The Jack Finney Reader

by Jack Finney

  For a long moment the man simply stared at him. Then he tossed his pen onto the desk Well, all we can give you, he said irritably, is silver. That's all we've got. He sat back, glaring.

  Nibbling his lower lip, Ben stared thoughtfully at the man, frowning doubtfully. Then, slowly and regretfully, he began shaking his head.

  The man at the desk leaned forward, eyes narrowed, staring intently at Ben. What'd you say your name was, young man? he demanded.

  Callandar, Ben said quickly, pleasantly. Benjamin Callandar. And — his voice suddenly rose — this is my wife, Ruth, he added, and Mr. Hinkle's gaze shifted to stare at her in astonishment. Ruth, darling, Ben called pleasantly, turning in his chair, I want you to meet Mr. Hinkle.

  Ruth's back had suddenly stiffened, her body actually jerking as she sat bolt upright. For several long seconds of intense and absolute silence, she made no other movement. Then, finally, with agonized reluctance, she had to turn. Slowly, the intense effort plainly visible, her muscles forcing her unwilling body to move, she turned on the bench, bringing her scarlet face into view. Her voice choked, her eyes wide and staring, she said, How do you do, in an almost inaudible whisper, and her head bobbed in a convulsive nod.

  How do you do, Mrs. Callandar, he said, eyes wide in wonder, and then he sat staring at her incredulously, as though wondering what kind of woman could have married the cheerfully smiling young man at the desk beside him.

  Well — Ben got briskly to his feet — we won't take up your time, Mr. Hinkle. Shrugging one shoulder, he picked up the five-dollar bill from the desk and for a moment stood staring at it doubtfully, consideringly, as though wondering if it were even worth keeping. Then apparently making up his mind, he thrust it carelessly into a side pocket. I guess we'll just have to make do with this. Though I don't think, he added in gentle reproof, that you ought to advertise lawful money on your notes when you really haven't got any. He turned to beckon to Ruth. Come on, darling, he said, then looked back at Mr. Hinkle. Good-by, he said pleasantly, and then they walked out of the bank, Ruth half a dozen yards ahead, walking fast, looking neither to right nor left, her heels clicking rapidly on the marble pavement. As he passed the teller's window, Ben nodded pleasantly to the man behind it, who grinned and waved his hand.

  Outside on the sidewalk, her eyes straight ahead, Ruth walked as fast as she could. Ben caught up with her, and for a dozen or more steps they walked in silence. Then Ben murmured thoughtfully, No lawful money; imagine that, and Ruth suddenly stopped to stamp her foot hard on the pavement, teeth clenched, eyes blazing.

  For heaven sakes! she said furiously. For heaven sakes, Ben Callandar! What in the world! Ben, what in the world!

  Eyes widening in innocent astonishment, he shrugged, palms outspread. Then, reaching into his pocket, he said, It says right here —

  I don't want to hear another word about it! You hear me? Not another word about you and your foolish lawful money! For a moment, face furious, she stood glaring up at him. Then suddenly — fighting it, but unable to prevent it — her face broke, and she dissolved into helpless laughter, passers-by turning to stare. Mr. Hinkle, she gasped. Mr. Hinkle — She was unable to continue. Ben, what did you think you were doing?

  Don't you know? he said softly, and grinned down at her. This is the first time today you've laughed out loud; first time that grim lots-to-do look has left your face. Eyes still smiling, he frowned. I'm a citizen, a taxpayer, and all I want is my rights! And instead I find myself betrayed by the empty promises of the U.S. Treasury, my pockets filled with unlawful money. He took her arm, to walk on. But what do you say, he said softly, we spend some of it? For a drink. Now. At the Top of the Mark?

  Well — she said smiling. Then she compressed her lips, frowning, trying to recover her anger. But you're simply not getting away with this; you've been trying to delay and sabotage this trip all morning. And after a trick like that — She didn't finish, but simply shook her head. Anyway, she said, and opened her purse, we've got too much to do, Ben; we really have. She began searching through her purse, walking slowly along the busy street. And I wish you wouldn't throw all the responsibility on me; they've got to be done. It's time you started taking marriage seriously.

