Bad Characters Read online

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  In memory of Joe with all my heart

  Author’s Note

  I do not look on all the characters in these stories as bad; some of them do have wicked hearts, but as many of them are victims. Emily Vanderpool, who narrates the title story and who acknowledges that she has a bad character, is someone I knew well as a child; indeed, I often occupied her skin and, looking back, I think that while she was notional and stubborn and a trial to her kin, her talent for iniquity was feeble—she wanted to be a road-agent but she hadn’t a chance. Her troubles stemmed from the low company she kept, but she did not seek these parties out: they found her. It is a widespread human experience. The strenuous young man in “A Reasonable Facsimile” is not bad, he is merely poisonous and the sociologist in “Caveat Emptor” is, by reason of his calling, awful and to be avoided at all cost but he isn’t bad. The personification of rectitude, Judge Bay, who appears in several of the stories, and Landlady Placer in “In the Zoo” go on my black list which is headed by the name of Frau Professor Galt in the short novel, “A Winter’s Tale.”

  Except for “Caveat Emptor,” which appeared in Mademoiselle, “The Captain’s Gift” in The Sewanee Review, and “A Winter’s Tale” in New Short Novels (Ballantine Books), all of these stories originally came out in The New Yorker.

  Jean Stafford

  Bad Characters

  Up until I learned my lesson in a very bitter way, I never had more than one friend at a time, and my friendships, though ardent, were short. When they ended and I was sent packing in unforgetting indignation, it was always my fault; I would swear vilely in front of a girl I knew to be pious and prim (by the time I was eight, the most grandiloquent gangster could have added nothing to my vocabulary—I had an awful tongue), or I would call a Tenderfoot Scout a sissy or make fun of athletics to the daughter of the high-school coach. These outbursts came without plan; I would simply one day, in the middle of a game of Russian bank or a hike or a conversation, be possessed with a passion to be by myself, and my lips instantly and without warning would accommodate me. My friend was never more surprised than I was when this irrevocable slander, this terrible, talented invective, came boiling out of my mouth.

  Afterward, when I had got the solitude I had wanted, I was dismayed, for I did not like it. Then I would sadly finish the game of cards as if someone were still across the table from me; I would sit down on the mesa and through a glaze of tears would watch my friend departing with outraged strides; mournfully, I would talk to myself. Because I had already alienated everyone I knew, I then had nowhere to turn, so a famine set in and I would have no companion but Muff, the cat, who loathed all human beings except, significantly, me—truly. She bit and scratched the hands that fed her, she arched her back like a Halloween cat if someone kindly tried to pet her, she hissed, laid her ears flat to her skull, growled, fluffed up her tail into a great bush and flailed it like a bullwhack. But she purred for me, she patted me with her paws, keeping her claws in their velvet scabbards. She was not only an ill-natured cat, she was also badly dressed. She was a calico, and the distribution of her colors was a mess; she looked as if she had been left out in the rain and her paint had run. She had a Roman nose as the result of some early injury, her tail was skinny, she had a perfectly venomous look in her eye. My family said—my family discriminated against me—that I was much closer kin to Muff than I was to any of them. To tease me into a tantrum, my brother Jack and my sister Stella often called me Kitty instead of Emily. Little Tess did not dare, because she knew I’d chloroform her if she did. Jack, the meanest boy I have ever known in my life, called me Polecat and talked about my mania for fish, which, it so happened, I despised. The name would have been far more appropriate for him, since he trapped skunks up in the foothills—we lived in Adams, Colorado—and quite often, because he was careless and foolhardy, his clothes had to be buried, and even when that was done, he sometimes was sent home from school on the complaint of girls sitting next to him.

