The Jack Finney Reader

by Jack Finney

  Mr. Mellett smiled. We'd all like to be rich, he announced.

  My plans? said Timberlake. Well, I want to buy two acres of land, possibly three, might as well have them in New York — say, on Fifth Avenue. In the Forties or Fifties.

  'Fraid that'd take at least two million, Mr. Mellett said wisely.

  Three, said Timberlake. And another two and a half for tearing down the buildings.

  Tim, I'm sure the Melletts aren't interested in your nonsense.

  Five gets you ten they are, sister.

  He's been reading detective stories since breakfast, Eve said. He's been a private eye all day.

  Then. said Tim, I'll fill in the excavation with good Illinois topsoil. Ship it in: fifteen, twenty thousand dollars' worth. And I've got my eye on an eight-room frame house in Galesburg, Illinois. Built in the eighties; lot of fancy scrollwork on the eaves and front porch. Dismantle that and ship it in, too. Cost another fifty-sixty thousand dollars.

  We'll set that up in the middle of the plot. Surround it with big old elm trees — not scrawny little ones like the Rockefellers have at their Fifth Avenue place — the big, old-fashioned kind. Lilac bushes, too, around the front porch. And a lawn and a croquet set. And a hammock with a tassel fringe and stitched-in pillow. Put up a picket fence and move in. Cost close to seven million, as I figure it.

  That's what happens soon as you get a few millions, said Eve. You get eccentric.

  Tim looked appealingly at the Melletts. Not at all, he said patiently. Millions of people all over the country live exactly that way. Nothing eccentric about it, is there? And millions live in New York. So what's eccentric about combining the two?

  Nothing, said Mr. Mellett, I suppose.

  Matter of fact, I'd be the very symbol of grass-roots normalcy. I'd wear police suspenders and congress slippers. Neatly, of course. And in the evenings, I'd mow the grass and then sit out on the curbstone smoking my pipe. I'd be the living representative of what New York subconsciously yearns for.

  I think you're right, said Mr. Mellett. They do. I've noticed it.

  Of course. I'd be an embassy, a sort of unofficial ambassador to New York from the rest of the country. Promote understanding. And in the evening, sitting there puffing my corncob, I'd chat with passers-by.

  Mrs Mellett laughed happily as she said, You'd collect quite a crowd on Fifth avenue.

  Only at first. Presently they'd accept and grow to love me. And in the evening I'd invite people up on the porch for a glass of lemonade. Mother, here, would play the piano and we'd all sing Old Hundred, Tenting Tonight, and Down the Long, Long Trail.

  He paused and Mrs. Mellett said wistfully, Yes, those were better days, I guess. Things were quieter. More peaceful:

  Well, don't you see? said Tim. That's the essence of the subtle plan back of this whole thing. Science tells us that olfactory memories survive undimmed for a lifetime. He paused, triumphantly, evading Eve's look.

  The trees, he continued. In the fall I'd rake up the leaves and, standing in the twilight, leaning on my rake and puffing my pipe, I'd burn them at the curb. And through the reek of gasoline and the din of the city would come the unforgettable fragrance of burning leaves. Those fragile wisps of smoke would curl under the veneer of years of city living and touch a responsive chord in the most urban among us. Men in fancy silk shirts and pearl-gray cutaways would remember their farm-boy origins. Silk-hatted financiers with dollar signs on their vests would relax their grip on their money bags. Bobby-soxers on the way to the Paramount would dream for a moment of hay rides. The lines in the faces of young fashion designers and advertising executives would relax, momentarily, as long-ago memories of quilting bees and barn-raisings stirred. U.N. delegates hurrying to their skyscrapers would remember the smell of burning leaves in Iowa and the Ukraine, in the provinces of China and France, and along the back roads of England. For a moment, the steel and concrete would be blotted out and they'd remember the peaceful people everywhere for whom they should be working. Tim paused for a moment and sipped his drink. Maybe it is a great idea at that, he said.

  The Melletts thought so — and began talking of a man they'd read of who inherited a fortune, bought a large estate, and lived on it alone with some two hundred dogs. Timberlake suggested it would be fun to name them all Duke, then stand on the porch and call them all, simultaneously. And presently the Melletts went home.

