by Jack Finney
Hello, Alec, Ann said. My congratulations.
Ann, he said, it's wonderful to see you, and he stood for a moment, smiling and studying her frankly. Well, he said, and shook his head in admiration, you haven't changed a bit.
And neither have you, Alec, Ann said, and she smiled at him.
Then Alec and Charley greeted each other, and they stood, the four of them, talking pleasantly about the wedding and the past and the long chain of events that had brought them all to this moment. And presently the two couples took their leave of each other making genuinely sincere promises, which would never be kept, to see each other again, and Charley and Ann left, then, crossing the lawn, walking to the side entrance of the church.
Sorry you were jealous, now? said Ann.
Yes, said Charley. You?
Yes, Ann said, and she turned to look back at Alec and Grace and saw them standing there in the sun. Charley turned with her, they waved at the bride and groom, then turned back to each other and Charley shook his head, smiling a little sadly, and Ann did, too.
They've known each other a long time, I guess, said Charley, and the changes were gradual, of course; they probably don't see them at all.
I'm sure they don't, said Ann, and they walked on toward the church.
The bride and groom stood for a moment, watching them cross the lawn, then Alec turned to Grace. That's the woman you were just a little jealous about, he said, and he smiled at her. Now, aren't you ashamed of yourself?
Yes, she said, and smiled back.
Funny, said Alec, what time does to some people. She was a very good-looking girl once — nearly as pretty as you.
Yes, said Grace, I suppose so, but she was watching Charley and she waved, now, as he turned to look back. Charley was a fine-looking man once, too — when he was younger.
They've changed all right, said Alec, and then he turned to Grace and in the way two people occasionally do, they spoke together, a full sentence, simultaneously and word for word.
But you haven't changed, a bit, they said.
Collier's, April 16, 1949, 123(16):13, 82-85
The Little Courtesies
Lying stretched out on the davenport, his head on one armrest, his slippered feet on the other, Mr. Timberlake Ryan put down his book and turned to look at his wife. She was seated in a big red-leather chair across the living room, sewing a button to a white shirt of his, and for a moment he watched her, smiling a little, then he spoke. That light's bad for your eyes, he said solicitously. Why don't you move over here?
Eve glanced at the silk-shaded lamp on the table beside her, then lowered her head to her sewing again. It's good enough, she said. Anyway, I'm nearly through.
Again Tim watched her for a moment, repressing some inner amusement, his flat cheeks sucked in to prevent a smile. Well, shouldn't you get a thimble or something? His voice was concerned. You might stick yourself.
Eve looked up quickly, suspiciously, studying his thin strong-featured face, but his dark brows were raised, his blue eyes wide, in apparent honest concern for her comfort. No, she said, I don't need a thimble, and resumed her sewing. But it's nice, She added skeptically, to know you're worried about my safety and well-being.
It's my only thought, said Tim. I'm always thinking — He interrupted himself, raising up on one elbow, leaning forward, his eyes narrowed, and Eve lifted her head to see him staring intently at the side of her dress. What's that? he said. A spot or something?
She looked down at her dress, a tiny vertical wrinkle appearing in her full white forehead, her yellow hair shining in the lamplight as she moved. Where? she said, pulling at her dress. I don't see anyth —
Back. Farther back by the — Stand up.
Eve stood up, twisting her head, tugging at the waist of her beige skirt.
Oh! His voice was relieved. It's nothing, I guess; it must have been the light or something. Look, honey — he grinned — while you're up, whip out to the refrigerator and get me a —
Eve promptly sat down. Oh, no! she said. I might have known you were only —
Now, wait a second! You know the rules; you were up!
She sniffed scornfully. Rules, she said. They don't apply to a moronic trick like that. She smiled, lowering her head to her sewing again. I'll bet you've been lying there for twenty minutes just waiting for me to get up.
Twenty-five.
For a time the room was quiet again, Eve intent on her sewing, while Timberlake Ryan read his book. Presently he put down his book and turned to his wife again. What am I? he said. He began blinking his eyes alternately, first the left eye, holding it closed for an instant, then popping it open as the right eye shut.
