by Jack Finney
Then Tina pulled loose. She was frowning now, her face flushed, and she wouldn't look at me. We started walking again; and she glanced at me for an instant, and smiled a little, but worriedly. Tina, listen — I was speaking simultaneously with the impulse — would you ever marry me?
She didn't answer. We were passing under a street light, and I saw the muscle bunched at the corner of her mouth in a tight little knot; she was mad, I didn't know why, and that made me mad. Well? I said angrily, would you?
What's the difference, she said coldly, whether I would or not.
What do you mean?
Oh, nothing!
For half a dozen steps I kept quiet; then I spoke very quietly and gently. What do you mean, Tina?
Oh — She shrugged impatiently, and hesitated as though wondering whether to bother answering. Then she said, For one thing, you can't get married, so why talk about it.
It was a surface reason, not what was really eating her, but I said, Why can't I?
Tina just sniffed.
I said, There's no law that I have to keep on with school. There are plenty of people younger than me out earning a living. She didn't answer, and I said angrily, Where are we going?
The Ship, she answered shortly. The Ship was a tearoom kind of restaurant, fixed up inside with false portholes, life preservers on the walls, and so on. It was a block away.
I couldn't let it alone. We wouldn't be the only people who ever got married at nineteen.
Look, I just don't want to talk about it.
So we walked the rest of the way not saying a word, with me sullen and irritated, wondering why it was we so often quarreled over something that never quite came out in the open.
There weren't many people in the restaurant — dinner was nearly over — and we got a corner table with no one near us. The Ship is an inexpensive place with paper doilies instead of tablecloths and a lighted candle in a bottle at each table. Tina ordered dinner, I ordered coffee, and we sat waiting; she looked marvelous in the candlelight. I was nineteen, and had sense enough to know I wasn't particularly experienced, about women or anything else, and that before I was through I'd know a lot more women than I had so far. But I knew also that I'd never again meet a woman who could do what Tina did to me.
I was terribly conscious of her, wanting to say something that would sting and hurt. Tina glanced at me, then turned wearily away. So I started to talk, about nothing much, something or other that had happened that morning in one of my classes, trying to talk us out of this mood before it set the pattern for the evening.
Tina had her coat off, over the back of her chair. Her dress had long loose sleeves, and she took a sip of water, then sat holding the glass, listening, not paying too much attention, her arm at a forty-five-degree angle to the table. Her sleeve began to slide slowly down her arm as I talked. It hardly moved, and for a moment, my eyes on her face but seeing her arm too, I wasn't sure it really was moving; then I saw that her arm was being imperceptibly revealed. Gradually the sleeve moved down, baring her skin, and I was intensely aware of the delicately blue-veined, impossible smoothness of her inner arm. Its own weight dragging it, the sleeve continued to slide, the swell of her forearm slowly exposing itself; and in the candlelight I saw the faint gold down of its outer surface.
I kept talking, watching without looking directly; then her sleeve suddenly dropped all the way, revealing the whole forearm and the smooth, girl's muscle, clear down to the milk-white perfection of her inner elbow — and Tina laughed. I don't know what I'd been saying, but it had stopped making much sense, and she'd been watching me, knowing what I was looking at. We looked at each other; then I laughed too, and the tension between us disappeared just like that.
Tina pulled down her sleeve, folded her hands demurely in her lap, and said, I ought to wear a blanket when I'm around you. Even my arm — She didn't finish, but just shook her head smiling.
I grinned, and said, Oh, Tina, and sighed, actually hard enough to flicker the candle flame.
Smiling, Tina said quietly, You're imagining something.
I looked at her, startled; then I shrugged and said, Well? Does that make me some kind of freak? Is there something wrong with that? I imagine often; it's my hobby.
No. She smiled a little. If anyone thought there was something wrong with that, there'd be something wrong with them. As a matter of fact, it's just possible that I —
She stopped, and I said, Tina, reaching across the table, trying to make her bring up a hand to meet mine.
But she shook her head. And that's why you want to marry me.
