The Jack Finney Reader

by Jack Finney

  No, Annie said, of course not.

  But why? Charley wailed. Why? Will you please tell me WHY?

  Annie looked at him sadly, pityingly, and made the final effort of a person who knows it is doomed to failure. The clues, she said gently, couldn't be wrong. She opened the door. They just couldn't because — Charley, don't you see? It wouldn't be fair! …

  Charley and Annie are married, now. They are very happy and contented — because they are not married to each other. Charley's wife thinks he is wonderful, a bulwark of law and order, but then she always did admire policemen — from her earliest memories of riding pickaback on the broad shoulders of her father Patrolman Colhaus. And Annie's husband — he thinks she is marvelous. He is a writer, a tweed-jacketed, pipe-smoking author of detective stories. And Annie, he says, gives him most of his best ideas.

  Collier's, August 28, 1948, 122(9):20-21, 58-61

  Long-Distance Call

  Lying on the davenport, his stocking feet up on the cushions, Mr. Timberlake Ryan lowered his magazine to his lap. He narrowed his eyes, one black brow raised, then he grinned maliciously.

  He stood up, tall and thin, unplugged the small ivory radio on the table beside him and carried it out to the desk in the hall, setting it down beside the telephone. He plugged it in, and turned the dial till he found some dance music, a hot slow-pulsed trumpet solo. He turned the volume down low, and picked up the phone.

  I want to call Philadelphia, Operator. Person to person: Mrs. Eve Ryan, and gave her a number. While he waited, he turned up the radio and the music poured out, high pure notes in a slow steady beat. Tim rolled his eyes and his shoulders to the rhythm, dancing a few steps with the phone.

  Here's your party, sang the operator presently.

  Hello? his wife's far-off voice said questioningly, and he could see her in his mind, small and blond, her blue eyes disturbed at the long-distance call. Hello — Tim?

  He stooped, bringing the mouthpiece of the phone closer to the moaning radio. H'lo, he said, and his speech, now, was faintly blurred. H'lo, Eve? This Tim. H'are you? He glanced into the wall mirror; his jaw hung slack, his eyes were wide and vacant, in unconscious imitation of the foolish expression of a drunk. He grinned.

  Hello, darling, she said eagerly. I thought you might call tonight. How are you?

  He turned up the volume of the radio still more. Fine, he said, fine. Frilldig happystace.

  What? Tim. I can't hear you; what's that music? Where are you, Tim?

  Here, he said. At this place. 'M here at this place. I called you up.

  Place? said Eve. What place?

  Get you coat and … get your … hat, the brassy notes wailed. Freggis, said Tim. Freggis ellyget. Here at this place. All my money gone.

  What place? Tim, I can hardly make out a word you're saying!

  Wait, he said. Wait'll I close phone booth door here. He turned down the radio a little. Hear me? he said. Hear me now? Closed door phone booth.

  That's better. Tim, what's the m —

  He turned up the volume suddenly and raised his voice angrily, holding the phone away from his mouth. Le' go my arm! he yelled. You'll get your money! Close that door! He turned down the radio and spoke quietly, forlornly, into the phone. Can't seem find my money. Lost. All gone. Won't le'me outta here. Here't this place. Freggis. Freggis happystace.

  What place! she said, annoyed finally. Tim, what's the matter with you! Where are you?

  Home, he said in a perfectly clear distinct tone. He turned down the radio and spoke as though he were surprised at Eve's question. I'm here at home listening to the radio? Why? Where'd you think I'd be?

  There was a silence at the other end of the line for a moment, then Eve spoke quietly. I'll murder you, she said. I will positively kill you the moment I get home.

  And when's that going to be? he said softly. He grinned. It better be soon. You can see the risks you're running; I'll fall in with evil companions. When you coming home? he said.

  What's the matter? He could tell she was smiling. You getting lonesome?

  No, I'm having a wonderful time. He laughed suddenly, a high-pitched giggle. Cut it out! he yelled. He turned away from the phone and spoke in a hoarse rapid whisper. Quit tickling me! Get back in bed; you'll catch cold! He spoke into the phone again. No, I'm not lonesome at all.

