped for an
instant. “Stop it,” she cried. The bolt gave way and she opened the door an
inch. “What in heaven’s name?”
“Hello,” said Miriam.
“Oh…why, hello,” said Mrs.
Miller, stepping hesitantly into the hall. “You’re that little girl.”
“I thought you’d never answer,
but I kept my finger on the button; I knew you were home. Aren’t you glad to
see me?”
Mrs. Miller did not know what to
say. Miriam, she saw, wore the same plum velvet coat and now she had also a
beret to match; her white hair was braided in two shining plaits and looped at
the ends with enormous white ribbons.
“Since I’ve waited so long, you
could at least let me in,” she said.
“It’s awfully late….”
Miriam regarded her blankly.
“What difference does that make? Let me in. It’s cold out here and I have on a
silk dress.” Then, with a gentle gesture, she urged Mrs. Miller aside and
passed into the apartment.
She dropped her coat and beret on
a chair. She was indeed wearing a silk dress. White silk. White silk in
February. The skirt was beautifully pleated and the sleeves long; it made a
faint rustle as she strode about the room. “I like your place,” she said. “I
like the rug, blue’s my favorite color.” She touched a paper rose in a vase on
the coffee table. “Imitation,” she commented wanly. “How sad. Aren’t imitations
sad?” She seated herself on the sofa, daintily spreading her skirt.
“What do you want?” Mrs. Miller
asked.
“Sit down,” said Miriam. “It
makes me nervous to see people stand.”
Mrs. Miller sank to a hassock.
“What do you want?” she repeated.
“You know, I don’t think you’re
glad I came.”
For a second Mrs. Miller was
without an answer; her hand motioned vaguely. Miriam giggled and pressed back
on a mound of chintz pillows. Mrs. Miller noticed that the girl was less pale
than she remembered; her cheeks were flushed.
“How did you know where I lived?”
Miriam frowned. “That’s no
question at all. What’s your name? What’s mine?”
“But I’m not listed in the phone
book.”
“Oh, let’s talk about something
else.”
Mrs. Miller said, “Your mother
must be insane to let a child like you wander around at all hours of the
night—and in such ridiculous clothes. She must be out of her mind.”
Miriam got up and moved to a
corner where a covered bird cage hung from a ceiling chain. She peeked under
the cover. “It’s a canary,” she said. “Would you mind if I woke him? I’d like
to hear him sing.”
“Leave Tommy alone,” Mrs. Miller
said, anxiously. “Don’t you dare wake him.”
“Certainly,” said Miriam. “But I
don’t see why I can’t hear him sing.” And then, “Have you anything to eat? I’m
starving! Even milk and a jam sandwich would be fine.”
“Look,” said Mrs. Miller, arising
from the hassock, “look—if I make some nice sandwiches will you be a good child
and run along home? It’s past midnight, I’m sure.”
“It’s snowing,” reproached
Miriam. “And cold and dark.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have come
here to begin with,” said Mrs. Miller, struggling to control her voice. “I
can’t help the weather. If you want anything to eat you’ll have to promise to
leave.”
Miriam brushed a braid against
her cheek. Her eyes were thoughtful, as if weighing the proposition. She turned
toward the bird cage. “Very well, she said, “I promise.”
How old is she? Ten? Eleven? Mrs.
Miller, in the kitchen, unsealed a jar of strawberry preserves and cut four
slices of bread. She poured a glass of milk and paused to light a cigarette.
And why has she come? Her hand shook as she held the match, fascinated, till it
burned her finger. The canary was singing; singing as he did in the morning and
at no other time. “Miriam,” she called, “Miriam, I told you not to disturb
Tommy.” There was no answer. She called again; all she heard was the canary.
She inhaled the cigarette and discovered she had lighted the cork-tip end
and—oh, really, she mustn’t lose her temper.
She carried the food in on a tray
and set it on the coffee table. She saw first that the bird cage still wore its
night cover. And Tommy was singing. It gave her a queer sensation. And no one
was in the room. Mrs. Miller went through an alcove leading to her bedroom; at
the door she caught her breath.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
Miriam glanced up and in her eyes
was a look that was not ordinary. She was standing by the bureau, a jewel case
opened before her. For a minute she studied Mrs. Miller, forcing their eyes to
meet, and she smiled. “There’s nothing good here,” she said. “But I like this.”
Her hand held a cameo brooch. “It’s charming.”
