by Jack Finney
Have you seen it before?
He glanced at the cover. No.
Then, yes. That one. Reagh went back into the kitchen. She washed the glasses and cups, then dropped the silverware into the dishpan, and added more hot water.
Reagh!
She stepped to the doorway. Yes?
Listen. Ben turned in his chair, the open magazine in his lap. I just thought of a cartoon idea; see what you think of it. You have a drawing of a mailman; Rural Free Delivery. His truck is stopped at a crossroad, and there's half a dozen of those tin mailboxes set up on posts; you know how they have them in the country?
Yes.
Well, he's just put the mail in the boxes, and all those little red flags are up, one on each box. That's how they do in the country; the mailman pushes the little flag up to show the mail's come.
I know; I've been in the country. I've even seen a cow.
Well—Ben smiled—the last box in the row is different. It's not like the others, it's a little miniature house, a very fancy mailbox. You've seen them like that. And next to the little house is a regular little flagpole with a little American flag; very fancy. Well, there's some mail in the little house, and you show the mailman in the act of raising the little flag. He looks kind of annoyed, and he's holding his hat under one arm and saluting with the other. And the mailman is saying—Ben grinned—‘I'm as patriotic as the next one, but this sure slows up my schedule!
Reagh looked at him for a moment, then frowned. Sounds silly to me; a little house with a flagpole, just for a mailbox.
Well—he looked at her helplessly—of course it's silly; that's the idea. Every time he delivers the mail, he has to raise the American flag and salute. He studied her face. Don't you get it?
Reagh shrugged. Well, yes. I guess so. I don't think it's particularly funny, though.
Well, it's as funny as some of these—he slapped the magazine with the backs of his knuckles, annoyed.
Okay, okay. She smiled and stood looking at him for a moment. Sure you don't want any nose drops?
No. He turned toward the windows again.
Reagh resumed her dishwashing, piling the dishes in the wire drainer at the side of the sink. Presently she finished the dishes, rinsed them with a pitcher of hot water, and began to wash the pots and pans. She was scrubbing the last of them with steel wool when Ben appeared in the doorway.
What you doing?
Reagh lifted her head to look at him for a moment. I'm washing dishes, she said dryly.
Oh. He brought out a handkerchief and blew his nose.
She glanced up again. Now, don't you get cold.
I'm not. He tightened the cord of his robe, then leaned against the doorjamb.
What time is it?
Ben glanced at the clock on the refrigerator. Eleven-twenty-four.
Oh, nearly eleven-fifteen. Time for my program.
Ben shook his head. No; eleven-twenty-four. Nearly —
That clock's fast.
It is? He looked interestedly at the clock, then walked toward the refrigerator. Well, I'll fix —
No, don't, Reagh told him; you'll throw me off.
Throw you off?
I always have it fast.
He looked at her. What for? Why have it fast, when —
I don't know, I just do. Now, leave it alone. Turn on the radio or I'll miss my program.
Ben shrugged, and switched on the white-enameled radio beside the breadbox; the set began to hum. Very faintly, a station identification sounded from the speaker; there was a long pause, then a burst of low, ominous chords from an organ.
That's it, said Reagh.
The organ music receded to the background and a man's voice said, Destiny's Children, the real-life story of Cynthia Arden. Can a woman in her thirties, divorced and alone, find a place in today's society? The organ music came up again.
That what you wanted? Ben looked at her curiously.
Yes. The commercial began and Reagh turned from the sink to glance at Ben. How do you feel?
Not too bad. He pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down, straddling it, arms and chin resting on its back. Only the temporary illusion of well-being, however, just before the coma sets in.
They waited in silence till the commercial ended, Reagh washing a skillet. Then the organ sounded again from the radio, and over this sound the announcer said, And now—Destiny's Children. Today, back at her job once more, Cynthia wonders: does Steve have secret information about Royce's former marriage? And if he does, can she ever again believe in Royce's sincerity? Now, caught up once more in the busy routine of fashion adviser to a huge department store, Cynthia tries to work. But with a part of her tormented mind she asks herself again and again … is there anyone, anything, she can trust?
