Come Along with Me by Shirley Jackson

pocket. Then I turned and saw the salesgirl looking at me with an air of complete joy; she had seen me, of course, and she took a step forward and said, “Can I help you?” and waited to see what I would do.
    Naturally, I took the candle out of my pocket and said, “No, just trying my hand at shoplifting,” and we both laughed. I set the candle back on the counter and turned away, my candle-stealing days over forever. She could have cried, that salesgirl; perhaps she had been waiting all her working life to catch a shoplifter in action; perhaps her big moment tonight at dinner was now hopelessly ruined. After all, “I caught a shoplifter today,” is a much more sensational beginning to a story than just a “I had the craziest old lady in my department today.” She must have waited on a good many crazy old ladies, and, understand, I’m not saying I’m old. She just looked like she’d tell it that way. So I had to shoplift something else. I won’t go into the number of things I took and had to put back; I don’t seem really cut out for the most efficient stealing; but I did manage to pick up a box of birth announcements (“I’m a girl, I’m a girl, I’m a girl”) which I though might suit Mrs. Faun. No one seemed to care about those. One of the things I had to put back was a bottle of perfume called Svelte, which was fair anyway since I really wanted that.
    Well, I’m not boasting. Some of the things that come to me work out well, and some do not. The seance was pretty good, but I will be the very first to admit that I am not light-fingered.
    [ 1965 ]

FOURTEEN STORIES

JANICE
    First, to me on the phone, in a half-amused melancholy: “Guess I’m not going back to school . . .”
    â€œWhy not, Jan?”
    â€œOh, my
mother
. She says we can’t afford it.” How can I reproduce the uncaring inflections of Janice’s voice, saying conversationally that what she wanted she could not have? “So I guess I’m not going back.”
    â€œI’m so sorry, Jan.”
    But then, struck by another thought: “Y’know
what
?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œDarn near killed myself this afternoon.”
    â€œJan! How?”
    Almost whimsical, indifferent: “Locked myself in the garage and turned on the car motor.”
    â€œBut why?”
    â€œI dunno. ’Cause I couldn’t go back, I suppose.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œOh, the fellow that was cutting our lawn heard the motor and came and got me. I was pretty near out.”
    â€œBut that’s terrible, Jan. What ever possessed—”
    â€œOh, well. Say—” changing again, “—going to Sally’s tonight?” . . .
    And, later, that night at Sally’s where Janice was not the center of the group, but sat talking to me and to Bob: “Nearly killed myself this afternoon, Bob.”
    â€œWhat!”
    Lightly: “Nearly killed myself. Locked myself in the garage with the car motor running.”
    â€œBut why, Jan?”
    â€œI guess because they wouldn’t let me go back to school.”
    â€œOh, I’m sorry about that, Jan. But what about this afternoon? What did you do?”
    â€œMan cutting the grass got me out.”
    Sally coming over: “What’s this, Jan?”
    â€œOh, I’m not going back to school.”
    Myself, cutting in: “How did it feel to be dying, Jan?”
    Laughing “Gee, funny. All black.” Then, to Sally’s incredulous stare: “Nearly killed myself this afternoon, Sally . . .”
    [ 1938 ]

TOOTIE IN PEONAGE
    I really got the first good look at Tootie Maple, since it fell on to my shoulders to interview her for my friend Julie. Julie had found herself settled in New Hampshire for the summer with her two-year-old son, a husband who only came up from his defense job in Boston for week ends, and a rambling old