She did not look up. Tim, if you're so particular about what shirt you wear tomorrow and you want this one ready, you'll just have to stop interrupting.
I hear what you say, said Tim calmly, and I interpret your words to mean, Tim, I will gladly get up and get you anything you want from the refrigerator.
What? She looked at him, puzzled.
Semantics. I've been reading about it. Words are only arbitrary symbols; they have no meaning of their own. They mean only what you want them to mean, what you think they mean. Now, you may think your words meant one thing, but my interpretation is fully as justified, and I accept your invitation.
Tim, sometimes I don't know what you're talking about.
Exactly what I was saying.
Eve sighed and did not answer, and after a moment Tim again began to blink his eyes in a slow steady rhythm, right eye, left eye, right eye, left. What am I? he said again. This'll only take a second. Just one quick look and you'll have it.
Eve did not raise her head. I give up, she said.
A railroad sign, said Tim disgustedly. A crossing light; should be obvious to a child of three.
A crossing light? she murmured.
Of course, honey, Tim said. You know the kind: the two red warning lights that go on and off alternately.
Like a neon sign? said Eve.
No. Here's a neon sign. He began to open and close both eyes together, holding them shut for an instant, then popping them open, staring at Eve. Goes on and off, you see.
She glanced up momentarily. Okay, she said, and holding the button to the cuff with her thumb, began pushing the needle through the cloth.
A neon sign, Tim repeated. Now, what am I advertising? Look.
Once more she glanced up. Tim, both eyes opening wide, then snapping shut simultaneously, was smacking his lips, opening and closing his mouth audibly, as though tasting something delicious.
Candy?
No, he said, beer. Cool, delicious, foaming beer. And what marvelous advertising this is; it's certainly convinced me, anyway. Honey — he looked at her in wide-eyed appeal — how about whisking out to the refrigerator and getting me some of this wonderful beer? You can have some, too, he said hastily. Look! He began smacking his lips and blinking his eyes again. It's delicious, yum, yum, yum!
Eve tightened the thread around one hand and with a little tug snapped it off cleanly at the button. Then she pulled at the button, testing its firmness, and held up the shirt, shaking out the wrinkles, examining it. I don't want any beer, she said, and smiled. But while you're up, you might bring me a root beer.
The neon sign went off. While I'm up? Now, look, in all fairness — I've been lying here twenty minutes waiting for you to get up. And finally, when I began to think you'd sewed yourself to that chair, I devised this amusing little plan. Make a game of it, the psychologists say. Make it fun for your wife to get up and get you some beer. Now, are you normal? Do you react naturally to the stimuli devised by leading psychologists, or is there some dark twisted secret about your reflex —
Eve grinned at him. Put some ice in it, too.
He raised up on one elbow, glaring at Eve. Listen, sister, he said ominously, this town isn't big enough for you and me.
Tim, what in the world do you do to your shirts? Eve frowned, holding the shirt up, fingeri
ng the cloth. Now, here's another button off the front.
Tim stood up. I snap them off, he said, walking toward the kitchen, breaking out ice for my wife's homemade root beer.
Very soon he returned, carrying an empty glass and an opened can of beer in one hand, and a glass of iced root beer in the other. He started to set Eve's glass on the table beside her.
Don't put it on the table like that, she said. Use a coaster.
There was a coolness in her tone, a slight edge in her voice, and Tim looked at her for a moment, then turned to take a coaster from a stack on the radio. What's the matter? he said quietly, and he put her glass, in a coaster, on the table at her elbow.
Nothing.
Tim sat down on the edge of the davenport and, holding his glass at an angle, poured the beer down its side, half-filling the glass. He set the can on the floor, tasted the beer, then looked over at Eve and said, Okay; what's the trouble?
For a moment she didn't answer, then she shrugged a shoulder and without looking up said, All that fuss about getting me a root beer.
Oh, Lord! said Tim, and sat back on the davenport.
