The Jack Finney Reader

by Jack Finney

  When you have me bronzed, he said rapidly, be sure they put a benign and approving smile on my face, faintly sad but brave, and with just a touch of fatherly concern. And with my hands upraised in eternal blessing—Reagh struggled wildly, but Ben held her to the chair—so that when your future husband comes acourting —

  All right, I will. Reagh relaxed and sat back on the chair arm.

  Will what?

  Marry again. In fact, I can hardly wait.

  Is that so? He looked at her coldly.

  Yep. Reagh clasped one knee in her hands and gazed up at the ceiling. I wonder what he'll be like? Someone not too tall and thin this time, I hope. No more bony knees. Maybe just a shade taller than I am. Sort of plump and—she smiled down at him sweetly—cuddly.

  Sounds like just what you deserve. I hope he smokes cigars. Big fat ones. And moist.

  So do I. She sighed. There's something so masculine about a cigar smoker.

  I promise that the whole enormous bronzed weight of me will fall smack on that squashy little potbelly of his, and —

  On the other hand—Reagh stared absently ahead at the windows—he might be even taller and slimmer than you are. And blond, this time. That would be nice for a change; I always did like blond men. I'll shop around, take my time, be more selective —

  All right, said Ben, I give up. I surrender. I'll live to be ninety if it kills me.

  You mean I'm stuck with you? She looked at him forlornly. You raise my hopes, then —

  I said I give up. Ben's voice was testy. You win, you win.

  She smiled sweetly. I was only agreeing with you.

  Well, you don't have to run it into the ground.

  Not mad, are you? she said softly. Or just a little jealous, maybe?

  Of course not; I simply — Ben looked up and saw that she was shaking her head in amusement. For a moment he looked at her, annoyed, then he smiled. Okay. That'll teach me to get smart with you.

  Honestly—Reagh shook her head again—if you ever thought for a moment that I could possibly marry anyone else after you —

  Well—Ben shrugged—you should, of course. Certainly wouldn't have any trouble, either. He grinned. Since you'd inherit all my money.

  Well, I wouldn't: I wouldn't even want to go on living. She was silent for a moment, then she frowned. Ben, would you—I mean if I — She stopped. Oh, this is silly.

  No, he said, I wouldn't. I'd never marry again.

  Reagh smiled wistfully. Well, it's wonderful that you think so; I certainly wouldn't want you to feel any other way. But of course you would. In time. And I'd want you to; I really would.

  Well, I wouldn't, I can tell you that. Why, I've never even seen another woman who could even come close to —

  You'd find someone, though. She stared down at him for a moment. Or she'd find you, that's more like it. You'd be a very eligible young widower, you know. I'll bet that What's-her-name, that girl you were seeing just before we met, would be around again before the flowers wilted. I'll bet —

  Look—should we solve this problem right now? In the only possible way? We'll go out to the kitchen, seal the doors and windows, turn on the oven —

  Oh, the meat loaf! Reagh jumped to her feet and ran to the kitchen.

  In the kitchen she looked at the meat loaf, lowered the oven temperature a little, then set out a package of frozen strawberries to thaw. She stood fingering her chin absently, then went to the spare bedroom, collapsed her ironing board, and carried it out toward the kitchen.

  His voice a little muffled, Ben called from the front-hall closet, Reagh, haven't we got some India ink someplace? And where's that old reel of fishline?

  Reagh set the end of the ironing board on the floor. They're both in a box in the big bureau drawer.

  What kind of box?

  She sighed and picked up her ironing board. Wait'll I put these things away; I'll be out there in a minute.

  Ladies' Home Journal, April 1951:72-73, 229-230, 232-233, 235

  One-Man Show

  The telephone rang and Timberlake Ryan dropped his magazine and rolled off the davenport onto his hands and knees. I'll get it, he said, and stood up. He was a tall, lean, dark-haired man.

  His wife, Eve, glanced up from her knitting. If it's the Davidows, ask them over.

  Okay. He padded out to the kitchen in his stocking feet, and Eve paused, her hands motionless over her knitting, waiting till he lifted the receiver. Hello, she heard him say; then, after a moment, No. He repeated it, No, then added, That's all right. It was a wrong number, Eve decided, resuming her knitting; but then she stopped as she heard him speak again.

