by Jack Finney
Then he wanted it over with — fast. He caught up the red dice, raised them in his fist, then paused. For an instant he could not bring himself to make the irrevocable movement, and he was acutely aware of the years of tiny economies that had produced this money. Then his fist drew back. In the instant before he threw, he saw a blur of movement under his eyes; his hand shot out; the dice tumbled the length of the table, struck the far end, rolled back, then abruptly stopped; he could not look at them. He felt that if he heard the words, Crap, a loser, he might actually faint. Four's the point; mark four, he heard the dealer chant. Sam opened his eyes to see the other dealer sliding a white marker, a half-sphere of ivory, onto a space marked “4,” indicating the point he had to roll again to win.
Then he saw, in sudden wild panic, that there was only one bill on the table before him, and he understood-in the last instant before the dice left his hand, Laura had snatched their money, grabbed four of the bills, but missed the bottom one. His bet stood at $500. When he looked at Laura, her face was agonized and beseeching; he tried to smile, but his cheeks felt paralyzed. He was utterly confused, and he wished with all his soul that Laura and he were anywhere but here. Then, for a moment, he felt relief; four was a difficult, unlikely point to repeat, and perhaps Laura had saved them from disaster. But immediately it occurred to him that now nothing was decided, win or lose this bet, and he was angry. When something touched his hand, he glanced down. Laura was handing him the bills she had snatched from the table, her eyes pleading for his understanding of what she had been unable to keep from doing, and he managed to smile a little, as he took the bills.
Four more times he threw out the dice, neither winning nor losing, sick with fear each time the dice stopped that the spots would add up to seven. Then the dice stopped with two deuces uppermost, the dealer chanted, Four, the hard way; front-line winner, and beside Sam's five-hundred-dollar bill on the table, the second dealer was placing two stacks of black chips, each ten chips high and each chip labeled “$25.”
It occurred to Sam with a terrible rush of relief that now he could play with the casino's money! He picked up his five-hundred-dollar bill; now their money, all of it, was safe and secure in his hand again. This time he could roll out the dice without loss no matter what happened! But instantly his relief was checked as he realized that if Laura had left their money alone, they would now have won and be turning from the table. He knew too that if he glanced at Laura now, the bitter anger would show in his eyes.
He rolled eight — an easy point to make, he knew. Then he rolled a three, neither winning nor losing. He rolled a six, then a six again. Then once more the dice bounded from the backstop, rolled back, and stopped, a five and a three uppermost on the dice. Even as he was adding up the spots in his mind, the white-sleeved arms were setting chips down in front of him — two more stacks of black twenty-five-dollar chips, matching those already there — and the fever flared through his mind and body. A thousand dollars' winnings lay on the table before him, and their own money was still tight in his hand. He had only to win once again, and they would have $4,500 altogether — enough, perhaps, to buy their house. If not, they would be within months, not years, of saving the rest. His chest actually swelling with an almost unbearable exultation, he waited for the curved stick to sweep the dice to him; he picked them up and threw them down the length of the table.
They struck, bounded down onto the felt, and stopped instantly without rolling, twin fives uppermost. Ten, hard; ten for a point; mark ten, the dealer chanted, and in a moment Sam picked up the dice again. He willed a ten; silently he begged, pleaded with, and commanded the dice in his hand to produce a ten just one more time. Then again and again he threw out the dice. Please! he shouted silently each time they left his hand. Twice he rolled a nine, just one white spot from winning their house and turning from the table. Once he rolled an eleven, just one pip too many. He rolled everything but a ten; then he threw a seven-six and an ace uppermost on the motionless dice — and his chips were gone.
