Moving Day

A Story by SALLIE BINGHAM

THAT morning when Winston came to get the breakfast tray, Miss Ada handed him the final list. “These are the things I want left behind,” she said. She was sitting up in her rose-colored bed jacket with the pillows stacked high behind her.

It was the day of the move, and all the other lists were in Winston’s pocket. “Fine weather, Miss Ada,” he said, picking up the breakfast tray with its eggcup, saccharin bottle, and silver thermos of coffee.

“Too fine to last,” Miss Ada said. “They’re coming at ten o’clock,” she reminded him, glancing at her diamond watch. When she bent her head, Winston thought, she looked her age; something drew her face out long. Most of the time she could have passed for twenty-eight. Probably she had hardly slept a wink that night, which was a shame; she would want to look her best because the move was not to be a mistake.

Turning to go, Winston met Mr. Jack in the doorway. He was wearing the terrible old red wool bathrobe Winston had been trying to get away from him for years; twice he had had it laid out for the Goodwill, and Mr. Jack had found it. Under his arm he was carrying the mahogany clothes valet Miss Ada had given him for Christmas.

“If that’s the list of what’s staying behind, put this on it,” he said, dropping the clothes valet in the middle of the floor. He kissed his wife quickly on the cheek. “How’s it going, darling?”

Miss Ada looked up at him with soft blue eyes. “You really don’t want to take your valet?”

“How am I going to keep your clothes off the floor without that thing?” Winston asked.

“A move is a chance to leave things behind.” Mr. Jack ran his hand over his chin, feeling if he needed to shave. He was a handsome man; he had a fine head of hair and all his teeth; he had a paunch too, Winston knew, from the habit of beer and television. Dietetic beer, Miss Ada had bought him once, but Mr. Jack had poured it in the jardinieres.

Miss Ada looked down at her nails. “If you really don’t want to take it.” she said.

“Hell, I’ll give it to Winston. Winston, don’t you have a use for this old clotheshorse?”

“What in the name am I going to do with a clotheshorse?” Winston asked, laughing.

“Put that cream-colored coat you’re wearing on it,”Mr. Jack said, walking up and down and turning to wave his finger at Winston. “Put that candy-striped jacket Miss Ada gave you on it.”

“Could you use it, Winston?” Miss Ada asked. Her voice sounded hopeful.

“No, I could not,” Winston said quickly. “We better leave it for the Lelands.” The Lelands were the big rowdy family that was moving in.

Going downstairs with the tray, Winston wished he could have given in to Miss Ada, but he knew better than to do what she said when she had that little-girl look. There were times it wasn’t right to make a person happy, like the times she came in the kitchen and asked for a peanut butter sandwich. “You know we don’t keep peanut butter in this house,” he always told her. “Why, Winston,” she’d cry, “I just now saw you eating it out of the jar!” But he knew how important it was for her to keep her figure.

IN THE kitchen, Leona, his little young wife, was reading the morning paper. Her legs hung down long and thin as she sat on the high stool.

“Here,” Winston said gently, “what’s these dishes doing not washed?” The enormous plates which had held Mr. Jack’s four fried eggs and five strips of bacon were still stacked in the sink.

“Leave me alone,” Leona said. “Can’t you see I’m busy?” She looked at him impudently over the corner of the paper.

“This is moving day,” Winston reminded her, “and I bet you left things every which way upstairs, your clothes all over the floor and the bed not made. Leona!” His eye had fastened on her leg; bending, he touched her knee. “If I catch you one more time down here without stockings — ”

She twitched her leg away. “Fuss, fuss, old man.” She had an alley cat’s manners.

Winston stacked Miss Ada’s thin pink dishes in the sink. Then he spread out the last list on the counter. “To Be Left Behind” was printed at the top in Miss Ada’s fine hand. Winston took out a pencil, admired the point, and wrote slowly and heavily, “Clothes Stand.”

