After You, My Dear Alphonse
SHIRLEY JACKSON
Children not infrequently put their elders to shame. In
this story, the innocent eye is at work with all its resultant
irony.
Mrs. Wilson was just taking the gingerbread out of the
oven when she heard Johnny outside talking
to
someone.
“Johnny,” she called, “you’re late. Come in and get
your lunch.”
“Just a minute, Mother,” Johnny said. “After you, my
dear Alphonse.”
“After you, my dear Alphonse,” another voice said.
“No, after you, my dear Alphonse,” Johnny said.
Mrs. Wilson opened the door. “Johnny,” she said, “you
come in this minute and get your lunch. You can play
after you’ve eaten.”
Johnny came in after her, slowly. “Mother,” he said, “I
brought Boyd home for lunch with me.
“Boyd?” Mrs. Wilson thought for a moment. “I don’t
believe I’ve met Boyd. Bring him in, dear, since you’ve
invited him. Lunch is ready.”
“Boyd!” Johnny yelled. “Hey, Boyd, come on
“I’m coming. Just got to unload this stuff.”
“Well, hurry, or my mother’ll be sore.”
“Johnny, that’s not very polite to either your friend or
your mother,” Mrs. Wilson said. “Come sit down, Boyd.”
As she turned to show Boyd where to sit, she saw he
was a Negro boy, smaller than Johnny but about the
same age. His arms were loaded with split kindling
wood. “Where’ll I put this stuff, Johnny?” he asked.
Mrs. Wilson turned to Johnny. “Johnny,” she
said, “what is that wood?”
“Dead Japanese,” Johnny said mildly. “We stand them
in the ground and run over them with tanks.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Wilson?” Boyd said. “How do
you do, Boyd? You shouldn’t let Johnny make you carry
all that wood. Sit down now and eat lunch, both of you.
“Why shouldn’t he carry the wood, Mother? It’s his
wood. We got it at his place.”
“Johnny,” Mrs. Wilson said, “go on and eat your lunch.”
“Sure,” Johnny said. He held out the dish of scrambled
eggs to Boyd. “After you, my dear Alphonse.”
“After you, my dear Alphonse,” Boyd said. “After you,
my dear Alphonse,” Johnny said. They began to giggle.
“Are you hungry, Boyd?” Mrs. Wilson asked.
“Yes, Mrs. Wilson.”
“Well, don’t you let Johnny stop you. He always fusses
about eating, so you just see that you get a good lunch.
There’s plenty of food here for you to have all you want.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Wilson.”
“Come on, Alphonse,” Johnny said. He pushed half the
scrambled eggs on to Boyd’s plate. Boyd watched while
Mrs. Wilson put a dish of stewed tomatoes beside his
plate.
“Boyd don’t eat tomatoes, do you, Boyd?” Johnny said.
“Doesn’t eat tomatoes, Johnny. And just because
you
don’t like them, don’t say that about Boyd. Boyd will eat
anything.”
“Bet he won’t,” Johnny said, attacking his scrambled
eggs.
“Boyd wants to grow up and be a big strong man so he
can work hard,” Mrs. Wilson said. “I’ll bet Boyd’s father
eats stewed tomatoes.”
“My father eats anything he wants to,” Boyd said.
“So does mine,” Johnny said. “Sometimes he doesn’t
eat hardly anything. He’s a little guy, though. Wouldn’t
hurt a flea.”
“Mine’s a little guy, too,” Boyd said.
“I’ll bet he’s strong, though,” Mrs. Wilson said. She
hesitated. “Does he . . . work?”
“Sure,” Johnny said. “Boyd’s father works in a factory.”
“There, you see?” Mrs. Wilson said. “And he certainly
has to be strong to do that—all that lifting and carrying at
a factory.”
“Boyd’s father doesn’t have to,” Johnny said. “He’s a
foreman.”
Mrs. Wilson felt defeated. “What does your mother do,
Boyd?”
“My mother?” Boyd was surprised. “She takes care of
us kids.”
“Oh. She doesn’t work, then?”
“Why should she?” Johnny said through a mouthful of
eggs. “You don’t work.”
“You really don’t want any stewed tomatoes, Boyd?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Wilson,” Boyd said.
“No, thank you, Mrs. Wilson, no, thank you, Mrs.
Wilson, no, thank you, Mrs. Wilson,” Johnny said. “Boyd’s
sister’s going to work, though. She’s going to be a
teacher.”
“That’s a very fine attitude for her to have, Boyd.” Mrs.
Wilson restrained an impulse to pat Boyd on the head. “I
imagine you’re all very proud of her?”
“I guess so,” Boyd said.
“What about all your other brothers and sisters? I
guess all of you want to make just as much of yourselves
as you can.
“There’s only me and Jean,” Boyd said. “I don’t know
yet what I want to be when I grow up.
“We’re going to be tank drivers, Boyd and me,” Johnny
said. “Zoom.” Mrs. Wilson caught Boyd’s glass of milk as
Johnny’s napkin ring, suddenly transformed into a tank,