  Well, in that case I can stay another week.

  No; better not.

  Why?

  Weeds are growing in the corners, birds are nesting in piles of old newspapers — eagles, I think — and quack grass is springing up on the bedroom floor. A few more days and the place'll get away from me. You better come home. Maybe tomorrow? How's your sister, by the way; and her child recidivists?

  Child what?

  Recidivists.

  What's that mean?

  Incurable criminals.

  Oh, the kids are fine. The whole family's fine; we're having a wonderful visit. Tim — her voice was serious, concerned — what are you doing?

  Nothing. Just lying around. Reading.

  What'd you do last night?

  Same. The Leggetts called me, for some bridge. But I didn't feel like it.

  Well, Tim, I wish you'd do something. I hate the thought of you all alone, not doing anything, or having any fun. Did you have a good dinner?

  Yes, I found some bread; moldy on the outside, but not bad inside. And some dried-up cheese —

  No, really, Tim. Did you eat out?

  Yeah, a fine dinner.

  Well, I really wish you'd get out of the apartment and do something. It's early yet; just nine o'clock. And it's Friday night.

  Do what? Go to some lousy movie? Or do you want me to make a tour of the night clubs?

  Yes, she said firmly, that's exactly what I wish you would do.

  By myself?

  No, she said judiciously, and paused, considering. Why don't you call Nancy Blatchford? She'd love to hear from you, I know. And she'd love to go.

  Nancy, is it? His voice was interested. That's quite a girl you've picked for me. Think you can trust me?

  I think so, she said dryly. Tim, why don't you call her? She's a very good dancer.

  So are you, he said brusquely, and if you'll come home here tomorrow. I can go out with my own wife. Regular old Saturday-night stuff; a real celebration. How about that? He guessed what her answer was going to be and as she replied, he twisted the dial of the radio rapidly till he found what he was looking for.

  I'll be home, said Eve. I'm taking the seven seventeen in the morning.

  Tim turned the volume on full, brought the phone up to the radio; a burst of applause sprang from the speaker. That's the reaction in New York, he said, to your very intelligent decision. His voice lowered. Night, honey, he said softly. I'll be waiting for you. …

  Tim lay on the davenport again, his magazine in his lap. He had tried to resume his reading and given it up. Now more than ever, after his phone call to Eve he was weary of being alone, tired of the silent apartment. He lighted a cigarette and lay back again, facing the windows, looking at the night outside, and aware of a curious resentment, a feeling of irritation at something, he didn't know what.

  He got up, walked to the windows, and stood looking down at the moving lights of the cars streaming past. As he watched, the lights changed and from a waiting car directly below, he heard the clear soft music of a radio; a girl singing, quietly, sadly. The cars started up again and rolled on, the radio music fading, and it seemed to him that in all the city only he was alone, that everyone else was on the move outside his windows on the way to fun and excitement.

  Eve's suggestion came to his mind, suddenly, like a good idea. He would like to get out of this empty apartment; to go dancing, and hear some music at firsthand. It was a good night for it, the right kind of night, and he wondered if Nancy would be surprised if he should call. She was pleasant, good-looking; a young widow, bright and vivacious, and they both liked her. Should I call? he thought, and knew he was going to,
and he turned, walked out to the hall, looked up her number and dialed.

  But before her phone could ring, he broke the connection and stood, holding the telephone, surprised at himself, and aware of a puzzling growing sense of excitement. Suddenly he understood his vague irritation for a few moments before. He was annoyed, he realized, that his wife should trust him so completely. That without a qualm or worry, and far from home, she should blithely send him out into the city and select his companion for him besides; a young, attractive, almost beautiful woman at that.

  A tame duck on a string, that's me, he thought, and now another name entered his mind. It had been there, in fact, for quite some time he realized; Ginnie, Virginia Haley. And now he understood his growing excitement. For Ginnie — he'd met her at an office party some months before, a free-lance commercial artist, intelligent, smartly dressed, and, he remembered, an excellent dancer — Ginnie was a very attractive girl. Well, he thought, a little defiantly, Nancy, Ginnie; what's the difference? But he knew there was a difference, and that the difference was this: Ginnie was a girl Eve had never seen, whose existence, in fact, she wasn't even aware of. Ginnie's name was in the book and she answered the call.