  His brows lifted at that, but he didn't reply. Instead, voice quiet, he said, It's odd, but a year ago, before we were married, and we'd both have a day off, I'd meet you, and the whole rest of the day and evening stretched out before us. Nothing to do but have fun, and we had it.

  Ruth glanced up from her purse momentarily, smiling a little. Yes, we did, didn't we?

  Sure. Errands, draperies, suits, all seemed to take care of themselves. Or at least they didn't seem so all-important. How come a marriage certificate changes all that?

  Ruth shook her head. I don't know, she said, I really don't. For a moment, walking slowly along the sidewalk, she stared ahead at nothing. Then, head bending over her purse again, she said determinedly, But it does.

  Well, it shouldn't; we shouldn't let it. It's still —

  Ruth stopped dead on the walk, staring down at her opened purse. The swatch! she wailed. It isn't here! Oh, Ben, I told you to remind me!

  And I did! he said. I threw my slipper on the table to remind you - he grinned in sudden remembrance — and you took it off! Threw it at your husband, nearly maiming him, for all practical purposes. She began to smile, and Ben stopped on the sidewalk and took both her arms just above the elbows, turning her toward him, looking down into her face. Listen, he said, and his voice was serious, I take marriage seriously; you don't know how seriously. I know it has responsibilities — little ones, like draperies, suits, and errands that have got to be done; but it has bigger ones too. And the biggest responsibility of all, in marriage — for both of us — is to see that the fun doesn't drift out of it. You see too many couples like that; you see it in their faces as you pass them on the street. Ruth, this is our day off! He nodded at her open purse and smiled a little. And isn't it obvious that Fate never intended us to spend a day like this on a bunch of domestic errands? They'll get done somehow, don't worry. So how about it? he said softly. I like to have fun with you, and marriage shouldn't change that.

  She was staring up at him, eyes wide; then suddenly she leaned toward him, almost as though, here on the busy street, she were about to cling to him. She said softly, I think you're right. Oh, Ben, she cried suddenly, and actually clutched his coat, you are right, you are! Ben don't ever let us get so married we forget why we are married!

  He squeezed her hand. I won't, he said gently, then beckoned to a cab at a hack stand just ahead. It drew up before them, and Ben opened the door, helped Ruth in, and sat down beside her. The Mark Hopkins, he said to the driver, then turned to Ruth. Drinks, he murmured, lunch at the Fairmont, a cruise around the Bay, dancing tonight; we've got twenty dollars in unlawful money to get rid of. Before the rest of the country catches on. He reached out to tuck Ruth's arm under his. We've got lots to accomplish today, he said, and winked at her. As you remarked only this morning.

  Good Housekeeping, February 1955, 140(2):52-53, 120-122

  Tattletale Tape

  Her arms hugging a paper sack full of groceries, Eve Ryan walked down the apartment-house corridor searching for the Webbers' door, number 14-A. She found it as she'd left it, standing slightly ajar, bumped it open with her shoulder and walked through the hall to the dark, unfamiliar kitchen; from the lamplighted living room she heard voices.

  Hey, an eight-year-old voice was demanding belligerently, have you got a gun?

  Through the doorway Eve could see her husband's head over the top of a large leather chair. Yeah, said Timberlake Ryan in the flat tough voice of a radio detective, a disintegrator pistol.

  Aw, you have not!

  Yes, I have; all intelligence agents have them.

  Eve sighed, set her groceries on the kitchen table, and then stepped through the open doorway, brushing a strand of fine blonde hair from her forehead. Hello, Alec, she said to the boy, who wa
s slouched on a large davenport facing her.

  H'lo. His big brown eyes glanced at her disinterestedly, then turned back to Tim. Y'are not an intelligence agent.

  Of course not, said Eve. Tim, stop that.

  Timberlake Ryan turned in his chair to glance briefly at his wife; amusement showed in his blue eyes, but his thin tanned face remained solemn. He turned back to the boy. Naturally, he said, the wives of all intelligence agents are instructed to deny it; I'd deny it too, if you were to quote me. But I'm a secret agent just the same; I've got the secret tattoo mark.

  Let's see it.

