THERE MUST BE A way to get it over with. If somebody would only say something about it, instead of looking at me all the time as they do, when I am in the room, there wouldn’t be any more days like this one. But no one ever says a word about it. They sit and look at me all the time — like that — but not even Papa says anything.
Why don’t they go ahead and say it — why don’t they do something — They know it; everyone knows it now. Everybody looks at me like that, but nobody ever says a word about it.
Papa knows perfectly well that I never went to business college with the money he sent me. Why doesn’t he say so — He put me on the train and said, Be a good little girl, Agnes. Just before the train left he gave me fifty dollars, and promised to send me the same amount monthly through October. When I reached Birmingham, I went to a beauty-culture school and learned how to be a manicurist with the money he sent me. Everybody at home thought I was studying shorthand at the business college. They thought I was a stenographer in Birmingham, but I was a manicurist in a three-chair barbershop. It was not long until in some way everybody at home found out what I was doing. Why didn’t they tell me then that they knew what I was doing — Why didn’t they say something about it —
Ask me, Papa, why I became a manicurist instead of learning to be a stenographer. After you ask me that, I’ll tell you why I’m not even a manicurist in a three-chair barbershop any longer. But say something about it. Say you know it; say you know what I do; say anything. Please, for God’s sake, don’t sit there all day long and look at me like that without saying something about it. Tell me that you have always known it; tell me anything, Papa.
How can you know what I am by sitting there and looking at me — How do you know I’m not a stenographer— How am I different from everybody else in town —
How did you know I went to Nashville — ask me why I went there, then. Say it; please, Papa, say it. Say anything, but don’t sit there and look at me like that. I can’t stand it another minute. Ask me, and I’ll tell you the truth about everything.
I found a job in a barbershop in Nashville. It was even a cheaper place than the one in Birmingham, where the men came in and put their hands down the neck of my dress and squeezed me; it was the cheapest place I had ever heard about. After that I went to Memphis, and worked in a barbershop there awhile. I was never a stenographer. I can’t read a single line of shorthand. But I know all about manicuring, if I haven’t forgotten it by this time.
After that I went to New Orleans. I wished to work in a fine place like the St. Charles. But they looked at me just like you are doing, and said they didn’t need anyone else in the barbershop. They looked at me, just like Mamma is looking at me now, but they didn’t say anything about it. Nobody ever says anything about it, but everybody looks at me like that.
I had to take a job in a cheap barbershop in New Orleans. It was a cheaper place than the one in Memphis, or the one in Nashville. It was near Canal Street, and the men who came in did the same things the men in Birmingham and Nashville and Memphis had done. The men came in and put their hands down in the neck of my dress and squeezed me, and then they sat down and talked to me about things I had never heard of until I went to Birmingham to be a stenographer. The barbers talked to me, too, but nobody ever said anything about it. They knew it; but no one ever said it. I was soon making more money on the outside after hours than I was at the table. That’s why I left and went to live in a cheap hotel. The room clerk looked at me like that, too, but he didn’t say anything about it. Nobody ever does. Everyone looks at me like that, but there is never a word said about it.
The whole family knows everything I have done since I left home nearly five years ago to attend business college in Birmingham. They sit and look at me, talking about everything else they can think of, but they never ask me what I’m doing for a living. They never ask me what company I work for in Birmingham, and they never ask me how I like stenography. They never mention it. Why don’t you ask me about my boss — But you know I don’t work for a company. You know everything about me, so why don’t you say something to me about it —
If somebody would only say it, I could leave now and never have to come back again once a year at Christmas. I’ve been back once a year for four years now. You’ve known all about it for four years, so why don’t you say something — Say it, and it then will be all over with.
Please ask me how I like my job in Birmingham, Mamma. Mamma, say, Are your hours too long, Agnes — have you a comfortable apartment — is your salary enough for you — Mamma, say something to me. Ask me something; I’ll not tell you a lie. I wish you would ask me something so I could tell you the truth. I’ve got to tell somebody, anybody. Don’t sit there and look at me once a year at Christmas like that. Everyone knows I live in a cheap hotel in New Orleans, and that I’m not a stenographer. I’m not even a manicurist any longer. Ask me what I do for a living, Mamma. Don’t sit there and look at me once a year at Christmas like that and not say it.
Why is everyone afraid to say it — I’ll not be angry; I’ll not even cry. I’ll be so glad to get it over with that I’ll laugh. Please don’t be afraid to say it; please stop looking at me like that once a year at Christmas and go ahead and say it.
Elsie sits all day looking at me without ever asking me if she may come to visit me in Birmingham. Why don’t you ask me, Elsie — I’ll tell you why you can’t. Go ahead and ask if you may visit me in Birmingham. I’ll tell you why. Because if you went back with me you’d go to New Orleans and the men would come in and put their hands down the collar of your frock. That’s why you can’t go back to Birmingham with me. But you do believe I live in Birmingham, don’t you, Elsie — Ask me about the city, then. Ask me what street I live on. Ask me if my window in Birmingham faces the east or west, north or south. Say something, Elsie; isn’t anyone ever going to ask me anything, or say something —
I’m not afraid; I’m a grown woman now. Talk to me as you would to anyone else my age. Just say one little something, and I’ll have the chance to tell you. After that I’ll leave and never come back again once a year at Christmas.
