The Jack Finney Reader

by Jack Finney

  When we were finally led majestically to a booth, I looked the other way, pretending I didn't see Jack. But he called to me and, when I turned, beckoned vigorously. I walked over to his table, realizing that of course he was single, and there was nothing clandestine about this. Jack could not only afford it; he was perfectly free to go anywhere he liked with all the good-looking girls he wanted, and I felt a wave of pity for the basically unhappy life he'd begun. He stood up, lean and handsome, and introduced us. This was Anita Morgan, a girl from his office, and we smiled at each other and murmured politely, and I wondered what she'd say if I just leaned close and — well, we all have these foolish, meaningless thoughts, I'm sure.

  Liz met Anita a week or so later. It was our anniversary at Liz' suggestion, I surprised her and took her to dinner in the city. Then we went to Enrico's Coffee House on Broadway, a fairly flossy place with marble-topped tables out in the open, like a European sidewalk cafe. Jack and Anita were there. He waved us over, introduced the women, and insisted we sit with them. We were there for an hour or so, drinking Lithuanian coffee as the peasants used to make it, with gin and rum added, crushed anise seed, and a jigger of pomegranate juice. The two girls, after a few minutes of wariness from Anita, got along fine, laughing and chattering, their heads together like old school chums. This, of course, could have meant they hated each other on sight, so I didn't know what Liz would say when we got into our car. But the instant the car door slammed, she turned to me, with a look both dreamy and excited, and said, Oh, I hope they get married. They've just got to!

  Mind your own business, I said, edging out into the Broadway traffic, Who says they've just got to get married? Don't forget that under that new false front, there still beats old Fred Gutmann. He's years older than she is, and —

  So what? I'm sure they're in love, and that's all that matters. Look at Picasso.

  Where? I was slowing for a light, and I looked all around. I thought it was kind of funny, but Liz didn't laugh.

  You know what I mean. He's years older than his wife, and they're very happy.

  He didn't need your help in getting married, and neither does Jack. So just let them alone. I'm sure he hasn't any intention of getting married.

  I was absolutely right. A day or so later, for the first time in weeks, Jack dropped in when we were doing the dishes, just the way he used to. He wasn't wearing his toupee; he had on his ratty old brown sweater; and as he sat down at the kitchen table, pulling out his tobacco and pipe, he looked more like Fred than Jack.

  Well! Liz said brightly. Where's Anita tonight?

  Fred finished packing his pipe, sucked on it to see that it was drawing, lighted it with a kitchen match, took a couple puffs, then looked up, and said, I'm not seeing her any more, Liz. Except at the office.

  Liz snapped the suds off her hands, as though she were being jilted. And why not? she demanded.

  Fred puffed on his pipe, looking at us a little sadly, I thought. Finally, he took his pipe out of his mouth and said, It's fun pretending you're young again, and I've had a wonderful time with Anita. I think the world of her. But I'm not fool enough to kid myself permanently. I'm too old for her, and I know it. But if I let myself see very much more of her, I might be tempted to try to forget that.

  Liz stared at him a moment, her eyes narrowing speculatively. Suddenly, in a kind of desperate wail, she said, But what about Friday?

  He looked at her. Friday?

  Yes! She sounded irritated. Dan got theater tickets. The four of us were going. I asked Anita about it when we saw her at Enrico's. Didn't she tell you?

  Fred shook his head, looking baffled.

  Liz looked stricken and brought the palm of her hand to the side of her face. Oh, my goodness! she said. Of course! I told her that we'd tell you, and — well, I got confused, that's all. You'll have to forgive me, Jack, but you just can't back out now. We have the tickets.

  Poor Fred didn't know he'd been backing out of anything, but he found himself saying, Of course not, and a minute later, Liz had sent him to the front of the house to phone Anita, who'd be wondering, Liz said, why he hadn't mentioned this to her.

  The instant I heard him dialing, I said, What tickets did I get? What are you talking about?

  Sh! Liz said indignantly. He'll hear you.

  I don't care if he does. I'm going to tell him, anyway. What kind of trick is this?

