by Jack Finney
As I raised it to my face, the tap of high heels sounded on the wood floor just outside the kitchen door. There was silence as they crossed the rug toward me, then the davenport cushion beside me sank; I felt a deliciously warm breath on my cheek, and I had to lower my trembling, rattling newspaper, turn and manage to smile into the sloe eyes of the creature beside me.
Once again — my head slowly shaking in involuntary approval — I had to admire my own good taste; this was not a homely woman. I turned the oven down, she murmured. It might be better to have dinner a little later. When it gets cooler, she added softly.
I nodded quickly. Good idea. Paper says it's the hottest day in five hundred years, I babbled. Doctors advise complete immobility.
But the long-legged beauty beside me wasn't listening. So I'm the reason you like to come home, am I? she breathed into my ear. It's been a long time, darling, since you said anything like that.
H'm'm, I murmured and nodded frantically at the paper in my hands. I see they're going to tear down City Hall, I muttered wildly, but she was blowing gently in my ear now; then she pulled the Sun from my paralyzed fingers, tossed it over her shoulder and leaned toward me. Marion! I was shrieking silently. Help! Then the raven-haired girl beside me had her arms around my neck, and I simply did not know what to do; I thought of pretending to faint, claiming sunstroke.
Then with the blinding force of a revelation it came to me. Through no fault of my own, I was in another world, another life. The girl in my arms — somehow that's where she was now — was singing softly, almost inaudibly. It took me a moment to recognize the tune; then finally I knew, finally I recognized this magnificent girl. Just a Japanese Sandman, she was singing softly through her lovely nose, and now I remembered fully everything about the alternate world I was in. I hadn't broken off with this girl at all — not in this particular world! Matter of fact, I suddenly realized, I'd never even met Marion in this world. It was even possible, it occurred to me now, that she'd never been born. In any case, this was the girl I'd married in this world. No denying it, this was my wife here beside me with her arms around my neck; we'd been married three years, in fact. And now I knew what to do — perfectly well.
Oh, boy! What a wonderful time Vera and I had in the months that followed. My work at the office was easy — no strain at all. I seemed to have an aptitude for it and, just as I'd always suspected, I made rather more money at Enterprises, Incorporated, than that Serv-Eez outfit ever paid in their lives. More than once, too, I left the office early, since no one seemed to mind, just to hurry back home — leaping up the stairs three at a time — to that lovely big old Vera again. And at least once every week I'd bring home a load of books under my arm, because she loved to read, just like me; and I'd made a wonderful discovery about this alternate world.
Life, you understand, was different in its details. The San Francisco Giants had won the 'Fifty-eight Series, for example; the Second Avenue El was still up; Yucatan gum was the big favorite; television was good; and several extremely prominent people whose names would astound you were in jail. But basically the two worlds were much the same. Drugstores, for example, looked and smelled just about the same; and one night on the way home from work I stopped in at a big drugstore to look over the racks of paper-back books and made a marvelous discovery.
There on the revolving metal racks were the familiar rows of glossy little books, every one of which, judging from the covers, seemed to be about an abnormally well-developed girl. Turning the rack slowly I saw books by William Faulkner, Bernard Glemser, Agatha Christie, and Charles Einstein, which I'd read and liked. Then, down near the bottom of the rack my eye was caught by the words, By Mark Twain. The cover showed an old side-wheeler steamboat, and the title was South From Cairo. A reprint fitted out with a new title, I thought, feeling annoyed; and I picked up the book to see just which of Mark Twain's it really was. I've read every book he wrote — Huckleberry Finn at least a dozen times since I discovered it when I was eleven years old.
But the text of this book was new to me. It seemed to be an account, told in the first person by a young man of twenty, of his application for a job on a Mississippi steamboat. And then, from the bottom of a page, a name leaped out at me. Finn, sir, I answered the captain, the text read, but mostly they call me Huckleberry.
