The Jack Finney Reader

by Jack Finney

  She smiled. She says they grow up just as fast, too. Before you know it, they're a year old. Hers is four, you know. She shook her head sadly. And ours will be, too; she'll be ready for school before we know it. It doesn't take them long. And then — imagine! — she'll be going to high school. Our daughter, Al. She looked at him, suddenly astonished. And having dates! Al, imagine! Then college and more dates, the house full of boys half the time! And then she'll be married, and — AI! Isn't it silly! We'll be grandparents!

  I know, he said sadly, And soon after that, her daughter will be grown. I imagine it will take just about as long as it's taken you to raise ours — about one minute flat. So that we now have this unborn infant of ours a gray-haired, little old lady. Do you think we can get our money back on those bibs?

  Debbie looked thoughtfully at the floor, ignoring him. Dotty says don't worry about feeling tired at first. And she says I'll probably be thirsty a lot.

  I was talking to Mel the other night, Al said, and he tells me not to worry if my big toe swells up. That happened to him while Dotty was pregnant. He also advises drinking plenty of beer.

  All right, said Debbie. I don't listen to everything Dotty says, but it doesn't hurt to get some idea of what to expect. She nodded at the papers on the cushion beside him. What you looking at?

  Al glanced down at the papers. Oh, just that travel stuff on Mexico we got. I was wondering — How long can you get around pretty freely? The doctor say?

  No, but I imagine four or five months, maybe six. She grinned. I'll ask Dotty. Why? You thinking of a trip? I thought we decided to wait; we decided it would cost too much.

  Well — his voice was defensive, and he shrugged — it might not be so expensive; I was just looking at the figures, and … He stopped.

  And there's not much time left, she said quietly, for us to have fun any more. Isn't that it?

  I don't mean it like that. But if we don't do it now —

  We probably never will.

  I'm afraid that's right, he said.

  Al? Are you sorry we're having this baby?

  He sat up. Now, look. Let's get this straight. No. I'm not. I'm glad. But I also realize that a child is a hell of a lot of responsibility. They're fun, a pride and joy, but you don't get anything free. Up to now, we've done pretty much what we wanted, and we've had a lot of fun. But that's just about ended, and it'll stay ended for the next twenty years. From now on, there's all kinds of things we'll have to do. He shrugged. Read books — child psychology, psychiatry, all that. You've got to know those things, or your kid's liable to wind up with a psychosis that'll lead him straight to arson and bigamy before he's thirty years old.

  He took Debbie's hand. Honey, it's just that I'm more of a realist than you are. We're having a baby and you're all sentimental about it. You should be. He grinned at her. I'm glad, too, but realistic. Kids are swell, but they're also little horrors, you know. They're positively bloodthirsty.

  Bloodthirsty. She sniffed disdainfully.

  They are, said Al. Take this little nephew of mine. He got an electric train for Christmas; tracks, cars, little stations, crossing gates, the whole works. And he got a set of toy soldiers. And you know what that kid did? He cleverly altered the sides of the coaches so they'd spring open. Then he converted the soldiers into miniature passengers; with detachable heads and limbs. With his junior chemical set, he fixed up smoke and flames to pour out the coach windows, and with this revised equipment the little fellow would sit on the floor and stage some of the most realistic, horrible little train wrecks you ever saw. Last I heard, he'd synchronized a recorded accompaniment of screams and cries of agony. Four years old; bright little kid.

  You don't have a nephew; you haven't even been close to a real live child since you were twelve years old.

  Al smiled. Well, it's true in principle. Yet the sad fact is that even our experts — our educators, child psychiatrists, all expectant mothers, and especially our book publishers — persist in the mad dream that children are the souls of amiability. They just aren't realists. I had a prime example of that the time we sent a birth day present to Elaine and Dave Mitchell's little girl; remember?

  We sent her a book.

  That's right, and I stopped in at Elder's to get it. May I see a copy of Little Red Riding hood? I said, and the clerk, a sweet, white-haired old lady, got it and handed it to me with a saintly smile. Well, I skimmed through the text and when the clerk came back, I asked for an unexpurgated edition. Unexpurgated? she said. Little Red Ridinghood? Certainly, I said. This has been censored. In this sedate little version, the wolf does not eat up the grandmother. Grandma simply hides in a closet and escapes without a scratch. Even worse, the kindly old wood chopper does not brain the wolf with an ax. He just snoos it away. Not a drop of blood in the entire story.