  But of course I didn't tell him. You can't actually betray your own wife. And — they have no scruples of any kind, I tell you! — Liz knew that, counted on it, and actually had the nerve to grin at me triumphantly when Fred came back, looking excited and more like Jack again, and said Anita could go.

  Friday night, during intermission at the theater — I'd had to rush over during lunch hour to buy tickets — Liz invited Jack and Anita to a picnic on Mount Tamalpais that Sunday, wording it in some clever unscrupulous, womanly way that neither of them could possibly refuse, for fear they'd hurt my feelings

  There is absolutely no contract a man can get into more important than marriage. It's the most binding, responsibility-laden, long-lasting commitment there is, and I've never in my life seen a man do anything but keep his hands strictly off when someone else's marriage or non-marriage is concerned. But women, free of the crippling burden of ethics and morality, just rub their hands gleefully at sight of a couple who might not get married if they didn't interfere. Liz didn't give Jack a chance. It wasn't long before he didn't want any, either. Propinquity, with regular assists from Liz, did what it was supposed to, and there came the inevitable time when Jack proposed. Anita accepted, and they were married a week later. Liz had advised them against long engagements.

  For three months, then, Liz walked around with a smug I-told-you-so look, because the Goodmans' married life was nothing if not romantic. They didn't have a honeymoon — Jack hadn't been in his new job long enough to take more than a long weekend off — but they made up for that. They'd go dancing at the old Claremont Hotel across the bay — dancing every dance, sometimes, till the ballroom closed; then riding home, through the moonlight maybe, the radio playing and the top down, of course. Jack had bought a little red sports car. Weekends, they did a good deal of water skiing. Jack had a new boat. Through this, they met a crowd of young people who sailed a lot, and the Goodmans began joining them at a sort of literary bar in Sausalito.

  But they got off by themselves, too, of course. They spent a fair amount of time sort of discovering San Francisco, walking around some of the wonderful old neighborhoods. San Francisco's a great place for that, if you don't mind the hills. Often, they'd end up at Enrico's, drinking Lithuanian coffee, because it had become “their place.”

  The Goodmans weren't always out, of course; they were home a lot, too. We'd see them and wave to them or pass the time of day. And Liz often talked to Anita in the daytime; that's how she kept track of what they were doing. Usually, this would be around noon, because Anita liked to sleep late, now that she wasn't working. And sometimes in the evening, we might hear their new hi-fi and maybe catch a glimpse of them slowly dancing cheek to cheek in the living room. Then the lights might go out, and — well, Liz was thrilled to bits. The marriage was a great success, as far as she was concerned — and as she frequently reminded me.

  One night, Jack dropped over. He wasn't wearing his old brown sweater, but a fringed, vestlike Peruvian serape Anita had given him; very colorful. He was wearing his toupee, his contact lenses, and was smoking a cigarette. Yet somehow he looked more like the old Fred than in quite a while. It might have been the worried, frowning look on his face as he sat down at the kitchen table. Suddenly he put out his cigarette and pulled his pipe and tobacco pouch out of his pants pocket. You know what I did last week? he said. I told Anita I had to go out of town for three days on business. We nodded; Anita had told Liz about it. But Jack frowned and began slowly shaking his head, in disgust at himself. But it was a lie. I didn't go out of town. I phoned the office from a phone booth, told them I had flu,
and I rented a hotel room right there in San Francisco. Liz's mouth dropped open, and Jack said, Oh, not for illicit purposes, believe me. It was to rest. To sleep. That's all I did for three days. Went to bed at eight-thirty every night, slept late mornings, and had breakfast sent to my room. Daytimes, I'd read, and usually take a nap in the afternoon. Between times, I'd eat. Candy bars, sandwiches, salted peanuts, buttered popcorn, cheese and crackers, anything. I gained six pounds that now I have to lose again. Oh, my lord, I get sick of being hungry all the time. He propped his elbows on the table and covered his face with his hands.

  Then he looked at us again, and his face was stricken. I don't know what to do, he said. I can't stand this life — tired most of the time and hungry the rest. And worst of all, I'm sick to death of the eternal pretense. I'm not twenty-nine years old, he almost shouted, and I'm tired of pretending I am. Then his voice dropped, and he said quietly, I love Anita, and I'm going to let her go. I'll give her a divorce on any grounds she wants. I love her too much to go on with this. Even if I wanted to keep on, I'm just too tired and hungry.