An hour ago Lewis came home and sat down in the parlor, but he didn’t ask me a single question about myself. He didn’t say anything. How does he know — Lewis, can you tell just by looking at me, too — Is that how everyone knows — Please tell me what it is about me that everyone knows. And if everyone knows, why doesn’t someone say something about it — If you would only say it, Lewis, it would be all over with. I’d never have to come home again once a year at Christmas and be made to sit here and have everyone look at me like that but never saying anything about it.
Lewis sits there on the piano stool looking at me but not saying anything to me. How did you find it out, Lewis — Did someone tell you, or do you just know — I wish you would say something, Lewis. If you will only do that, it will be all over with. I’d never have to come back home once a year at Christmas and sit here like this.
Mamma won’t even ask me what my address is. She acts as though I went upstairs and slept a year, coming down once a year at Christmas. Mamma, I’ve been away from home a whole year. Don’t you care to ask me what I’ve been doing all that time — Go ahead and ask me, Mamma. I’ll tell you the truth. I’ll tell you the perfect truth about myself.
Doesn’t she care about writing to me — doesn’t she care about my writing to her — Mamma, don’t you want my address so you can write to me and tell me how everyone is — Every time I leave they all stand around and look at me and never ask when I’m coming back again. Why don’t they say it — If Mamma would only say it, instead of looking at me like that, it would be better for all of us. I’d never have to come back home again, and they’d never have to sit all day and look at me like that. Why don’t you say something to me, Mamma — For God’s sake, Mamma, don’t sit there all day long and not say a word to me.
Mamma hasn’t even asked me if I am thinking of marrying. I heard her ask Elsie that this morning while I was in the bathroom. Elsie is six years younger than me, and Mamma asks Elsie that but she has never asked me since I went to Birmingham five years ago to study shorthand. They don’t even tell me about the people I used to know in town. They don’t even say good-by when I leave.
If Papa will only say something about it, instead of looking at me like that all the time, I’ll get out and stay out forever. I’ll never come home again as long as I live, if he will only say it. Why doesn’t he ask me if I can find a job for Lewis in Birmingham — Ask me to take him back to Birmingham and look after him to see that he gets along all right from the start, Papa. Ask me that, Papa. Please, Papa, ask me that; ask me something else then, and give me a chance to tell you. Please ask me that and stop sitting there looking at me like that. Don’t you care if Lewis has a job — You don’t want him to stay here and do nothing, do you — You don’t want him to go downtown every night after supper and shoot craps until midnight, do you, Papa — Ask me if I can help Lewis find a job in Birmingham; ask me that, Papa.
I’ve got to tell somebody about myself. You know already, but I’ve got to tell you just the same. I’ve got to tell you so I can leave home and never have to come back once a year at Christmas. I went to Birmingham and took the money to study manicuring. Then I found a job in a barbershop and sat all day long at a little table behind a screen in the rear. A man came in and put his hand down the neck of my dress and squeezed me until I screamed. I went to Nashville, to Memphis, to New Orleans. Every time I sat down at the manicurist’s table in the rear of a barbershop, men came in and put their hands down my dress.
If they would only say something it would be all over with. But they sit and look, and talk about something else all day long. That’s the way it’s been once a year at Christmas for four or five years. It’s been that way ever since I took the money Papa gave me and went to Birmingham to study stenography at the business college. Papa knows I was a manicurist in a barbershop all the time I was there. Papa knows, but Papa won’t say it. Say something, Papa. Please say something, so I can tell you what I do for a living. You know it already, and all the others, too; but I can’t tell you until you say something about it. Mamma, say something; Lewis, say something. Somebody, anybody, say something.
For God’s sake, say something about it this time so I won’t have to come back again next year at Christmas and sit here all day in the parlor while you look at me. Everybody looks at me like that, but nobody ever says it. Mamma makes Elsie stay out of my room while I’m dressing, and Papa sends Lewis downtown every hour or two. If they would only say something, it would be all over with. But they sit all day long in the parlor, and look at me without saying it.
After every meal Mamma takes the dishes I have used and scalds them at the sink. Why don’t they say it, so I’ll never have to come back —
Papa takes a cloth soaked in alcohol and wipes the chair I’ve been sitting in every time I get up and leave the room. Why don’t you go ahead and say it —
Everyone sits in the parlor and looks at me all day long. Elsie and Lewis, Mamma and Papa, they sit on the other side of the room and look at me all day long. Don’t they know I’ll tell them the truth if they would only ask me — Ask me, Papa; I’ll tell you the truth, and never come back again. You can throw away your cloth soaked in alcohol after I’ve gone. So ask me. For God’s sake, say something to me about it.
Once a year at Christmas they sit and look at me, but none of them ever says anything about it. They all sit in the parlor saying to themselves, We are looking at you, Agnes.
(First published in Clay)