No, said Ben. My advice to you, honey —
Ben, hush; I want to hear this.
The organ stopped and a woman's voice faded on, crisp and efficient. — thereby giving us exclusive rights to all your stylings, she was saying, for a six-month period. Yours truly, and so on. Type that up right away, please, Jeanie. Yes, Miss Arden, a girl's voice replied. There was the scrape of a chair, footsteps, then a door closed. A moment's pause, then the sound of a phone picked up, the sound of dialing, then the phone crashed back into its cradle. No, I will not call him, the first speaker said. Her voice broke. Oh, Royce, why don't you phone? Why, why? A pause, then, I don't believe it. I won't believe it. And yet —
You really listen to this stuff?
Reagh shrugged. Sure.
What's eating her? He nodded at the radio.
Well—Reagh rinsed the skillet under the hot-water faucet and laid it on the drainboard—she's been divorced but she's still pretty crazy about her husband. He'd marry her again, too, probably, though he's been seeing someone else lately. Reagh emptied the dishpan and began to wash out the sink. But Cynthia can't quite bring herself to forgive him.
What'd he do?
He'd been married before and didn't tell her about it.
Couldn't she overlook a little thing like that?
Well, it wasn't that so much, it was the deception. Reagh hung the dishpan under the sink and began to rinse out the dishcloth. It showed their marriage wasn't founded on mutual trust.
It did? He looked at her wryly.
That's what she thought at the time. Now, she's sort of changing her mind. Reagh hung up the dishcloth and leaned back against the sink, folding her arms. Her father says she's never learned to allow for human beings' being human. He says a marriage is founded on mutual trust, all right, but you can't expect to start right out with it; it has to grow and be tended like a plant.
Certainly. And with plenty of fertilizer. Well, why doesn't she marry him again if that's what she wants?
Because, said Reagh patiently, Steve—that's the one she almost married just before she met Royce—Steve has found out something else about Royce.
What? A prior conviction for mopery?
No. Royce's little niece who lives with his sister—the child he says is his niece, that is—is really his daughter by this first marriage. He kept that quiet too.
Yes, that follows, I'd imagine.
Reagh shrugged. Of course it's just Steve who says all this. He keeps hinting about it, anyway. Though why she listens to that Steve all the time is beyond me. But it's probably true. Royce is weak, you know. Nice, but weak.
He sounds like the only nonpsycho in the bunch to me. Why doesn't she just ask him about all this?
I don't know; they never do.
Well—Ben nodded at the radio; Cynthia was talking to Steve on the phone—don't let me keep you.
Oh, I've been listening. There's nothing new happening so far. Reagh opened the refrigerator and peered into it abstractedly. What would you like for lunch?
I don't know. Anything. Is it time yet?
Pretty soon. She brought out several jars and a carton of milk, and closed the refrigerator.
Ben yawned and stood up, stretching
his arms. You know, this is the craziest place in the daytime. Clocks all wrong because if they weren't you wouldn't know what time it really is. Then I find that my wife—my wife—listens to that stuff.
Reagh opened the breadbox. What do you think there is to listen to on the radio; serials by George Bernard Shaw? Anyway, it's not such a bad program.
Okay—Ben walked to the doorway, then turned—but if you secretly sniff nose candy while I'm at the office, I don't want to know about it. He went out into the living room.
For a moment longer Reagh listened to the radio, then she snapped it off, opened the jars she had taken from the refrigerator, and made a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. She took a bite, laid the sandwich down, opened a can of chicken soup and put it on to heat. She opened a package of macaroni and put water on to boil. Occasionally, as she worked, she took a bite from her sandwich. She prepared a lunch of hot soup, macaroni and cheese, and a glass of milk. When it was all arranged on a tray, she added a neatly folded paper napkin, popped the last of her sandwich into her mouth, and took the tray out to Ben.
Here's your lunch, she said.
Oh, thanks. He smiled at her and took the tray, glancing at it. Looks good. Where's yours?
