by Jack Finney
No? What do they say?
I really don't know. She laughed ruefully. It's been such a long time.
Yeah — Tim smiled wonderingly — it has, hasn't it? He looked at Eve for a moment. It suddenly occurs to me that we are no longer the younger generation.
I know, Eve said, and she sighed.
For half a block they walked along in silence, then Tim nodded at a restaurant they were approaching, and they turned toward the doorway, Tim moving ahead to hold the door open for Eve.
It was a small restaurant, not crowded, with half a dozen linen-covered tables set in small semicircular booths of padded green leather. Tim often had lunch here, and the waiter greeted him by name and led them to one of the booths.
Like a drink? Tim asked when they were seated.
I guess so. An Alexander.
And I'll have a Manhattan, Tim said to the waiter. Let's have our drink before we order, he said to Eve. You in a hurry?
No. She glanced at her watch, then sat back, staring absently at the tabletop. You know, she said, it's kind of sad.
What is?
She shrugged. Oh, it hasn't really been so long, but it wasn't yesterday either, and — It's just kind of sad, in a way.
What's sad?
Well — Eve stopped, frowning at the difficulty of conveying her meaning. Not that being married isn't ever so much better. But there was a kind of wonderful excitement about it.
About what?
About what we were talking about. Being young, really young, I mean. And free and single, and — oh, you know what I mean. Having the phone ring, and wondering who it was, and hoping it was someone who'd ask you out. Or in knowing a man liked you and having him knock himself out trying to make an impression. While you were doing the same thing yourself. In just not being sure of things all the time, and — oh, I don't know. There was just something special and exciting about those days that's gone now. She glanced quickly at Tim. Not that being marr—
But he wasn't watching her. I know, he interrupted quietly, slowly nodding his head, I know what you mean, and his eyes, too, were remembering.
For a moment Eve looked at him, then she smiled brightly. Of course, you were the real charmer, she said.
Oh, sure.
The waiter brought their drinks, and they tasted them, then set them down.
You really were, said Eve. She fingered her glass. Remember how you used to say, My drink loves your drink, and you'd push your glass up against mine?
Yeah.
And you'd put your cigarette right beside mine on an ash tray and say, My cigarette loves your cigarette. You always put them together so intimately. It was almost embarrassing.
I'll bet.
It was; but kind of cute. She hunched forward, elbows on the table, hands clasped. Remember when we first met?
In detail.
What did you think? Eve wriggled slightly, snuggling into the cushions.
I said to myself, Here is the future mother of my children.
No, really. What did you think?
I was impressed, Tim said seriously. I really thought, from the very first, that you were something pretty special.
Eve's head nodded slightly in unconscious confirmation, like a child following the words of a favorite story. And when did you first fall in love with me?
Oh, hell — He shrugged, smiling protestingly. How can you say? It's like trying to figure out when you fell asleep last night. There's a time when you aren't, and a time when you are, and just when it happened … He shrugged again, then took a sip of his drink. But it happened fast. All of a sudden I knew damn' well I wanted to marry you, and I hadn't even thought of being married for two-three years yet.
Eve smiled happily. Why not?
Oh, I don't know. His brows raised thoughtfully. I was having fun, I guess, and there just didn't seem to be any hurry about it, that's all.
Tim?
Yeah?
Did you know … a lot of girls? Before you met me, I mean.
I wouldn't say a lot. He looked down at his glass, twirling it slowly by its stem.
Well, did you —? She stopped.
Now, take it easy. He glanced up at her, Don't be asking questions when you might not like the answers.
She smiled at him. Okay. I guess maybe I wouldn't like the answers, at that.
Oh, now don't get me wrong. All in all, I guess I was a pretty well-behaved lad. He grinned at her wickedly. Reasonably so, that is.
I'll bet. Tim, remember Georgie? I liked him a lot, till you came along. A very nice boy.
Anyone called Georgie is bound to be a very nice boy.
Eve giggled. It was kind of a silly name. Not George, but Georgie. It's what everyone called him, though, and it seemed perfectly natural. Did I ever tell you he asked me to go away with him for a week end?
