Come Along with Me by Shirley Jackson Read Free Book Online Page A

since no one said anything, and there was only thirty-five cents in the pot; I had to pay fifty cents more out of my own pocket for the sherry.
    â€œAll they talk about is death and dying,” I said to Mrs. Faun after she had seen them out. “And they are cheap.”
    â€œWhat do you expect?” She opened the drapes, blowing dust off her nose.
    â€œThey could take a little bit more interest.”
    â€œIf they were interested in real life they wouldn’t have come to listen to you. You’ll find out.”
    I thought she was being unnecessarily dreary, but that, as it turned out, was going to be Mrs. Faun’s way. “They’re all crazy,” she said, “all they want is to be told what to do. They wait for some crackpot to give them the word.”
    â€œIf by crackpot you mean—”
    â€œI mean what I mean,” Mrs. Faun said. “If the shoe fits, Mrs. Motorman.”

6
    Well, I don’t want you to think that Mrs. Faun and I came right out and quarreled all the time. We kind of sharpened our nails on each other, that was all, and most of the time we finished off our arguments laughing together over a cup of tea, although I must say I was surprised when I began getting a weekly bill from Mrs. Faun, in addition to the rent for the room, for “tea, cookies, etc.”
    â€œI thought you invited me,” I said to her the first week.
    â€œIt won’t hurt you,” she said. “I get what I can.”
    I started following people after a day or so in the city; one thing is certain, you can’t find your way around a strange city without someone to show you where to go, and when all you know is a Mrs. Faun who won’t step out of her front parlor for a bomb explosion on the street outside, you pretty well have to get the way from strangers. The first person I followed was an old fellow I picked up outside a restaurant; he had been eating caviar, and I like to follow someone who is good and full of caviar, although I don’t care for it myself; it seemed that he might lead me to a far more interesting place than any I might find by myself, and, in a sense, he did; “Why are you following me?” he asked, turning suddenly on me at a street corner; I was not as good at following people then as I became later.
    â€œBecause you were eating caviar,” I said. Sometimes the truth doesn’t hurt.
    â€œI like caviar.”
    â€œI don’t.”
    â€œWhere did you plan to follow me?” He was still bewildered, but I thought amused; I am not very terrifying to look at, I believe. In any case, he was clearly a man without a guilty conscience, or at least no kind of conscience that being followed by me might bother. Perhaps being followed by a lovely young nineteen-year-old boy might have bothered him some.
    â€œCome and have tea with me,” he said. I swear, he took out a cardcase and handed me a card; I don’t think I have ever known anyone to do that before. “I’d like to,” I told him, “it will save me money with Mrs. Faun.”
    There was the day I tried my hand at shoplifting; it was particularly important because of the weather; it was one of those winter days which suddenly dreams of spring, when the sky is blue and soft and clear, and the wind has dropped its voice and whispers instead of screaming, and the sun is out and the trees look surprised, and over everything there is the faintest, palest tint of green; weather entertains me.
    â€œI’m trying my hand at shoplifting,” I told the salesgirl, and we both laughed.
    I went to the biggest department store; I had not been there before, but one big department store is much like another. This one was one I might have been in a hundred times before; I knew where things were, and recognized the heavily scented air, so rich after the clean air outside. Sometimes I like big stores, with softness underfoot and pressing against the sides of your