The Jack Finney Reader

by Jack Finney

  There was a single instant when the hand in his did not move. Then it was yanked violently upward, and Iris shrieked — a wordless, piercing yell — the springs jouncing and squealing. Under cover of the sudden noise, Mike scuttled rapidly back under the bed. Calling, Mike! Mike! Iris was fumbling for the switch of the bed lamp beside her, the glass shade rattling in its metal bracket, as Mike raised his head to the level of his pillow and began muttering sleepily.

  Wha's matter? 'S wrong? he said. Then he slid his hips under the blanket and rolled toward his wife, as though in response to her call. The light flashed on, and Iris swung toward him; her black, shoulder-length hair flying. She was a pretty girl, of twenty-four, but now her mouth was agape, her blue eyes wide. Mike lay facing her, propped on one pajamaed elbow, staring at her in astonishment, his eyes blinking against the sudden glare from the little yellow-shaded lamp.

  Something — She was momentarily unable to continue, and she swallowed abruptly, a trembling hand pointing to the floor. Something grabbed me! she shrieked then, and scrambled across the bed to clutch Mike around the waist. Mike! she whispered, her lips brushing his ear. There's someone under the bed!

  Under the bed? His voice was astounded, and he drew back to stare at her in wonder, his hand rising to his disheveled hair to scratch his head in puzzlement. Then he rolled suddenly to the edge of the bed on his side and peered under the springs. Iris waited, staring wide-eyed at his striped pajama coat stretched tight over his back. There's nothing under here, Iris, he said, his voice muffled.

  Mike, are you sure? she said urgently as he started to rise. Look again!

  Once more he lowered his head and shoulders toward the floor, and Iris reached out quickly to pluck a flattened roll of dust-gray lint from the back of his pajama coat. No, of course not. There's nothing under here, he answered, as — her fingers darting — Iris lifted several more crushed wads of gray lint from his pajamas. You must have been dreaming, he said, heaving himself upright. What happened, anyway?

  Well — she frowned at him doubtfully, as though she were no longer sure — I thought I felt a hand reach up from the floor — under the straps of her white nightgown, Iris' slim shoulders moved in a little shudder — and take hold of mine. It just reached up, took hold of my hand — she shuddered again — and sort of squeezed. It was horrible! she said in sudden anger, glaring at Mike. Then she shrugged and added quickly, But of course you're right. I must have been dreaming. Under the pale-green blanket, her thumb and forefinger were rolling into a tight little ball the wads of fluff she indisputably knew could have come only from the floor under the bed.

  Sure, Mike was saying. His lean, angular face was solemn. I've had dreams like that. Seemed pretty real, did it? he asked solicitously.

  Oh, yes. She nodded. Then her lips parted in disgust. It was a horrible hand, sort of pudgy and bloated. The kind you hate to shake hands with, you know? I've often noticed that a person with that kind of hand always has something wrong with him, something sneaky and underhanded in his nature. You know what I mean, darling?

  Well — I guess so, he said doubtfully.

  Time to get to sleep, Iris murmured, as she snapped off the lamp. Sorry I disturbed you.

  Not at all. From his voice, Iris knew he was grinning. It was a pleasure.

  I'm glad you think so, darling, she murmured sweetly. You're such a comfort, and now Iris Cutler, too, was smiling in the darkness. For several moments, the room was silent. Then she spoke again. Aren't you thirsty at all, Mike?

  Nope.

  Well, I am. It's that leftover ham I had for supper. I should have given it to you. I'm hot, and I'm thirsty. I'm dying for something really cold to drink. She threw back the blanket. Don't let me disturb you, she murmured. Try to get to sleep now, and she walked out of the bedroom and down the hall toward the kitchen.

  Clasping his hands under his head, Mike lay smiling up at the invisible ceiling. From the kitchen, he heard the refrigerator door open, the rattle of ice cubes, then the sound of running water in the sink, and a cupboard door opening and closing. Presently the kitchen light clicked off, he heard the faint whisper of Iris' bare feet on the hall floor, and again he rolled quietly out of bed. When his wife appeared, her slim figure silhouetted momentarily in the doorway, he was kneeling beside the bed once more, his head on his pillow. As Iris sat down on her side of the bed and swung her legs up, he raised himself from the bed and knelt beside it, waiting. He heard her pull up the blanket, then heard the muffled sigh that meant she was again lying, waiting for sleep, an arm dangling from the side of the bed.

