The Jack Finney Reader

by Jack Finney

  Because we've seen the light, Tim said. Hallelujah.

  And now, the radio voice continued, we have an absolutely unique record just completed, at tremendous expense, especially for this superior, discriminating audience. It is played by mice. Entirely out of my own salary, I have had a complete set of mouse-size instruments made: tiny little drums, saxophones, violins. Plus a mouse grand piano, six inches long. With inexhaustible patience I have trained fourteen of the most alert of the mice who patronize this studio to play for you with impeccable skill. They are sitting here now, on top of my lunch bucket, whiskers twitching, their little faces alive with eagerness, waiting to play your favorite selections. Ready, fellows? Okay.

  A record began, but it was perfectly ordinary, a popular dance tune played by a well-known orchestra, and in the background the announcer's voice said, Well, why should it sound any different?

  Tim shook his head admiringly. That's the job I want. he said. After years wasted in the drab world of business, I have found my true calling.

  It would suit you, all right.

  Lifting his glass, Tim raised it halfway to his mouth, then he stopped, staring out at the room, and began to smile, his eyes lighting with the pleasure of a new idea. Listen, he said, let's go out.

  What? Eve looked incredulous.

  Sure. He set his glass down eagerly, and turned to Eve. Let's get dressed — no fooling — and go see what's doing in the world at this time of night.

  You're crazy. Eve took a sip of her drink.

  No, I mean it. He stood up. Are we going to waste our lives chained to routine? Spend every night in sodden sleep?

  Yes.

  Not tonight. Barefoot, he strode out to the center of the room and turned facing Eve. Tonight we're salvaging a little of the decades we waste in idle sleep, and hours of new leisure lie ahead filled with marvelous things to do.

  Such as what? Eve looked at him cynically.

  For a moment Tim considered this, then he shrugged. Damned if I know, he said, and walked back to the coffee table to pick up his glass. Yes, I do. There are millions of things to do. The interest and eagerness returned to his voice, and he began to pace about the room. Right now, for example, all around the Times Building, little coffee joints are filled with newspapermen. about to go to work on tomorrow's paper. He grinned at Eve happily. We'll join them.

  They'll be delighted to see us, I know.

  Of course they will. He gestured expansively with his glass. I'll say I'm a foreign correspondent, while you, of course, are a lady photographer. So take your Brownie. We'll say we just flew in from Graustark, and things look bad. The entire peasantry on the verge of revolt, converts to the false doctrines of Fletcherism, while troops are massed on the borders of Oz. A reporter will snatch the phone, shoving his hat back. Mr. Sulzberger! he'll scream. Break up the front page into little tiny pieces; we've scooped the News at last! Flash bulbs will explo—

  Are there really little places like that? With people from the Times?

  Sure, there are.

  Eve raised her eyebrows thoughtfully. It might be fun, at that, she murmured.

  Of course! All kinds of wonderful things go on while the yokelry sleep their lives away. Down at the docks they're loading ships under lights.

  Really? Eve looked at him with a growing interest.

  Sure. Come on, get dressed!

  Okay, soon as I finish this. She rattled the ice cube in her half-filled glass. You really mean it, now?

  Yes. He smiled. I do now, anyway.

  What about work tomorrow?

  I'll survive; don't worry about it. He gulped the last of his drink, and turned toward the kitchen. Tonight, we're going out in search of adventure, the way they do in English movies. In the kitchen he continued talking, raising his voice to call out to Eve. Go put on a tight sweater, high-heeled slippers and a beret. Walk with your hands on your hips in a seductive sway, a cigarette dangling from your over-rouged lips. I'll call you Evette. Momentarily he appeared again in the doorway. I'll wear a trench coat with the collar turned up, a hat pulled down over my eyes, and a sturdy pipe in my teeth. He turned back into the kitchen, adding, You may call me Bulldog Drummond.

  I like Foxterrier Ryan better.

  The light in the kitchen went out and Tim walked back into the living room, a fresh drink in his hand. Okay, he said happily, strolling toward the windows, you'll sing a different tune when you see me deep in the sewers of New York, automatic in hand, battling it out under Seventh Avenue. He stopped at a window, leaning forward to peer down at the street.