“Suppose—perhaps you’d better put
it back,” said Mrs. Miller, feeling suddenly the need of some support. She
leaned against the door frame; her head was unbearably heavy; a pressure
weighted the rhythm of her heartbeat. The light seemed to flutter defectively.
“Please, child…a gift from my husband.”
“But it’s beautiful and I want
it,” said Miriam. “Give it to me.”
As she stood, striving to shape a
sentence which would somehow save the brooch, it came to Mrs. Miller there was
no one to whom she might turn; she was alone; a fact that had not been among
her thoughts for a long time. Its sheer emphasis was stunning. But here in her
own room in the hushed show-city were evidences she could not ignore or, she
knew with startling clarity, resist.
Miriam ate ravenously, and when
the sandwiches and milk were gone, her fingers made cobweb movements over the
plate, gathering crumbs. The cameo gleamed on her blouse, the blond profile
like a trick reflection on its wearer. “That was very nice,” she sighed,
“though now an almond cake or a cherry would be ideal. Sweets are lovely, don’t
you think?”
Mrs. Miller was perched precariously
on the hassock, smoking a cigarette. Her hairnet had slipped lopsided and loose
strands straggled down her face. Her eyes were stupidly concentrated on nothing
and her cheeks were mottled in red patches, as though a fierce slap had left
permanent marks.
“Is there a candy—a cake?”
Mrs. Miller tapped ash on the
rug. Her head swayed slightly as she tried to focus her eyes. “You promised to
leave if I made the sandwiches,” she said.
“Dear me, did I?”
“It was a promise and I’m tired
and I don’t feel well at all.”
“Mustn’t fret,” said Miriam. “I’m
only teasing.”
She picked up her coat, slung it
over her arm, and arranged her beret in front of a mirror. Presently she bent
close to Mrs. Miller and whispered, “Kiss me good night.”
“Please—I’d rather not,” said
Mrs. Miller.
Miriam lifted a shoulder, arched
an eyebrow. “As you like,” she said, and went directly to the coffee table,
seized the vase containing the paper roses, carried it to where the hard
surface of the floor lay bare, and hurled it downward. Glass sprayed in all
directions and she stamped her foot on the bouquet.
Then slowly she walked to the
door, but before closing it she looked back at Mrs. Miller with a slyly
innocent curiosity.
Mrs. Miller spent the next day in
bed, rising once to feed the canary and drink a cup of tea; she took her
temperature and had none, yet her dreams were feverishly agitated; their
unbalanced mood lingered even as she lay staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. One
dream threaded through the others like an elusively mysterious theme in a
complicated symphony, and the scenes it depicted were sharply outlined, as
though sketched by a hand of gifted intensity: a small girl, wearing a bridal
gown and a wreath of leaves, led a gray procession down a mountain path, and
among them there was unusual silence till a woman at the rear asked, “Where is
she taking us?” ”No one knows,” said an old man marching in front. “But isn’t
she pretty?” volunteered a third voice. “Isn’t she like a frost flower…so
shining and white?”
Tuesday morning she woke up
feeling better; harsh slats of sunlight, slanting through the Venetian blinds,
shed a disrupting light on her unwholesome fancies. She opened the window to
discover a thawed, mild-as-spring day; a sweep of clean new clouds crumpled
against a vastly blue, out-of-season sky; and across the low line of rooftops
she could see the river and smoke curving from tugboat stacks in a warm wind. A
great silver truck plowed the snow-banked street, its machine sound humming on
the air.
After straightening the
apartment, she went to the grocer’s, cashed a check and continued to
Schrafft’s, where she ate breakfast and chatted happily with the waitress. Oh,
it was a wonderful day more like a holiday—and it would be so foolish to go
home.
She boarded a Lexington Avenue
bus and rode up to Eighty-sixth Street; it was here that she decided to do a
little shopping.
She had no idea what she wanted
or needed, but she idled along, intent only upon the passers-by, brisk and
preoccupied, who gave her a disturbing sense of separateness.
It was while waiting at the
corner of Third Avenue that she saw the man: an old man, bowlegged and stooped
under an armload of bulging packages; he wore a shabby brown coat and a
checkered cap. Suddenly she realized they were exchanging a smile: there was
nothing friendly about this smile, it was merely two cold flickers of
recognition. But she was certain she had never seen him before.
He was standing next to an El
pillar, and as she crossed the street he turned and followed. He kept quite
close; from the corner of her eyes she watched his reflection wavering on the
shop windows.