  Once more, he slid soundlessly across the floor under the bed and, once more, in the faint orange glow, saw the relaxed hand, fingers hanging limply. Grinning, he reached toward it, then paused. This time, it occurred to him, there would be no moment of stunned astonishment, during which Iris' hand would lie motionless in his. This time, he was certain, it would be yanked instantly upward. And so, careful not to touch it prematurely, he raised his own hand until it was directly beside his wife's. Then, his grin widening, he suddenly gripped it tightly.

  The hand collapsed in his; nightmarishly, unable to stop the contraction of his own hand, he felt his wife's hand squeeze to a limp and boneless pulp. Then the blood oozed up between his fingers, ran down over the back of his hand and down his wrist, and it was cold, icy. In absolute horror, unable to think, he yelled in wild terror, letting go the crushed hand and trying to heave himself upright, banging his head hard against the box springs. Iris! he yelled, scrambling out from under the bed, scraping his chest and knees. As he struggled frantically to his feet, the bedside light clicked on, and as he blinked against the sudden glare, trying to see, his face went suddenly white. For Iris lay propped up on one elbow, and from the end of her outstretched arm hung a blood-red, mangled, and dripping hand.

  Here you are, night crawler, she said quietly. Just take this, and empty it in the bathroom.

  His eyes still wide with terror, his mouth hanging open, Mike slowly reached out to take the red rubber glove she was holding — one of the pair, he realized dazedly, she used in dishwashing. It was cold, still partly filled with ice water, and as he stared down at it, his heart was still pounding wildly.

  I guess you must have been dreaming, too, darling, Iris murmured, smiling up at him sweetly. Sleepwalking, in fact. Or should I say sleepcrawling? Now, suppose you just get rid of that for me, and let's try to get some sleep.

  Once again, they were lying quietly in bed. Then Mike murmured, Man dies of exposure; wife held.

  What?

  Do you think it's right, when your husband is perishing of cold, to soak his pajamas in ice water?

  Did you really get soaked? She smiled in the darkness.

  Well, one sleeve is pretty wet. It's only by an effort of will that I keep my teeth from chattering.

  Iris' bed lamp clicked on, and she Leaned across Mike, peering toward his table. Are you sure your control's on all the way?

  High as it'll go.

  Well, mine's off, and I'm so warm I could die. I'll get you some fresh pajamas. She swung her long legs to the floor.

  Don't bother. An almost pleasant numbness is creeping over me. I've read about it in books on arctic exploration — the sweet prelude to eternal sleep.

  Don't talk that way, even joking. She was opening a dresser drawer; then she pulled out a folded maroon pajama coat and tossed it to him. You want the pants, too?

  I don't think so. Sitting up, he unbuttoned his pajama coat. I'm the informal type. None of this matched-coat-and-pants stuff for me.

  Well, it's a terrible combination. She walked to the foot of the bed and stood, arms folded, staring down at him.

  Pretty jaunty, eh? He tossed the striped pajama coat toward the foot of the bed, then leaned forward to stare at it. After a moment, he grinned slowly, nodding at the coat, to which several more crushed little mats of gray lint now clung. I see how I was caught. I guess it's true that the criminal always makes one fat
al mistake. We'll call this ‘The Case of the Untidy Housekeeper.’

  Or ‘The Creep Crawls Again. Once too often. She sat down on the foot of the bed. I'm wide-awake now, absolutely wide-awake. And thirsty.

  Its the price you pay, eating ham for supper. That kind of thirst is never quenched by water. Buttoning the maroon pajama coat, he got out of bed and walked to the dresser. What you need is a chocolate soda.

  It'd be nice, she murmured.