For a moment I just stood there in the drugstore with my mouth hanging open; then I turned the little book in my hands. On the back cover was a photograph of Mark Twain; the familiar shock of white hair, the mustache, that wise old face. But underneath this the brief familiar account of his life ended with saying that he had died in 1918 in Mill Valley, California. Mark Twain had lived eight years longer in this alternate world, and had written — well, I didn't yet know how many more books he had written in this wonderful world, but I knew I was going to find out. And my hand was trembling as I walked up to the cashier and gave her two bits for my priceless copy of South From Cairo.
I love reading in bed, and that night I read a good half of my new Mark Twain in bed with Vera, and then afterward — well, afterward she fixed me a nice cool Tom Collins. And oh, boy, this was the life all right.
In the weeks that followed — that lanky length of violet-eyed womanhood cuddled up beside me, singing softly through her nose — I read a new novel by Ernest Hemingway; the best yet, I think. I read a serious, wonderfully good novel by James Thurber, and something else I'd been hoping to find for years — the sequel to a marvelous book called Delilah, by Marcus Goodrich. In fact, I read some of the best reading since Gutenberg kicked things off — a good deal of it aloud to Vera, who enjoyed it as much as I did. I read Mistress Murder, a hilarious detective story by George S. Kaufman; The Queen Is Dead, by George Bernard Shaw; The Third Level, a collection of short stories by someone or other l never heard of, but not too bad; a wonderful novel by Allen Marple; a group of fine stories about the advertising business by Alfred Eichler; a terrific play by Orson Welles; and a whole new volume of Sherlock Holmes stories by A. Conan Doyle.
For four or five months, as Vera rather aptly remarked, I thought, it was like a second honeymoon. I did all the wonderful little things, she said, that I used to do on our honeymoon and before we were married; I even thought up some new ones. And then — all of a sudden one night — I wanted to go to a night club.
All of a sudden I wanted to get out of the house in the evening, and do something else for a change. Vera was astonished — wanted to know what was the matter with me, which is typical of a woman. If you don't react precisely the same way day after day after endless day, they think something must be wrong with you. They'll even insist on it. I didn't want any black-cherry ice cream for dessert, I told Vera one night at dinner. Why not, she wanted to know — which is idiotic if you stop to think about it. I didn't want any because I didn't want any, that's all! But being a woman she had to have a reason; so I said, Because I don't like it.
But of course you like it, she said. You always used to like it!
You see what I mean? Anyway, we did go to this night club, but it wasn't much fun. Vera got sleepy, and we left, and were home before twelve. Then she wasn't sleepy, but I was. Couple nights later I came home from the office and was changing my clothes; she said something or other, and I didn't hear her and didn't answer, and we actually had a little argument. She wanted to know why I always looked at every coin in my pocket, like an idiot, every time I changed clothes. I explained quietly enough; told her about the ad I used to read as a kid and how I was still looking for a 1913 Liberty-head nickel worth thousands of dollars, which was the truth.
But it wasn't the whole truth. As I looked through the coins I'd collected in my pocket during the day — the Woodrow Wilson dimes, the Grover Cleveland pennies, the nickels with George Coopernagel's profile, and all the other familiar coins of the world I now lived in — I understood something that had puzzled me once.
These other alternate worlds in which we also live intersect here and there — at a corner newsstand, fo
r example, on Third Avenue in New York and at many another place, too, no doubt. And from these intersecting places every once in a while something from one of these worlds — a Woodrow Wilson dime, for example — will stray into another one. I'd found such a dime and when I happened to plank it down on the counter of that little newsstand, there at an intersection of the two alternate worlds, that dime bought a newspaper in the world it belonged in. And I walked off into that world with the New York Sun under my arm. I knew this now, and I'd known it long since. I understood it finally, but I didn't tell Vera. I simply told her I was looking for a 1913 Liberty-head nickel. I didn't tell her I was also looking for a Roosevelt dime.