It was impossible, he knew, to turn now and leave — no better or worse off than they'd come, neither their hopes nor their fears realized, all the agony of decision and action they'd gone through having come to nothing. That — having been so close to all they'd hoped for — was impossible to accept. Sam felt, too, standing there at the table, that he had learned something. They need not, he realized now, risk their entire savings as he'd originally planned. A bet of just one of the bills in his hand — they'd just seen it happen! — could quickly bring them to the point of playing with winnings again, to the chance of winning their house without risk. That was the way — he knew it! — and now he was anxious to reach again — and quickly — the wonderfully carefree moment of playing with their own money safe and secure in his hand. Knowing that it did not really matter whether he bet on his own cast of the dice or someone else's, he glanced at the next player at his right beyond Laura.
Young and bareheaded, the man wore a loose sweater; he might have been a college boy, and he had a pleasant, intelligent face. He seemed competent, lucky, Sam thought; now as the dice were swept to the man's waiting hand, Sam put down one of his bills, and the terrible thrill of risk began to pound in a vein at his temple again.
The young man rolled nine, not too hard a point to repeat. Sam had never wanted anything more than to win now, to feel all of their money safe in his hand once more. It was hard to breathe — he couldn't get enough air — as he watched the young man roll first a six, then an eleven, a four, eleven again, then a seven — a five and a two unmistakably and unalterably up on the dice — and Sam's bill was picked up.
He felt that he was logically and calmly considering the question of whether or not to leave now. But even as his mind went through the thought process, he knew that he couldn't. To leave $500 behind — many months of hard saving just to get back to where they had been only a moment ago, and even then their house unattainable for years to come — to do that when winning was so quick, when in literally less than two minutes they might have their house, was impossible.
The next player, who stood at the opposite end of the table, was a small, black-bearded man. As the man picked up the dice, Sam reached out and put down one of the four bills in his hand, trying not to think but simply to wait. He won. Wonderfully, magically, the dice rolled to a stop, a six and an ace uppermost. Seven, a winner, called the dealer, and the little black stack of chips reappeared beside Sam's bill.
To pick up the bill would still not restore all of their $2,500 to his hand. Sam knew he had to keep his nerve, for he had to win just one more time, and then — a thousand dollars ahead — he would put $2,500 into his wallet, to remain there. With a thousand dollars' winnings to play with then — either to win their house with or to fail to — he would not again risk their $2,500 or any part of it. If he failed, he knew he could turn from the table, their money again intact in his wallet, with the feeling that they had had a good play for their house, and that now it was time to stop.
To win now would forever end the torment Sam stood in. When the dice shot out across the green cloth, he prayed for a seven or eleven. With what seemed to Sam like perverse cruelty, the dice bounced and stopped almost instantly, two aces face up. Craps, a loser, the dealer called. Sam's money and chips were swept up, and he did not try or dare to think or to glance at Laura. He put down one of the three bills in his hand; the dice scuttled toward him again, struck the backboard, rolled halfway back across the table again, and incredibly, impossibly — he wanted to cry out in anguish and smash his fists down on his head — two aces lay uppermost again. Crap, a repeater, the dealer chanted. Now — there was no thinking or calculation left to go through — Sam quickly put down the next bill and tried to keep his mind shut against all thought, fear, or hope.
The man rolled five for a point and repeated it on the very next roll of the dice. Sam — one hand actually gripping his other wrist to keep from reaching out to the table — left the bill, and the tw
in stacks of black chips beside it, lying on the table. The little man rolled eight for a point, and within four or five more rolls of the dice, they stopped with a four and a three uppermost. Sam's money and chips disappeared once again, and — there was nothing else to do — he put down his last bill. Laura stood beside him with her eyes closed.
As the next player, a young woman, threw out the dice, Sam suddenly knew that he was going to lose. But she threw six, an easy point to repeat, and he watched, eyes not wavering from the table. She threw the dice three more times; then when they stopped, a six and an ace up, Sam felt that he had known in advance it was going to happen. Seven, a loser, he heard the dealer chant, and he turned, feeling empty and spent, to face Laura, their money entirely and completely gone.
Her face was without color. Staring at her he waited for words to say, but none came to him. There was no comfort in the bleak disaster he had brought upon them. He wondered how they could endure the long ride back over the mountains, every hope destroyed beyond any foreseeable repair.