And I really think you'd have let me get up and get you your beer.
Tim looked at her curiously for a moment. Sure I would, he said then. I'd have been glad to. He took a sip from his beer, then he spoke again, gently. Now, look, honey, that was a game, a gag, as you know very well. And it was me who lost. I got you your drink instead of vice versa.
Well, there shouldn't have been any question of vice versa. She began to hunt through the button box on the table beside her, poking at the mass of buttons with a forefinger. I've been noticing lately. You pay no attention at all to the little courtesies. The other night, going over to the Steins', you walked all the way on the inside of the walk. And you never once took my elbow crossing a street.
What is this? said Tim. What brought this on all of a sudden? He paused but Eve didn't answer. Honey, that outside-of-the-walk business is a relic of the Middle Ages. It really is. They threw garbage out the windows, and the man walked on the outside so that he'd get the —
I don't care what it is, and that's not the point. Those things are a mark of respect, Tim — the natural courtesy of a man toward a woman, like taking his hat off when they meet on the street, another thing you forget half the time.
Well, maybe I do, but it's because I think of you as an equal, not a clinging vine. You're a competent, intelligent, capable person, not a delicate flower, and you're not up on a pedestal in my mind and I wouldn't want you to be. And neither would you. Those so-called 'little courtesies' are actually the old condescension of the superior male to sheltered inferior womankind. I should think you'd see that.
Yes, I know, said Eve. I know you've never tried to play the heavy husband, the boss. I know your ideas on that subject and I've always appreciated it. We're equal partners and all that. But just the same — She hesitated, then went on. Well, a woman wants other people to know that her husband appreciates her. She wants him to show it so that they can see it, too.
How would it be if I wore a little badge saying, Tim loves Eve? He grinned. At night it would light up.
Eve smiled. Now, don't try to laugh it off; I mean it.
For a time she was silent, plucking the old threads from the place where the missing button had been.
Tim drank his beer, glancing idly through the remaining pages of his book, and occasionally Eve paused to sip her drink. Then she spoke again, her voice normal, conversational. That reminds me, she said, I saw Fredric March today.
Really? said Tim. Where?
Well, I was crossing Madison Avenue going toward Fifth on my way to Lord & Taylor's, when this cab pulled up at Abercrombie's, and this man got out. Well, I thought he looked familiar, and sure enough, it was Fredric March.
Well, well, said Tim, and for a moment he was silent, sipping his beer, and Eve began to sew on the new button. Then Tim spoke again. I don't get it, he said.
Get what?
The connection. One minute you are bawling me out for my boorish lack of elementary decency, and then you are reminded of Fredric March.
Well, his wife was with him. I recognized her, too. And you should have seen how he treated her; it was just beautiful to watch. The way he helped her out of the cab, so gently and gracefully. It was — well, you've seen him in the movies — it was actually courtly, it really was. Then he handed the cab-driver a bill, and went on ahead and opened the door and held it for her. They went into Abercrombie's. Why, he made her feel like a queen. And it was the same way inside the store.
I thought you were going to Lord & Taylor's. Tim poured the rest of the beer into his glass.
Well, naturally I went in, too. You've been wanting some more of those socks Abercrombie's have, and I thought —
I understand, said Tim.
Well, I didn't stare at them, if that's what you're smiling at. She looked up at him, then bent her head over her sewing again. I acted very unconcerned; they must constantly be embarrassed by people staring at them, so I paid no attention at all. And really, Tim, he was so wonderfully courteous. In the elevator —
Tim grinned. I can see you were ignoring them like a Pinkerton detective.
I simply got on the elevator when they did, Eve said. What should I have done — walked upstairs? The socks are on another floor — and they were waiting for the elevator, too, so when it arrived we all got on, naturally.
You didn't step on their heels, I trust. That would be almost as discourteous as to breathe down their collars.
No, I did not, and Fredric March did not keep his hat on in the elevator, either. He took it off — really, he's so handsome — and then when the elevator stopped, he stepped to one side and sort of bowed his wife and me out before him. And he smiled at me, too, a little. Such a nice man.