  Don't look at me like that, said Tim, dropping on the davenport. They had a fine time and you know it.

  I'm still mad at you, and you haven't improved things. I'm thinking of giving you away.

  A mistake, he said. Who else could you find who'd put up with the Melletts?

  At least he's far better behaved than you are.

  I see, said Tim. I see it all, now. Despite your pretended friendship for your girlhood chum, you have secretly fallen for her husband.

  Eve very nearly grinned and he dived for the breach. Well, Eve, he said, sadly, I won't stand in your way. Through my work as a private eye, I happen to know that he's free. They are not married; they're living in sin! Eve held her face rigid. What's more — I had never meant to tell you this, but — through my work as a shamus, I've learned that the preacher who married us was an impostor: one 'Legs' Schwartz, three-time loser.

  Tim!!! she said, and now she smiled. Poor old Dr. Edwards!

  Oh, he was clever. Fooled people for years. So we're not married, either, you see. You're free to discard me. Like a worn-out bauble.

  What is a bauble?

  An English bubble.

  She sneered at him, silently.

  Or, he said, you can start courting me all over again. Go ahead; beg me again to marry you.

  I like that — you didn't give me a moment's peace, Mr. Timberlake Ryan, Eve reminded him teasingly.

  Oh, I was young. Foolish. Easily deceived by false promises of wealth and ease. He sighed. When I think of the chances I've had —

  Tim, she spoke quietly, seriously. Tim, have you ever — really regretted …?

  He rose on one elbow and looked at her across the room. Honey, honey, he said softly, what a gift you have for foolish questions.

  Well — I just like to have you tell me.

  He started to get up.

  Stay right where you are! she said. I ought to be ashamed of myself, falling for such an obvious trap.

  He lay back on the davenport and picked up his book, while Eve left the room, returned with needle and thread and her black felt hat, and began stitching a feather to its side. You know, said Tim, watching her from the corner of his eye, Alice isn't so bad. Eve continued her sewing. I could go for — but she wasn't having any, and he sighed and resumed his reading.

  But now, without lifting her head, Eve glanced secretly at Tim. She wasn't in the least annoyed with him, never had been, really, and she wondered why she should have pretended she was. And she suspected, suddenly, that Tim knew; that Tim had always understood, completely, ever since they had been married, the whole purpose and meaning of I'm mad at you. Her fingers became motionless in her lap, her eyes widened, and she stared at the needle and thread in her hands. I enjoy it, that's why, she thought, and felt suddenly guilty, felt her cheeks flush. I enjoy his making up to me, trying to make me smile. I enjoy having all his attention, all of it. And knowing that in everything he does, even now as he lies there pretending to read, all of his thoughts are focused on me. It's like — the word popped into her mind — it's like a courtship, a miniature courtship! I'm making him court me and win me all over again! And now, though it seemed to her she should still be ashamed, she no longer was. And she knew that sometime — not too soon — she would do it again. I don't care, she thought, there's nothing I'm more sure of than the way I love Tim and the way he loves me, but it isn't enough. I need to be courted, too. Once in a while. I really do, I actually need it — and Timberlake's always understood that, and never failed to give it to me.

  And for a moment, her love plain in her eyes, she glanced at Tim
. Then, lifting the hat from her lap, she placidly resumed her stitching and waited quietly, secure in her confidence that presently the courtship would be resumed. That Tim would, somehow, overcome the imaginary barrier she had placed between them. And she wondered, with serene curiosity, exactly how he would do it this time.

  And presently it came. From the davenport where he lay, Timberlake scaled his book into the air and it fell to the rug with a thump. The fools, he said, the blind fools. Eve twisted her head to read the title: Murderers All.

  Why? she said.

  Because they got caught — the blind fools! He laughed in imitation of the Shadow. But they'll never catch me!

  She snipped off a thread with her teeth, and rose, holding the tiny hat aloft on her finger tips and inspecting it critically, turning it from side to side. She preened the feather and then, putting the hat down, picked the book from the floor and placed it on the table, straightening the pile of magazines underneath it.