Sighing, Leona dropped the paper and stood up. “I guess I better get ready to go.”

Winston watched her fumbling to untie her apron. “Here.” Carefully, he undid the bow. “How come your bows is always cockeyed?”

She turned and put her arms around his neck. “I don’t want to leave here, Winston.”

“Now listen to that.” He drew back, embarrassed and pleased. “I thought you was sick to death of this big house. Said you wore yourself out, cleaning all these empty rooms.”

“At least there is room here,” she said. “What room is there going to be in an apartment for any child?”

“I told you what Miss Ada’s doctor said.”

“I don’t mean Miss Ada! What you think I care about that? I mean our children.” She sounded as though they already existed.

In spite of the hundred things he had on his mind, Winston went and put his arm around her waist. “We’ve got plenty of time to think about that. All the time in the world. We’ve only been married four years, January.”

“Four years!” she wailed. “That’s a long time, waiting.”

“How many times have I told you —” he began, and was almost glad when she cut him off— “Too many times!” — and flounced to the sink, where she began noisily to wash her hands.

Too many times was the truth of it, Winston thought. He hardly believed his reason himself any more. Although it had seemed a good reason, to begin with; no couple could afford to have children.

“How you going to work with a child hanging on you?” he asked Leona. “You want to keep this job, don’t you?” He doubted whether she heard him, over the running water.

He sat for a while with his hands on his knees, watching the bend of her back as she gathered up her things—a comb, a bottle of aspirin — to take upstairs and pack. She made him sad some days, and he was never sure why; it was something to do with her back, the thinness of it, and the quick, jerky way she bent. She was too young, that was all; too young and thin and straight.

“Winston!”

It was Mr. Jack, bellowing out in the hall. Winston hurried through the swinging door. “I’ve been bursting my lungs for you,” Mr. Jack complained. He was standing in front of the mirror, tightening his tie. He had on his gray tweed overcoat and his city hat, and his brief case lay on the bench. “I don’t know what you think you’ve been doing about my clothes,” he said. “This coat looks like a rag heap.”

There were a few blades of lint on the shoulder. Winston took the clothesbrush out of the closet and went to work. He gave Mr. Jack a real goingover; he brushed his shoulders and his back and his collar with long, firm strokes. “Hey!” Mr. Jack cried when the brush tipped his hat down over his eyes.

Winston apologized and quickly set the hat right. Then he stood back to look at Mr. Jack, who was pulling on his pigskin gloves. Winston enjoyed seeing him start out; he wore his clothes with style. When he was going to town, nothing was good enough — he had cursed at Winston once for leaving a fleck of polish on his shoelace. At home, he wouldn’t even wash his hands for supper, and he wandered around the yard in a pair of sweaty old corduroys. The velvet smoking jackets, pearl-gray, wine, and blue, which Miss Ada had bought him hung brushed and unworn in the closet.

“Good-by, Winston,” Mr. Jack said, giving a final set to his hat. “Look out for those movers!” Winston watched him hurry down the drive to his car; a handsome, fine-looking man it made him proud to see.

AFTER Mr. Jack drove away, Winston went on looking out the window. He noticed a speck of dirt on the sill and swiped at it with his finger. Then he looked at his finger, at the wrinkled, heavy knuckle and the thick nail he used like a knife to pry up, slit, and open. For the first time, he let himself be sad about the move. That house was ten years off his life. Each brass handle and hinge shone for his reward, and he knew how to get at the dust in the china flowers and how to take down the long glass drops which hung from the chandelier. He knew the house like a blind man, through his fingers, and he did not like to think of all the time and rags and polishes he had spent on keeping it up.

Ten years ago, he had come to the house to be interviewed. The tulips and the big pink peonies had been blooming along the drive, and he had walked up from the bus almost singing. Miss Ada had been out back, in a straw hat, planting flowers. She had talked to him right there, with the hot sun in his face, which made him sweat and feel ashamed. Winston had been surprised at her for that. Still, he had liked the way she had looked, in a fresh, neat cotton dress — citron yellow, if he remembered. She had had a dignity about her, even barefoot and almost too tan.

