SSC (2004) The Complete Stories of Truman Capote by Truman Capote Page A

and that way and the bell never paused an instant. “Stop it,” she cried. The bolt gave way and she opened the door an inch. “What in heaven’s name?”
    “Hello,” said Miriam.
    “Oh … why, hello,” said Mrs. Miller, stepping hesitantly into the hall. “You’re that little girl.”
    “I thought you’d never answer, but I kept my finger on the button; I knew you were home. Aren’t you glad to see me?”
    Mrs. Miller did not know what to say. Miriam, she saw, wore the same plum-velvet coat and now she had also a beret to match; her white hair was braided in two shining plaits and looped at the ends with enormous white ribbons.
    “Since I’ve waited so long, you could at least let me in,” she said.
    “It’s awfully late.…”
    Miriam regarded her blankly. “What difference does that make? Let me in. It’s cold out here and I have on a silk dress.” Then, with a gentle gesture, she urged Mrs. Miller aside and passed into the apartment.
    She dropped her coat and beret on a chair. She was indeed wearing a silk dress. White silk. White silk in February. The skirt was beautifully pleated and the sleeves long; it made a faint rustle as she strolled about the room. “I like your place,” she said. “I like the rug, blue’s my favorite color.” She touched a paper rose in a vase on the coffee table. “Imitation,” she commented wanly. “How sad. Aren’timitations sad?” She seated herself on the sofa, daintily spreading her skirt.
    “What do you want?” asked Mrs. Miller.
    “Sit down,” said Miriam. “It makes me nervous to see people stand.”
    Mrs. Miller sank to a hassock. “What do you want?” she repeated.
    “You know, I don’t think you’re glad I came.”
    For a second time Mrs. Miller was without an answer; her hand motioned vaguely. Miriam giggled and pressed back on a mound of chintz pillows. Mrs. Miller observed that the girl was less pale than she remembered; her cheeks were flushed.
    “How did you know where I lived?”
    Miriam frowned. “That’s no question at all. What’s your name? What’s mine?”
    “But I’m not listed in the phone book.”
    “Oh, let’s talk about something else.”
    Mrs. Miller said, “Your mother must be insane to let a child like you wander around at all hours of the night—and in such ridiculous clothes. She must be out of her mind.”
    Miriam got up and moved to a corner where a covered bird cage hung from a ceiling chain. She peeked beneath the cover. “It’s a canary,” she said. “Would you mind if I woke him? I’d like to hear him sing.”
    “Leave Tommy alone,” said Mrs. Miller, anxiously. “Don’t you dare wake him.”
    “Certainly,” said Miriam. “But I don’t see why I can’t hear him sing.” And then, “Have you anything to eat? I’m starving! Even milk and a jam sandwich would be fine.”
    “Look,” said Mrs. Miller, arising from the hassock, “look—if I make some nice sandwiches will you be a good child and run along home? It’s past midnight, I’m sure.”
    “It’s snowing,” reproached Miriam. “And cold and dark.”
    “Well, you shouldn’t have come here to begin with,” said Mrs.Miller, struggling to control her voice. “I can’t help the weather. If you want anything to eat you’ll have to promise to leave.”
    Miriam brushed a braid against her cheek. Her eyes were thoughtful, as if weighing the proposition. She turned toward the bird cage. “Very well,” she said, “I promise.”
    How old is she? Ten? Eleven?
Mrs. Miller, in the kitchen, unsealed a jar of strawberry preserves and cut four slices of bread. She poured a glass of milk and paused to light a cigarette.
And why has she come?
Her hand shook as she held the match, fascinated, till it burned her finger. The canary was singing; singing as he did in the morning and at no other time. “Miriam,” she called, “Miriam, I told you not to disturb Tommy.” There was no answer. She called again; all she heard was the canary. She