  If he'd let himself, he'd have cried, and I looked murder at Liz, telling her with a glance that she was going to hear plenty from me the moment Jack left.

  But she didn't even see me. Why, of course, she was murmuring soothingly to Jack. Of course you can't keep this up, and you shouldn't try. You've got to tell Anita the truth. And show her the truth, too. Take off that foolish toupee. At home and at the office, too. They know you now; they like you; they won't fire you. Put your glasses back on, too, and eat all you like. Because — Liz actually folded her hands under her chin and got the most dreamy, starry-eyed, silly look on her face I've ever seen — don't you know that Anita loves you, too? Do you think she fell in love with contact lenses, tight pants, and a wig? Or was it Fred Gutmann? It was you! she cried, like the heroine of a soap opera. It was you she fell in love with, Fred Gutmann, and it's time you knew it. Go! Liz actually raised her arm to full length and pointed at the door dramatically. Go tell her the truth. Go live the truth. And be happy in your love.

  It was sickening. It reminded me of those old-time movies with someone in a wheel chair — “Walk! Stand up, and walk! You can do it!” Jack must have seen the same pictures, or worse. Because he stood up like a zombie, his chin lifting, shoulders squaring, arms straight down at his sides, fists clenched, and with the light of faith and pure love burning in his eyes, he marched out.

  All I said to Liz was, I swear I'll slug you if you don't know what you're doing this time.

  This time? I've known all along.

  I just said, Hah! and stalked out.

  But she knew. Some six months later, when I glanced out the kitchen window one spring evening, Fred — not Jack Goodman, but Fred Gutmann — was sitting comfortably in a lounge chair on his patio. His toupee had been gone for months ; the band of hair around the back of his head was pleasantly gray again; his pipe was in his mouth; his clasped hands lay on the gentle curve of his belly, for Fred had gained not the forty pounds he'd lost, but forty-five. His chin was double — triple when he looked down — he was wearing his bifocals and his Peruvian serape, of which he had grown very fond, and he had had his third raise in pay last week.

  A screen door slammed, and Fred looked toward his back door with a mingled expression of deep pleasure, adoration, and contentment, and Anita walked into view. I don't know how she managed it, but she was still a nice-looking woman in spite of the twenty-five pounds she'd gained.

  I turned to Liz, who was right beside me, of course, peeking, and said, How did you know? How did you know she'd accept Fred as he really was and be happy? Even happier, as far as I can make out.

  Liz sighed and said, Men are such fools.

  I said, Yeah, but how did you know?

  The moment I set eyes on her, I knew those two were just made for each other.

  I said, Yeah, but how did you know?

  She patted my cheek, fondly, pityingly, and said, It was obvious from the start.

  What was?

  You didn't know it, Fred didn't know it, but any woman in the world would have known.

  Known what?

  Why, that she's not as young as she used to be, either.

  McCall's, May 1962, LXXXIX(8):78-79, 142, 144-146

  Hey, Look at Me!

  About six months after Maxwell Kingery died I saw his ghost walking along Miller Avenue in Mill Valley, California. It was two twenty in the afternoon, a clear sunny day, and I saw him from a distance which I later paced off; it was less than fifteen feet. There is no possibility that I was mistaken about who — or what — I saw, and I'll tell you why I'm sure.

  My name is Peter Marks, and I'm the book editor of a San Francisco newspaper. I live in Mill Valley a dozen miles from San Francisco, and I work at home most days, from about nine till around two or three in the afternoon. My wife is likely to need something from the store by then, so I generally walk downtown, nearly always stopping in at Meier's bakery which has a lunch counter. Until he died, I often had coffee there with Max Kingery, and we'd sit at the counter for half an hour and talk.

