by Jack Finney
I was coldly furious; not scared in the least; and I really think I might have gone over to him and tried to do something about getting rid of him, though I don't know what. But he turned just then and once more crossed the room, avoiding the invisible barrier, and walked down the hall toward the bathroom, and then I remembered what Gruener had told me. He'd been up three nights with his problem, and now I'd seen him three nights, and I was certain this was the end of it. And it was. I went to bed then, and I've never seen Gruener's ghost since.
Have you ever noticed that once you decide you're going to give someone the business, you can't wait to start? And you can't lay it on too strong. Next morning at the office, I felt a kind of tough, hard cockiness about my decisions, and I asked Ted to lunch. He's a wise guy, a sneerer, and I actually had a ghost story I could prove; undoubtedly I was the first man in history who had the ghost himself to back up his story, and Ted was the man I wanted to back out on a limb, and then break it off.
In the restaurant booth he listened, true to type, with an amused and pitying sneer on his face, and I wondered why I'd ever thought twice about giving him even the least consideration. I didn't tell him, of course, what I'd actually been worrying over at night, but the rest was accurate, and occasionally, as I talked, he'd shake his head in mock pity, his idea of fine, rich humor. Then, when I finished, I let him sound off. I let him bray that mule laugh and listened patiently while he spouted theories about hallucinations, the ability of the mind to fool itself and the kind of glib psychiatric jargon people like Ted talk these days. He was the first of the many people who have assured me that I “dreamed” or “imagined” Gruener's ghost.
I let him rave, clear through dessert, knowing he was squirming to get back to the office and tell everybody, with a phony worried look, that I was “working too hard,” and then wait for them to ask why. Finally, when he'd talked enough, I had him. I challenged him to go out to Gruener's with me that evening, and he had to say yes; he'd insulted me too much to say anything else. Then we just sat there, drinking coffee and stealing looks at each other.
People like Ted have a sort of low animal cunning, and pretty soon his eyes narrowed, and, excusing himself, he got up. A minute later he was back, beckoning slyly with his forefinger, like a stupid kid. He led me out to the telephone booth, and there, lying open at the G's, was a Brooklyn directory. Show me, he said.
It wasn't there. The name Harris L. Gruener simply was not in the telephone book, that's all; and that afternoon at the office, people smiled when I went by, and once, when I was standing at the water cooler, someone called Boo! in a quavering, very comical voice. It might sound funny, but it drove me crazy — I knew what I'd seen — and a million dollars in cash couldn't have stopped me from doing what I did; I walked out of that office and headed for Brooklyn.
To my everlasting relief, the house was still there, looking just the same, and when I pushed the button, the musical chime sounded inside. No one answered; so I walked around at the side, and, sure enough, there was the rusty wire gate, and there was young Mrs. Gruener hanging out a wash. The boy was there, too, playing catch with another kid, and I felt so relieved I waved and called, Hi! very exuberantly.
Mrs. Gruener came over, and I said, Hello. She answered grudgingly, the way housewives do when they're busy, as though I were a salesman or something. Mr. Gruener home? I said.
No, she answered, he's at work, and I wondered why we had to go through that routine again and wondered if she were stupid or something.
No, I mean Mr. Gruener, Sr. Harris L., that is.
This time she really looked suspicious and didn't answer for several seconds. Then, watching my face, her voice flat, she said, Mr. Gruener is dead.
She got her reaction; I was stunned. When? I managed to say, finally. I'm terribly sorry. When did it happen?
Her eyes narrowed. Who are you, mister? And what do you want?
I didn't know what to say. Don't you remember me?
No. Just what do you want, anyway?
I could hardly think, but there was something I suddenly had to know. I'm an old friend of his, and … didn't know he died. Tell me — please tell me — when did he die?
In a cold, utterly antagonistic voice, she said, He died twelve years ago, and all his ‘old friends’ knew it at the time.
I had to get out of there, but there was one more thing I had to say. I could have sworn I'd seen him later than that. Right here, too; and you were here at the time. You're sure you don't remember me?