  Along about Christmastime when I was eleven, I was making a snowman with Virgil Meade in his backyard, and all of a sudden, just as we had got around to the right arm, I had to be alone. So I called him a son of a sea cook, said it was common knowledge that his mother had bedbugs and that his father, a dentist and the deputy marshal, was a bootlegger on the side. For a moment, Virgil was too aghast to speak—a little earlier we had agreed to marry someday and become millionaires—and then, with a bellow of fury, he knocked me down and washed my face in snow. I saw stars, and black balls bounced before my eyes. When finally he let me up, we were both crying, and he hollered that if I didn’t get off his property that instant, his father would arrest me and send me to Canon City. I trudged slowly home, half frozen, critically sick at heart. So it was old Muff again for me for quite some time. Old Muff, that is, until I met Lottie Jump, although “met” is a euphemism for the way I first encountered her.

  I saw Lottie for the first time one afternoon in our own kitchen, stealing a chocolate cake. Stella and Jack had not come home from school yet—not having my difficult disposition, they were popular, and they were at their friends’ houses, pulling taffy, I suppose, making popcorn balls, playing casino, having fun—and my mother had taken Tess with her to visit a friend in one of the T.B. sanitariums. I was alone in the house, and making a funny-looking Christmas card, although I had no one to send it to. When I heard someone in the kitchen, I thought it was Mother home early, and I went out to ask her why the green pine tree I had pasted on a square of red paper looked as if it were falling down. And there, instead of Mother and my baby sister, was this pale, conspicuous child in the act of lifting the glass cover from the devil’s-food my mother had taken out of the oven an hour before and set on the plant shelf by the window. The child had her back to me, and when she heard my footfall, she wheeled with an amazing look of fear and hatred on her pinched and pasty face. Simultaneously, she put the cover over the cake again, and then she stood motionless as if she were under a spell.

  I was scared, for I was not sure what was happening, and anyhow it gives you a turn to find a stranger in the kitchen in the middle of the afternoon, even if the stranger is only a skinny child in a moldy coat and sopping-wet basketball shoes. Between us there was a lengthy silence, but there was a great deal of noise in the room: the alarm clock ticked smugly; the teakettle simmered patiently on the back of the stove; Muff, cross at having been waked up, thumped her tail against the side of the terrarium in the window where she had been sleeping—contrary to orders—among the geraniums This went on, it seemed to me, for hours and hours while that tall, sickly girl and I confronted each other. When, after a long time, she did open her mouth, it was to tell a prodigious lie. “I came to see if you’d like to play with me,” she said. I think she sighed and stole a sidelong and regretful glance at the cake.

  Beggars cannot be choosers, and I had been missing Virgil so sorely, as well as all those other dear friends f
orever lost to me, that in spite of her flagrance (she had never clapped eyes on me before, she had had no way of knowing there was a creature of my age in the house—she had come in like a hobo to steal my mother’s cake), I was flattered and consoled. I asked her name and, learning it, believed my ears no better than my eyes: Lottie Jump. What on earth! What on earth—you surely will agree with me—and yet when I told her mine, Emily Vanderpool, she laughed until she coughed and gasped. “Beg pardon,” she said. “Names like them always hit my funny bone. There was this towhead boy in school named Delbert Saxonfield.” I saw no connection and I was insulted (what’s so funny about Vanderpool, I’d like to know), but Lottie Jump was, technically, my guest and I was lonesome, so I asked her, since she had spoken of playing with me, if she knew how to play Andy-I-Over. She said “Naw.” It turned out that she did not know how to play any games at all; she couldn’t do anything and didn’t want to do anything; her only recreation and her only gift was, and always had been, stealing. But this I did not know at the time.

