Evening

What good was it?That was the question she would like to know. What the hell good was it.All the plans she had made, and the music.When all that came of it was this trap—the store, then home to sleep, and back at the store again.The clock in front of the place where Mister Singer used to work pointed to seven.And she was just getting off.Whenever there was overtime the manager always told her to stay.Because she could stand longer on her feet and work harder before giving out than any other girl.

The heavy rain had left the sky a pale, quiet blue. Dark was coming.Already the lights were turned on.Automobile horns honked in the street and the newsboys hollered out the headlines in the papers.She didn't want to go home.If she went home now she would lie down on the bed and bawl.That was how tired she was.But if she went into the New York Café　and ate some ice cream she might feel O.K.And smoke and be by herself a little while.

The front part of the Café　was crowded, so she went to the very last booth.It was the small of her back and her face that got so tired.Their motto was supposed to be“Keep on your toes and smile.”Once she was out of the store she had to frown a long time to get her face natural again.Even her ears were tired.She took off the dangling green earrings and pinched the lobes of her ears.She had bought the earrings the week before—and also a silver bangle bracelet.At first she had worked in Pots and Pans, but now they had changed her to Costume Jewelry.

“Good evening, Mick，”Mister Brannon said. He wiped the bottom of a glass of water with a napkin and set it on the table.

“I want me a chocolate sundae and a nickel glass of draw beer.”

“Together?”He put down a menu and pointed with his little finger that wore a lady's gold ring.“See—here's some nice roast chicken or some veal stew. Why don't you have a little supper with me?”

“No, thanks. All I want is the sundae and the beer.Both plenty cold.”

Mick raked her hair from her forehead. Her mouth was open so that her cheeks seemed hollow.There were these two things she could never believe.That Mister Singer had killed himself and was dead.And that she was grown and had to work at Woolworth's.

She was the one who found him. They had thought the noise was a backfire from a car, and it was not until the next day that they knew.She went in to play the radio.The blood was all over his neck and when her Dad came he pushed her out of the room.She had run from the house.The shock wouldn't let her be still.She had run into the dark and hit herself with her fists.And then the next night he was in a coffin in the living-room.The undertaker had put rouge and lipstick on his face to make him look natural.But he didn't look natural.He was very dead.And mixed with the smell of flowers there was this other smell so that she couldn't stay in the room.But through ail those days she held down the job.She wrapped packages and handed them across the counter and rung the money in the till.She walked when she was supposed to walk and ate when she sat down to the table.Only at first when she went to bed at night she couldn't sleep.But now she slept like she was supposed to, also.

Mick turned sideways in the seat so that she could cross her legs. There was a run in her stocking.It had started while she was walking to work and she had spit on it.Then later the run had gone farther and she had stuck a little piece of chewing gum on the end.But even that didn't help.Now she would have to go home and sew.It was hard to know what she could do about stockings.She wore them out so fast Unless she was the kind of common girl that would wear cotton stockings.

She oughtn't to have come in here. The bottoms of her shoes were clean worn out.She ought to have saved the twenty cents toward a new half-sole.Because if she kept on standing on a shoe with a hole in it what would happen?A blister would come on her foot.And she would have to pick it with a burnt needle.She would have to stay home from work and be fired.And then what would happen?

“Here you are，”said Mister Brannon.“But I never heard of such a combination before.”

He put the sundae and the beer on the table. She pretended to clean her fingernails because if she noticed him he would start talking.He didn't have this grudge against her any more, so he must have forgotten about the pack of gum.Now he always wanted to talk to her.But she wanted to be quiet and by herself.The sundae was O.K.，covered all over with chocolate and nuts and cherries.And the beer was relaxing.The beer had a nice bitter taste after the ice cream and it made her drunk.Next to music beer was best.

But now no music was in her mind. That was a funny thing.It was like she was shut out from the inside room.Sometimes a quick little tune would come and go—but she never went into the inside room with music like she used to do.It was like she was too tense.Or maybe because it was like the store took all her energy and time.Woolworth's wasn't the same as school.When she used to come home from school she felt good and was ready to start working on the music.But now she was always tired.At home she just ate supper and slept and then ate breakfast and went off to the store again.A song she had started in her private notebook two months before was still not finished.And she wanted to stay in the inside room but she didn't know how.It was like the inside room was locked somewhere away from her.A very hard thing to understand.