  Sure would. He took cigarettes from a pack on the dresser, gave one to Iris, then lighted them. A really good soda, he said, exhaling a jet of smoke. Made with real Dutch chocolate. A thick gob of it, a squirt of soda, then a big scoop of ice cream. Real ice cream, with that wonderful flavor of genuine vanilla —

  Cut it out. I'm thirsty enough now.

  Mike grinned. Then more soda. I can almost hear that wonderful, inimitable sound of it squirting into the glass, then foaming up the sides, all bubbly and chocolaty.

  Now, cut it out, Mike! She wet her lips and swallowed. I'm dying of thirst, and the only thing you can talk about is —

  A rich, velvety chocolate soda! More creamy ice cream, then the final injection of soda. Can you hear it hissing into the glass? And see the delicious, chocolaty froth rounding up past the brim?

  Yes, very plainly. The toes of one bare foot began to tap on the floor. I can see it quite clearly, thanks to your gift for rich, chocolaty prose.

  Well, it is finally set before you. He was leaning against the dresser, grinning down at her. First, the clink of the glass on the cool marble counter, then the merry tinkle of the long, silvery spoon. You unwrap the straw, then plunge it deep into the foamy goodness before you; but hold! He raised a hand, palm outward. Stay your parched lips! Your trembling hand! Wait. He leaned toward her, brows rising persuasively. Let it get cold first. Really cold. Hang onto yourself.

  I'm trying to. Her foot was tapping rapidly.

  And now — see? The iron strength of your will has been justly rewarded. See the mist forming on the sides of your glass? The beads of chill moisture? Your soda is ice-cold now, all its chocolaty goodness enhanced and intensified. At last, you pick up your spoon, your eager lips move toward the golden straw, and you feel in anticipation that first glorious sip, that throat-cooling surge of unspeakable goodness. How's it taste? He leaned toward her solicitously. Glad you waited till it was really cold?

  Mike, I want one.

  Me, too. He nodded. A cold, delicious —

  No, I mean it, Mike. I want one. Really. I've just got to, Mike. I absolutely have got to have a chocolate soda.

  He was frowning slightly now. How do you mean?

  She shook her head in helpless patience. I mean I've got to have a chocolate soda. I really do. I'll simply never get to sleep without it now. I mean it, Mike. I'll lie awake all night, thinking about it.

  For a moment longer, he stood staring down at her; then he pushed himself from the dresser. I'll fix you some ice water — really cold. And you'll forget all about —

  No, I don't want ice water, she said, maintaining her patience. It just won't do any more. Mike, I can't help it. She looked at him appealingly. I really can't, darling. I've just got to have a chocolate soda.

  You serious?

  She nodded.

  He shook his head. I've heard of women who've just got to have Swiss cheese or bananas or charcoal or something in the middle of the night. He smiled at her. But they're always pregnant, it turns out. Don't tell me you're —

  No. She smiled; but when Mike expelled his breath in an exaggerated sigh of relief, she frowned at him. Well, it wouldn't be as bad as all that, would it, if I were?

  He shrugged. Well — maybe not in two or three years. But right now —

  I know, I know. A corner of her mouth quirked. Then, her voice imitating his, she said, After we've been married a few more years. And saved some money. And can afford a house out of the city — you can't raise children in an apartment. And so on and so forth.

  Well, he said, that's true, isn't it?

  She shrugged a shoulder. I guess so. Anyway, I'm not pregnant. I just want a chocolate soda.

  He nodded, extinguishing his cigarette in an ashtray on the dresser top. Well, I'd get you one if I could. I really would. Serve me right for teasing you. But all the stores are closed now, so — He stopped to stare at her. Iris was slowly shaking her head, smiling, and Mike frowned. What do you mean?

  Not the cafeteria.

  What cafeteria?

  That great big one at Fifty-Sixth or Seventh. They serve sodas, and they're open all night. Every night.

  For several seconds, Iris smiling pleasantly up at him, Mike Cutler frowning down at her, they stared at each other.