How was it?
Now, Tim, don't be —
I'm not; I'm simply assuming that a week end with anyone called Georgie could only be —
Well, don't be too sure. Georgie wasn't —
Look, why the hell are we talking about Georgie?
Eve shrugged. I don't know. Why are we talking about any of this?
Sign of old age, I guess. Living in the past. He picked up a menu, and handed it to Eve. Here, he said, let's order our warm milk and crackers.
They ordered lunch, and when it came, ate for a time in silence. Then Eve opened her purse and brought out a small swatch of heavy green-patterned cloth. I thought I'd order the new drapes in this material; it picks up the green in the davenport. She held the swatch out to Tim.
He took it and examined it, mechanically rubbing the cloth between his fingers and thumb. Fine. He handed it back to her. Looks fine.
Eve returned the swatch to her purse. And I may look for a new dress. Nothing expensive; just a summer wash dress. I really need one more.
Okay. Tim nodded, and picked up his fork.
You going back to the office? Eve broke a piece from a roll.
Nope. Saturday morning's bad enough.
What're you going to do, then?
I don't know; nothing, I guess.
Want to come with me? she asked doubtfully.
I don't think so. He looked at Eve, and she saw that his eyes were puzzled and wondering, his expression almost wistful. What time'll you get through? he said.
Around five.
For a moment he hesitated. Want to meet me for a drink before we go home?
If you like; yes.
Well — he hesitated again — how about the Trafalgar? At five? The Trafalgar was a small bar they had gone to often before they were married.
Eve looked at him for an instant, then she smiled affectionately. Fine. I'd love to.
Tim shook his head slowly, ruefully. It isn't the same any more, is it?
Oh, I don't know, Eve said gently, and she reached out and patted his hand.
They walked to a subway station on Sixth Avenue after lunch; Eve was going to Macy's. Tim stood watching her as she walked down the stairs, and touched his hat as she turned to wave good-by. Then he walked a few steps to the corner and stood looking up and down the street. He felt depressed, low in spirit, and he stood wondering what to do.
The day was pleasant enough, he thought; bright, sunny and not too hot. It occurred to him that it had been a long time since he'd been out alone and dressed up with an afternoon to kill; he seldom worked on a Saturday, and ordinarily he'd have been home in slacks, shirt and slippers. And presently, as he stood there watching the rumbling traffic on the sunny street, his mood began to change, and he became aware of the stirring of an old half-forgotten feeling, and he frowned, trying to recognize it. Then he remembered; it was the old rising sense of elation he had felt so often during his first weeks and months in New York. So many times, he remembered now, he had stood just as he stood now and on just such a day, the week end ahead full of the promise of adventure.
Now, however, mixed with this old emotion, was a feeling of
sadness, of something lost and gone forever; and Tim smiled, remembering the lunchtime conversation and understanding the reasons for both his feelings. But as he turned to walk down the street, this remnant of sadness and loss began to fade, and — the warm sun on his back, feeling just the way it had in the not too remote past — the sense of promise and elation grew stronger.
He walked for several blocks, strolling, stopping occasionally to look at pawnshop windows, and feeling more and more pleased with the afternoon of freedom ahead. It seemed to challenge him in a friendly way, and now he felt ready to accept.
At a little hole-in-the-wall shop, its front open to the street, he bought a sack of popcorn. He didn't want it, really, but it had been a long time since he'd eaten popcorn, and it gave him a sense of pleasant leisure to saunter down the street eating it from the sack.
At a cross street he turned east, for no reason, stopped in the middle of the block to study the posters and photographs in front of a theater, then strolled on to Fifth Avenue. Again he stood, near the corner, just out of the stream of pedestrians. On the cross street a car slowed for the changing traffic light, and stopped not two feet in front of him. Tim looked up. A pleasant-faced girl of perhaps twenty-eight sat at the wheel, her bare arm resting on the door; she glanced idly out the window, then her eye was caught by the sack in Tim's hand, and she looked at him curiously.