Mick pushed her broken front tooth with her thumb. But she did have Mister Singer's radio.All the installments hadn't been paid and she took on the responsibility.It was good to have something that had belonged to him.And maybe one of these days she might be able to set aside a little for a second-hand piano.Say two bucks a week.And she wouldn't let anybody touch this private piano but her—only she might teach George little pieces.She would keep it in the back room and play on it every night.And all day Sunday.But then suppose some week she couldn't make a payment.So then would they come to take it away like the little red bicycle?And suppose like she wouldn't let them.Suppose she hid the piano under the house.Or else she would meet them at the front door.And fight.She would knock down both the two men so they would have shiners and broke noses and would be passed out on the hall floor.

Mick frowned and rubbed her fist hard across her forehead. That was the way things were.It was like she was mad all the time.Not how a kid gets mad quick so that soon it is all over—but in another way.Only there was nothing to be mad at.Unless the store.But the store hadn't asked her to take the job.So there was nothing to be mad at.It was like she was cheated.Only nobody had cheated her.So there was nobody to take it out on.However, just the same she had that feeling.Cheated.

But maybe it would be true about the piano and turn out O. K.Maybe she would get a chance soon.Else what the hell good had it all been—the way she felt about music and the plans she had made in the inside room?It had to be some good if anything made sense.And it was too and it was too and it was too and it was too.It was some good.

All right！

O. K.！

Some good.

晚上

这有什么用呢？她想知道这个问题。这到底有什么用。她所做的那些计划，还有音乐。所有的一切到头来都是个圈套——商店，回家睡觉，再回商店。辛格先生以前上班的那个店铺前面，钟表指着七点。她刚要下班。无论什么时候需要加班，经理总会让她留下，因为她比别的女孩都能站的时间更长，工作更努力。

大雨过后，天空变成静谧的浅蓝色，夜色正在降临。灯火已经亮了起来，街道上响着汽车喇叭，报童叫喊着报纸的头条消息。她不想回家。如果现在回家，她会躺在床上号啕大哭。她就是这么疲倦。如果她走进纽约咖啡馆，吃点冰激凌，也许会感觉好些。再抽根烟，一个人待一会儿。

咖啡馆的前部挤满了人，她走到最后一个雅座。她的腰背和面容都疲惫不堪。他们的座右铭应该是“时刻警惕，保持微笑”。她一走出商店，必须皱很长时间眉头才能让脸部恢复自然状态。就连她的耳朵都疲惫不堪，她摘下垂着的两个绿色耳环，捏着耳垂。这是她上个星期买的耳环——还买了一个银手镯。起初她在炊事用品区干活儿，但现在他们把她调到了配饰珠宝区。

“晚上好，米克。”布兰农说。他用餐巾擦拭着一个水杯的杯底，然后把杯子放在桌上。

“给我一个巧克力圣代，一杯五分钱的生啤。”

“一起上？”他放下菜单，用那个戴着女式金戒指的小拇指点着，“瞧——这里有很好吃的烤鸡或炖小牛肉。你为什么不在这儿一块简单吃个晚饭呢？”

“不用了，谢谢。我只想要圣代和啤酒，两个都要特别凉的。”

米克理了下额前的头发。她的嘴巴张着，双颊似乎凹陷下去。有两件事情，她永远都无法相信。辛格先生自杀了，死了；还有，她长大了，必须得到伍尔沃斯店里上班。

是她发现他死了。他们还以为那个声音是汽车回火了，直到第二天他们才知道真相。她进去开收音机。他的脖子上都是血。她爸爸赶了过来，把她推出房间。她跑出家门，心中万分震惊，无法平静。她跑进黑暗中，用拳头猛打自己。第二天晚上，他躺进了起居室的棺材里。殡仪员给他抹了胭脂和口红，让他的面容显得自然一些。但是，他的样子并不自然。他死气沉沉。混合着花香，有种另类的味道，让她无法待在屋子里。但在那些痛苦的日子当中，她还是保住了工作。她包好商品，从柜台上递过去，然后把钱放进收银机的抽屉。她该走路的时候走路，该吃饭的时候吃饭。只是一开始，她晚上上床之后无法入睡。但现在，她也该睡就睡了。

