The Complete Stories of Truman Capote Read Online Free Page B

nothing in the world I can do about it, nothing in the world!” For suddenly Mrs. Munson realized Vini wouldn’t phone tomorrow or ever again.

T HE S HAPE OF T HINGS

(1944)
    A wispish-sized, white pompadoured woman swayed down the dining-car aisle and inched into a seat next to a window. She finished penciling her order and squinted near-sightedly across the table at a ruddy-cheeked Marine and a heart-faced girl. In one sweep she noted a gold band on the girl’s finger, a string of red cloth twisted in her hair and decided she was cheap; mentally labeled her war bride. She smiled faintly, inviting conversation.
    The girl beamed back, “You was lucky you come so early on account of it’s so crowded. We didn’t get no lunch ’cause there was Russian soldiers eatin’ … or somethin’. Gosh you should’ve seen them, looked just like Boris Karloff, honest!”
    It was a voice like a chirping teakettle and caused the woman to clear her throat. “Yes, I’m sure,” she said. “Before this trip I never dreamt there were so many in the world, soldiers, I mean. You just never realize until you get on a train. I keep asking myself, where do they all come from?”
    “Draft boards,” the girl said, and then giggled foolishly.
    Her husband blushed apologetically. “You goin’ all the way, ma’am?”
    “Presumably, but this train’s as slow as … as …”
    “Molasses!” the girl exclaimed and followed breathlessly with, “Gee, I’m so excited, you can’t imagine. All day I’ve been just glued to the scenery. Where I come from in Arkansas it’s all kinda flat, so I get an extra thrill right from my toes when I see these mountains.” And turning to her husband, “Honey, d’ya suppose we’re in Carolina?”
    He looked out the window where the dusk was thickening on the pane. Gathering swiftly the blue light and the hill humps blending and echoing one another. He blinked back into the diner’s brightness. “Must be Virginia,” he guessed and shrugged his shoulders.
    From the direction of the coaches a soldier suddenly lurched awkwardly toward them and collapsed in the table’s empty seat like a rag doll. He was small and his uniform spilled over him in crumpled folds. His face, lean and sharp featured, contrasted palely with the Marine’s and his black, crew-cropped hair shone under the light like a cap of sealskin. With tired eyes foggily studying the three as though there were a screen flung between them, he picked nervously at two chevrons sewn on his sleeve.
    The woman shifted uncomfortably and pressed nearer the window. She thoughtfully tagged him drunk, and seeing the girl wrinkle up her nose knew she shared the verdict.
    While the white-aproned negro unloaded his tray the Corporal said, “What I want is coffee, a big pot of it and a double jigger of cream.”
    The girl dipped her fork into the creamed chicken. “Dontcha think what these folks charge for their stuff is awful, dear?”
    And then it began. The Corporal’s head started to bob in short uncontrollable jerks. A lolling pause with his head bent grotesquely forward; a muscle convulsion snapping his neck sideways. His mouth stretched nastily and the neck veins tautened.
    “Oh my God,” the girl cried and the woman dropped her butter knife and automatically shaded a sensitive hand over her eyes. The Marine stared vacantly for a moment, then quickly recovering he pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
    “Here, fella,” he said, “you better have one.”
    “Please, thanks … very kind,” the soldier muttered and then beat a knuckle-white fist against the table. Silverware trembled, water wasted over the glass tops. A stillness paused in the air and a distant burst of laughter sliced evenly through the car.
    Then the girl, aware of attention, smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear. The woman looked up and bit her lip when she saw the Corporal trying to light his cigarette.
    “Here, let me,” she volunteered.
    Her hand shook so badly