I have loved Shirley Jackson and her short stories for many years, and (as with all of my favorite authors) I go through periodic frenzies where I must read everything of hers I can get my hands on. It was after the most recent of these lunatic phases that I sat down to write this story.
Gloria
Mrs. Raymond Chambers settled her hat on her head, giving the crown a sharp, decisive pat to hold it in place. Outside, the weather had turned fine and sunny, a welcome change after two unendurable weeks of dreary rain and gray clouds, and this afternoon she was completely free: no committee or aid meetings, no dinner plans and no appointments of any kind. Her husband, the Honorable Judge Raymond Chambers (Ret.), was out of town and would not be home until later, and she intended to enjoy herself alone. She would begin, she thought, with a nice, brisk walk—and maybe an ice cream, the first ice cream of the year. She hesitated at the bedroom door, then tiptoed down the stairs and past the kitchen, where Mrs. Higgens was still washing the lunch dishes.
It was a beautiful day. The sun was almost too warm, but the air held a delicious hint of coolness that took the edge off the heat. Mrs. Chambers felt young and vigorous again as she strode along the avenue, glancing at the stores and boutiques as she passed. Spring had come here, too: the somber tones of winter had been replaced by vibrant navies and reds and greens. She paused to admire the sophisticated poise of the mannequin in a department store window, and shook her head when she caught a glimpse of her own reflection. Had she grown stouter over the past two months?
I should take walks more often, she thought, and with a twinge decided to ask Mrs. Higgens not to make her signature Lady Baltimore cake every Sunday. The thought of that sinfully sweet confection made her think again of ice cream, but in her new devotion to exercise and moderation she opted instead for the shaved-ice cart near the east entrance to the park. As she waited in line, the breeze died, and the shade began to seem much too sparse. By the time it was her turn to order, she was fanning herself with her gloves to keep from growing uncomfortably warm.
"I'll have raspberry," she told the shaved-ice man.
"No problem, ma'am," he said with a grin. "Nice weather we're having, isn't it?"
"Oh, yes," she agreed, "It's lovely to see the sun again. But I wish the breeze would come back."
The gentleman who was next in line bent forward. "Bet the heat's good for business, though, isn't it?"
"Shaved ice is very refreshing, sir," the vendor replied as he counted out Mrs. Chambers' change.
"Bet they come to you in sweaty hordes in the summer," the man said, his mouth right next to her ear. "In sweaty, thirsty droves."
He was practically leaning on her shoulder! She tried to pull away, but she was trapped between him and the cart.
"Excuse me," Mrs. Chambers said stiffly, "Kindly stop crowding me, sir."
He chuckled softly, but he stepped back.
People are so vulgar these days, she thought, as she wrapped a napkin around the paper cone and walked away. She thought she could still feel his eyes on her as she went around the corner into the park.
The raspberry ice was vivid and cool on her tongue, and while she strolled along she savored it in small, ladylike nibbles. The meadow and esplanade thronged with mothers and children and nannies and couples, all just as intent as she on enjoying the weather and the park that afternoon. She paused to watch a family eating a picnic on the grass. The little boy looked just like her own Richard had at his age, and the older sister could have been Patty at fifteen. The mother was bouncing the crying baby on her knee while she tried to serve the food; first plate to Papa, of course, who was lounging on the grass and joking with his son. Mrs. Chambers wondered idly whose idea the picnic had been—whose idea it had been to have the father take the day off at all. Was that woman still hoping that one day, maybe today, her husband would look up and notice the strained smile on her face, and understand what it really meant?
More fool she, if so, Mrs. Chambers thought.
Looking back up the path, she saw the man who had crowded so close to her at the shaved ice stand, looking overdressed for the warmth in his dark coat and hat. His hands were empty, and she wondered how he had managed to finish his refreshment so quickly—she still had half of her ice left. Not eager to encounter him again, she hurried across the bridge and into the trees.
The air was much cooler in the shade. A vision came to her of the man in the dark coat creeping stealthily along the path behind her, keeping just of sight among the trees, and she had actually glanced behind and quickened her pace before she caught herself.
Don't be silly, Gloria, she thought firmly. You're a boring middle-aged woman with grown children. Your own husband isn't interested in you anymore; why would some strange man find you so fascinating? But she couldn't help remembering the feeling of his breath on her neck, the slippery, insinuating growl in her ear.
Fewer and fewer people passed her, until she found herself alone on the narrow footpath. The shaved ice now tasted garish and overly sweet (and maybe it reminded her of the claustrophobic moment at the vending cart), but after walking for five minutes she still hadn't found a trash receptacle. Pausing for a second, she tipped her head back and gulped down the last few bites of ice and syrup, then grimaced when a spasm of pain shot through her head. She swallowed and gasped, but the pain augered deeper.
Someone laid a hand on her arm. "Are you all right, ma'am?"
She jerked away, but it was just a young couple, their faces full of concern. She tried to smile reassuringly despite the frozen agony between her eyes.
"I'm fine, thank you. I just ate my shaved ice too fast."
They nodded and passed by, and gradually the pain receded. Massaging her temple, she frowned after the couple. Had they really been worried, or had their eyes been perhaps a touch too interested, a bit too familiar? They had come from behind her; they could have passed through the meadow and run into that odious man . . . maybe he had mentioned her to them? She wished she were not alone. Her steps quickened, and she was glad when she came to the end of the trees.