  That's right, Timberlake E. Ryan. Yes, Frank was my father's name. I was born in San Francisco. Why? What's the — He was apparently interrupted, and there was a long pause; then Tim exclaimed, How much? After a moment he whistled softly, incredulously, and in a subdued voice said, I'll be damned … Why, yes, I have an uncle, Ralph Ryan, but I've never even seen him; why should he have picked me? He paused, then said, I see … I see. He laughed in astonished delight. I certainly will be home; come on over. It's not cash, is it? … Securities, eh? Well, come right on ov— There was a long pause; then he said, Ranch? Good Lord. He seemed stunned. Raised cattle, eh? …

  Eve was standing in the doorway, the overhead kitchen light shining down on her yellow hair. Tim, what in the world —

  He held a hand up, motioning for silence, frowning and pressing the receiver tight to his car. Wait a second, he said into the telephone, I didn't hear that last. He stood silent, staring unseeingly past Eve, his mouth slowly opening in astonishment. Suddenly, his voice puzzled, almost angry, he said, Why, I don't know! What disposition do people usually make of jewelry? He shook his head. You'll just have to give me time to think about it; this is all too sudd— He listened, his frown deepening, then said, Well, can't they be left where they are, for the time being? … No, of course I don't want to keep them; not all of them, anyway. One or two cars is enough for —

  Eve was stooping, leaning to one side, trying to see the base of the telephone, and Tim shifted his position negligently, blocking from her view the telephone base and the hand which rested casually on top of it, pressing down the bar. Eve pursed her lips scornfully, shook her head, and turned and walked back into the living room. Tim, alone in the kitchen again, grinned.

  A harem! he said into the telephone. Why, no, you'd better dispose of that. Yes, definitely. My wife wouldn't approve — … No, no, not even one or two; better get rid of them all. … Well, all right. Save me one tall brunette, but that's positively all. … Fine; just bring the cash over in a wheelbarrow, we'll be waiting. So glad you called. He replaced the receiver, snapped off the kitchen light, and strolled back into the living room. Funny thing, he said to Eve, this old uncle of mine —

  She did not glance up from her knitting. Wrong number?

  Yeah, her husband said, and he lay down on the davenport again, picking up his pocket-size magazine.

  Sometimes I think I'm weak in the head. Eve glanced at the knitting book lying open on the table beside her. Married to you all this time, and still falling for these dopey gags.

  It's part of your charm. He riffled the pages, looking for his place. Though I sometimes suspect you go along with my gags just to humor me. If so, don't tell me. He began to read.

  I wish something exciting would happen, though. Eve leaned back in the big easy chair, staring absently across at Tim. I wish the phone or doorbell would ring and it'd be something just wonderful.

  Money doesn't buy true happiness.

  I don't mean money, necessarily. Just something exciting, and — different. For a moment longer she continued to stare across the room. Then, dismissing daydreams, she sat up, pulled a length of yarn from the ball in the chair beside her, and, needles poised, glanced at her instruction book again. But instead of resuming her knitting, she dropped the needles again, slumped back in her chair, and stared across the room at Tim once more. Entertain me, she
said.

  He glanced up from his magazine. What a fool I was. A happy, contented, domestic scene. The wife knitting by the fireside — new socks for her husband, no doubt. The husband at well-earned rest after a day in the vineyard. Then what do I do? Stir up discontent, rebellion —

  Well, it's your own fault. Eve folded her arms determinedly. Go ahead, entertain me.

  Okay. He turned back to the magazine. Here's a brief digested joke. An elderly preacher —

  No, no, none of that. Real entertainment. Come on, now.

  All right. Something more solid perhaps? He flipped through several pages. More stimulating fare for the mind? He folded the magazine back. Here's an interesting article, something everyone should know. How to Repair Your Own Appendix. Recent experiments with Scotch tape offer new hope to thousands of despairing —

  Eve sighed, and as Tim looked up, she was folding the knitting in her lap, wrapping it around the long steel needles. Then she stood up and said absently, Might as well take a bath, I guess. Set the table for breakfast. Get to bed early. S'pose I could phone Ann, but … She let the sentence trail off, glanced disconsolately around the room as though looking for something she didn't expect to find, then turned toward the doorway.