  Battling it out with whom?

  I don't know. R. H. Macy.

  Why? Eve took a swallow of her drink.

  Because I know too much, he said, glancing back over his shoulder. I found a pair of shorts at Gimbels for six per cent less, and he's afraid I'll squeal.

  She giggled. Tim. you're getting high! No fooling, you really are!

  Maybe. He shrugged. But there was also a very telltale note in that high-pitched giggle of yours. He grinned. I feel good, all right, he admitted, and he stooped suddenly, raised the window, and leaned out. In a loud, melodious, singsong tone, drawing each syllable out, he called, Three-e-e o'clock, and all-l-l is well-l-l!

  Tim!

  He turned to look at her. I'm reviving an old cust—

  Tim, get back in here! Close that wind—

  Suddenly, astonishingly loud, there came a shout from the street below: Hey-y-y. Nick!

  Good Lord, Tim said. He leaned out the window, staring down at the street. He's across the street, looking up here.

  Tim, close that win—

  Hey-y-y, Nick!

  Tim jerked his head into the room, reaching up hastily to pull down the window.

  Nick! Nicky boy-y-y! came the mindless bellow, and now, from the apartment building across the street, they heard a window shoot up, squealing angrily.

  Officer! a woman's voice called out, incredibly clear in the still night air. Officer! she repeated in an officious tone, and Tim and Eve knew from the sound of it that somewhere in the block she actually saw a policeman. It was the peremptory voice of the upright indignant citizen calling on a servant of law and order to disperse the offending rabble.

  Some old bat across the street, Tim whispered. He squatted on the floor, his eyes level with the sill. I hate that type.

  Setting her glass down, Eve hurried across the room to kneel beside Tim, and now they saw a policeman approaching from the right. He was crossing the street toward the opposite side in slow, unhurried steps, his night stick dangling from its thong, every casual motion of his body hard, competent, utterly assured. A second-story window formed a yellow rectangle of light in the darkened side of the building opposite, and from this window a woman's head projected out over the dark battered hat of the drunk on the sidewalk directly below her. The policeman, however, didn't deign even to lift his head to look at or speak to the woman, nor did he trouble to so much as glance at the drunk who stood with his feet wide apart, supported by the brick side of the building, waiting for whatever might happen.

  Glancing casually up and down the length of the street as he walked, the policeman assumed, by his whole manner, the leading role in the sudden drama below. Every move was bored and contemptuous; he was irritable authority condescending to settle the petty and stupid problems of the citizenry. To Tim and Eve, watching at the window, there was a chilling, impersonal ruthlessness in the sight and sound of the measured steps approaching the helpless waiting man on the sidewalk.

  Oh, I hope he doesn't hurt him! Eve said.

  He won't, Tim answered, but from his voice Eve knew he wasn't sure; and Tim added in a worried tone, I started this, I guess; maybe I better go down.

  Oh, no, you don't! He'd have yelled anyway; he did it before.

  The woman pulled her head back into the window, and disappeared across the lighted room. The policeman stopped before the drunk, reached out casually with one hand, taking his time, and graspe
d the man's clothing in a fist, tight across the chest. Then he shook him, twice, his arm hardly seeming to move, but the drunk's head rolled on his shoulders, and he began to mutter. Planted solidly on his feet, the policeman drew the man out from the wall until they were almost touching, chest to chest. He turned, then, pulling the man with him, then shoved him away hard, so that the drunk stumbled backward. The policeman, so far, hadn't bothered to say a word.

  With a nod, Tim pointed out to Eve the lighted window across the street. The woman's head had appeared again, and for a fraction of a second she looked down at the top of the policeman's dark cap, now directly under her. Then her head quickly withdrew, and they saw her disappear momentarily below the ledge of the window.

  Almost instantly she appeared again, and across the quiet street Tim and Eve recognized the unmistakable dull clank of the handle of a scrub bucket dropping onto the metal edge. With a heave of her arms, the woman brought up the bucket, and they watched her, hardly daring to believe what they saw, as she balanced it for an instant on the window ledge. Then in one swift move she dumped the entire contents of the bucket onto the policeman's head.