  I can't — it's secret.

  The boy slouched still further down on the davenport, staring suspiciously at Tim. Then he reached out to a lamp beside him, and, eyes narrowing craftily, began monotonously turning it off and on.

  After a moment Tim said quietly, The body of the last little boy who kept turning the light off and on is buried in the basement in quicklime.

  Aw, it is not! Alec shrieked triumphantly. This is a duplex apartment, and we haven't even got a base—

  Tim! Eve called sharply, turning and going back into the kitchen. Come out here; I want you to help me.

  It's a secret basement — Tim stood up. Not even your parents know about it, only us secret operatives. I've got my disintegrator pistol down there.

  My father's got a pistol! Alec jeered after him. And he can chin himself with one hand!

  Amazing, Tim said admiringly, walking on into the kitchen. Especially, he added quietly, although the boy could no longer hear him, when you consider that he has no chin. He stopped beside the kitchen table and looked at Eve brightly.

  Now, cut that out, she said quietly. That's no way to talk to a chil— Alec appeared in the doorway, and she smiled at him. Why don't you sit in the living room and read until bedtime?

  Don't want to. He turned from the doorway. I'm going up to my room and play.

  All right. Eve sighed, and began emptying the large sack. This is for breakfast, she said to Tim. That delicatessen was open. Then, as she heard Alec's footsteps on the floor above, she said, Honestly. Bickering with a child — a man of your age.

  I know — Tim nodded agreeably — he's got me in age, all right. I have a weight advantage, but he's younger and in better condition. If it comes to a knife fight before the Webbers get home, I'd give six to five on Alec. Now what are you doing?

  Surprised, Eve looked at him inquiringly, and Tim reached out and drew her toward him. I've been away for two full weeks. This is literally our first moment alone, and you stand around playing with groceries.

  Eve smiled and laid her cheek on his chest. Tim, stop that! She straightened suddenly. Alec might —

  Listen, lady, I am your lawful wedded husband; for two weeks I have led a life that would bore a monk, and —

  She twisted away. If Alec —

  Alec, Alec, Alec! I've been cooped up in dreary hotel rooms and Pullmans with Alec's father for days, and now —

  It must have been pretty bad, Eve said, turning to put a carton of eggs into the refrigerator.

  Tim sat down on the edge of the table. Oh, not really. It's just that I'm not actually a businessman, no matter how long or successfully I've kept up a front. I'm more the strolling troubadour type, and two weeks of inspecting factories and visiting wholesalers and retailers with Alec, Sr., kind of numbs the brain.

  Will you get his account?

  Oh, we've got it. Tim shrugged. That's been in the bag for a week, and Webber will make the formal announcement Monday; this trip had nothing to do with that. It's just that I'll be doing most of the work for my company on the Webber account, so the trip was to educate me about his business, that's all. Which I guess it did.

  How come you're baby-sitting with Alec, Jr.? Eve opened a small paper sack and peered into it. You explained on the telephone from the station, but I wasn't quite sure —

  Webber's wife's father got sick — suddenly. He's an old man, lives alone in Baltimore. Webber telephoned his wife when we got to the station, and she was all upset; she said they had to rush right down there. Tim grinned, shaking his head ruefully. He explained this so plaintively, that I heard myself saying you and I would be glad to stay here with Alec for the weekend. I didn't have to do it. He didn't expect it; it would never have occurred to him, in fact. He seemed to be in such a spot, though, I figured it wouldn't hurt us to stay with the kid a few days. But I didn't know Alec.

  Well, it's only for a weekend. Eve glanced at her watch. And he'll be in bed pretty soon.

  Tim sighed. Personally, I doubt if Alec sleeps. I suspect he turns into a werewolf at night, and will insist on lying at the foot of our bed, his red eyes gleaming till dawn.

  Listen, what's so bad about the child? Eve said annoyedly. She started into the living room. Basically, I'm sure he's a fine little boy. Just use a little elementary child psychology, Tim; get to know him, find out what he's like.