I found one too. One night, finally, sure enough, there it lay in my palm; a dime with the profile of Franklin D. Roosevelt on its face. And when I slapped it down on the counter of the little newsstand next evening, there at the intersection of two alternate worlds, I was trembling. The man snatched up a paper, folding it as he handed it to me, and I tucked it under my arm and walked on for three or four steps, hardly daring to breathe. Then I opened the paper and looked at it. New York World-Telegram, the masthead read, and I began to run — all the way to Forty-fourth Street, then east to First Avenue and then up three flights of stairs.
I could hardly talk I was so out of breath when I burst into the apartment, but I managed to gasp out the only word that mattered. Marion! I said and grabbed her to me, almost choking her, because my arms hit the back of her head about where Vera's shoulders would have been. But she managed to talk, struggling to break loose, her voice sort of muffled against my coat.
Al! she said. What in the world is the matter with you?
For her, of course, I'd been here last night and every night for the months and years past. And of course, back in this world, I remembered it, too, but dimly, mistily. I stepped back now and looked down at the marvelous tiny size of Marion, at that wonderful, petite figure, at her exquisite and fragile blond beauty. Nothing's the matter with me, I said, grinning down at her. It's just that I've got a beautiful wife and was in a hurry to get home to her. Anything wrong with that?
There wasn't; not a thing, and — well, it's been wonderful, my life with Marion, ever since. It's an exciting life; we're out three and four nights a week, I guess — dancing, the theater, visiting friends, going to night clubs, having dinner out, even bowling. It's the way things used to be, as Marion has aptly said. In fact, she remarked recently, it's like a second honeymoon, and she's wonderfully happy these days and so am I.
Oh, sometimes I'm a little tired at night lately. There are times after a tough day at Serv-Eez when I'd almost rather stay home and read a good book; it's been quite a while since I did. But I don't worry about that. Because the other night, about two-thirty in the morning, just back from The Mirimba, standing at my dresser looking through the coins in my pocket, I found it — another Woodrow Wilson dime. You come across them every once in a while, I've noticed, if you just keep your eyes open; Wilson dimes, Ulysses Grant quarters, Coopernagel nickels. And I've got my Wilson dime safely tucked away, and — well, I'm sure Vera, that lithe-limbed creature, will be mighty glad to see her husband suddenly acting his old self once again. I imagine it'll be like a third honeymoon. Just as — in time — it will be for Marion.
So there you are, brother, coin collecting can be profitable. And fun too! Why don't you start — tonight!
The Saturday Evening Post, January 30, 1960, 232(31):31, 54, 56, 58
Crazy Sunday
He wasn't quite ready to admit he was lying; as he was staring down at Third Avenue, nine stories below his living room windows, Victor Talburt told himself that already he was having fun. His fingers were unbuttoning his sports shirt, as he watched the car and truck roofs and the foreshortened bodies of the Saturday-afternoon pedestrians. It was April, the pattern of sunlight and shadow strong on the black of the asphalt street and gray-white of the sidewalks, and now the traffic lights clicked from red to green; even this high, he could hear the sound through the open windows. He put his hands on the sill and leaned forward, head thrusting into the warm spring air, to watch the traffic start up as far down the avenue as he could see. Hey, everybody, he called softly — a tall, brown-haired man, not yet thirty, who hadn't yet realized that his smile was forced — wait for me! He ducked his head back into the room and began pulling out his shirttails, very conscious of the knowledge that, for the first time in years, he was free.
Somebody ice the champagne, he said to the empty room. Here comes Good-Time Talburt. He turned toward the hallway leading to the bedroom, glancing at his watch. He had just returned from putting his wife and his small son, Ralph, on the Philadelphia train, and now — it was two-twenty-six — they were nearly half an hour on their way. His wife's name was Aileen; she was going to visit her mother; and although he liked his mother-in-law, a weekend at her apartment while she and Aileen talked over old times would have been no pleasure whatever to him.
Nor had Aileen thought he should go. Stay home and sleep till noon Sunday, she'd said, then smiled and added, If you can remember how. I'm not sure I could. And see a show or ball game or something. Saturday night, visit some old friend I don't like. Have a weekend to yourself for once, just doing whatever you please. There's nothing you have to do except remember to get bread for breakfast Monday. Get French; it toasts better.