Since then, the flowers she had planted had spread all over the hill. Already the jonquils were blooming in a flock by the front gate, and the periwinkles were coming on, blue by the porch steps. In a week the hyacinths would spike out. And the dogwood in early May, for Miss Ada’s alfresco party; and after that the Japanese cherries. Now the yard looked wet and bald, the trees bare under their buds, but in a while Miss Ada’s flowers would bloom like a marching parade. She had dug a hole for each bulb, each tree wore a tag with her writing on it; where would she go for her gardening now? Somehow Winston didn’t think she’d take to window boxes.

Sighing, he hurried to the living room. He had a thousand things to see to. Still, he couldn’t help thinking, we’re all getting old, getting small; the snail is pulling in her horns.

In the living room, Miss Ada was standing by the window with a sheaf of lists in her hand. She was looking out at the garden.

“Winston,” she said, “get the basket for the breakables.”

Winston had the big straw basket ready in the hall. He brought it in and put it down beside her. Miss Ada was looking fine; she had on her Easter suit, blue, with lavender binding. Halfway across the house, he could have smelled her morning perfume. It hung in all her day clothes, sweet and strong; sometimes when he was pressing, Winston raised her dresses to his face.

Frowning, Miss Ada studied the list. “Well, let’s see. The china lemon tree. The alabaster cockatoo.” Winston followed her around the room, collecting the small frail objects (Christmas, birthday, and anniversary) and wrapping them in tissue paper. Neither of them trusted the movers.

When they came to Mr. Jack’s photograph, twenty by twelve inches in a curly silver frame, Miss Ada said. “By rights I ought to leave that, seeing he won’t take my clotheshorse.” She smiled at Winston, and he saw the hateful hard glitter in her eyes. He picked up the photograph and began to wrap it.

“At least you could leave it for the movers,” Miss Ada said. “What possessed you to tell me a clotheshorse would be a good idea?”

Winston folded the tissue paper carefully. “He’s used it every day; every morning, I lay out his clothes on it.”

“Well, that’s over now. And it was his main present! Leave that fool picture out,” she added sharply.

Winston laid it in the basket. “Mr. Jack sets store by that.”

“Really, Winston. It was meant to be my present.”But she went on down the list.

Winston was relieved; those presents had been on his mind. He had only agreed with Miss Ada about getting the valet, but he had actually suggested the photograph to Mr. Jack. “You know what she likes, Winston,” he had said wearily, one evening in November when Winston was pulling off his overshoes. “Tell me what to get her for Christmas.”

“She’s been talking about a picture,” Winston had told him.

“Picture! You mean picture of me?” But Winston had persuaded him.

On Christmas night, they had had a disagreement about it. Winston had heard because he was setting up the liquor tray in the next room. Through the door, he had seen Mr. Jack walking around, waiting for Miss Ada. Finally she had come down; Winston had heard her shaking out the skirt of her new pink silk hostess gown.

“How do you like it?” she had asked.

Mr. Jack had said, “You look about fifteen years old.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“I don’t know.” He had stood at a little distance, studying her, as though he would walk around next and look at the back of her head.

“Lovie, you make me feel naked.” Miss Ada had giggled, and she went sweeping and rustling to the couch and sank down.

“You look like that picture I have at the office,” Mr. Jack had started. “Not a line, not a wrinkle.

I look like an old man, compared,” and he had picked up his photograph with the red Christmas bow still on it. “Look, an old man. Will you wear pink when you’re sixty?”

“Darling, I love that photograph. I’m going to put it on my dresser.”

“I guess it’s children make a woman old. A man gets old anyhow.” After a minute he went on, “People must think the curse is on me, seeing you fresh as an apple and me old and gray.”