She said, I certainly am. Far as I know, I never saw you before in my life, and I knew she was telling the truth.
I've quit looking up Harris L. Gruener in Brooklyn telephone books, because it's never there. But it was. It was there once, and I saw it; I didn't “dream” or “imagine” it, and all the Ted Haymeses in the world can't make me think so, and I'll tell you why! I phoned the doctor Gruener had mentioned. Why, yes, he said — he sounded like a nice guy — the cause of Gruener's death is public information; you could read it on the death certificate. Harris Gruener died of heart failure, twelve years ago.
I know it's not proof, I know that, but — don't you see? Out of the hundreds of cases that doctor must have treated in twelve years' time, why did he remember this one instantly? Unless there is something about it that will make it stick in his mind forever.
I know why, I know what happened. There in my living room, on that third night, knowing he had to make up his mind, Harris Gruener stood staring down at the street. For him it was twelve years ago — 1940 — and he stood waiting for a sign that would help him to do what he felt he had to. For me it was the present; and as I lay there a decision rose up in me, and I said suddenly, intensely, Do it! Damn it, go ahead; all it takes is nerve. And across the years, across whatever connection had been briefly evoked between us, Gruener heard. He heard it, perhaps, at only a whisper, or only in his mind.
But Gruener did hear it, I know, and, more than that, he understood what perhaps I did not — that, morally, it was a decision for suicide. Do it! he heard me say, and he of all people knew what that meant, and — he did it. He turned then, I am certain, back again in the year 1940, and he walked to the bathroom where the sleeping tablets were. Then he wrote a note to William Buhl, dropped it down the mail chute out in the hall and went to bed for the last time.
Don't ask me how it happened, or why — ask Einstein. I don't know if time shifts sometimes; if events that have already happened can be made to happen again, this time in another way. I don't know how it could happen; I only know that it did.
How do I know? That boy playing catch in the back yard of the Gruener home was the same boy I saw the first time, exactly. But the other boy, who was playing catch with him; I didn't see him the first time, because he wasn't there. He wasn't anywhere; he didn't exist. But he does now, and I know who he is; there's no mistaking the resemblance. He's the first boy's brother. They're alike as twins, though not the same height; the second boy is younger, by a year or so, I'd say. They're nice kids; I'm certain of that. And I'm certain that if old Mr. Gruener could see them, he'd be happy and proud of his grandchildren — both of them.
No one really believes me, and I can't blame them, I guess. Some people even think my story is a psychopathic excuse for failure; time is moving on and there's still an “Assistant” in front of my title. I wish I could say that Ted Haymes is grateful for that, and, while I doubt it, maybe he is. All morning, the day after I'd told him about Gruener's ghost, he'd amuse the whole office every chance he got by staring fatuously past my shoulder in horror as though he'd suddenly seen a ghost. With Ted, that kind of juvenile joke would ordinarily continue for weeks; but after I steered him off his sampling plan that afternoon, and explained why I had, he never pulled his joke again.
I doubt that it was from gratitude, but I do think he got a glimpse of the truth of what happened to me and was a little scared, for the same reason I was. And maybe from now on he'll be a little different so
rt of person, too; I really can't say.
But I'm grateful to Gruener, anyway. There in my living room he and I once stood at a crossroads together; and the decision I reached sent him in the direction, finally, that his whole life had led up to; he could not escape it. But when I understood what had happened, I took the other road, while I still had the chance. So I'm grateful to Harris Gruener and sorry for him, too. There is a tide, all right, but whether a man should take it or not depends on where he wants to go.
Collier's, August 2, 1952, 130(5):50-53
Man of the Cocktail Hour
Mr. Timberlake Ryan flipped his tie ends into a knot and strolled into the living room. He stopped beside his wife, two brown paper sacks under his left arm. She stood inspecting the room, apparently without noticing him, her full white forehead creased by a tiny vertical frown line. Then she turned toward him absently, her maroon-and-gold gown rustling. How's it look? she said worriedly, indicating the room.
