Free The Road Through the Wall by Shirley Jackson

door to her bedroom. He backed away, gasping, “Good night, then,” and Miss Tyler waved one finger rougishly at him. “You
gay
young men,” she said.
    Artie, sitting tentatively on the edge of one of the tapestry chairs in the living-room, listening for the sound of a fall or a scream, heard her say tenderly, “Always some rash young fool, my darling dear,” and then she was quiet.
    He read his book, finally, accustomed to the silence, never leaving the living-room except for one tiptoed journey down the hall to see if he could hear her breathing. After an eternal minute outside her door he came back to his chair and read peacefully until Mr. and Mrs. Ransom-Jones came home shortly after one.
    â€œEverything’s been fine,” he said.
    â€œI
knew
she’d be all right,” Mrs. Ransom-Jones said, “that’s why I didn’t bother to call.” She gave him a quarter.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    â€œWhen I grow up,” George Martin said to his grandfather, “I’m going to drive a truck. A ten-ton truck.”
    â€œFirst you grow up,” his grandfather said. He nodded sagely. “First you grow up,” he said. “Once,” he went on slowly, “I thought I would be a doctor, myself. Now I am a gardener.” He nodded again, as though a point had been proved. He was sitting on a broken box in the Martins’ back yard, wild growing things in profusion around him and the morning sunlight heavy on his old head. It was his custom to sit here Sunday mornings when the weather was good, and regard phlegmatically the garden which belonged to him and which he never had time to cultivate; except for George’s abortive efforts and an occasional fussing over by the children’s grandmother, the back yard was allowed to run a wilderness. In one corner, near the Merriams’ fence, was an aged plum tree which no longer bore plums; next to it was the rabbit-house built by George, where one sickly rabbit had perished miserably the summer before. There were two more plum trees and an apple, the plum trees all barren and the apple given to wry unpalatable fruit. The rest of the yard was wild grass, weeds, and junk, and a climbing rose tree which grew up the back of the house and caught at the grandfather’s shoulders when he sat on his broken box.
    George was building something again; it was to be either a skate coaster or a wagon. He had nailed an orange crate on to a board and was busy trying to fit two halves of an old skate onto it for wheels.
    â€œIf I had a truck, you know what I’d do?” George continued in an even singsong that corresponded rhythmically with his work; when he became most careful, in some delicate operation, his words slid out and became long and breathless; when he worked steadily along, hammering or measuring, he spoke evenly and smoothly. Occasionally he looked up at his grandfather, to prove some important statement, and then the sunlight touched his eyes and mouth, and gave him an expression of intelligence usually lacking in his vacant face.
    â€œYou know what I’d do?” he insisted, turning to look at his grandfather. “I’d run it right into old Missus Merriam’s house and I’d run right over her. Run over Missus Merriam, run over Missus Merriam, and I’d run over Misssssssssster Meeeeeeeeerriam.” This became very long because George was trying to straighten a skate wheel. Then his voice quickened again. “And I’d run over old Harriet and I’d run over old Missus Merriam. If I had a truck that’s what I’d do.”
    The sun made the old grandfather sleepy, and he half-closed his eyes. He found it difficult to understand much of what his grandchildren said; they spoke so quickly, and with such strange words, and the tongue itself was still alien to an old man. When George looked up at him, the grandfather smiled and nodded, exactly as he