  But of course, said the clerk. That's what you want for children! Not at all, I replied. Children are a bloodthirsty lot. My four-year-old niece's favorite book is her little picture story of the life of Dillinger. I handed back her sterile, scrubbed-up little volume. Hardly suitable for a child, I said coldly, and stalked out. He grinned at Debbie. We gave the Mitchell's little girl, you'll recall, a collection of Grimms' fairy tales — properly bloody — with which she was very pleased.

  Debbie looked at him calmly. All finished? she said. All out of your system? Because I have a surprise for you.

  Surprise?

  Yes. We're having company tonight. After dinner.

  Oh, Lord, I was going to read! Who? What sordid mob of people —

  No, not people, she said. Not exactly, I mean.

  What then? Apes?

  It's a girl; a little four-year-old girl.

  Dotty's kid?

  Yes. She asked if we'd mind, and —

  Wonderful. We'll have a marvelous evening watching her wreck the furniture, tear up the magazines, and set fire to the curtains. Or does she play bridge? Because I know a three-year-old fourth we can ge—

  Now, Al. They haven't been out for a long time, and it just occurred to Dotty, just before she hung up, so what could I do? She simply thought —

  She simply thought she'd catch you in what was obviously a weak moment. Shrewd article, that Dotty. Okay, Mother, he said, patting her arm. You're jumping the gun by approximately eight months, but I guess you deserve a little preview. And it's only for one horrible evening. What time's she coming?

  Right after dinner. Dotty will put her right to bed on the davenport. We can read in the bedroom, and she'll sleep in here till they call for her.

  Think she will go to sleep?

  Of course.

  She better. He began to gather up his travel folders, then he paused. What about Mexico?

  Well …

  Yeah, he said. That's what I think, too. Oh, well, in no time at all, as you pointed out, the kid will be grown up and married, and I guess Mexico will still be there. Roads'll be better then, too.

  They sat quietly in the living room after dinner, reading. It was raining outside, and an occasional light burst of rain and wind rattled the windows, emphasizing the bright cheerfulness of the room. They sat quietly, Al in the big armchair, Debbie on the davenport, each of them occasionally turning a page. But though they read, they were also conscious of this as a moment — one of the last of them — in a kind of life they had always lived and enjoyed.

  Some twenty minutes passed, then the child arrived in her mother's arms, wrapped in an automobile robe; her father was waiting in the car downstairs. When the robe was removed, Al saw that the child was ready for bed, dressed in flannelette pajamas, tiny red felt slippers and a miniature bathrobe. The two women set to work making up a bed on the davenport, their movements deft and certain, their voices subdued, as they tucked blankets under the cushions and thumped a pillow to softness. Al sat watching, and the little girl stood beside the davenport, silent and docile, watching the women, occasionally turning to look at Al.

  When the child was tucked into bed, she passively acc
epted the jouncing of cushions and tugging of blankets, her face turned to Al. They regarded each other solemnly.

  Finally, with a quiet murmur of last-minute instructions and thanks at the front door, Dotty left, and Debbie walked around the room, turning off all the lamps but the one at the head of the child's bed.

  Then the little girl spoke, directly to Al. Tell me a story, she said in a tiny, confident voice.

  Al looked at Debbie. That sounds suspiciously like the result of a previous promise. Of which I am the victim. He stood up and walked to the davenport and sat down facing the little girl. It's my understanding, he said gravely, that you're supposed to go to sleep.

  I always hear a story frst.

  Well, precedent is a powerful argument, of course. But do you think you might go to sleep then?

  Yes.

  Okay. What should the story be about?

  A turtle. Ruthie has a turtle with a picture on his back.

  All right, a turtle. Once there was a turtle. A little girl turtle.

  How old?

  Just about your age, by an amazing coincidence.

  What was her name?

  Myrtle, said Al. I'm sorry; rather obvious, I know. But that was her name. Myrtle, the turtle.