  Timberlake grinned at her. Old Neatness, he said.

  She sniffed. Somebody has to be neat in this house.

  Why? he asked, reasonably. Books on the floor make the place seem lived in. A sign of culture.

  Yes, said Eve, Murderers All.

  A rare and discerning work, he said. But fools. Children. They'd never catch me, though, and he laughed the Shadow laugh, this time slightly improved.

  Eve came to the davenport and, bending her knees slightly, leaned against its front edge looking down at him. You, she said, you'd be looking through bars before the body was cold.

  Oh, no, I wouldn't, he reached out and caught her in back of the knees so that she fell forward, a hand on his chest. See? he said, happily. Judo. Just a shade more pressure and your neck would have snapped. An accident. Grief-stricken husband. It was all due to her neatness, he said at the inquest, sobbing and leaving on the arm of a court attendant. Eve sat down on the edge of the davenport. In the middle of the night she must have remembered an ash tray she'd forgotten to empty. I heard a crash, rushed to the living room, and there she was — lying in a pool of ashes and old cigarette stubs. He looked at her through narrowed lids and spoke from the corner of his mouth. Collect the insurance, and off to greener pastures.

  I haven't any insurance, and anyway, you'd be caught. Move over, she said, and he moved to the inner edge of the davenport and Eve stretched out beside him.

  Timberlake put his arm round her head, pillowing her neck on his biceps. We'll get some insurance. Tomorrow. Think you can pass the medical?

  Easy. But you forget one thing. They always do.

  What?

  I'd leave a note, a sealed note, with my sister to be opened in case of ‘accident.’

  She can't read.

  Is that so! Eve exclaimed. They'd read this note —

  I'd deny everything.

  They'd make you talk.

  We never talk. Anyway, it'd look perfectly natural —

  With a broken neck?

  Oh, no! That isn't what I'd do. I'd hang all the pictures crooked every day. And insist they were straight. Slowly your mind would weaken. I'd mess up the magazines on the table, put books in the bookcase upside down, leave empty match books lying around —

  She turned, nestled closer, and kissed him on the neck. The police have seen Angel Street, too, honey.

  How'd they like it?

  Fine, she said, and Tim turned, put his arms around her and kissed her gently. You're done for, honey, he said, softly. I'm sorry; it's been fun. But it had to happen. One ash tray too many — and something snapped.

  She lay in his arms contentedly, enjoying the deep pleasure of it, quiet and utterly happy. She knew she'd made him work too hard this time, and that next time they quarreled, it would be her obligation to make it up.

  I owe him a courtship, she thought, and smiled. But that was in the future, and now she lay silent, eyes closed, enjoying this one.

  She stirred, presently, and tried to sit up. Time to get supper, she said.

  Timberlake held her back. Wait, he said, what's the hurry?

  Have to get supper. You're hungry, aren't you?

  He grinned at her. Sure.

  She pushed on his chest and sat up. You're an evil old man. Look — there's soup and sandwiches. Or there's some hash, if you'd rather. And some cole slaw.

  Timberlake stretched luxuriously. Anything, he said. You decide. For this meal you can have anything you want. That's the custom, you know. For me, just a little dry bread and cheese.

  That's what you'll get — served in a trap. But she didn't move. She sat for a moment looking at Timberlake, and then she spoke: You love me?

  He grinned at her. You know very well.

  But I like you to say it.

  Okay, he drew her close and kissed her. I do love you, he said softly, and then he grinned. I'll prove it, in fact. After all these years, I'm willing to make it legal.

  Tim, stop that.

  Stop what? he said. This?

  No, she said, and pressed closer to him. No. Not that.

  Collier's, December 6, 1947, 120(23):16-17, 54-56

  Cousin Len's Wonderful Adjective Cellar

  Cousin Len found his wonderful adjective cellar in a pawnshop. He haunts dusty Second Avenue pawnshops because they're such a relief, he says, from Nature. Cousin Len doesn't like Nature very much. He spends most of his days outdoors gathering material for The Lure and Lore of the Woods, which he writes, and he would rather, he says, be a plumber.