  Well, do you want to do something? Tim asked anxiously, watching her. See a movie, maybe? Have a drink somewhere? Or dance? Visit someone? Ring doorbells?

  No. Eve turned in the doorway, shrugging slightly. It isn't that I want to do something, exactly. I want something to happen to me, if you know what I mean. She stood looking at Tim wistfully, then shrugged again and said, Sometimes you just wish something different would happen, that's all. But it never does, of course. She sighed and walked on toward the bedroom. I'll go take a bath, I guess. I've got some new bath salts I can use.

  When she had left the room, Tim put down his magazine, clasped his hands across his chest, and lay gazing thoughtfully up at the ceiling. He thought he knew what Eve meant. He felt he understood very well that in any life there was an occasional urgent need for drama, surprise, even shock. Next door to contentment, he said to himself, lay boredom.

  Lying on the davenport, he heard the small clatter of metal handles on polished wood from the bedroom — a dresser drawer opening; then the rattle of small bottles, glass against glass, on the dresser top. The closet door opened and wire clothes hangers jangled, the sound muffled, deep in the closet. Tim's eyes narrowed in thought, and he began to smile. But after a few moments the smile slowly faded and he slowly and regretfully shook his head. Settling his head into the cushion, he reached for his magazine again.

  But he didn't read it. Again his eyes narrowed. Then suddenly he got up, shrugged — a what-can-you-lose-by-trying gesture — and walked silently to the kitchen in his stocking feet.

  Soundlessly he opened the big telephone book to the yellow classified section, and by the light from the living room, slowly and carefully turned the pages till he found the column he was looking for. Then, his finger marking a telephone number, he stood waiting till he heard Eve's mules clatter across the hall from the bedroom to the bathroom. He heard a light click on, and the bathroom door close. An instant later, at the sound of water rushing into the bathtub, Tim lifted the receiver and dialed.

  Hello. He spoke very quietly. Mr. Ackermann? … Oh, fine; I was afraid maybe you'd gone. This is Tim Ryan; I've been in your place several times — … Oh, I'm fine. How are you? … Good. Well, look, Mr. Ackermann; I saw something in your store last time I was in, and if you still have it maybe you'd do me a favor on your way home tonight. … Yeah, it's something I'd want you to handle personally; this would have to be done exactly right. Smiling a little, he continued to speak, and when the sound of the water in the bathroom stopped, he reached his foot out and pushed the kitchen door shut.

  In the tub, Eve lazily paddled the water with her hands. She heard the kitchen door shut, vaguely wondered about it for a moment, then thought of it no more; and presently, when the bath crystals had dissolved, she lay back, her eyes closed, soaking in the warmth.

  … Swell, Tim was saying in the kitchen, if you're sure it's no trouble. Now, I want you to bill me for this; at least for your time. … Okay, and thanks. He depressed the black bar in the base of the telephone, held it down for a moment, then released it again and dialed Operator. Western Union, he said quietly when she answered.

  Eve sat up, ran more hot water into the tub, then lay hack again, watching the bathroom mirror dull under the gathering film of steam. After a time, when it was completely obscured, she sat up again and began to soap her arms.

  … That's correct, said Tim, in the kitchen. And I'd like it delivered, please, not phoned. Thanks. He hung up, waited a moment, then lifted the receiver and once more dialed Information. I want to speak to Harry Fitznell, he said. He lives somewhere in Bronxville; I don't know the address.

  Some ten or fifteen minutes later, when Eve walked into the living room wearing a green taffeta housecoat, Tim lay on the davenport, the magazine in his hands exactly as before. Eve's hair was gathered under a neatly folded bath-towel turban, there was fresh color in her cheeks, and her small pert face was shining and very young-looking. She looked like a child, innocent and appealing, and when she stopped at the mantel to open the cigarette box, Tim took a sudden involuntary breath, almost a sigh, in renewed pleasure that this was his wife.

  Cigarette? Eve said. She put one between her lips, holding another ready to toss over to Tim.

  Why, no. He looked at her, puzzled, his voice faintly surprised. I don't smoke.

  Since when? Eve snapped a lighter and held the flame to her cigarette.