  Then Iris added gently, It'll take you fifteen minutes at most, Mike. There's always a cab at the stand on the corner, this time of night, and —

  Do you mean get dressed, actually get dressed in the middle of the night, go clear downstairs, and —

  You don't have to get dressed. Not exactly. Just slip some pants on right over your pajamas, and wear your leather jacket and your slippers. You won't need socks; it won't be cold in the cab. And you can zip your jacket up to hide your pajama top. Take you one minute to get dressed, no more.

  Now, listen —

  And another minute down to the lobby in the elevator. Five minutes at most to the cafeteria in a cab. In fifteen minutes easily, you can be back here with two delicious, foamy, chocolaty, yum-yum-yummy sodas. And I want one.

  The room was silent for several seconds. Then Mike said thoughtfully, To think that I could have become a mendicant monk; but, no, I had to get married. He grinned then. I guess it wouldn't take very long, at that, he said, and turned toward the closet.

  It took something over twenty-five minutes, and the sodas, when Mike finally returned with them, were not made with Dutch chocolate. Nor were they in tall, frosted glasses. They were in cardboard cartons, the ice cream half-melted, all the bubbles gone. But they were cold, and sitting side by side on the foot of the bed sipping them, spooning up the ice cream, they enjoyed them.

  Iris sipped the last of hers, the suddenly empty straw rattling hollowly in the carton; then she sighed pleasurably. Smiling, she looked at Mike. That was fun, she said softly, and stood up, holding her hand out for Mike's empty carton. She set the two cartons on the dresser, then turned toward the bed. It was utterly ridiculous, of course, and I'm afraid to even look at the clock.

  Damnedest night I ever spent in my life, Mike said as he got into bed and grinned at her.

  Yes. Iris lay waiting, one hand on the light switch, till Mike settled down, pulling the blanket tight over his shoulders. It was silly, all right. She snapped off the light and lay back, sighing. Reminds me of our honeymoon.

  I didn't know our honeymoon was silly.

  Yes, it was, she said quietly. It was wonderfully silly. We did what we really wanted to, Mike.

  Yeah, he said, and she smiled.

  Oh, you know what I mean. Like tonight. We weren't always watching the clock, I mean, and worrying about tomorrow. And the day after that, and the next week, and the next year. We didn't spend our days worrying about the future; we took it for granted. And we didn't fret about the consequences of everything we did or wanted to do. We did things on impulse, and it was fun, Mike.

  I know. From his voice, she knew he was remembering, too. Then he sighed. But that's a honeymoon.

  And real life has to be different. I know, I know. Anyway, it was fun tonight. Now, back to being sensible again, I suppose; time to get some sleep.

  If I ever can, he muttered. I'm actually shivering. It's the ice cream, I guess.

  And I'm roasting again. I simply can't underst— She broke off abruptly; there was an instant of stunned silence; then Iris burst into laughter. It was utterly unrestrained, pealing through the bedroom.

  Mike rose on one elbow to stare at her through the darkness. What's wrong?

  I — I — Struggling to speak,
she burst into laughter again, helpless against it. Then, sitting up to catch her breath, her voice choked with laughter, she managed to say, I changed the sheets this morning, and — and — you've been turning up your blanket control, getting colder and colder. She shook with laughter for a moment, then continued, And I've been getting warmer and warmer, turning my control down.

  Yeah? So?

  Don't you see? I reversed the blanket when I put it back on! You've been heating up my side, while I've been freezing you out!

  Mike smiled wryly in the darkness but did not laugh. Well, let's turn the damn blanket over.

  No. Still smiling, she shook her head. I'll do it tomorrow; tonight we can just trade sides. She moved to his side of the bed; then, as her husband started to get up to walk around the foot of the bed, she put a hand on his arm. Or better yet, she said softly, we'll stay right here. I'll keep you warm, darling. After a few moments, her arms around her husband, holding him close, she murmured, That better? and kissed him on the forehead.

  Yeah. First time I've been warm all night.

  That's good.

  But I'm still wide-awake, he said softly. Very wide-awake.

  After a moment, she murmured, Me, too. I'm not sleepy at all.

  And then her husband put his arms around her and kissed her, not on the forehead, but full on the lips. Who needs a house in the country? he said.

  Good Housekeeping, May 1959, 148(5):104-105, 149-150, 152, 154

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