“I’ll give you a medical certificate, framed, if you like,” Miss Ada had said.

“No. All I want is a picture — with a few lines. Make the man put them in if he has to.”

After that they had sat for five minutes without saying a word. Then Miss Ada had stood up, rustling and rustling, and gone upstairs.

THE basket was full. Winston set it down at Miss Ada’s feet.

“Now don’t forget to tell the movers to take my birdbath,” she reminded him for the tenth time. “Lord knows where we’ll put it, but I want it.” She was looking out the window at the pink marble birdbath, half full of spring rain. “I’ll never know why the birds didn’t care for it.”

“Those birds, they can go to the park,”he told her. “There ain’t a birdbath around they’ll fool with when they can go and lie in the pond.”

“Winston, you’ll make me laugh on my deathbed.” But she was not laughing; she tapped a pencil against her palm. “I got that birdbath on my trip abroad with Mrs. Prince — Palermo. Ten years, and that’s the only time I’ve been out of this town. He wouldn’t go, of course.” She pretended she was talking to herself.

“And you came back from the station and burst right into tears, under the porte-coach, when Mr. Jack opened the door.”

“Winston,” she said, “you put a shine on everything.”

He had made her smile; she was pleased with the memory; she wanted things right as much as he did. “I was a fool,” she said. “Didn’t I have on that peach-colored silk?”

“Yes, you did. It looks good on you to this day.” For a moment they stood side by side, enjoying the picture of Miss Ada in all her finery, springing into Mr. Jack’s arms.

Then Miss Ada looked at her watch. “Where’s Leona?” she asked briskly. “It’s time she started out.”

“She’s ready,” Winston said, although he could never be sure she was.

“Well, call a taxi, then, and get her started.”

Winston went into the kitchen. “Leona!” he called up the back stairs. “She’s asking for you, Leona.”

“I’m coming, hold your horses.” After a while she came picking down the stairs. She had on the black hat with the faille bow which Winston had given her for Christmas, and she stooped to look at her reflection in a glass-fronted cabinet. “This hat makes me look a hundred years old,” she complained, settling it on her head.

Winston brushed off her collar and pushed her through the swinging door. “She’s ready, Miss Ada.”

Miss Ada looked around, startled. “Oh. Good morning, Leona.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Filbert.” The two women stared at the floor; they would never be easy together.

“I’m going to call a taxi,” Winston said, but he did not move.

“Well, then, Leona, you’d better go up to my room and get my fur coat and the jewel box. I don’t want the movers to touch them. The coat’s in the cupboard; the box is on my bedside table.”Leona started toward the stairs, and Winston went to telephone.

Coming back, he heard Miss Ada say, “Honestly, it’s the limit. The coat’s in my cupboard, Leona; it couldn’t have flown.”

Leona was standing in front of her, holding the blue-leather jewel box. “I didn’t see it, Mrs. Filbert,” she said. “It’s just not up there,” she added in a low voice.

“I’ll find it,” Winston told them.

He heard Leona scurrying after him on the stairs. “I tell you, it’s not up there,” she hissed.

“I know.” Still, he went into Miss Ada’s bedroom and opened the cupboard door. A pink satin hanger was lying on the floor, but there was nothing else.

“Never mind, never mind,”he told Leona, who had begun to moan and wring her hands. She hurried down the stairs behind him, and Winston couldn’t keep from smiling; it was something to see her upset.

In the hall, he opened the closet and took out Miss Ada’s coat. She had hung it there, coming in the evening before. The long fur rippled the wrong way under his hand. “Here.” He bundled the coat into Leona’s arms. “Say it was on the bed.”

She gave him a mean look; to be sure of her, he followed her into the living room.

“So there it is!” Miss Ada cried.

“It was lying on the bed,” Leona said. Then she stood waiting for instructions, with the fur coat hanging from her arms to the ground.