  As it happened, it was too cold and snowy to play outdoors that day anyhow, and after I had run through my list of indoor games and Lottie had shaken her head at all of them (when I spoke of Parcheesi, she went “Ugh!” and pretended to be sick), she suggested that we look through my mother’s bureau drawers. This did not strike me as strange at all, for it was one of my favorite things to do, and I led the way to Mother’s bedroom without a moment’s hesitation. I loved the smell of the lavender she kept in gauze bags among her chamois gloves and linen handkerchiefs and filmy scarves; there was a pink fascinator knitted of something as fine as spider’s thread, and it made me go quite soft—I wasn’t soft as a rule, I was as hard as nails and I gave my mother a rough time—to think of her wearing it around her head as she waltzed on the ice in the bygone days. We examined stockings, nightgowns, camisoles, strings of beads, and mosaic pins, keepsake buttons from dresses worn on memorial occasions, tortoiseshell combs, and a transformation made from Aunt Joey’s hair when she had racily had it bobbed. Lottie admired particularly a blue cloisonné perfume flask with ferns and peacocks on it. “Hey,” she said, “this sure is cute. I like thing-daddies like this here.” But very abruptly she got bored and said, “Let’s talk instead. In the front room.” I agreed, a little perplexed this time, because I had been about to show her a remarkable powder box that played The Blue Danube. We went into the parlor, where Lottie looked at her image in the pier glass for quite a while and with great absorption, as if she had never seen herself before. Then she moved over to the window seat and knelt on it, looking out at the front walk. She kept her hands in the pockets of her thin dark-red coat; once she took out one of her dirty paws to rub her nose for a minute and I saw a bulge in that pocket, like a bunch of jackstones. I know now that it wasn’t jackstones, it was my mother’s perfume flask; I thought at the time her hands were cold and that that was why she kept them put away, for I had noticed that she had no mittens.

  Lottie did most of the talking, and while she talked, she never once looked at me but kept her eyes fixed on the approach to our house. She told me that her family had come to Adams a month before from Muskogee, Oklahoma, where her father, before he got tuberculosis, had been a brakeman on the Frisco. Now they lived down by Arapahoe Creek, on the west side of town, in one of the cottages of a wretched settlement made up of people so poor and so sick—for in nearly every ramshackle house someone was coughing himself to death—that each time I went past I blushed with guilt because my shoes were sound and my coat was warm and I was well. I wished that Lottie had not told me where she lived, but she was not aware of any pathos in her family’s situation, and, indeed, it was with a certain boastfulness that she told me her mother was the short-order cook at the Comanche Café (she pronounced this word in one syllable), which I knew was the dirtiest, darkest, smelliest place in town, patronized by coal miners who never washed their faces and sometimes had such dangerous fights after drinking dago red that the sheriff had to come. Laughing, Lottie told me that her mother was half Indian, and, laughing even harder, she said that her brother didn’t have any brains and had never been to school. She herself was eleven years old, but she was only in the third grade, because teachers had always had it in for her—making her go to the blackboard and all like that when she was tired. She hated school—she went to Ashton, on North Hill, and that was why I had never seen her, for I went to Carlyle Hill—and she especially hated the teacher, Miss Cudahy, who had a head shaped like a pine cone and who had killed several people with her ruler. Lottie loved the movies (“Not them Western ones or the ones with apes in,” she said. “Ones about hugging and kissing. I love it when they die in that big old soft bed with the curtains up top, and he comes in and says ‘Don’t leave me, Marguerite de la Mar’”), and she loved to ride in cars. She loved Mr. Goodbars, and if there was one thing she despised worse than another it was tapioca. (“Pa calls it fish eyes. He calls floating island horse spit. He’s a big piece of cheese. I hate him.”) She did not like cats (Muff was now sitting on the mantelpiece, glaring like an owl); she kind of liked snakes—except cottonmouths and rattlers—because she found them kind of funny; she had once seen a goat eat a tin can. She said that one of these days she would take me downtown—it was a slowpoke town, she said, a one-horse burg (I had never heard such gaudy, cynical talk and was trying to memorize it all)—if I would get some money for the trolley fare; she hated to walk, and I ought to be proud that she had walked all the way from Arapahoe Creek today for the sole solitary purpose of seeing me.