  So he tours the pawnshops in his spare time, bringing home stereoscopic sets (World's Fair views, Chicago, 1893), watches that strike the hours, and china horses which hold toothpicks in their mouths. We admire these things very much, my wife and I. We've been living with Cousin Len since I got out of the Army, waiting to find a place of our own.

  So we admired the adjective cellar, too. It had the grace of line of a fire hydrant, but was slightly smaller and made of pewter. We thought it was a salt cellar, and so did Cousin Len. He discovered it was really an adjective cellar when he was working on his column one day after he bought it.

  The jewel-bedecked branches of the faery forest are funereally silent, he had written. The icy, steel-like grip of winter has stilled their summ'ry, verdant murmur. And the silv'ry, flutelike notes of its myriad, rainbow-dipped birds are gone.

  At this point, naturally, he rested. And began to examine his salt cellar. He studied the bottom for the maker's mark, turning it in his hands, the cap an inch from his paper. And presently he saw that his manuscript had changed.

  The branches of the forest are silent, he read. The grip of winter has stilled their murmur. And the notes of its birds are gone.

  Now, Cousin Len is no fool, and he knows an improvement when he sees it. He went back to work, writing as he always did, but he made his column twice as long. And then he applied the adjective cellar, moving it back and forth like a magnet, scanning each line. And the adjectives and adverbs just whisked off the page, with a faint hiss, like particles of lint into a vacuum cleaner. His column was exactly to length when he finished, and the most crisp, sharp writing you've ever seen. For the first time, Cousin Len saw, his column seemed to say something. Louisa, my wife, said it almost made you want to get out into the woods, but Cousin Len didn't think it was that good.

  From then on, Cousin Len used his adjective cellar on every column, and he found through experiment that at an inch above the paper, it sucks up all adjectives, even the heaviest. At an inch and a half, just medium-weight adjectives; and at two inches, only those of three or four letters. By careful control, Cousin Len has been able to produce Nature columns whose readership has grown every day. Best reading in the paper, next to the death notices, one old lady wrote him. What she means, Len explained to me, is that his column, which is printed next to the death notices, is the very best reading in the entire paper.

  Cousin Len always waits till we're home before he empties the adjective cellar: we like to be on hand. It fills up once a week,
and Cousin Len unscrews the top and, pounding the bottom like a catchup bottle, empties it out the window over Second Avenue. And there, caught in the breeze, the adjectives and adverbs float out over the street and sidewalk like a cloud of almost invisible confetti. They look somewhat like miniature alphabet-soup letters, strung together and made of the thinnest cellophane. You can't see them at all unless the light is just right, and most of them are colorless. Some of them are delicate pastels, though. “Very”, for example, is a pale pink; “lush” is green, of course; and “indubitable” is a dirty gray. And there's one word, a favorite with Cousin Len when he's hating Nature the most, which resembles a snip of the bright red cellophane band from around the top of a cigarette package. This word can't be revealed in a book intended for family reading.

  Most of the time the adjectives and adverbs simply drop into the gutters and street, and disappear like snowflakes when they touch the pavement. But occasionally, when we're lucky, they drop straight into a conversation.

  Mrs. Gorman passed under our window one day with Mrs. Miller, coming from the delicatessen. And a little flurry of adjectives and adverbs blew right into the middle of what she was saying. Prices, these halcyon days, she remarked, are evanescent, transcendental, and simply terrible. Mark my maniacal words, things are going straight and pre-eminently to the coruscated, indomitable, allegorical dogs.

  Mrs. Gorman was pretty surprised, of course, but she carried it off beautifully, smiling grandly and patronizingly at Mrs. Miller. She has always contended that her ancestors were kings; now she claims they were also poets.

  I suggested to Cousin Len, one time, that he save his adjectives, pack them into neatly labeled jars or cans, and sell them to the advertising agencies. Len pointed out, however, that we could never in a lifetime supply them in the quantities needed. We did, though, save up several shoe boxes full which we took along on a sight-seeing trip to Washington. And there, in the visitors' gallery over the Senate, we cautiously emptied them into a huge electric fan which blew over the floor. They spread out in a great cloud and drifted down right through a tremendous debate. Something must have gone wrong this time, though, for things didn't sound one bit different.