  I like it, the child said, and suddenly smiled, her large brown eyes on Al. She seemed to have serene confidence in him as a teller of stories. He glanced wryly at Debbie. She smiled and sat down. Twisting sideways, she swung her legs over one arm of her chair. Then she folded her hands, and both she and the little girl gazed at Al with quiet expectancy. Go ahead, said Debbie. Tell us a story, Daddy.

  Well, said Al, one day … He paused for a moment, thinking. One day when Myrtle the turtle was old enough to know that she was a turtle, she decided she didn't like it. Mother, she said, I don't want to be a turtle. Turtles are too slow, Al glanced at Debbie triumphantly, then went on with his story:

  Not at all, said Myrtle's mother. Why, once your grandfather won a race with a rabbit! The rabbit was 'way ahead, but then he lay down and went to sleep. And your grandfather — Oh, nuts, said Myrtle. That old story again. I never did believe it, and all it proves anyway is that rabbits are dopes. Or else he threw the race.

  Debbie frowned at Al warningly, shaking her head.

  Al went on quickly. Why, Myrtle! said her mother. Where did you learn such awful language! Now, I want you to stop! Okay, said Myrtle, but I still think turtles are awfully slow. They're dirty, too. Why do we live in this awful old mud? Wish I lived where there isn't any mud. Like Arizona. Land sakes, said Myrtle's mother. Turtles are supposed to like mud.

  The little girl smiled encouragingly at Al.

  Well, not this kid, said Myrtle. I wish I were a butterfly. Boy, do they have fun! They're pretty, too, and that's another thing — us turtles are ugly! Not at all, said Myrtle's old lady —

  Al, said Debbie.

  Not at all, said Myrtle's mother. We're beautiful! Such lovely wrinkled faces! Such nice sharp beaks! Such gorgeous yellow eyes! You're just lucky you're not a little human girl. They're repulsive. No wrinkles at all! Just ugly smooth skin. And no beaks! Just soft little noses. Little human girls are horrible-looking!

  The child was staring at Al, her eyes wide, her mouth open.

  Not in my humble opinion, said Myrtle. I wish I was a little human girl! Or a butterfly. Don't talk back to your mother, said Myrtle's mother. That's not talking back, said Myrtle. That's contradicting. So is that, said Myrtle's mother. You better pull in your neck, young lady. So Myrtle pulled in her neck and went to sleep. Which was a very good idea, and something all little girls should do now and then. Preferably now. Al smiled at the child. So how about you? he said. Time to go to sleep, don't you think?

  That'll get you nowhere, said Debbie.

  No, said the child, it isn't time yet. She wriggled down under the blankets more snugly. What happened then?

  Al looked at Debbie, raising his eyebrows. Well, he said, Myrtle decided she just wouldn't be like other turtles. She decided to run away. About three hours later, Myrtle was only four yards, two feet, seven and a half inches from home. And did that burn Myrtle! Now I know I don't want to be a turtle, she said. This is awful! I'll never get to Arizona!

  The little girl withdrew one arm from under the covers and solemnly scratched her nose, frowning at Al.

  Well, said a little voice right next to Myrtle's ear, Arizona's not really so much. It was a little green caterpillar. A fat lot you know about it, said Myrtle. And what a homely little character you are, anyway. You're all wrinkled and green and ugly-looking. Beat it! Scram! Powder! Well! said the caterpillar. Look who's calling who ugly-looking! You're all wrinkled and green yourself! Myrtle realized he was right. Yes, she said sadly, we're both wrinkled and green and ugly-looking, and —

  Al paused for a moment, looking over at Debbie. Myrtle had a brilliant idea just then, he said, and so did I. Say, said Myrtle to the caterpillar, did you notice that we're both pretty slow, too? We're both alike! I must be a caterpillar, too!' Well, the caterpillar wasn't too sure about that, but Myrtle was. Of course! said Myrtle. I've always been a caterpillar! Because once a caterpillar always a caterpillar. Don't kid yourself, said the caterpillar. Pretty soon I'll be a butterfly. I'll just make a cocoon, and when I come out — voila! I'm a butterfly!