I just looked at her.
So any talk of getting married, she said, is silly, and doesn't mean a thing. Because when I get married, it'll have to be for a lot more reason than that.
I made a mistake; I didn't answer. But wasn't going to lie just now, and I sat staring at Tina, trying to think straight and find out the truth before I spoke. I had to admit that marrying Tina seemed unreal to me, though I didn't know why. And it was true I'd spoken on impulse — from emotion, not thought — and that probably there'd been nothing in my mind past a honeymoon.
That was as far as I got in my thoughts, and I should have been saying something instead. Because Tina burst out in a low angry voice, You college boys make me sick. You're babies! You think like fools! You think any girl who's a waitress —
She didn't finish, but I knew what she meant. Sometimes a college boy, glorying in a brand-new possession, an adult body, seems to turn into a childish and lying braggart, lying about a worldly wisdom he hasn't got and experiences that have usually never happened. And a part of that is that there are certain myths he'll swear to, looking wise, or that he hasn't the courage to question for fear of seeming innocent. One of them is that a waitress is somehow a pushover. Not all college boys think in such ugly, stereotyped terms, and I'd been certain I wasn't one of them. But now I wondered if this superior college-boy attitude toward waitresses, among others, hadn't unconsciously affected me, and if Tina hadn't sensed it.
Her dinner and my coffee arrived, and we sat watching the girl arrange things on the table, waiting till we were alone again.
Then Tina said, Look, I wouldn't be here if you were like that. She sighed a little, picking up her fork, and said, It's just that sometimes things aren't easy to take; you get on the defensive, suspicious of everyone. She began cutting her meat; then she looked up, staring, her face lost in thought. I'd like to be a college girl, she said. I'd like to be going to college now, wearing a tweed skirt and an expensive sweater. Living in a sorority house. Riding around town afternoons in somebody's convertible. She looked at me now. I've got better sense than that, but that's what I'd like just the same. I've got more sense than this too, but just the same you feel inferior sometimes, wearing a uniform and handing them their Cokes. And the college boys sit there with their coeds but watching you on the sly, and you get mad and resentful of everything and think to yourself that you could take any one of them away from any of the girls, and you feel like doing it just to prove something. I can see why a waitress might start behaving just the way they think she ought to because they're college boys and she's a waitress, and — oh, forget it. Tina concentrated on her dinner, her eyes on her plate.
After a few moments I said, Tina, I can think about living with you, day after day, for the rest of my life. And it sounds wonderful to me. In every way. And I think I know what I'm saying.
Tina nodded, acknowledging what I'd said, busy with her food. Then she looked at me and said calmly, I wouldn't marry you, Al. And I'm not talking about whether you could quit school, or get a job. And I don't doubt that if you aren't in love with me, you could be very easily. And maybe I love you, or close to it. She kept right on with her dinner. But I don't waste any time wondering or thinking about that. For a moment she leaned forward, staring at me intently, almost coldly. Maybe you'll think less of me for this, but I've had enough of not having anything. I won't marry a college boy who hasn't a
dime. And who'll be drafted for a couple years at least, with another five or six after that before he has anything. I'll marry someone a lot further along than you'll be for a long time, and who either has money or is making a good deal of it. Not rich — this isn't a daydream. But I want to have something and be something. I want to be the equal of the people around me, for a change, in what I have and am. I want to stop being a waitress, in every way. And a college boy looking for a job isn't the answer. Oh — she twisted her mouth in disgust — what are we even talking like this for; it's silly.
As far as I know I didn't hesitate or think for an instant. It was as though I'd known all along that I was going to say this; burning in my mind was the certain knowledge that I had to have Tina, that I'd do anything I had to keep her, and it didn't bother me at all to know it. Suppose I had money, Tina. A lot. So much that we'd be set for years. And even if I had to do a tour in the Army, I'd come out, and we'd have so much it wouldn't matter what job or salary I got for half a dozen years more.
Tina looked at me, and shrugged.