I've had mine. She turned, walking toward the front hall.
A decent lunch?
Yes. Enough, anyway. In the hall she opened the front door. The mail's here, she called. Want to help me carry it in?
He smiled. What came? Anything?
Reagh returned, two envelopes in her hand. A fourth-class letter addressed to ‘Mr. Bennet B. Nell.’ It says, ‘Save Money!’ in the corner of the envelope.
I've been waiting for that.
And another stimulating issue of your alumni magazine. Reagh tossed the envelopes onto Ben's table. I'll be in the spare bedroom if you want me; I've got some ironing to finish.
Reagh went to the kitchen, got out her iron and ironing board from the broom closet, took a green plastic bag partly filled with dampened clothes, and carried them out through the dining room to the spare bedroom.
As she passed the living room, Ben turned in his chair, his soupspoon raised halfway to his mouth. Have we got a funnel?
In the big drawer. Where the silverware is. Reagh walked on into the bedroom. She set up the ironing board, plugged in the iron and began to sort out the clothes.
Presently she tested the heat of her iron with a moistened thumb, then began to iron. She worked steadily for a time, laying each finished piece on the bed beside her. Once Ben appeared in the doorway asking for the roll of cellophane tape, and she told him where to find it. After a while she finished the last of her ironing, turned off the iron, and walked out of the bedroom. She glanced into the living room; it seemed very quiet.
Ben Bennell sat hunched forward in his chair, a small aluminum funnel cupped in one hand. In the other hand was a teaspoon heaped with dry coffee grounds. His face intent, eyes narrowed in concentration, he was pouring coffee into the funnel, some of it spilling down onto his robe.
Ben, what in the world are you doing?“
He looked up, his eyes eager. Come here. He held up the hand with the funnel, exposing a paper tea bag in his palm, the funnel protruding from a small slit in the paper.
Reagh walked over; on the table beside Ben, in addition to spilled coffee grounds, lay a little heap of dry tea leaves, an opened tin of coffee, several kitchen knives, her manicure scissors and a roll of cellophane tape.
Ben gestured with the tissue-paper sack in his hand. I'm making a coffee bag. Took out the tea and filled this with coffee. He examined the bulging little sack. Should be enough. Now, the big test. He looked up at Reagh, his face eager, excited. Mind boiling me a cup of water? Picking up the roll of tape, he tore a piece off, bent over the little sack, and began carefully fastening the transparent tape over the slit he had made in the paper.
Reagh went out to the kitchen, turned the hot-water faucet on full, got out a small pan, filled it with water, hot and steaming from the faucet, and put it on the stove to boil.
Ben appeared in the doorway, grains of coffee clinging to his robe, happily swinging the little white sack by its string from a finger. Nearly ready?
Almost. Reagh nodded at the pan on the stove. It'll boil in a minute.
Fine. He glanced around the kitchen. Where's a cup?
Right beside you; on the cup hooks.
Excellent. He took down a cup. And the sugar?
In the bowl there. The spoons are in the drawer underneath.
Good. He took out a spoon, dipped it into the sugar bowl, and turned to Reagh. One spoonful enough?
Yes. You mean I'm the guinea pig?
You are indeed to have that honor. You will take your rightful place in history as the first human to taste delicious coffee prepared from the revolutionary new coffee bag. He poured sugar into the cup, then dropped the little sack in, its red paper tag dangling over the rim of the cup. The water began to boil and he took the pan from the stove and filled the cup. The water turned a faint brown, and Ben stirred it vigorously. It quickly turned darker brown and the fragrance of hot coffee spread through the room. Ben grinned happily. You like your coffee strong?
Fairly. Reagh stepped closer to the stove and looked down into the cup. That looks about right.
Ben removed the dripping sack and laid it on top of the stove. He handed the cup to Reagh. Here you are; history in the making. What hath God wrought? He watched anxiously as Reagh tentatively sipped the coffee. How's it taste?
Her brows raised in surprise. Not bad at that. She took another sip. Little weak, though.