  It was past all belief, unacceptable, rejected by the brain even as they watched it happen, and Tim and Eve, no longer breathing, their mouths gaping, watched in incredulous, fascinated horror as the thick torrent of water struck the stretched surface of the policeman's cap and shot up again in a miniature, foot-high geyser.

  In the weak gleam of the street light, in a sort of slow-motion vision, they saw the little geyser foam white at its top, then break to pour down over the policeman's head, collar and shoulders.

  As if what they had seen were not sufficiently beyond all boundaries of belief, the policeman brought up both his arms, the elbows straight out at his sides, his fists clenched at his chest, then dropped them suddenly, raised his night stick high in the air, and began to run in a tight little circle of hardly more than a yard in diameter. With not a sound but the scuffle of his shoes on the pavement, he ran around and around the invisible circle, bringing his stick down and up, down and up, in sharp, spasmodic blows on the empty air.

  A phrase sprang into Tim's mind. A dance of rage, he said in an awed voice. There actually is such a thing.

  Then it stopped. Backing away from the building, his night stick raised, his head thrown back to look up at the window, the policeman made thick choking sounds of inexpressible fury deep in his throat. His voice burst out, then, and they knew that never before in his life had he reached this peak of staggering rage. What! he screamed. What in the hell! He could not seem to finish a sentence or find words to fit one. What in the damn' hell! he screamed, and then he actually leaped into the air, futilely springing from both toes, trying to get at the horrified woman still leaning out the window, with the bucket in her hand, and her mouth wide open.

  I — they heard her say, her voice strangling in the quiet air. She said it again, I — Then she gave up and, pointing vaguely down to one side of the policeman, said, I thought it was — I thought it was still — I thought it was him. She wailed despairingly, and then for an instant the woman and the policeman simply stared at each other, motionless, across the yard of space that separated them. Then they both started to move at the same instant.

  The woman disappeared, running across the lighted room, and Tim kept muttering, Turn off your lights, turn off your lights. The policeman, running hard, turned the corner, heading for the lighted entrance to the building on the cross street.

  His eyes wide with astonishment, Tim turned to Eve. Did you see that! he demanded wildly. Oh, Lord, did you see that! He clapped both hands to his head. Oh, let me die! Let me die right now; that was perfect! Never in my life have I seen anything so beautifully, screamingly perfect. I don't think a single drop reached the sidewalk! He began to roar — short shouts of wild laughter — and he turned from the window and staggered around the room bent double, his arms clasped around his stomach. On his head, he kept repeating. On the cop's head! Did you see it? Right on his head; a bucket of water on the cop's head. Oh, my God! Then he dropped into a chair, and laughed helplessly.

  Eve, who had been watching him, turned suddenly toward the window, her eye caught by a movement. He's coming back! she said, and dropped down onto her knees at the window again, while Tim sprang up to join her.

  Walking fast, one hand gripping the arm of a reluctantly hurrying elevator man, the policeman approached the still-lighted window, craning his neck to one side, trying to look up into it. Directly under the window they stopped, the policeman pointing up at it. His back was toward them, and Tim and Eve couldn't quite hear what he said, but they knew he was asking for the apartment number. The elevator man ran a finger around the inside of his stiff wing collar, obviously reluctant to answer; then he shrugged and responded, and the policeman dropped his arm, and, moving rapidly, walked back to the building entrance, the elevator man following more slowly. They disappeared inside.

  What'll happen to, her? Eve asked Tim. Electrocution, he said delightedly. If she's lucky. A special slow form of electrocution, building up from one volt to ten thousand, a volt at a time, and lasting all day. Then she'll be publicly burned, and her name will be blotted from all records, including the telephone book. Oh, Lord, he sighed, shaking his head, that was beautiful, it was actually beautiful.

  No, seriously; what'll he do, do you think?