  Oh, I have. Following after Eve, Tim grinned maliciously. Very rapidly, in fact. And I now have a real understanding — he dropped onto the davenport beside Eve — of what Dillinger was like as a growing boy. While you were out shopping, I went upstairs and unpacked my bag, including my razor and a plastic bottle of some instant-foam shaving stuff I bought on the trip. Alec was there — he grinned at Eve — getting to know me, finding out what I was like. Mostly he was pestering me with questions, and deliberately standing on my last clean shirt when I dropped it. I was quieting my twitching nerves with a cigarette, flicking the ashes out a window because, judging from the furnishings of the guest room, the Webbers had planned only on guests who've signed a pledge against nicotine.

  Tim stretched his long legs out before him. Presently, having finished my cigarette, and not wanting to throw it out the window, I walked into the bathrooms threw my cigarette in the toilet, and pressed the lever. You know what the darlin' boy-o had done?

  What? said Eve absently.

  With the utmost skill, and the steady hand of clear-eyed youth, he had floated a good half-inch of my instant-foam lather onto the surface of the water in the toilet. When I pressed the lever, the stuff lived up to its name. It gushed up like an atomic explosion, foamed like Old Faithful all over the floor. Scared the hell out of me.

  Eve smiled, glancing critically at the lamp shade beside her. And what did you do?

  Applied child psychology. Tim leaned toward Eve and bit her shoulder gently. I took Alec by the arm, hauled him into the bathroom, and instructed the impressionable child in how to mop up a bathroom floor.

  You didn't hurt him? Eve asked.

  Not really. Tim put an arm around her waist. When he finished, I booted him down the stairs, but it's only one flight, and carpeted all the way.

  No, really! She shook her head impatiently. What happened?

  Nothing. Alec mopped up the floor like a little trooper — a cavalry trooper, judging from the language. He seemed quite bitter. But don't worry; we're friends now.

  Eve smiled, got up suddenly to cross the room, and examined the underside of a china ash tray. That was rather clever. She walked back toward Tim.

  What was? Tim watched her approach, boldly eying her slim figure. My handling of the situation?

  No — she sat down, resting her head on Tim's shoulder — Alec's idea with the shaving stuff.

  I thought it showed talent. I doubt if Heinrich Himmler, at that age, showed even half his ability —

  No, really, Tim, Eve said. It's all in the way you handle children; and it's important to handle them right. If we should have children of our —

  Listen, in order to make absolutely sure that never happens —

  Now, never mind, she said and smiled. All a child wants is guidance; and they'll always respond to it. I think you should look on this weekend as an opportunity.

  Oh, I do. He bent to kiss her. But so does Alec, I'm afraid.

  Suddenly, Alec, leaping high, soared through the open doorway from the hall and landed on both heels beside
the davenport. Every lamp and ash tray, even the pictures on the walls, shook and rattled, and Eve uttered a muffled shriek, her hand at her throat. Alec stood motionless, knees bent as he'd landed, his face wild with glee. Yap! he cried, eyes glittering, head swinging from Eve to Tim, and back again, watching the effect. Yap, yap! he shrieked, in a series of clipped barks. Yap, yap, yap!

  Come, said Tim sweetly, reaching for Alec's hand. You obviously need guidance. Let me guide you upstairs. Money isn't everything, and I'm sure you can execute that leap blindfolded — through an open window.

  Go ahead, Alec, Eve said and smiled at the boy pleasantly. Upstairs to bed now; it's late. I want you to cooperate; remember, we're your guests while your parents are gone.

  The boy nodded, turning toward the doorway, then stood hesitating, glancing anxiously about the room, his manner that of a miniature host making sure everything necessary for his guests' comfort was available. Then, Tim and Eve watching curiously, he turned toward the living-room windows beside the davenport, and a long double shelf beneath the windows. The shelves were enclosed by a series of painted-wood panels and brass-knobbed doors; one of the panels contained the grille of a loud-speaker. Alec opened two of the little doors, exposing a pair of shelves stacked with phonograph records and albums, and beside them, a blackknobbed control panel for the radio, television set, phonograph and whatever else lay on the covered shelving under the windows. Fingering the knobs, he smiled shyly at Tim and Eve. You can play the radio if you want, he said politely. Or the television, or some records. We got lots of records.