He could not seem to make the first movement of turning away from the table; he looked back at the green cloth with a kind of wild and hopeless hope that somehow a mistake had been made, that somehow it hadn't really happened. But the space on the table before him was empty; the dice were waiting in the curve of the stick for the next shooter. Sam's hand dropped into his pocket to touch the hard, round surfaces of the silver dollars he had put there; he took them out to look at them.
They were useless and without meaning, a little half-inch-high stack of silver, but as the next player, a middle-aged man wearing a wide-brimmed tan hat, picked up the dice, Sam reached out, on blind impulse, to put the little stack on the space marked “Eleven; 15 to 1.” Then a roaring burst of conviction, a sense of absolute certainty, shot through him as the man threw out the dice. With no least feeling of surprise — this kind of sudden hunch had happened to him before in Reno — he saw the dice bounce to a stop directly under his eyes, first one of them, with a five uppermost, then the other, showing a six.
Yoo, eleven, a winner! called the dealer; then the two shirt-sleeved arms moved around the table paying off. Beside Sam's silver dollars was placed a little stack of brown chips, each labeled “$5.” He reached out for them, then stopped. For the certainty and conviction, he suddenly realized, persisted still — like a hot little flame still burning— he knew what was going to happen. He waited; the dice scuttled toward him. struck the backboard under his eyes, rolled, and stopped. Yoo, eleven, a repeater! the dealer sang out. Now Sam, his hands trembling violently, watched three times as many chips being added to his, and the new chips were not brown, but black.
He reached for them quickly, his hands cupping to slide the four stacks of chips and his five silver dollars across the table toward him. He knew a winning streak when he saw one begin — at this moment, his heart violent in his chest, he was absolutely certain of this — and he simply drew the chips and silver to the ruled-off space immediately before him, then left them. There would be no eleven this time, he knew that, but he knew also, with unquestioning certitude, that the man would win again, and quickly. Then the man threw the dice and rolled a seven — a four and a three uppermost on the dice just under Sam's eyes. The chips and silver before Sam were doubled, and with both hands he began loading them into the side pockets of his coat. Looking at Laura, he grinned wildly, unable to talk. They turned from the table to make their way through the busy, crowded room.
Walking across the casino toward the barred window, he answered her questions. I don't know what I won; I can't seem to think! he said, the exultation soaring inside him and pounding at his temples. I bet five dollars on eleven, at odds of fifteen to one, he said, trying to calculate, as they pushed through the crowd. So I won seventy-five dollars, and I bet it again — no, eighty dollars, because my original five was still there, too! Then I won again at fifteen to one, which makes — good lord, Laurie, twelve hundred dollars; twelve hundred and eighty, including my original bet. When they reached the barred window and Sam began unloading chips onto the counter, the man at the window quickly and deftly gathered them into stacks of 20. Then I bet that to win, Sam said, and he did; did you see that seven come rolling down the table! So my bet was doubled, and we must have — he sounded stunned — twenty-five-hundred and sixty dollars. A moment later, the man at the window finished stacking, counted the stacks rapidly with his eyes, then nodded. Right, he said. How do you want it?
Sam started to shrug, wildly happy, not caring; then he smiled. I cashed a check here a little while ago, he said then, for twenty-five-hundred dollars; maybe you remember. Could I have that back? The man opened a drawer, fingered quickly through a sheaf of checks, then withdrew Sam's pale-green check, and slid it over the counter to him, together with three $20 bills.
In the dining room on the very top of the Mapes Hotel, Sam and Laura sat at a table beside one of the great plate-glass windows that lined the room, the little city of Reno spread out below them. On the raised stage at the front of the great room an orchestra was playing, and people were dancing. Sixty dollars, Sam murmured, smiling at Laura. Our winnings'll pay for gas and oil both ways, the dinner we've just had, a night at the hotel here — no motel tonight! — and there'll still be some left over, just about ten bucks.