On an impulse he held the sack out to her, keenly aware as he did so that he was doing it exactly right; not boldly, hardly even looking at her, but with an almost perfunctory courtesy, as he might pass a dish at a table, with no thought of being refused. She looked at him, a little startled, then down at the sack, and Tim glanced off at the Fifth Avenue traffic; then he rattled the popcorn in the sack, a little impatiently, holding it still closer to her reach. She smiled slightly, took a few kernels, and Tim glanced at her, not smiling, not pressing the advantage, and simply nodded his head in grave approval. He took some popcorn himself and turned to stare absently at the traffic again.
In a moment or two, without turning his head, he held the sack out again. The girl took some more popcorn, watching him curiously, and then, for the first time, Tim looked at her and smiled, his smile deliberately tentative and a little shy. She smiled back, and there was a beginning speculative interest in her eyes.
He knew that now he could speak to her and that she would answer; that he could — the excuse flashed into his mind — ask her for a lift to Lexington Avenue, perhaps, and that she might even ask him into the car. But in the same instant of thought it was clearly a pointless thing to do, and the necessity of finding things to say to her during the few blocks' ride was suddenly a chore he didn't feel like undertaking. He merely smiled again and turned once more to stare absently at Fifth Avenue: and a few moments later, when he heard the traffic lights click, he looked back at the girl again and simply nodded politely. She smiled, a little mockingly now. Thanks, she said, and flicked her hand in a wave as the car moved forward, and Tim lifted his palm in casual acknowledgment.
He grinned happily and walked on to the corner, dropping the rest of the popcorn into a refuse basket as he passed; then he walked on across the street; dusting the salt from his palms. Haven't lost my touch, he thought; then he grinned again, and on the other side of the street he glanced at his reflection in a store window. He looked, he was certain, exactly the way he had always looked. If there was any real change in his appearance from early twenties to early thirties, he couldn't see it, and the feeling of promise and adventure just ahead came over him again; then suddenly he was ashamed and embarrassed.
Childish, he thought, and his face flushed; immature, adolescent — and he wondered suddenly if other men his age ever had these thoughts and impulses. He began to watch the faces of men who passed him, but all of them, he thought, looked like solid, mature-minded citizens. Then he shook his head, laughing at himself. Yet somehow he felt a little disappointment, and he walked on, wanting something — he didn't know what — to happen.
At Lexington Avenue he turned south, stopped to look into the window of a stamp-and-coin store, then moved on. There was a bar at the corner and he turned in to it. The ball game was on the television set, the volume tuned low; the bartender and two men drinking beer were watching it. A couple sat at the bar, the man reading a newspaper, the woman sitting with both hands around her glass, staring at nothing.
Tim ordered a drink and sipped it slowly. The ball game went on, the bartender leaning comfortably against the back bar; occasionally someone commented on a play. A young man wearing a freshly pressed tan gabardine suit and a light summer tie walked in and sat down, shoving his hat back on his head, something about the movement just a little self-conscious. He ordered a drink, tasted it, then lighted a cigarette and glanced around the room. Then, his face bored, he began idly poking at the change lying on the bar before him. Tim sipped his drink, smiling a little. Even if you know what you're looking for, kid, he said to himself, it doesn't look as though you're finding it. He had never, himself, he recalled now, found any pleasure in wandering into a bar alone, and he began trying to remember whether there was anyone he knew in the neighborhood whom he might visit for an hour, but could think of no one. Presently he finished his drink, picked up his change and walked out.
On the sidewalk he glanced at his watch and frowned, annoyed at the time that had passed, and annoyed, too, he realized, that it wasn't passing faster. A few doors before the corner was a tiny store with the words Magic Shop painted on the door, and he stopped to look in the window. It was completely filled with artificial frankfurters and biscuits, puzzles made from linked pieces of metal, a pile of false faces, humorous post cards, a snake-in-a-box, rubber cigars, dice, tiny decks of cards, a miniature slot machine — a mass of things, some dusty and sun-faded.