Winston took her out to the taxi. When she was settled, Leona looked up at him through the window, and Winston was shocked to see that her eyes were full of tears. “I believe you married me because Miss Ada needed a maid,” she said.

“Well, if that’s it, Miss Ada certainly got the short end of the stick.”

He stood with his arms crossed, watching the taxi turn out of the drive. Leona was hidden in the corner of the back seat. He hoped at least she would remember the new address, and then he thought. Of all the ugly tongues! She had said a few mean things to him in four years, and they had stuck in his mind. She’d never be working in this house if it wasn’t for me, he thought.

He had taught her all he could about the right way to do: how to edge around a sleeping house on Sunday, how to close up your face in the room with a quarrel and make beds every morning without once noticing the sheets. Leona had learned, but she still laughed at his “tricks.” He had taught her how to give satisfaction — which was not what she mainly wanted. Suddenly, he wondered how she would have looked pregnant, with her neat waist lost and her belly poking out the starched white organdy apron.

“That’s the day you leave this house,” Mr. Jack had said, coming into the kitchen late one night. He had begun spreading Durkee’s dressing on a slab of leftover meat. “The day I see that girl blow up, you leave this house, quick march. I’m not going to be made a fool of by you, in this life anyway.” By then, of course, Winston already knew.

TEN o’clock was striking, and he still had to see about the last list. He hurried into the house and started upstairs. On the landing, he heard Miss Ada calling, “Winston! They’ve come!”

He looked out the window and saw a big orange van, drawn up across the front of the house. Two men in dirty undershirts were throwing padded covers out of the back. They landed on the drive with a thud; one fell on the periwinkles.

“Winston, it’s time to go!” Miss Ada called.

Winston leaned over the stair well. “One more thing, Miss Ada, and I’ll be there.”

“All right,” she answered. “I’ll meet you at the car.”

He went into her bedroom. It still smelled sweet, but already the sweetness was going a little stale, and he knew from that how dead the room would seem two days from now when the Lelands came. He picked up the clothes valet and started toward the door.

A moving man brushed past him, and Winston smelled the proud sweat on his back. The moving man lunged at Miss Ada’s pink armchair. Hugging it to his chest, he staggered toward the door; Winston saw the bruises his fingers were leaving on the pale-colored silk.

He carried the valet up to the attic and settled it in a corner. It was a handsome piece, solid mahogany and still brand new; he hated to see it go to waste. Waste not, want not, he thought. But that had nothing to do with Mr. Jack, who could throw away everything he owned and never miss it. Winston started back down the stairs.

He darted across the front hall, careful not to look into any of the rooms, which had already been changed beyond hope by the moving men. Hurrying out of the house, Winston thought it was the first time he had seen the front door left wide open. The little brass burglar chain was hanging down, shiny and frail as a bracelet. He felt a kind of relief.

Miss Ada was standing by the station wagon, looking back at the house.

“When we came here, I thought I could have a baby. You know that, Winston?” she said. “Every stitch in that house was put in for a child.”

“Don’t talk to me, Miss Ada,” Winston said. “Lord! Don’t talk to me.” He was very tired, and for a minute he did not see how he could go on. It was that that made him answer her, when ordinarily he would have pretended not to have heard.

Miss Ada went around to the other side of the car and slid into the driver’s seat. Then she reached across and opened the door, meaning for him to sit up front. She’d done that quite a few times.

“I thought you were getting that clotheshorse,” she said, smiling at him through the open window. “I thought that was what took you so long.”

Winston closed the door and climbed into the back seat. “No. I put it in the attic like you said, to leave behind.”

She turned the ignition key and trampled on the gas. Gravel scattered as they backed. “Why are you such a peacemaker, Winston?” she asked, and he caught her eye in the mirror.

By that time he was ready for her. “Look at all those jonquils,” he said. “I never saw them prettier, this early in the spring.” That was when he remembered he had not told the movers to bring along her birdbath.