  Tim shrugged. Nothing serious. What can he do? If he could have reached her at the moment, he'd have brained her, but now — well, I suppose she could be charged with something or other and fined. But I think he'll drop the whole thing, after giving her hell. What else? He'd be the laughingstock of the whole force if he ever said a word about this.

  For a while they continued to watch at the window, but the policeman did not reappear, and presently the light across the street went out, and Tim stood up, helping Eve to her feet, and they sat down on the davenport.

  She smiled. I don't think you ought to be so pleased about it. After all.

  After all, what? he said. Who're you feeling sorry for? The woman? She got what she deserved.

  Why? After all, she does have a right to peace and quiet at night.

  Sure. He nodded. Sure she does; that part's all right. But she wasn't going to be satisfied just to let that poor drunk be led away. With the cop safely at hand, no danger of the drunk getting back at her, she had to get vindictive. She had to douse the drunk with a bucket of water. I hope she trembles in bed for a week.

  Maybe. Eve smiled. I guess so. But what about the policeman? He was just doing his duty.

  Tim shrugged. I suppose so. But how was he doing it? With that tough, hardboiled, cop attitude. I hate that stuff. Anyway, when a cop actually gets a bucket of water dumped on his head, I'm afraid I love it, fair or unfair. The whole thing was perfect; complete poetic justice all around; a work of art in every sense. Did you see that dance? He sat up, his eyes glowing.

  When I was a kid I used to see the Keystone Cops in old one-reel comedies. And I've always assumed that the antics they went through, the jumping around and waving of night sticks, were Mack Sennett's own inventions, and had nothing to do with real life. He shook his head in slow amazement. But now I know better. Dump a bucket of water on a cop's head, and he actually does run around in a little circle waving his stick.

  He smiled happily at Eve. Someday, right on Madison Avenue, probably, I'm going to see a cop chasing a little man with a mustache, derby hat, baggy pants and a bamboo cane. And when the cop turns a corner, he's going to leap up in the air, kicking his legs like scissors, exactly the way they did in the old-time comedies, and I won't be a bit surprised. He picked up his drink from the coffee table, took a swallow, then set it down again, and stood up. Well, old lady, guess we better get to bed.

  Eve stood up, stretching. What about going out? And looking for adventure?

  Tim shook his head. We've had it, he said. Anything else now, including gang warfare, would be an anticlimax. No man cou
ld possibly ask more of life than to see a cop get a bucket of water — scrub water, I hope — dumped on his head. My cup runneth over. He reached out to the wall switch and stood waiting for Eve to turn into the hallway leading to the bedroom; then he snapped off the light and followed.

  In bed, in the darkness, Tim said, For years, ever since I came to New York, I've heard screams of agony at night, fusillades of shots, tremendous explosions, and I've never once found out why or what happened next. But tonight makes up for all that; a beautiful, finished, rounded-off little drama, with everyone getting just what he deserved. I still can't believe it, and if this is the reward of giving up sleep, we're staying up every night from now on.

  Okay, Eve said patiently. It was wonderful, a thing of beauty; a cop got water poured on his head. Now, let's go to sleep.

  Okay, only I hope I dream it all over again. Good night, baby. He turned to kiss her.

  They lay silent for a minute or so; then Eve said, The drunk; what happened to the drunk?

  That's right, Tim. said. What did happen?

  From below their windows on the silent street, the traffic lights clicked, and then, in the instant that followed — far off down the street, three or perhaps four blocks away — they heard a barely audible cry. Hey-y-y, Nick! called the voice. Nicky boy-y-y!

  That does it, said Tim. The finishing touch that completes a masterpiece. If I die in my sleep, engrave on my tombstone, Timberlake Ryan; he really lived.

  Collier's, November 24, 1951, 128(21):20-21, 50-52

  Stopover at Reno

  The instant the bellboy closed the door, Ben Bennell saw his wife turn toward him, and he avoided her eyes. How much is the room? she asked. She was dark and pretty, in slacks and a short cloth jacket, her face marred, now, by tired lines.

  For just an instant, he hesitated; then he told her the truth, winking confidentially. He was a stocky man with a pleasant face. Eight dollars, he said.