He went in. The proprietor, a bald middle-aged man with a cigar in his mouth, was leaning on the counter reading a newspaper and he looked up as Tim entered.
Hello, Tim said. What's new in the trick business these days?
Well — the man read a last line in his newspaper, then reached to a shelf behind him and picked up a small black comb — you seen this one?
Nope. What about it?
Licorice, said the man. You take it out and eat it; people think you're nuts.
Wonderful, said Tim; he reached out and took the comb. Exactly what I need. All honor to the man who invented it. He pointed to a box in the showcase filled with black plastic spectacle frames to each of which a flesh-colored object shaped like a nose was attached. What're those?
The man brought one out. Try it on, he said, and handed it to Tim.
He pointed to a mirror on the counter.
Tim put on the glasses, the hollow plastic nose dropping into place over his own. He looked into the mirror and grinned; the heavy glasses and realistic nose drastically altered his appearance. Naturally I've got to have these. What else you got?
From somewhere under the showcase, the proprietor brought out a spoon and banded it to Tim. It seemed to be a cheap ornately patterned spoon stamped or molded from pewter.
The proprietor leaned forward, forearms on the counter, the spoon in his hands, he pointed at the bowl. Made out of sugar, he said, with a harmless dye that looks like silver. Guy stirs a cup of hot coffee, and the bowl of the spoon dissolves. Nothing but the handle left, and he's sitting there wondering what the hell happened.
I guess I need that one, too, Tim said. He paid the man, stowed his purchases away in various pockets, and went out into the street again, turning at the corner toward Madison Avenue, wondering just how and when he could induce Eve to stir her coffee with the new spoon.
He glanced at his watch, then stood looking at the pedestrians and traffic and buildings around him. Something about the aspect of the city had changed now, and it made him vaguely uneasy, and he tried to think why. The city had a late-afternoon look and feeling — a sad time of day, he thought suddenly. He wished now that he had stayed home all day,
not gone to the office, and he glanced at his watch again and began to walk toward the Trafalgar. He walked slowly, using up the time, glancing often at his watch, and it was just five o'clock when he arrived.
He stood for a moment, looking in through the glass. Eve was there, perched on a bar stool, her back to the door. Tim entered, moving quietly. Walking to Eve's left, he sat down silently, one stool removed from where she sat. The bartender, mixing a drink, looked up and nodded, and Tim flicked a hand in silent greeting. Removing the glasses and false nose from his breast pocket, he ducked his head and fitted them on. Then he pulled his stool closer, its legs scraping the floor.
At the sound, Eve turned, and Tim nodded gravely, tipping his hat politely. For an instant she stared at him, then said in a startled whisper. Tim, stop that. You — She turned hastily away.
Tim brought out a pack of cigarettes, put one in his mouth, then leaned forward again. Pardon me, miss — he raised his voice politely — but do you have a match? He patted his pockets vigorously to indicate that he had none.
Eve looked at him coldly, then pushed a packet of matches toward him.
Thank you. Tim lighted his cigarette, then closed the matchbook, glancing at the cover, on which was printed the name of the restaurant they had lunch at. Nice place, he said approvingly. I've been there, too. Eve didn't answer, and Tim slid the matches back to her. I'm sure you want them again: a sentimental souvenir, no doubt.
He tipped his hat and adjusted his nose.
The bartender walked over, glancing expressionlessly at the glasses and false nose. Yes? he said.
Rye and soda, and — Tim turned to Eve — perhaps the lady will have a drink?
The bartender turned to Eve, and she answered, looking not at Tim but at the barman. No, thank you, she said coolly.
Glancing warningly at Tim, the bartender turned away to mix the drink, and Tim looked down at the bar, smiling, his hands playing with the pack of cigarettes.
When his drink came, Tim tasted it, then reaching into a pocket, he brought out the comb he had bought and stared at it, turning it in his hands, till he knew Eve was watching. Then he bit off the end, a good inch or more, and sat chewing thoughtfully, loudly crunching the brittle fragments. He turned to Eve. Chock full of vitamins, he said, and Eve stared at him for an instant, then turned away, blushing.