  And when presently Ginnie said yes, she would like to go dancing, Tim's hand, holding a cigarette, was trembling a little. Once again he felt the old almost-forgotten excitement of going out with a new girl. And when later he walked through the cool night air toward the garage for his car, hatless and wearing a tuxedo, he felt elated. …

  The evening began just right. They sat in a quiet and nearly empty bar, in the lull before the theaters closed, and talking leisurely nonsense, took time to become reacquainted. Ginnie, her hair blue-black, eyes shining, her skin very white against her vivid gown, was even more attractive than Tim remembered.

  I drove down from New Haven this afternoon, he said, in an open car, cutting my last class in English Lit. He grinned and took a sip of his drink. I borrowed my roommate's tuxedo, and all I need now is a crew haircut.

  Ginnie smiled, a slow sweet smile. It was hardly worth while, she said. I have to be back in the girls' dorm at twelve.

  Not tonight. Tim shook his head. Call up and say you're staying with a cousin.

  You know what happened to the last girl who did that.

  She has no diploma, it's true, but she's the proud mother of a happy family. You know — Tim smiled — when I was a kid at school, there was a boy, no older than the rest of us though he seemed to be, who dated, quote, an older woman in New York. She was all of twenty-five, an artist, too, as I recall, and a very smart and glamorous creature. We looked up to that boy; he had our respect. Tim smiled and looked at Ginnie admiringly. If they could only see me now.

  Yes, said Ginnie, now you, too, are a debonair man of the world. She studied him for a moment. Your roommate's tuxedo fits you very well. I like them. Men should wear them more often.

  No. Tim looked down at the black coat and fingered one shiny lapel. Too funereal. I always have the feeling when I put one on that I should lie down, fold my hands, and wait for people to tiptoe in, look at me sadly, and murmur, It's what he would have wanted.

  What is?

  I don't know. He shrugged a shoulder, grinning. Yes, I do. I want a plum-colored coat with silver buttons. People had the right idea a hundred and fifty years ago; they knew how to dress. I have always wanted a tricornered hat and a wardrobe of coats, plum-colored, bottle-green, sky-blue. All with big silver buttons.

  And knee breeches?

  No, my legs are too skinny.

  I think they wore padding.

  Mine would slip, I know; probably at a reception for General Washington. I have trouble that way; I'm always losing a garter. No, I'll settle for the coats, with pants to match. Maybe I'll carry a porcelain snuffbox. And if I have to wear a wig, okay.

  Don't do that. Ginnie rattled the ice cubes in her glass, and took a sip of her drink. You have very nice hair.

  I have? Tim grinned. That's wonderful. Keep it up; nothing I like better than good honest flattery.

  Ginnie raised her brows. Even the refugees from English Lit, Mr. Ryan, know that the man usually flatters the girl. It's a very old custom, particularly among the silver-button knee-breeches set.

  I know, Tim said, but it's really too easy in your case. Starting, however, with what I can see, your hair is a spun mist of shimmering ebony.

  Ginnie nodded, judiciously, approvingly. Go on. That's pretty good.

  It is, isn't it? Tim raised his brows appreciatively. Your lips, he continued, are marvelous, of course, and so — he leaned back on the bar stool — are your hips. Your —

  Okay, said Ginnie, maybe we'd better take it easy on the flattery for a while until you get used to it.

  They ordered another drink, and Tim felt good; relaxed and at ease, enjoying himself. He was aware once or twice, as they continued to talk, that Ginnie glanced at him speculatively, and he knew that she liked him and was having fun, and the evening stretched ahead in his mind full of promise and pleasure.

  They sat for an hour or more, and discovered, after a time, that both of them loved to rumba. And presently, when the bar began to fill, they drove leisurely across toward a place Tim knew of where the rumba was played and danced, exclusively and expertly.