He looked around him. Each table and chair, the radio cabinet, every wood surface gleamed, large cork coasters, and polished silver dishes heaped with potato chips, salted nuts or pretzel sticks stood on every table. The ash trays sparkled, cigarette boxes were filled, the waxed floors shone, and not a scrap or thread marred the dark surface of the rug. Fair, Timberlake Ryan said doubtfully. I guess it'll do.
Her voice was panicky. What's wrong?
Well—he hesitated, as though he hated to say this—the pretzel sticks, Eve; they look pretty helter-skelter to me. Shouldn't they all be parallel? And matching in length? I could bite off the ends so they'd all be eve—
She shook her head in annoyance. No, seriously; how does it —
Tim put an arm around her waist. Beautiful. Perfect. Now relax. You've been worrying about this party all week, but the die is cast now, so how about relaxing and enjoying it?
Okay. She smiled up at him; then her eyes widened. Napkins! Napkins and matches! Tim, did you remem—
Yes! He cut her off in amused exasperation and handed her one of the brown paper sacks. I bought them this noon. Fancy ones, too. I really shopped for these.
Fancy ones? Eve brought out a boxful of book matches and a packet of small paper napkins.
Yeah, I got them at Saks. They monogram them while you wait, or put the family crest on them, or ‘Stolen from the Jones Family,’ or —
Tim, you didn't get anything silly? Hurriedly she took out a matchbook, slipped a napkin from under the wide paper band, then smiled in relief. They were both white, simple and chaste in design, the matchbook imprinted in raised gold lettering, the napkin in blue. She read the inscription aloud ‘The Jukes Family,’she said wonderingly. Jukes? Isn't that the family people study in school? Generations of feeble-minded — Her chin shot up. Oh, for heaven's sakes, it is! Tim, what in the world?
He laughed. Honey, this is a party! Not a wake.
Taking the matches and napkins, he began distributing them about the room. These'll break the ice, start a flow of gay chatter and wit. You need things like this to get people talking; in fact, for some of the guests, we should furnish scripts.
So what's in the other sack? Eve asked. Exploding cigars?
Listen, I spent a good part of my afternoon, neglecting any work, laboring for the success of this party.
I'll bet. What's in the sack?
Opening an end-table drawer, Tim brought out a shallow dish and emptied the sack into it. Chinese fortune cookies.
What? Eve stepped forward suspiciously to examine the dishful of cookies; they were hollow puffballs of paper-thin dough.
Fortune cookies. And I had a hard time finding them. You've seen them in San Francisco; they serve them with dessert in all the Chinese restaurants. There's a little strip of paper inside with your fortune printed on it.
Eve picked one up. Oh, yes. They're cute, she admitted. Tim, how do they get the paper inside? Bake it in?
No, it would burn. The cookies have these little openings in the top, and they poke the fortunes in afterward. You could even, he added, watching Eve from the corner of his eye, reach in with tweezers and pull out the fortunes without breaking the cookies.
What for? She looked at him, puzzled.
I don't know. Tim shrugged. Try one. See what the future holds.
Eve bit gingerly into the brittle shell, then lifted a little folded slip from the fragments. Opening it, she read aloud. You were born to be hanged. She glanced at Tim wonderingly — What in the world? Bringing the paper closer to her eyes, she saw that the inscription was not printed, but typed. Honestly, she said, sighing. Tweezers. The best part of your afternoon. Neglecting your work. A grown man, too. She shook her head.
The door buzzer sounded, and Tim pointed at the empty matchbook carton, the paper sacks and the cooky fragments in Eve's palm. What a mess you've created, he said, and turned toward the hall, while Eve hurriedly brushed the broken cooky into an empty sack, crumpled sacks and carton into a wad, looked frantically around the room, then thrust them far out of sight under the davenport. Oh, hi, she heard Tim say in a puzzled tone, as he opened the front door. You're just in time; we were about to go out.
Out? Eve recognized the bewildered voice of Alice Mellett, one of her oldest friends. Then she heard Jerry Mellett speak: Isn't tonight — he began.
— the cocktail party? Tim interrupted gravely. That was last night. We wondered what had happened to you.
