The Collected Stories by Grace Paley Read Free Book Online Page A

very best.”
    In no time at all his cheerful face appeared at the door of the spring dusk. In the street among peaceable strangers he did a handstand. Then easy and impervious, in full control, he cart-wheeled eastward into the source of night.

The Loudest Voice
    There is a certain place where dumbwaiters boom, doors slam, dishes crash; every window is a mother’s mouth bidding the street shut up, go skate somewhere else, come home. My voice is the loudest.
    There, my own mother is still as full of breathing as me and the grocer stands up to speak to her. “Mrs. Abramowitz,” he says, “people should not be afraid of their children.”
    â€œAh, Mr. Bialik,” my mother replies, “if you say to her or her father ‘Ssh,’ they say, ‘In the grave it will be quiet.’ “
    â€œFrom Coney Island to the cemetery,” says my papa. “It’s the same subway; it’s the same fare.”
    I am right next to the pickle barrel. My pinky is making tiny whirlpools in the brine. I stop a moment to announce: “Campbell’s Tomato Soup. Campbell’s Vegetable Beef Soup. Campbell’s S-c-otch Broth …”
    â€œBe quiet,” the grocer says, “the labels are coming off.”
    â€œPlease, Shirley, be a little quiet,” my mother begs me.
    In that place the whole street groans: Be quiet! Be quiet! but steals from the happy chorus of my inside self not a tittle or a jot.
    There, too, but just around the corner, is a red brick building that has been old for many years. Every morning the children stand before it in double lines which must be straight. They are not insulted. They are waiting anyway.
    I am usually among them. I am, in fact, the first, since I begin with “A.”
    One cold morning the monitor tapped me on the shoulder. “Go to Room 409, Shirley Abramowitz,” he said. I did as I was told. I went in a hurry up a down staircase to Room 409, which contained sixth-graders. I had to wait at the desk without wiggling until Mr. Hilton, their teacher, had time to speak.
    After five minutes he said, “Shirley?”
    â€œWhat?” I whispered.
    He said, “My! My! Shirley Abramowitz! They told me you had a particularly loud, clear voice and read with lots of expression. Could that be true?”
    â€œOh yes,” I whispered.
    â€œIn that case, don’t be silly; I might very well be your teacher someday. Speak up, speak up.”
    â€œYes,” I shouted.
    â€œMore like it,” he said. “Now, Shirley, can you put a ribbon in your hair or a bobby pin? It’s too messy.”
    â€œYes!” I bawled.
    â€œNow, now, calm down.” He turned to the class. “Children, not a sound. Open at page 39. Read till 52. When you finish, start again.” He looked me over once more. “Now, Shirley, you know, I suppose, that Christmas is coming. We are preparing a beautiful play. Most of the parts have been given out. But I still need a child with a strong voice, lots of stamina. Do you know what stamina is? You do? Smart kid. You know, I heard you read ‘The Lord is my shepherd’ in Assembly yesterday. I was very impressed. Wonderful delivery. Mrs. Jordan, your teacher, speaks highly of you. Now listen to me, Shirley Abramowitz, if you want to take the part and be in the play, repeat after me, ‘I swear to work harder than I ever did before.’ “
    I looked to heaven and said at once, “Oh, I swear.” I kissed my pinky and looked at God.
    â€œThat is an actor’s life, my dear,” he explained. “Like a soldier’s, never tardy or disobedient to his general, the director. Everything,” he said, “absolutely everything will depend on you.”
    That afternoon, all over the building, children scraped and scrubbed the turkeys and the sheaves of corn off the schoolroom windows. Goodbye Thanksgiving. The next morning a monitor brought red paper and green