  Well, I'll be darned, said Myrtle; she was all excited. What's a cocoon, anyway? Just a little nest, said the caterpillar. You just wrap up in it, go to sleep, and when you wake up you're a butterfly. Nothin' to it; a lead-pipe cinch. The caterpillar yawned a little. Well, he said, I have to go now. It's time to make my cocoon. How do you know? said Myrtle. Instinct, said the caterpillar. What's that? Myrtle said. Darned if I know, said the caterpillar, but that's how you tell. So long. Nice to have met you. Nice to have met you, said Myrtle.

  With a nod of her head, Debbie indicated the little girl. She was still staring up at Al, but her eyes were blinking repeatedly.

  Al resumed the story, gradually dropping his voice to a monotone. So I'm really a caterpillar, Myrtle said to herself. And pretty soon I'll be a butterfly. Gee, I feel kind of sleepy, too. Must be instinct. Must be time to make my cocoon. Wonder how you do it, though? I should have asked that other caterpillar; gee, I'm dumb. I'm even stupider than a rabbit. But Myrtle decided that a cocoon was just a little nest. She crawled off the road and pushed some sticks and grass together into a little heap, crawled up on top of it, blinked her eyes … very, very sleepily … got sleepier and sleepier … said her prayers … pulled in her neck … and went to sleep.

  The child's eyes were closed and Al stopped and waited, neither he nor Debbie making a sound, both of them unconsciously holding their breaths. They listened to the faint sound of the little girl's breathing. When she did not stir, Al slowly stood up, looking down at her face. He turned to Debbie. Think she'll stay that way? he whispered, and was startled when Debbie replied in a normal tone.

  Sure. She's dead to the world. Debbie reached out and gently brushed the little girl's bangs from her forehead. You can talk; she won't wake up.

  Al lighted a cigarette, then walked to a chair and sat down facing the davenport.

  She certainly raised hell, didn't she? said Debbie. Tore the house to pieces.

  Too bad she fell asleep; I had a smash ending all figured out. Maybe we ought to wake her up.

  Just how did it all turn out?

  Al looked at her. You really want to know?

  Sure.

  Well, said Al, as it happened, Myrtle built her cocoon right next to an artist's easel. Myrtle didn't know what it was, of course; she didn't know anything about art. But she knew what she liked.

  Debbie sneered at him.

  The artist was gone at the moment; he'd taken his little girl down to the river to swim or something. But when he came back, he saw Myrtle, and just for laughs he painted a picture on Myrtle's shell. Very similar to Ruthie's turtle, I imagine. Well, he finished the picture, the kid came back from swimming, saw Myrtle an
d picked her up, waking her, and when Myrtle saw the ground way below, she knew she was flying.

  The kid speaks up then. It's beautiful, she says. It's the most beautiful butterfly I ever saw! And Myrtle was happy at last. She didn't know — now, here's the smash climax — she didn't know the kid was looking at the picture her father had painted on Myrtle's shell. It was a picture of a beautiful butterfly. But Myrtle couldn't see it, so she knew the little girl was talking about her. And that was that. They took Myrtle home where she lived happily ever after. Sometimes she wondered why she couldn't fly, but she wasn't the worrying type; she was a butterfly at last, and that's all that mattered.

  Al stopped and looked at Debbie. She was sitting, elbows on her knees, her chin on her fists, staring at the sleeping child. Al grinned. A little light on suspense and love interest, I know, he said, but —

  Debbie looked up. It was cute, Al. A darling story. She looked at him for a moment. And you had fun telling it, didn't you?

  Al got up, walked over to the davenport, and stood next to Debbie's chair, looking down at the miniature face on the pillow. Yeah, he said. I'm pretty good, I guess; put her right to sleep.

  Debbie stood up, reaching for the light switch. Oh, you're wonderful, Daddy, she said. She turned off the light, and they left the room.

  In the bedroom, standing at his dresser removing his tie, Al said, Want to read for a while?

  I guess so. Debbie stood at her dressing table, removing her earrings.

  For a few minutes they stood, busy with the preliminaries of getting ready for bed; winding watches, removing jewelry or the contents of pockets. Then, as it happened, they turned at the same moment, and their eyes met. For a second they stood looking at each other, then Al began to smile. It was a slow, almost bewildered smile, and his face seemed startled. He stepped forward and grasped Debbie's shoulders. Hey, he said softly, incredulously. Hey, he said, we're going to have a baby! …