  He was a writer, so it was absolutely inevitable that I'd be introduced to him soon after he came to Mill Valley. A lot of writers live here, and whenever a new one arrives people love to introduce us and then stand back to see what will happen. Nothing much ever does, though once a man denounced me right out on the sidewalk in front of the Redhill liquor store. Peter Marks? The book critic? he said, and when I nodded he said, You, sir, are a puling idiot who ought to be writing ‘News of Our Pets’ for the Carmel Pine Cone instead of criticizing the work of your betters. Then he turned, and — this is the word — stalked off, while I stood staring after him, smiling. I'd panned two of his books; he'd been waiting for Peter Marks ever since, and was admirably ready when his moment came.

  But all Max Kingery said, stiffly, the day we were introduced, was, How do you do, then he stood there nodding rapidly a number of times, finally remembering to smile; and that's all I said to him. It was in the spring, downtown in front of the bank, I think, and Max was bareheaded, wearing a light-brown, shabby-looking topcoat with the collar turned up. He was a black-haired, black-eyed man with heavy black-rimmed glasses, intense and quick-moving; it was hard for him to stand still there. He was young but already stooped, his hair thinning. I could see this was a man who took himself seriously but his name rang no bell in my mind and we spoke politely and parted quickly, probably forever if we hadn't kept meeting in the bakery after that. But we both came in for coffee nearly every afternoon, and after we'd met and nodded half a dozen times we were almost forced to sit together at the counter and try to make some conversation.

  So we slowly became friends; he didn't have many. After I knew him I looked up what he'd written, naturally, and found it was a first novel which I'd reviewed a year before. I'd said it showed promise, and that I thought it was possible he'd write a fine novel some day, but all in all it was the kind of review usually called “mixed,” and I felt awkward about it.

  But I needn't have worried. I soon learned that what I or anyone else thought of his book was of no importance to Max; he knew that in time I and everyone else would have to say that Maxwell Kingery was a very great writer. Right now not many people, even here in town, knew he was a writer at all but that was okay with Max; he wasn't ready for them to know. Some day not only every soul in Mill Valley but the inhabitants of remote villages in distant places would know he was one of the important writers of his time, and possibly of all time. Max never said any of this but you learned that he thought so and that it wasn't egotism. It was just something he knew, and maybe he was right. Who knows how many Shakespeares have died prematurely, how many young geniuses we've lost in stupid accidents, illnesses, and wars?

  Cora, my wife, met Max presently, and because he looked thin, hungry, and forlorn — as he was — she had me ask him over for a meal, and pretty soon we were having him often. His wife had died about a
year before we met him. (The more I learned about Max, the more it seemed to me that he was one of those occasional people who, beyond all dispute, are plagued by simple bad luck all their lives.) After his wife died and his book had failed, he moved from the city to Mill Valley, and now he lived alone working on the novel which, with the others to follow, was going to make him famous. He lived in a mean cheap little house he'd rented, walking downtown for meals. I never knew where he got whatever money he had; it wasn't much. So we had him over often so Cora could feed him, and once he was sure he was welcome he'd stop in of his own accord, if his work were going well. And nearly every day I saw him downtown, and we'd sit over coffee and talk.

  It was seldom about writing. All he'd ever say about his own work when we met was that it was going well or that it was not, because he knew I was interested. Some writers don't like to talk about what they're doing, and he was one; I never even knew what his book was about. We talked about politics, the possible futures of the world, and whatever else people on the way to becoming pretty good friends talk about. Occasionally he read a book I'd reviewed, and we'd discuss it, and my review. He was always polite enough about what I did, but his real attitude showed through. Some writers are belligerent about critics, some are sullen and hostile, but Max was just contemptuous. I'm sure he believed that all writers outranked all critics — well or badly, they actually do the deed which we only sit and carp about. And sometimes Max would listen to an opinion of mine about someone's book, then he'd shrug and say, Well, you're not a writer, as though that severely limited my understanding. I'd say, No, I'm a critic, which seemed a good answer to me, but Max would nod as though I'd agreed with him. He liked me, but to Max my work made me only a hanger-on, a camp follower, almost a parasite. That's why it was all right to accept free meals from me; I was one of the people who live off the work writers do, and I'm sure he thought it was only my duty, which I wouldn't deny, to help him get his book written. Reading it would be my reward.