I leaned forward over the table, holding her gaze. I'll have it, Tina, I said softly, in only a few more weeks.
She stared at me long enough to make sure I meant it. What do you mean? She was frowning, and worried.
Then I told her, very quietly, sitting there in the almost deserted restaurant, sipping my coffee now and then. I told her just what Brick, Jerry, Guy, and I planned to do; only I didn't say it was a game or joke. When I finished, I did tell her that while we hadn't actually said out loud that we were going to do it, I knew that we were. It wasn't quite he truth, but I knew already that it wasn't a lie either.
Tina looked at me steadily, quietly thinking about what I had said. Then, crossing her arms, she pulled her coat up over her shoulders, picked up the check, and stood up. Let's talk about this at my place, she said, and I got up, and we walked over to the cashier's desk.
Something happened outside that I laughed about several times afterward. We had to cross a park to reach Tina's place, a block-long rectangle of grass, shrubbery, big old trees, all in leaf now, and a winding maze of paved walks. Heading across that park; we walked slowly, talking in dead earnest about a plan to commit a big-scale robbery. We were strolling, actually, and we were holding hands, turning to glance at each other often, smiling sometimes, very aware of each other; and we spoke in low tones.
A couple was approaching us, an elderly man and his wife; I was only absently watching them, not really giving them a thought. But when they were half a dozen steps in front of us, I saw the woman nudge her husband slightly; and I saw that they were both smiling a little, and as they passed they glanced at us fondly, their eyes amused and tender. I suddenly realized that to them we must have looked like a magazine-cover picture of a boy and girl, murmuring sweet nothings to each other; and I wondered what they'd have thought or done if they'd known what was really going on.
We hadn't said anything till we'd got off the business streets and into the park and I'd been wondering what Tina's reaction would be. She said, This Jerry. I've seen him in The Bowl. He looks bright, but he's a kid. And he seems to be doing a lot of your planning.
I shrugged. What he says makes sense, though.
Tina nodded, agreeing to that, and was quiet for a dozen steps or so. Then she said, Al, how sure are you of yourself and the others? How do you know that you know what you're doing, I mean? This isn't for kids. It's no joke; you can't fool around. You've got to be very sure and certain you know what you're doing. She was suddenly irritated and frightened. For a moment she stopped on the walk, put a hand on my arm, and looked up at me, appealingly, worried. I can't marry you if you're dead, Al. And I won't marry you if you're in prison. Then she walked on again.
I just said, Time will tell, that's all. When we work it out, you'll know the answers to your questions. And if it looks half-baked, to you or to me, if it looks as though we're going off halfcocked, still a bunch of kids, there's no law says we have to go through with it. But I think it'll work out; I mean it.
We walked on, holding hands. Then Tina looked up at me, curiously. You know something? she said. You're talking about actually stealing a fortune, and you haven't said a word about the right or wrong of it. Doesn't that bother you?
That startled me. She was right; the morality of this hadn't entered my mind, and I wondered why. It's funny, I said slowly, trying to understand this, but I wouldn't steal five cents, even from a man I despised. And I don't think I could possibly make myself steal from a bank, a store, a person — from anything or anybody except Harold's Club, or another place like it. I guess it's this. I was thinking out loud. I think gambling is wrong. I always have; this isn't a new idea with me. I think it's vicious. As evil socially as narcotics. People have learned that everywhere, and gambling's been outlawed nearly everywhere in this country. Just because a handful of men in the state of Nevada make it technically legal doesn't make it right. If they legalized the sale of narcotics, would that make that right? A fine, upstanding thing? Gambling's wrong, and you know it. A few people profit, giving nothing and doing nothing in exchange. And I think everyone concerned is degraded by it.
I shrugged. So I say they're fair prey. Harold's Club has only a technical legal right to that money, no more real right to it than I do. It's nobody's money once it's been lost. I shrugged again. Maybe I'm only rationalizing; I don't know. But I feel I'm honest, and that I wouldn't steal. But this isn't stealing to me; by any standard I respect, that money doesn't belong to Harold's Club; and I'll take it if I can, and it will never bother my conscience for a moment.