Then in the middle of the block
she stopped and faced him. He stopped also and cocked his head, grinning. But
what could she say? Do? Here, in broad daylight, on Eighty-sixth Street? It was
useless and, despising her own helplessness, she quickened her steps.
Now Second Avenue is a dismal
street, made from scraps and ends; part cobblestone, part asphalt, part cement;
and its atmosphere of desertion is permanent. Mrs. Miller walked five blocks
without meeting anyone, and all the while the steady crunch of his footfalls in
the snow stayed near. And when she came to a florist’s shop, the sound was
still with her. She hurried inside and watched through the glass door as the
old man passed; he kept his eyes straight ahead and didn’t slow his pace, but
he did one strange, telling thing: he tipped his cap.
“Six white ones, did you say?”
asked the florist. “Yes,” she told him, “white roses.” From there she went to a
glassware store and selected a vase, presumably a replacement for the one
Miriam had broken, though the price was intolerable and the vase itself (she
thought) grotesquely vulgar. But a series of unaccountable purchases had begun,
as if by prearranged plan: a plan of which she had not the least knowledge or
control.
She bought a bag of glazed
cherries, and at a place called the Knickerbocker Bakery she paid forty cents
for six almond cakes.
Within the last hour the weather
had turned cold again; like blurred lenses, winter clouds cast a shade over the
sun, and the skeleton of an early dusk colored the sky; a damp mist mixed with
the wind and the voices of a few children who romped high on mountains of
gutter snow seemed lonely and cheerless. Soon the first flake fell, and when
Mrs. Miller reached the brownstone house, snow was falling in a swift screen
and foot tracks vanished as they were printed.
The white roses were arranged
decoratively in the vase. The glazed cherries shone on a ceramic plate. The
almond cakes, dusted with sugar, awaited a hand. The canary fluttered on its
swing and picked at a bar of seed.
At precisely five the doorbell
rang. Mrs. Miller knew who it was. The hem of her housecoat trailed as she
crossed the floor. “Is that you?” she called.
“Naturally,” said Miriam, the
word resounding shrilly from the hall. “Open this door.”
“Go away,” said Mrs. Miller.
“Please hurry…I have a heavy
package.”
“Go away,” said Mrs. Miller. She
returned to the living room, lighted a cigarette, sat down and calmly listened
to the buzzer; on and on and on. “You might as well leave. I have no intention
of letting you in.”
Shortly the bell stopped. For
possibly ten minutes Mrs. Miller did not move. Then, hearing no sound, she
concluded Miriam had gone. She tiptoed to the door and opened it a sliver;
Miriam was half-reclining atop a cardboard box with a beautiful French doll
cradled in her arms.
“Really, I thought you were never
coming,” she said peevishly. “Here, help me get this in, it’s awfully heavy.”
It was no spell-like compulsion
that Mrs. Miller felt, but rather a curious passivity; she brought in the box,
Miriam the doll. Miriam curled up on the sofa, not troubling to remove her coat
or beret, and watched disinterestedly as Mrs. Miller dropped the box and stood
trembling, trying to catch her breath.
“Thank you,” she said. In the
daylight she looked pinched and drawn, her hair less luminous. The French doll
she was loving wore an exquisite powdered wig and its idiot glass eyes sought
solace in Miriam’s. “I have a surprise,” she continued. “Look into my box.”
Kneeling, Mrs. Miller parted the
flaps and lifted out another doll; then a blue dress which she recalled as the
one Miriam had worn that first night at the theatre; and of the reminder she
said, “It’s all clothes. Why?”
“Because I’ve come to live with
you,” said Miriam, twisting a cherry stem. “Wasn’t it nice of you to buy me the
cherries…?”
“But you can’t! For God’s sake go
away—go away and leave me alone!”
“…and the roses and the almond
cakes? How really wonderfully generous. You know, these cherries are delicious.
The last place I lived was with an old man; he was terribly poor and we never
had good things to eat. But I think I’ll be happy here.” She paused to snuggle
her doll closer. “Now, if you’ll just show me where to put my things…”
Mrs. Miller’s face dissolved into
a mask of ugly red lines; she began to cry, and it was an unnatural, tearless
sort of weeping, as though, not having wept for a long time, she had forgotten
how. Carefully she edged backward till she touched the door.