米克斜坐在座位上，跷起二郎腿。她的长袜有个地方抽线了。她走路上班的时候，袜子开始抽线，她朝上面吐了口唾沫。后来脱线越来越厉害，她用一块口香糖粘在了脱线的末端，即便如此也无济于事。现在，她得回家缝缝了。她真不知道该怎么穿长袜，她的袜子破得很快，除非她像那些普通女孩子一样穿棉袜子。

她不该到这里来。她的鞋底都已经完全磨穿了，她该省下这两毛钱，好补一副新的前掌。如果她穿着一双脚底有洞的鞋子一直站在那里，会发生什么事？脚上会磨出泡的。那她就得把针烧了，挑破水泡，她就必须请假在家，那样就要被开除了。那时候，会发生什么事呢？

“给你。”布兰农先生说，“但我以前从来没听说过这种搭配。”

他把圣代和啤酒放在桌上。她假装在清洁手指甲，因为如果她看他一眼，他就会开始说个不停。他对她没了那种怨恨，那么他肯定已经忘了那包口香糖的事。现在他总想跟她说话，但她不想说话，想一个人待着。圣代很好吃，上面浇满了巧克力、坚果、樱桃。啤酒让人放松。吃完冰激凌再喝啤酒，啤酒便有一种很好喝的苦味，让她醉意蒙眬。除了音乐，啤酒是最好的东西。

但现在，她脑子里已经没有了音乐。这很有意思，就像她“里屋”的门已经关上了似的。有时候，一首短促的小曲子会一闪而过——但她从来没像以前那样走进“里屋”，与音乐为伴，仿佛是她太紧张了。或者，也许是因为商店似乎消耗了她全部的精力和时间。伍尔沃斯跟学校不同。以前她放学回家时，感觉非常好，随时准备着要研究她的音乐。但现在，她总是很疲倦。在家时她吃完晚饭便睡觉，然后吃完早饭便走出家门又去店里。她两个月前在私密笔记本上开始写的一首歌，现在依然没有完成。她很想待在“里屋”，却不知道如何做到，仿佛“里屋”已经被锁在了离她很远的地方。这件事情真的令人费解。

米克用大拇指推推那颗断掉的门牙。但她的确得到了辛格先生的收音机。分期付款还没有付完，她接过了这个担子。能获得一件原本属于他的东西，真的太好了。也许这几天，她可以攒点钱买架二手钢琴，比如一个星期省下两块钱。除了她自己，谁也不允许碰这架私人钢琴——她也许还可以教乔治弹几首小曲子。她会把钢琴放到后面的房间里，每天晚上都要弹，到了星期天她要弹一整天。但是，假如哪个星期她付不起钱了怎么办？那样的话，他们会来把钢琴抬走，就像那辆红色小自行车一样？假如她不让他们抬走呢。假如她把钢琴藏到屋子下面，或者她在前门堵住他们，跟他们拼命。她会把那两个人都打倒在地，打得他们眼圈发黑，打断他们的鼻子，打得他们晕倒在门厅的地上。

米克皱起眉头，用拳头使劲来回搓着额头。事情就是这样。她仿佛一直都很愤怒，不是像孩子那样无端地生气然后又很快忘记——而是另外一种样子。只是，没有什么事情可以为之生气，商店的事情除外。但商店并没有要求她干这份工作，因此也没什么可生气的。她仿佛是被欺骗了似的，只是没有任何人欺骗她，因此也没有任何人可以让她发泄怒火。然而，她仍然有这种感觉，被欺骗的感觉。

但钢琴的事情也许会成真，会一切顺利。她也许很快便会有机会了。否则，这一切还有什么意义——她对音乐的感受，还有她在“里屋”所做的那些计划？不管任何东西，如果要有道理，那就必须要有点意义才行。这件事也是如此，也是如此，也是如此，也是如此。这件事有点意义。

好吧！

好的！

有点意义。