  Seeing our freshly baked dessert in the window was a more likely story, but I did not care, for I was deeply impressed by this bold, sassy girl from Oklahoma and greatly admired the poise with which she aired her prejudices. Lottie Jump was certainly nothing to look at. She was tall and made of skin and bones; she was evilly ugly, and her clothes were a disgrace, not just ill-fitting and old and ragged but dirty, unmentionably so; clearly she did not wash much or brush her teeth, which were notched like a saw, and small and brown (it crossed my mind that perhaps she chewed tobacco); her long, lank hair looked as if it might have nits. But she had personality. She made me think of one of those self-contained dogs whose home is where his handout is and who travels alone but, if it suits him to, will become the leader of a pack. She was aloof, never looking at me, but amiable in the way she kept calling me “kid.” I liked her enormously, and presently I told her so.

  At this, she turned around and smiled at me. Her smile was the smile of a jack-o’-lantern—high, wide, and handsome. When it was over, no trace of it remained. “Well, that’s keen, kid, and I like you, too,” she said in her downright Muskogee accent. She gave me a long, appraising look. Her eyes were the color of mud. “Listen, kid, how much do you like me?”

  “I like you loads, Lottie,” I said. “Better than anybody else, and I’m not kidding.”

  “You want to be pals?”

  “Do I!” I cried. So there, Virgil Meade, you big fat hootnanny, I thought.

  “All right, kid, we’ll be pals.” And she held out her hand for me to shake. I had to go and get it, for she did not alter her position on the window seat. It was a dry, cold hand, and the grip was severe, with more a feeling of bones in it than friendliness.

  Lottie turned and scanned our path and scanned the sidewalk beyond, and then she said, in a lower voice, “Do you know how to lift?”

  “Lift?” I wondered if she meant to lift her. I was sure I could do it, since she was so skinny, but I couldn’t imagine why she would want me to.

  “Shoplift, I mean. Like in the five-and-dime.”

  I did not know the term, and Lottie scowled at my stupidity.

  “Steal, for crying in the beer!” she said impatiently. This she said so loudly that Muff jumped down from the mantel and left the room in contempt.

  I was thrilled to death and shocked to pieces. “Stealing is a sin,” I said. “You get put in jail for it.”

  “Ish ka bibble! I shou
ld worry if it’s a sin or not,” said Lottie, with a shrug. “And they’ll never put a smart old whatsis like me in jail. It’s fun, stealing is—it’s a picnic. I’ll teach you if you want to learn, kid.” Shamelessly she winked at me and grinned again. (That grin! She could have taken it off her face and put it on the table.) And she added, “If you don’t, we can’t be pals, because lifting is the only kind of playing I like. I hate those dumb games like Statues. Kick-the-Can—phooey!”

  I was torn between agitation (I went to Sunday school and knew already about morality; Judge Bay, a crabby old man who loved to punish sinners, was a friend of my father’s and once had given Jack a lecture on the criminal mind when he came to call and found Jack looking up an answer in his arithmetic book) and excitement over the daring invitation to misconduct myself in so perilous a way. My life, on reflection, looked deadly prim; all I’d ever done to vary the monotony of it was to swear. I knew that Lottie Jump meant what she said—that I could have her friendship only on her terms (plainly, she had gone it alone for a long time and could go it alone for the rest of her life)—and although I trembled like an aspen and my heart went pitapat, I said, “I want to be pals with you, Lottie.”

  “All right, Vanderpool,” said Lottie, and got off the window seat. “I wouldn’t go braggin’ about it if I was you. I wouldn’t go telling my ma and pa and the next-door neighbor that you and Lottie Jump are going down to the five-and-dime next Saturday aft and lift us some nice rings and garters and things like that. I mean it, kid.” And she drew the back of her forefinger across her throat and made a dire face.

  “I won’t. I promise I won’t. My gosh, why would I?”

  “That’s the ticket,” said Lottie, with a grin. “I’ll meet you at the trolley shelter at two o’clock. You have the money. For both down and up. I ain’t going to climb up that ornery hill after I’ve had my fun.”