Laura smiled at him. I feel wonderful, and I want to dance some more. Let's save the ten dollars.
He looked at her for a moment, then smiled, and reached out for her hand on the table top. What for? he asked gently, but it wasn't really a question, and she turned her palm uppermost in his hand, and squeezed it tightly.
For the house, she said, and smiled into his eyes. What else?
Good Housekeeping, September 1957, 145(3):84-85, 192-194,196-200,202-204
Vive La Différence
Hey, listen to this. Sitting at the kitchen table, wearing a white T shirt, blue denims, and loafers, Henry Jessup glanced up from the Sunday paper to smile at his wife. She was at the stove, turning strips of bacon with a long-handled fork, her frowning face averted from the sputtering grease. A man's house caught on fire in Walleeta —Hank's eyes then dropped to the paper, and he began reading aloud — but he failed to call the volunteer fire department less than two blocks away, fighting the fire himself with a garden hose. Asked why later, he explained that he had been a member of the department until a quarrel with the others the week before, and I wouldn't give those guys the satisfaction of putting my fire out. Damage was estimated at two thousand dollars, but it was worth it, the ex-fireman insisted.
Hank smiled at his wife, waiting for a response; but she merely nodded, her eyes intent on the bacon. She was a black-haired, very pretty girl in her early twenties, wearing a bright-red corduroy robe. Hank stared at her curiously for several seconds, then turned back to his paper.
For some moments the kitchen was silent, except for the crackle of frying bacon. Then Hank turned a page of the newspaper. I'll be darned, he murmured, his voice astonished. Hilda, listen. President Eisenhower announced to a special press conference, called at the White House late last night, that he intends to ask Congress for new legislation restricting women's voting rights to purely local affairs. In these times of global stress, he explained, matters of national importance are far too vital to be influenced by the muddleheaded, emotional thinking of women. Questioned later, Mrs. Eisenhower admitted that she agreed with her husband. A woman's place is in the kitchen, she said, cooking breakfast for her husband, laughing at his jokes —
That's just what you really do think, I'm sure. Hilda glanced at him coldly, then began lifting bacon onto a square of paper toweling to drain.
Hey, what's wrong this morning? Hank sat back, half smiling, half frowning; a tall, thin-faced young man of twenty-five, his black hair still damp from the shower. You're mad at me, aren't you? The telltale signs have been accumulating since we got up.
The hesitation before she shrugged and replied, Of course not, was tiny, but it was enough.
The devil you aren't. Grinning, Hank thrust his chair back from the table, tilted it on its rear legs against the wall behind him. That's one thing I've learned to detect with the sensitivity of a finely tuned seismograph. Now what have I done?
Nothing! she said irritably. She lifted the bacon to a pair of plates warming on the stove. You haven't done a thing. The toaster popped, and she turned to it.
I'm sure of it, he said agreeably. That's invariably the case when you're mad at me — I'm innocent. Loving, tender, ever thoughtful, yet somehow my kindly words and actions get misconstrued. Brows raised questioningly, grinning at Hilda, he waited, watching her slice a thin curl of butter. But again, except for the scrape of the knife edge on toast, the kitchen was silent. Honey, he said gently, what is it? Don't try to tell me it's nothing — his voice had a smile in it because I know better.
She smiled, too, now; really trying, he saw, but nevertheless, the smile was stiff-lipped and forced. It's nothing, she said. It really is. It's — just too foolish to talk about. Come on, now — briskly she set his plate on the table before him — eat your breakfast.
He did not move, but looked at her until she was forced, finally, to meet his eyes. Talk, he said then.
Oh — She shrugged embarrassedly, then carried the other plate to the table and sat down across from him. It's too silly, really, but — I can't help how I feel. I had a dream. She was unable to meet his eyes, and leaning toward the end of the table, she unplugged the electric coffeepot, then poured coffee into Hank's cup.
A dream? Fork in hand, he frowned at her. How do you mean, a dream? About what?