I don't think Tina had even been listening. She spit the words out. You'll be drafted! Two years of your life taken away from you, or maybe all of it. And you'll be giving those years for the benefit of the rest of the country, who'll all still be at home making all the money they can. Why shouldn't you be paid for that? She was furious. Who are all those people who'll be tossing away money in Reno while you're in the Army at a few dollars a month? Who's Harold's Club to be getting richer and richer while you're in the Army for their benefit as much as anybody's! I say, if you can take it, take it! They won't lose a meal! They'll still be rich! You're not hurting anybody.
They say adrenaline is released in your body when you're mad, that a chemical action goes on in your blood stream. By the time Tina was finished I could feel it. Like everyone my age I knew, I thought about the Army and what it might mean a lot. I never gave much thought to the right or wrong of it. But I did know that few people I met who weren't going in themselves seemed to give it very much thought or concern. They were going right ahead with their business; they didn't have to go. And I didn't feel that because I was nineteen and healthy I owed any more to the country than some fat and prosperous fifty-year-old. Get ahead! That seemed to be everyone's motto, and I didn't know why I should be different, and I thought Tina was right. If you can take it, take it. And it was true; I wouldn't really be hurting anyone. No one in Harold's Club would miss a meal or cigar.
Tina lived in an old two-story frame house converted into little apartments: she had one room, a bath, and a tiny kitchenette, on the top floor. Inside she turned on a couple of lamps, and I sprawled on the bed that served as a couch during the day. It was covered with a tan denim slip cover she'd made, and there were a couple of ornamental pillows. She had the place fixed up pretty nice, though she didn't have much: a wooden rocker in an old sort of out-of-date style, a little desk and chair, some framed pictures on the walls. The best thing she owned was a pale-tan woolly sort of rug that covered nearly all the floor; it was new and clean; she'd spent some money on that. She'd calcimined the walls herself, the same shade. And I'd painted the doors and the two windows a dark green one Saturday afternoon. The desk and chairs were green too, and so the room had a color scheme and looked nice.
Tina hung up her coat and hat in the little closet by the entrance, smoothed her dress. Then I said, Come on over here, and patted the bed, b
eside me.
All right. She came over and sat down; but she was frowning a little impatiently. But don't act like a kid; we're here to talk about this.
Okay.
Tina said, Jerry's right; you've got to reach Harold's Club out of thin air. And I know how to do it.
I studied her, surprised, yet feeling with sudden certainty that she did know.
When Tina finished talking, I knew she was right. This was it: the one simple, direct, but far from obvious way of traveling across country to Harold's Club as though we were actually invisible. I grinned, shaking my head with a new, startled respect for her. I hadn't known, when I first told Tina, how she'd take this whole idea, whether she'd laugh at me, be frightened, or just be unbelieving. But she'd taken it, all right, taken it and run with it, far ahead of the rest of us, showing more sober intelligence than any of us so far. Lying there, smiling at Tina, I knew she was the most desirable woman in the world, worth doing anything for; and I knew I could get through anything that happened to me in the Army with a woman like her to come home to.
I drew her to me and kissed her long and hard. Then I looked at her, my eyes half-closed, feeling a sleepy excitement building. I rubbed my cheek slowly against hers. She took my face in both her hands, scrutinizing me, then pulled it to hers, and I kissed her again, feeling the whole world, everything but this and now, fade out of being.
Tina twisted away from me and held me off, saying, You're still a dead-broke college boy with nothing but a plan that might or might not work out.
It'll work out; don't worry.
Okay. Tina smiled. Then see me after Harold's Club.
That's a long time, Tina.
That's right. And with plenty to do. Tina frowned at me appealingly. I don't like it any better than you do, Al, and I think you know it and can tell. But she stood up, smoothing her dress, and then put a hand on my shoulder and made me stand up too. Go on home, she said, and I knew I had to, and shrugged, and walked to the door.