She fumbled through the hall and
down the stairs to a landing below. She pounded frantically on the door of the
first apartment she came to; a short, redheaded man answered and she pushed
past him. “Say, what the hell is this?” he said. “Anything wrong, lover?” asked
a young woman who appeared from the kitchen, drying her hands. And it was to
her that Mrs. Miller turned.
“Listen,” she cried, “I’m ashamed
behaving this way but—well, I’m Mrs. H. T. Miller and I live upstairs and…” She
pressed her hands over her face. “It sounds so absurd…”
The woman guided her to a chair,
while the man excitedly rattled pocket change. “Yeah?”
“I live upstairs and there’s a
little girl visiting me, and I suppose that I’m afraid of her. She won’t leave
and I can’t make her and—she’s going to do something terrible. She’s already
stolen my cameo, but she’s about to do something worse—more terrible.”
The man asked, “Is she a
relative, huh?”
Mrs. Miller shook her head. “I
don’t know who she is. Her name’s Miriam, but I don’t know for certain who she
is.”
“You gotta calm down, honey,”
said the woman, stroking Mrs. Miller’s arm. “Harry here will tend to this kid.
Go on, lover.” And Mrs. Miller said, “The door’s open—5A.”
After the man left, the woman
brought a towel and bathed Mrs. Miller’s face. “You’re very kind,” Mrs. Miller
said. “I’m sorry to act like such a fool, only this wicked child…”
“Sure, honey,” consoled the
woman. “Now, you better take it easy.”
Mrs. Miller rested her head in
the crook of her arm; she was quiet enough to be asleep. The woman turned a
radio dial; a piano and a husky voice filled the silence and the woman, tapping
her foot, kept excellent time. “Maybe we oughta go up too,” she said.
“I don’t want to see her again. I
don’t want to be anywhere near her.”
“Uh-huh, but what you shoulda
done, you shoulda called a cop.”
Presently they heard the man on
the stairs. He strode into the room frowning and scratching the back of his
neck. “Nobody there,” he said, honestly embarrassed. “She musta beat it.”
“Harry, you’re a jerk,” announced
the woman. “We been sitting here the whole time and we woulda seen…” She
stopped abruptly, for the man’s glance was sharp.
“I looked all over,” he said,
“and there just ain’t nobody there. Nobody, understand?”
“Tell me,” said Mrs. Miller,
rising, “tell me, did you see a large box? Or a doll?”
“No, ma’am, I didn’t.”
And the woman, as if delivering a
verdict, said, “Well, for cryinoutloud…”
Mrs. Miller entered her apartment
softly; she walked to the center of the room and stood quite still. No, in a
sense it had not changed: the roses, the cakes, and the cherries were in place.
But this was an empty room, emptier than if the furnishings and familiars were
not present, lifeless and petrified as a funeral parlor. The sofa loomed before
her with a new strangeness: its vacancy had a meaning that would have been less
penetrating and terrible had Miriam been curled on it. She gazed fixedly at the
space where she remembered setting the box and, for a moment, the hassock spun
desperately. And she looked through the window; surely the river was real,
surely snow was falling—but then, one could not be certain witness to anything:
Miriam, so vividly there—and yet, where was she? Where? Where?
As though moving in a dream, she
sank to a chair. The room was losing shape; it was dark and getting darker and
there was nothing to be done about it; she could not lift her hand to light a
lamp.
Suddenly, closing her eyes, she
felt an upward surge, like a diver emerging from some deeper, greener depth. In
times of terror or immense distress, there are moments when the mind waits, as
though for a revelation, while a skein of calm is woven over thought; it is
like a sleep, or a supernatural trance; and during this lull one is aware of a
force of quiet reasoning: well, what if she had never really known a girl named
Miriam? That she had been foolishly frightened on the street? In the end, like
everything else, it was of no importance. For the only thing she had lost to
Miriam was her identity, but now she knew she had found again the person who
lived in this room, who cooked her own meals, who owned a canary, who was
someone she could trust and believe in: Mrs. H. T. Miller.
Listening in contentment, she
became aware of a double sound: a bureau drawer opening and closing; she seemed
to hear it long after completion—opening and closing. Then gradually, the
harshness of it was replaced by the murmur of a silk dress and this, delicately
faint, was moving nearer and swelling in intensity till the walls trembled with
the vibration and the room was caving under a wave of whispers. Mrs. Miller
stiffened and opened her eyes to a dull, direct stare.
“Hello,” said Miriam.