Pulling off his shirt in the bedroom, Vic shook his head, remembering the guilty shock of pleasure he'd felt when Aileen had said this. But the surprise at his pleasure was gone; now he admitted and put into words the simple knowledge he'd suppressed for three years — that the price of marriage is a big part of freedom. And the price of parenthood is the rest of it; since Ralph had been born nearly a year before, all spontaneity had gone from their lives. To take a trip, visit friends, even see a movie or sleep late of a weekend meant planning in advance, and the temporary return of freedom, even for only a weekend, seemed an enormous gift to him.
The lid's off. he said aloud, tossing his shirt on the bed. Vice is rampant; carnival is king. Standing on one leg, he began pulling off his wash pants. Tomorrow I'll have coffee in bed and read the Sunday paper. Tonight I could drop in on the Lenzes. He turned to the dresser. Ought to phone Max Lenz right now, see if they can get up a bridge game. Should have made plans in advance. He slid open a drawer and brought out a clean white shirt. Or I could call Will Crowley, he thought, slipping on the shirt, and see what he's doing tonight. We had some pretty good times before I was married. Buttoning his shirt, he glanced at his watch again; it was just two-thirty. This afternoon, I could walk along Broadway: haven't done that for five years, it must be. Or I could bowl a little. Or shoot some pool.
Well, let him out! he said aloud. Let me out! He yanked a tie from the rack on the inside of his closet door, then swung around suddenly, frowning, and walked quickly across the room to a bedside table. Get a little life and action in here, he muttered, and snapped on the white plastic radio. What a dead crowd! He stopped, standing motionless and staring, at the irritation he heard in his voice. Then he understood, and finally admitted to himself, that he was not having fun, that none of the things he had thought of doing with his weekend even interested him.
They're not enough, he said, walking back to his closet. That's the trouble. For this weekend, they're just not big enough. Sliding his tie under his shirt collar, he smiled in amusement at himself, for in his mind lay the conviction that this might be the last completely free time he'd have for no telling how long — years, probably. And to spend it seeing a show or ball game — or, even worse, shooting pool or simply sleeping late — seemed like a stupid waste of something precious.
Nat King Cole, said the radio, coming to life, with ‘April in Paris.’ The high, muted voice and the nostalgic song began, and Vic pulled the trousers of his lightweight gray suit from their hanger and thought, Maybe it's just that I miss Aileen, and that's what's spoiling things. But he knew immediately that this wasn't true. Secure in the
certainty that she'd be back early Monday morning, he knew that any loneliness he felt was so temporary as to seen artificial, even pleasurable. He wasn't even sure that what he felt was loneliness or, if so, that it was for Aileen. He was faintly aware, in fact, that he felt a little resentment toward her, a feeling he didn't want to track down. And while the apartment was empty and lifeless, with no sound of the baby's voice or activity, he smiled, fastening his belt, and said aloud, It's also a damned relief.
‘April in Paris,’ the soft voice from the radio sang as Vic stood at the mirror, flipping his tie end into the knot; and with a surge of yearning and restlessness so strong it was painful, he thought of the second year of his Army service, the wonderful year he'd been stationed in Europe. Even in the Army, I had more actual freedom than I've ever had since. He grimaced at himself in the mirror, in wry disgust at the twinge of self-pity he'd felt; but nevertheless, it suddenly seemed imperative that the precious freedom of this weekend must not be wasted. It ought to be used in some rare and grand way, and he thought, If I were a drinker, I'd probably go on a spectacular binge. Or play cards for thirty-six hours, if I were a gambler. I could play for pretty big stakes, too, it occurred to him, and he smiled, his thoughts diverted. Vic was a commercial artist, and six months ago had changed jobs, at a spectacular increase of six thousand dollars a year. It was more money than they needed, far more; their living standard hadn't changed much. Now they had a reserve bank account that astonished Vic whenever he thought of it.