  He raised his wrist to look at his watch. Since seventeen minutes ago. Lifting his magazine, he began, apparently, to read aloud. Headaches, listlessness, poor appetite, dengue fever, lactation of the blood, a vague feeling of boredom along about sundown — all these and many other debilitating symptoms disappeared completely in test group A within two hours after its members stopped smoking. Indeed, the life span itself, some authorities say, may be shortened as much as five years by smoking, while sex activ—

  Here. Eve tossed a cigarette onto his chest. I wouldn't want you to be a widower. Or get too active.

  Thanks, He took matches from the table beside him, lighted his cigarette, and inhaled deeply. At least I proved I can take them or leave them alone. Taking the cigarette from his mouth, he studied the lighted end of it thoughtfully. You know, he said, I sort of wish something would happen, too. Something — he stared at Eve as though he were hunting for the word —different.

  Eve picked up a magazine, walked to the big easy chair, and sat down. For a moment she sat looking at Tim, the magazine unopened in her lap. Yeah, she said then; she took a puff on her cigarette and began turning the pages.

  The door buzzer sounded.

  Do you mind, honey? Tim said. I'd answer it, except that I'd have to get up.

  Eve stood up and walked across the room, tightening the belt of her robe, then opened the front door.

  Ryan? Tim heard a voice ask from the hall. Mrs. Eve Ryan? By leaning far to one side of the davenport, supporting himself with one hand on the floor, Tim could see a young man, wearing a tan uniform cap, rumpled pants, a sweater and high-topped Army shoes, standing in the doorway. Telegram, he said wearily, thrusting a yellow envelope, pencil and receipt form at Eve.

  She signed the slip, holding it against the door panel, then handed it back, closed the door, and stood staring wonderingly at the little cellophane window behind which her name was typed. She glanced up at Tim. Telegram, she said, her voice bewildered; then she ducked her head, tore open the envelope, pulled out the message and began to read, her eyes scanning rapidly. For Heaven sakes! She looked up at Tim, her mouth open, her eyes wide, then began reading the yellow sheet again.

  Tim got up and stood beside her, looking at the words he had dictated over the telephone. URGE YOU AND HUBBY JOIN US ONE MONTH TOUR REVIVAL MEETINGS IN SOUTHWESTERN STATES. YOU SING IN C
HOIR, HUBBY HANDLE COLLECTIONS PLUS INSPIRATIONAL SPEECHES. WONDERFUL OPPORTUNITY. REPLY AIR MAIL, REMEMBER YOUR PROMISE. WON'T TAKE NO FOR ANSWER. LOVE, EDNA AND CLAIR. In an upper corner of the telegram, preceded by a string of numerals and code letters, was typed the point of origin of the message, NEW YORK, N. Y., and the time, not twenty minutes before, when it had been sent, but Tim knew Eve hadn't noticed.

  I simply don't understand it. She turned to Tim. Why in the world would they think we —

  Isn't Edna — Tim massaged his forehead in an apparent effort to remember — that cousin of yours who teaches Sunday school? Near Salt Lake somewhere? She and her husband? Seems to me that when they were in New York she said —

  Well, yes. She does. But they don't make a career of it that I ever heard. Just on Sundays, the way people in small towns do. I never heard of any tours or revival meetings.

  Tim shrugged and walked back to the davenport. Maybe they got promoted.

  Well, it's just silly. Eve returned to her chair, looking at the telegram as she walked. What in the world is the matter with them?

  Of course it's silly. I could never get away for a month.

  She looked at him, annoyed. Now, don't give me that.

  Tim smiled; then his face became serious. I mean it; I think we should go, for at least part of the tour. It's not too bad an idea, when you think about it. Where'd you go on your vacation? people will ask. Oh, you'll say, as though it were nothing remarkable, we got tired of the gay and fashionable watering places; fed up with the meaningless glitter. So this year I sang in the choir at reviv—

  All right.

  And Tim gave a series of the most wonderful talks, I didn't know he had it in —

  All right, that's enough. She glanced down at the telegram again, then brought it closer to her eyes. What's this about a promise?

  You did, you know. Tim shrugged regretfully. When Cousin Edna was here, she said — I remember this — that you ought to teach Sunday school, too. That you'd really enjoy it. And you said maybe you would sometime, and —