Other Voices, Other Rooms by Truman Capote Read Free Book Online Page B

air, carried it to the bureau, and deposited it in the lacquered box, which was lined with red plush; it also occurred to him that this would be a good place to store Sam Radclif ’s bullet. Joel loved any kind of souvenir, and it was his nature to keep and catalogue trifles. He’d had many grand collections, and it pained him sorely that Ellen persuaded him to leave them in New Orleans. There had been magazine photos and foreign coins, books and no-two-alike rocks, and a wonderful conglomeration he’d labeled simply Miscellany: the feather and bullet would’ve made good items for that. But maybe Ellen would mail his stuff on, or maybe he could start all over again, maybe . . .
    There was a rap at the door.
    It was his father, of that he was sure. It must be. And what should he say: hello, Dad, Father, Mr Sansom? Howdyado, hello? Hug, or shake hands, or kiss? Oh why hadn’t he brushed his teeth, why couldn’t he find the Major’s suitcase and a clean shirt? He whipped a bow into his shoelace, called, “Yeah?” and straightened up erect, prepared to make the best, most manly impression possible.
    The door opened. Miss Amy, her gloved hand cradled, waited on the threshold; she nodded sweetly, and, as she advanced, Joel noticed the vague suggestion of a mustache fuzzing her upper lip.
    “Good morning,” he said, and, smiling, held out his hand. He was of course disappointed, but somehow relieved, too.
    She stared at his outstretched hand, a puzzled look contracting her puny face. She shook her head, and skirted past him to a window where she stood with her back turned. “It’s after twelve,” she said.
    Joel’s smile felt suddenly stiff and awkward. He hid his hands in his pockets.
    “Such a pity you arrived last night at so late an hour: Randolph had planned a merrier welcome.” Her voice had a weary, simpering tone; it struck the ear like the deflating whoosh of a toy balloon. “But it’s just as well, the poor child suffers with asthma, you know: had a wretched attack yesterday. He’ll be ever so peeved I haven’t let him know you’re here, but I think it best he stay in his room, at least till supper.”
    Joel rummaged around for something to say. He recalled Sam Radclif having spoken of a cousin, and one of the twins, Florabel, of a Cousin Randolph. At any rate, from the way she talked, he supposed this person to be a kid near his own age.
    “Randolph is our first cousin, and a great admirer of yours,” she said, turning to face him. The hard sunshine emphasized the pallor of her skin, and her tiny eyes, now fixing him shrewdly, were alert. There was lack of focus in her face, as though, beneath the uningratiating veneer of fatuous refinement, another personality, quite different, was demanding attention; the lack of focus gave her, at unguarded moments, a panicky, dismayed expression, and when she spoke it was as if she were never precisely certain what every word signified. “Have you money left from the check my husband sent Mrs Kendall?”
    “About a dollar, I guess,” he said, and reluctantly offered his change purse. “It cost a good bit to stay at that café.”
    “Please, it’s yours,” she said. “I was merely interested in whether you are a wise, thrifty boy.” She appeared suddenly irritated. “Why are you so fidgety? Must you use the bathroom?”
    “Oh, no.” He felt all at once as though he’d wet his pants in public. “Oh, no.”
    “Unfortunately, we haven’t modern plumbing facilities. Randolph is opposed to contrivances of that sort. However,” and she nodded toward the washstand, “you’ll find a chamber pot in there . . . in the compartment below.”
    “Yes’m,” said Joel, mortified.
    “And of course the house has never been wired for electricity. We have candles and lamps; they both draw bugs, but which would you prefer?”
    “Whichever you’ve got the most of,” he said, really wanting candles, for they brought to mind the St. Deval Street Secret Nine, a