雙語(yǔ)·摸彩：雪莉·杰克遜短篇小說(shuō)選 我在乎的不是錢

It Isn't the Money I Mind

It was a sunny afternoon and the Park was nearly full. Old men and women sat on the benches; mothers sat idly beside baby carriages or watched children run shrieking over the grass. There were a lot of dogs walking up and down the paths on leashes or lying next to the benches. Except for the children, there was litde conversation and not much noise.

A man came into the Park from one of the side entrances. He stopped just inside the entrance to pat a dog on the head and speak to the owner, and then walked on slowly, looking for a place to sit down. He was middle-aged, partly bald, and, judging by his clothes, not very well off. As he walked he watched the people in the Park with a bright interest, stopping to listen to an argument between a mother and child, and later to pick up a ball for a group of older boys. One of them said, “Throw it back here, Mister,” and held out his hands. The man threw the ball clumsily and it bounced twice before the boy scooped it up. The boy said, “Thanks,” and turned and threw it easily far across the grass to another boy. The man watched for a minute and then walked on. Finally he stopped in front of a bench with an empty place at one end. Next to it sat a woman with a baby carriage. “May I sit here?” he asked. She looked up and said, “It's not taken,” and the man sat down. He sighed and sat still for a minute before reaching into his pocket for a cigarette.

The woman looked at him irritably and then turned away. A baby was lying in the carriage on its stomach, asleep, wearing only a diaper. The baby's back was brown, except for a sharp white edge where the diaper began. The woman was tirelessly rocking the carriage back and forth.

“Will the smoke bother the baby?” the man asked.

“I just got her to sleep,” the woman said. “Just about anything wakes her.”

The man leaned over and dropped the cigarette onto the ground and put his foot on it. “She looks like a fine, healthy baby,” he said.

The woman smiled. “She's only six months old,” she said, “and never even had a cold.”

“A fine baby,” the man said. “You see so many around here looking pale and white.”

“They're not healthy,” the woman said. “Some of the children in this park are really unhealthy.”

“It's hard for children in the city.”

“Their mothers should keep them out of the Park if they have things other children can catch,” the woman said.

While he was talking, the man had been fingering his billfold, riffling through the papers in it absent-mindedly. Now he pulled one out—a magazine clipping. “Want to see my little girl?” he asked.

The woman reached out with the hand that was not rocking the carriage. “Of course,” she said. “I could tell from the way you talked that you had one of your own.”

The clipping was of a little blond girl of about six, with a pretty, adult face and a lot of makeup. “She's lovely,” the woman said. “She has such a sweet face.”

“She's a nice kid,” the man said. He hesitated. “Know who she is?” he asked finally.

The woman shook her head.

“Her name's Angela Foster, now.”

“Of course,” the woman said. “In the movies!”

“That's right.” The man took the clipping and looked at it fondly. “It used to be Martin—that's my name. Her mother changed it. Angela Martin's not good for the movies,” he said.

“What a lucky little girl!” the woman said, reaching over to adjust the hood of the carriage. “In the movies!”

“She'll be a second Shirley Temple someday,” the man said, “She's got talent—everything.”

“You must be very proud of her.”

“I'll tell you,” the man began carefully, “I'm proud of her, of course. And it isn't the money I mind, either. She's making plenty right now and I don't grudge it to her. But it's like this. Before her mother took her out to Hollywood, I was always kicking about the dancing lessons and the singing lessons and the costumes and the late nights when her dancing class gave a recital. And now I know I just didn't have sense enough to see the baby had talent.”

“It's hard to tell,” the woman said. “All children have a natural sense of rhythm. Even at six months—”

“It isn't the money I mind,” the man said again. “I don't think a six-year-old girl should have to support her father.”

“Well, there's a lot of luck connected with it,” the woman said.

“I saw this article about her in a movie magazine,” the man went on. “It said she was five years old, but she must be six now. And she's already getting fan mail.”

“Really?” the woman said.

“I thought of writing to her and asking for a picture,” the man said. “Her own father.”

“I'm sure you'll be very proud of her,” the woman said. He reached into his pocket again for his cigarettes, and she frowned and shook her head. The man rose.

“I'll just finish my walk while I smoke this,” he said. He smiled at the woman and leaned over the carriage for a minute. “Such a pretty baby,” he said. He bowed slightly to the woman and went rapidly down the path.

When the man got around the next turn, he began to walk more slowly. A little boy just learning to walk staggered out from a bench and grabbed him by the leg. The man said, “Where you going, Champ?” turned the little boy around, and started him back to his mother. The man stopped for a minute to watch a checker game and then went on again, only to stop a minute later and help a little girl of about two push her stroller around a difficult turn. The man called her “honey.” Her mother, who was standing nearby, thanked him and he said, “Lovely little girl.” The mother smiled and went on, pulling the little girl and talking to her as she went.

The broad circle the man had been making had by now taken him back in the direction he had come from. As he passed the group of boys playing ball, he saw the ball strike a tree and bounce in his direction. He scooped it up awkwardly and, holding it in his hand, walked over to the boys. They were waiting impatiently for the ball, and as he stepped across a low railing and handed the ball to the nearest, he smiled apologetically and said, “Don't have the muscle I used to.”

“Thanks,” the boy said. He threw the ball and the boys began to scatter. One of them caught the ball and threw it to another. The man said, “Bud,” and the nearest boy turned around. The man, taking out his billfold, said, “Know who this is?” He pulled forth a newspaper clipping and held it out to the boy.

The boy glanced over his shoulder at his friends and then went over to the man. “Sure,” he said, looking at the clipping, but without making any attempt to hold it. “Nicky Lopez. The middleweight challenger.”

A couple of the boys nearby had also turned when the man called and now they came slowly over. “Nicky Lopez,” one of them said. “Let's see Nicky Lopez.” The man handed him the clipping and he looked at it and said professionally, “There's a guy that can fight.”

“He's pretty good,” another of the boys said, taking the clipping in turn.

“I used to manage Nicky,” the man said, watching the boys' heads turn slowly toward him. “Yeah,” he said reminiscently, “I used to manage Nicky, until the syndicate got him away from me.” He looked around at the boys and then went on, “It isn't the money I mind, you understand, but I sure hated to lose that boy.”