Weak? We'll soon fix that. He took her cup and dropped the coffee bag back into it. With the spoon he squashed it vigorously against the side of the cup. The cellophane tape slid off, the paper widened at the slit and the bag parted, filling the cup with grounds. He glared at Reagh. The way they make these bags! He tasted the coffee, then removed a ground from his lip with a finger. It's not bad, though. Little weak, maybe, but not too bad. He set the cup on the stove. This is percolater grind, of course. If you used drip grind, I imagine it would work out fine.
Maybe. Though I doubt it, somehow.
Don't know why not. You don't have any, do you? Drip grind?
No.
Well, let's get half a pound. Make up a bunch of these and really try them out. He walked to the doorway, then turned. Good idea, don't you think?
Sure.
Wonder if they'd deliver some drip coffee if we phoned?
Not today, said Reagh hastily. They never deliver in the afternoon.
You're not going to the store or anything?
No.
Well, we'll do it tomorrow, then, if I'm not feeling better. He pulled out a handkerchief and walked out toward the living room, blowing his nose.
Reagh removed the burst coffee bag from the cup with a spoon, dropped it into the garbage pail, wiped off the top of the stove, rinsed out the cup, put away the little pan, and replaced the lid on the sugar bowl. Then, getting out various ingredients and implements from cupboard shelves and the refrigerator, she deftly, rapidly prepared a meat loaf and, adjusting the temperature dial on the oven, put it in to bake, glancing at the clock on the refrigerator. She went to the spare bedroom, picked up the stack of finished ironing, and put it away in the front-hall linen closet. On her way back through the living room, she stopped at Ben's chair. He was staring absently out the window, and she put a hand on his shoulder.
How do you feel?
He looked up at her and grinned. The end is near. No use trying to hide it; I'm in the twilight of my years.
Do you want anything? Quinine? Nose drops? Sympathy?
Sympathy and plenty of it. He frowned. You know, I've been thinking. It's pretty awful to realize that when you're gone, the world will go on; birds singing and flowers blooming without you. There's a craving for immortality in each of us, I guess, and I've finally figured out the answer. Forget the taxidermy; it's too impermanent. I wan
t you to have me bronzed.
Bronzed?
Like a baby's shoe; you've seen the ads. You have the baby's shoes bronzed and use them for book ends. Well—he grinned—just have me bronzed all over like a baby shoe. And install me in the living room for some equally useful purpose. Maybe put a clock in my stomach. Have the dates of my birth and untimely demise inscribed on my chest—‘Be your own memorial and be useful besides.’ I could have one hand extended which would hold an ash tray, or even be an ash tray, and —
I guess you're okay; a little bored, maybe. She looked down at him thoughtfully. If you feel like company, we could ask the Everetts over tonight.
Why the Everetts?
She shrugged. We haven't seen them for a long time.
We haven't seen Pretty Boy Floyd lately, either. Or the Hermann Goerings.
I just thought it might do you good.
Well, I'm not that sick. Let's hold off with the Everetts till I'm really sick; preferably delirious.
Reagh shrugged again. Suit yourself. She started to turn away.
Ben smiled and reached out and took her hand. I'm really a trial to you, aren't I?
She smiled. Not too bad. You're sick, after a fashion, so I guess you're entitled to a little humoring.
You know—he pulled her gently down to the arm of his chair, putting an arm around her waist—I don't deserve a wonderful helpmeet like you. A veritable Florence Nightingale.
Reagh smiled and kissed the top of his head.
I don't deserve to be immortalized in bronze; I think the sink dispos—
Now don't start that again.
Okay. He grinned at her affectionately, then his smile faded. For several moments he sat looking at her face and his eyes became very gentle and tender. Then he said quietly, You know, Reagh, there's something I really would like you to promise me.
She stroked his hair gently, her eyes widening. Whatever you want, she said softly.
I want you to promise—his head dropped to his chest—that when I go, you'll marry again.
Ben, sick or not sick, I swear I'll crown you! Now, I mean it! She pushed his arm from her waist and tried to get up, but Ben held her to the chair.