  The place was small, dim, low-ceilinged, and the air was bad. Tables lined both walls at which couples, facing outward, sat side by side on red-leather wall seats. Other tables filled the space between, jammed together from the entrance to the very edge of the dance floor. And the floor itself was packed.

  But the music was right; they seemed actually to feel it beating softly against the surface of their bodies as they moved to its rhythm, overridden and ruled by the dry surflike monotony of the whispering maracas … beat-beat-beat-beat, beat-beat, an excited audible pulse.

  All over the floor, heads — eyes lost in rhythm — seemed hardly to move. But just below, shoulders swayed slightly; at a lower level, hips rolled with more abandon, and lower still, knees pumped rapidly; while down at the floor, toes darted and heels shot out, raising and clicking on the polished wood in a precise and disciplined frenzy.

  They sat down, Ginnie shaking her head and exhaling slowly in a parody of weariness, smiling at Tim. Tim smiled back and they turned and watched the dancers in a relaxed communion of silence, time flowing past unnoticed, meaningless. Presently Ginnie turned to Tim again and spoke.

  I'm having fun, she said softly, really fun. I haven't liked anything so much for a very long time.

  So am I, said Tim, and he paused, thinking, rubbing at the moisture on the side of his glass. You know, he said, I have the feeling that there is a little group of us tonight in New York who are having a particularly happy time. The hours go and we hardly notice it, moving from one place to another, our paths crossing and recrossing, and for us, the true initiates, it's going to go on forever. The sun may rise for everyone else, people may go to work again in nonexistent office buildings, but for us it will still be nighttime and fun. You believe that?

  Of course, said Ginnie, and her face was serious, her eyes wide, staring at her own thoughts. It's so obvious that I will never again see another newspaper. Or pay a gas bill. Or drop a coin in a turnstile, or get up in the morning. Those things are part of another shadowy world not possibly strong enough to overcome this one. She turned her eyes to Tim again, smiled, and added, If you know what I mean.

  Precisely, said Tim. He swallowed the last of his drink, looked at her and grinned. The conversation after two in the morning is always beautifully lucid and filled with diamond clear subtleties perfectly expressed and instantly understood. It's always seemed a shame to me that they can't quite be recalled in the confused thinking of daylight.

  The music began again, one of the band members singing in high wistful Spanish, and they listened. Then, after a time, they danced once more. Tim wondered as they moved to the tight rattle of the gourds, whether their dancing and the music were really as fine as the
y seemed. He decided they were, or at least if they weren't, that he didn't care. But when finally the music ended again, he had had, he felt, enough. They had been there a long time and he wanted to move, now, to go on to something else, and when they reached their table again, he knew what it was.

  Know what I'd like? he said to Ginnie. If you feel like it. I'd like to drive in Central Park, right about now. Slowly, and with the top down. That sound like anything to you?

  Yes, said Ginnie, I'd like to. I think it's time to feel real air on my face again. I can't really believe there are trees any more, and I'd like to find out. She rose and Tim stood up with her. Be back in five minutes, she said. Maybe ten.

  Tim sat down at their table to wait, listening to the music, humming the tune under his breath, and feeling, he was aware, not merely good but cocky; pleased and somehow triumphant.

  He felt a sudden impulse to phone Eve. He got up and began moving through the crowded tables toward the phone booths outside. He knew that on Eve's last night, even at this hour, they'd probably all be up, still talking, and that he wouldn't be disturbing them; but he wondered why he should be making this call. He was having a good time and he wanted to communicate something of this, to share it with Eve, he told himself, and he knew this was true. But it wasn't the whole truth, and he knew that, too, and he grinned.

  He grinned again when Eve answered the phone. This Tim. he said. 'M at this place. This place here —

  Now, cut it out, she said. What is it this time?

  Well, he said quietly, his mouth close to the phone, I just didn't want you to worry about me, so I thought I'd better tell you that I'm out at a night club with a beautiful woman.

  Oh, that's good, Tim. she said, and he knew that she thought so. With Nancy?