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She moved at last。 At long last Her hand dropped from the pushbutton； as if of its own weight。 It fell to her side； hung there； forlorn。 One foot turned； as if to go away。 There was a wait。 Then the other turned too。 Her back was to the door now。 The door that wouldn't open。 The door that was an epitaph； the door that was finality。
She took a slow step away。 Then another。 Her head was down now more than ever。 She moved slowly away from there； and left the door behind。 Her shadow was the last part of her to go。 It trailed slowly after her； upright against the wall。 Its head was down a little； too； it too was too thin； it too was unwanted。 It stayed on a moment； after she herself was already gone。 Then it slipped off the wall after her； and it was gone too。
Nothing was left there but the door。 That remained silent； obdurate； closed。
2
In the telephone…booth she was motionless again。 As motionless as before。 A telephone pay…station； the door left shunted back in order to obtain air enough to breathe。 When you are in one for more than just a few moments； they bee stifling。 And she had been in this one for more than just a few moments。
She was like a doll propped upright in its gift…box； and with one side of the box left off； to allow the contents to be seen。 A worn doll。 A leftover； marked…down doll； with no bright ribbons or tissue wrappings。 A doll with no donor and no recipient。 A doll no one bothered to claim。
She was silent there； though this was meant to be a place for talking。 She was waiting to hear something； something that never came。 She was holding the receiver pointed toward her ear； and it must have started out by being close to it； at right angles to it； as receivers should be。 But that was a long time before。 With the passage of long； disappointing minutes it had drooped lower and lower； until now it was all the way down at her shoulder； clinging there wilted； defeated； like some sort of ugly； black； hard…rubber orchid worn for corsage。
The anonymous silence became a voice at last。 But not the one she wanted； not the one she was waiting for。
〃I am sorry； but I have already told you。 There is no use waiting on the line。 That number has been discontinued； and there is no further information I can give you。〃
Her hand dropped off her shoulder； carrying the receiver with it； and fell into her lap； dead。 As if to match something else within her that was dead； by the final way it fell and stirred no more。
But life won't grant a decent dignity even to its epitaphs； sometimes。
〃May I have my nickel back？〃 she whispered。 〃Please。 I didn't get my party； and it's…it's the last one I've got。〃
3
She climbed the rooming…house stairs like a puppet dangling from slack strings。 A light bracketed against the wall； drooping upsidedown like a withered tulip in its bell…shaped shade of scalloped glass； cast a smoky yellow glow。 A carpet…strip ground to the semblance of decayed vegetable…matter； all pattern； all color； long erased； adhered to the middle of the stairs； like a form of pollen or fungus encrustation。 The odor matched the visual imagery。 She climbed three ifights of them； and then turned off toward the back。
She stopped； at the last door there was； and took out a longshanked iron key。 Then she looked down at the bottom of the door。 There was a triangle of white down by her foot； protruding from under the seam。 It expanded into an envelope as the door swept back above it。
She reached into the darkness； and traced her hand along the wall beside the door； and a light went on。 It had very little shine。 It had very little to shine on。
She closed the door and then she picked up the envelope。 It had been lying on its face。 She turned it over。 Her hand shook a little。 Her heart did too。
It had on it； in hasty； heedless pencil； only this：
〃HELEN GEORGESSON。〃
No Miss； no Mrs。； no other salutation whatever。
She seemed to e alive more fully。 Some of the blank hopelessness left her eyes。 Some of the pinched strain left her face。 She grasped the envelope tight； until it pleated a little in her hold。 She moved more briskly than she had until now。 She took it over with her to the middle of the room； beside the bed； where the light shone more fully。
She stood still there and looked at it again； as though she were a little afraid of it。 There was a sort of burning eagerness in her face； not joyous； but rather of desperate urgency。
She ripped hastily at the flap of it； with upward swoops of her hand； as though she were taking long stitches in it with invisible needle and thread。
Her hand plunged in； to pull out what it said； to read what it told her。 For envelopes carry words that tell you things； that's what envelopes are for。
Her hand came out again empty； frustrated。 She turned the envelope over and shook it out； to free what it must hold； what must have stubbornly resisted her fingers the first time。
No words came； no writing。
Two things fell out； onto the bed。 Only two things。
One was a five…dollar bill。 Just an impersonal； anonymous five…dollar bill； with Lincoln's picture on it。 And over to the side of that； the neat little cachet they all bear； in small…size capitals： 〃This certificate is legal tender for all debts public and private。〃 For all debts； public and private。 How could the engraver guess that that might break somebody's heart； some day； somewhere？
And the second thing was a strip of railroad…tickets； running consecutively from starting…point to terminus； as railroad tickets do。 Each coupon to be detached progressively en route。 The first coupon was inscribed 〃New York〃； here； where she was now。 And the last was inscribed 〃San Francisco〃； where she'd e from； a hundred years ago…last spring。
There was no return…ticket。 It was for a one…way trip。 There and…to stay。
So the envelope had spoken to her after all； though it had no words in it。 Five dollars legal tender； for all debts； public and private。 San Francisco…and no return。
The envelope plummeted to the floor。
She couldn't seem to understand for a long time。 It was as though she'd never seen a five…dollar bill before。 It was as though she'd never seen an accordion…pleated strip of railroad…tickets like that before。 She kept staring down at them。
Then she started to shake a little。 At first without sound。 Her face kept twitching intermittently； up alongside the eyes and down around the corners of the mouth； as if her expression were struggling to burst forth into some kind of fulminating emotion。 For a moment or two it seemed that when it did； it would be weeping。 But it wasn't。
It was laughter。
Her eyes wreathed into oblique slits； and her lips slashed back； and harsh broken sounds came through。 Like rusty laughter。 Like laughter left in the rain too long； that has got all mildewed and spoiled。
She was still laughing when she brought out the battered valise； and placed it atop the bed； and threw the lid back。 She was still laughing when she'd filled it and closed it again。
She never seemed to get through laughing。 Her laughter never stopped。 As at some long…drawn joke； that goes on and on； and is never done with in its telling。
But l