Alice! Jerry! Come in here! Eve called. Tim's getting hysterical, she added, as she walked toward the door. It's been so long since we've had a party that he's beside himself.
The guests came in, and as the two men shook hands, Eve led Alice, a dark, plain woman as tall as her husband, toward one of the bedrooms. A moment later she heard the door buzzer sound again, heard the door open, and heard Tim saying, Oh, hello; you're in the nick of time, We were just going out. A man's worried voice said, What?
Within the next few minutes the door buzzer sounded several more times, and then suddenly the apartment was alive with the sound and presence of people. A thin layer of cigarette smoke was flattening against the living-room ceiling, and the half dozen or so guests, each holding a drink, sat talking — politely, formally and a little stiffly, Eve realized. Tense and anxious about her party, she sat on the very edge of her chair, ready to answer the door buzzer again, trying to hear something of each conversation. She wished Tim would come out of the kitchen, where he was mixing drinks, and do something to get the party started.
Again the door buzzer sounded. As Eve got up to answer it, the kitchen door to the hall opened, and Tim stepped out, too, winking at Eve. She felt suddenly reassured. Tim opened the door to find a cluster of people in the outer hallway: Don and Teressa Wechsler, a casual, friendly couple in their early thirties who were Eve and Tim's neighbors at a beach cottage they rented each summer; Al and Grace Bergstrom, two of their oldest friends; and a stranger, a pretty girl in her twenties who had come with the Wechslers. They all crowded into the hall, and in the flurry of greetings and introductions, Eve saw Tim's eyes flick up and down in a fraction of a second, looking the girl over from head to foot. Never before had she seen Tim do this; she had always been proud that he did not; and now she felt shocked and betrayed. She felt her smile stiffen.
But after a few minutes, when the new guests had been introduced and Tim was back in the kitchen, mixing drinks, Eve saw that each man in the room, raising a glass to his mouth or reaching toward an ash tray, found an excuse in the movement to let his eyes pass over the new girl, and then Eve remembered who the girl was. She was an actress, Ann Darrow; they had seen her in a short-lived Broadway play last winter, in a secondary part, but one she had handled beautifully. Watching her now, talking to Alice Mellett and apparently unaware of the attention she was drawing, Eve knew Ann was an actress off stage as well as on, and that she was far more than pretty: she was genuinely beautiful. Her red hair was rich and perfectly groomed, her complexion incredibly smooth, her features perfect — a beautiful and excit
ing woman. She wore a strapless blue dress, and her arms, her ankles and legs, her entire figure, were exquisite. And Eve forgave Tim a little, understanding that, caught unaware, he could not possibly have helped looking at this girl as he had.
Someone called Eve, and she saw Al Bergstrom lean toward her from the end of the davenport. Bending forward to listen, she saw Tim appear in the hallway from the kitchen and stand there — waiting, she knew, to get her attention. But Al Bergstrom, beginning an anecdote about a mutual friend, held her gaze, and Eve felt she could not turn away at the moment without seeming rude. Someone had turned on the radio, and a rumba began. She saw Tim, standing in the hall out of everyone's sight but hers, begin to dance.
Hands clasped behind his head, feet motionless, he began swaying his hips, parodying a burlesque dancer. Al smiled, approaching the point of his story; Eve nodded, smiling in return; and Tim began a series of lewd bumps and grinds, teeth bared in a hideously exaggerated grin. Then he rolled his eyes suggestively and slowly beckoned to Eve, and still smiling at Al, she felt herself blush.
Tim pulled his coat down off one shoulder, then set both hands on his twisting hips. Eve, darling, he called, how would you like … His voice trailed off, the bumps and grinds lewdly continuing, and Eve turned to him momentarily, her lips compressed, to shake her head once, furiously, then turned back, smiling, to Al. How about it, honey? Tim called, and pulled his coat down off both shoulders, winking furiously, swaying silently. Would you like — he gave a final grind and bump, then pulled up his coat, and finished the sentence —a Manhattan, Martini or a highball, darling?