I have always liked Fredric March, said Tim judiciously. He held his half-filled glass up to the light, looking through it as he talked. But the tide is beginning to turn. As long as he stuck to the movies he was okay with me. But if Fredric March thinks he's going to start interfering in my private life, imposing his foppish Hollywood mannerisms on me —
It might do you some good.
Maybe so, Tim's voice admitted to some justice in her complaint, and he smiled at her. He finished his beer and Eve took a sip of her root beer, then continued her sewing. You know, Tim said then, it's a funny thing — you can walk around New York for months at a time and never see anyone you recognize — anyone famous, I mean. And then all in one day the celebrities seem to be out in droves. You see Fredric March, and I saw Katharine Hepburn.
Eve looked up at him eagerly, excitedly. You did? Oh, I wish I'd seen her. Where?
Going into Saks.
Well, for Heaven's sake. Eve resumed her sewing. What'd she look like?
Tim rolled over, lying on his side, his head propped on one hand. What do you mean, what did she look like? You've been to the movies.
Well, I mean, she said patiently. You know what I mean.
Well — he hesitated, thinking, then shrugged. She looked just like she's supposed to look. That same wonderful face. And that same wonderful voice, too. When I talked to her, she —
You talked to her? Eve looked up, her needle motionless, poised in midair. You actually spoke to her?
Sure. He grinned complacently.
Well, how? she said impatiently. I mean how did it happen?
Well, she was standing at a counter —
Oh! Eve smiled triumphantly. So you went into Saks, too.
I certainly did. Tim grinned. And strangely, there was nothing at all I'd been meaning to buy at Saks. I went in to look at Katharine Hepburn, and for no other reason. I followed her, to put it crudely.
I don't doubt it. And what happened then, at the counter?
Well, she took off her gloves.
What was she wearing, by the way?
A coat. A kind of light coat, I guess. Didn't notice her dress. And some kind
of little hat.
I can just see her, said Eve, you make it so vivid. Okay, and then what?
Well, she dropped her gloves; brushed them off the counter with her elbow. So there was my opportunity. I walked over and — talk about politeness! — I tipped my hat, very gently and gracefully, and I said, 'Pardon me, Miss Hepburn, but you dropped your gloves,' and I pointed at the floor and she stooped down and picked them up —
Eve sighed, shaking her head. I might have known. Katharine Hepburn, she said scornfully. You didn't see anybody. Though you probably would have let her pick up her gloves herself.
So then, Tim continued calmly, she straightened up and said, Thank goodness!
Thank goodness, what, ma'am? I said. Polite, you see. Courtly.
Thank goodness, said Miss Hepburn, there are still a few men left who don't drive a woman crazy with these irritating little courtesies. Always opening doors in your face! Grabbing your elbow! Singeing your eyebrows lighting cigarettes! Now, you take that Fredric March —
I thought she'd get around to him, said Eve. Go on.
You take that Fredric March, she said. He's very nice and all that, but he's perpetually yanking his hat off, always throwing his coat down in puddles. Really!
Well, Tim went on, I sympathized with her and we talked a little while longer — she suggested I ought to be in the movies — and we walked out of the store together. I pushed her out the doorway and the look of gratitude on her face was something to see. On the way back to the office, I ran into Sinclair Lewis and I was telling him —
Okay, said Eve, that's enough of Celebrity Night. Here — she smiled and tossed him the shirt here's your shirt, though I think a lumberjack shirt might be more appropriate for you.
She thrust her needle into a red-tomato pincushion, and began to gather up her spools and the rest of her sewing equipment, putting things neatly in their places in the small leather sewing box on the table beside her. She plucked all the loose thread ends from her skirt and dropped them into an ash tray, and found the scissors which had slipped down behind the red-leather cushion. She finished the last of her root beer, sipping it slowly, then snapped her sewing box shut and glanced at her wrist watch. It's eight fifteen, she said. What are we going to do tonight?