Thumbprints

by Pamela Sargent

  Alvin had arranged his clothing and supplies on the floor. “That ought to do it for now,” he said. “You can shrink anything else I need later.”

  “I can’t do it.” I backed away and cowered in the corner. “I can’t do it, Alvin.”

  “I’m counting on you. Come on. I’ll show you.” He aimed the shrinker at his typewriter and pulled the switch.

  A bright beam shot out of the lens. I heard a short whine and then a pop as air rushed to fill the empty space. A tiny typewriter sat on the floor. “Now watch.” Alvin pressed the button below the switch, and the switch lifted. “That’s so you don’t enlarge it again. Now you’re ready for more shrinking. Try it.”

  I shrank two reams of typing paper and two bottles of Liquid Paper. The machine vibrated slightly as the beam appeared. As I picked up the tiny objects and put them inside the dollhouse, I was trembling, still unable to believe the shrinker had worked.

  Alvin, all six feet of him, now stood in front of me, holding Meowser. “The moment of truth. Fire away.”

  “Now?”

  “Why wait?”

  “Oh, Alvin. Can’t we think of something else?”

  “I’ll have more room in that damn dollhouse than we have in this apartment. Pull the switch.”

  “Oooh.” I held the shrinker, aimed it, and flipped the switch, then closed my eyes. When I opened them, Alvin was gone. I blinked, and looked down.

  My husband, all five inches of him, was staring up at me from our rug, and I was grateful that we didn’t have a carpet with plush piling. Meowser, still in his arms, was no bigger than an insect.

  I reached down with one hand, Alvin climbed aboard, and I lifted him up to the dresser, setting him down inside the little picket fence surrounding the house. He climbed off my palm and put Meowser down. I whimpered. Tears rolled down my cheeks, splashing against the dresser surface.

  “Stop it!” Alvin piped, cupping his tiny hands around his mouth. “I’m getting soaked.” His voice was so small that I had to strain to hear him.

  “This is ridiculous,” I said, struggling to control my weeping. “Your uncle shrinks himself to paint eggs, and you shrink yourself to write a book. It isn’t worth it.”

  “Not so loud!” He slapped his hands to his ears. “You’ve got to speak softly, or I’ll go deaf.”

  “Let’s call it off. Please.”

  “Oh, no. I’m going to stick it out.” He glanced at Meowser, who was clawing at the fence. I heard an almost inaudible meow. “And you’d better shrink Meowser’s litter box quick. I think he’s going to need it.”

  I slept badly that night, unused to having the bed to myself, and cried some more, pressing my face against the pillow so that I did not wake Alvin.

  He was still in bed when I got up, lying in his little bed on his shrunken sheets with his hands behind his head. I went to the kitchen and prepared breakfast, using an eyedropper to serve coffee and a toothpick for the scrambled eggs, then tore off a corner of my toast, serving the food on the dollhouse’s plates with some shrunken silverware.

  “Ah,” Alvin said in his tiny voice. “Breakfast in bed.” He ate while I shrank Meowser’s bowls and set them inside the little kitchen.

  “Anything else you need?” I asked Alvin as he descended the dollhouse staircase to the dining room.

  “You could clean the toilet. I had to use it last night.”

  “I’ll shrink you a can of Lysol and clean it when I get home.” I leaned against the dresser. “Oh, Alvin.”

  “I’d better get to work.” He sat down at the dining room table and pulled the typewriter toward him.

  I was to tell our friends that Alvin had gone back to California to work on his book. If anyone came over, I was to close the bedroom door.

  When I got home, I fixed drinks, determined to keep things as normal as possible, serving Alvin’s with the eyedropper. When I returned to the bedroom with supper, Alvin was at the kitchen table, chopping up a pinch of tobacco as he prepared to roll his own cigarettes in tiny papers. He shook his head and mumbled something.

  “What?”

  “I said, it takes forever to roll one of these cigarettes. Couldn’t you shrink me a few packs?”

  “Oh, no. We’re supposed to save.”

  “Well, you’d better shrink my megaphone – I’m getting tired of shouting.” He went into the dining room, seating himself across from his typewriter; I couldn’t see that he had written that much, but then it was hard to tell. “Ah. Grub at last.” He picked up the little bowl and peered into it. “What the hell is this stuff?”

  I looked up from the butler’s table I had set up near the dresser. “It’s chili con carne. Can’t you tell?”

  He pushed away the bowl, which held one kidney bean and a speck of meat. “God. It looks disgusting.”

  “You always ate it before. You’d ask for seconds.”

  “It looks like a big slug.”

  “Well, eat it anyway. I didn’t fix anything else.”

  “Jessie, you don’t understand. There’s this big lump of greasy-looking meat in there, and a thing that looks like the creeping unknown, and a giant leaf – that must be an herb.”

  “Give it to me.” I dug at the chili with the point of my knife, breaking it into little pieces. “There. How’s that?”

  “Now it looks even worse. Can’t you shrink me a bowl?”

  Somehow I controlled myself. “All right – just this once. But no more. We’re supposed to save.”

  “And watch it with the beer. This glass is mostly foam.”

  “Well, it’s hard to serve beer with an eyedropper.”

  We got through dinner. By the time I had finished the dishes and taken care of some housecleaning, he was back at work on his book. A small cloud of cigarette smoke circled his head as he pecked at the tiny keys. I had given him a chocolate for dessert, most of which sat in its brown paper cup in the middle of the table; he had eaten only a wedge.

  When I said good night to Alvin, he was in his living room, sitting in the rocking chair as he nibbled at another wedge of the chocolate. “Hey, Jessie. Could you shrink me some Graham Greene? I don’t know if I can sleep.”

  I was concerned. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “I’m fine. I’ve just got insomnia, that’s all.”

  It was hard to tell from his tiny voice how he felt, and his eyes were too small to reveal his emotions. I longed to pick him up and hold him, but was afraid I’d either crush or smother him. At last I put out a finger and he held it, resting his cheek against the back of my nail for a moment.

  “Oh, Alvin,” I sighed.

  He pulled away. “You’ve got breath like a buffalo.”

  “I brushed my teeth.”

  “It’s a lot more noticeable now. You’d better clean your nails, too.” He paused. “You can shrink the new Paul Theroux while you’re at it.”

  I shrank the books and set up a small flashlight near the living room. As he settled himself in his chair, I said, “Let’s stop. It’s only been a day, and I don’t think I can take any more. Why don’t I enlarge you again?”

  He picked up his megaphone and lifted it to his lips. “Look – the first day’s bound to be the hardest. We’ll get used to it. Just keep thinking of the money we’ll save.”

  We got through the next week and a half without incident. Alvin was making progress on his manuscript, which had grown to nearly a sixteenth of an inch in height.

  On the second Sunday after his miniaturization, I shrank the New York Times for him, then went downstairs to do the laundry. I had only half as much as usual, so we would save a little, since I needed fewer coins for the machines. Food was still a problem. There were few things that didn’t look unappetizing on Alvin’s scale of existence, but I was becoming more expert at arranging them properly on his little plates. And, though Alvin was drinking much less, I was drinking more, trying to soothe my nerves. I could not help thinking of how vulnerable he was.

  As I was foldin
g my clean laundry, Mrs. Grossman entered the room with her basket, greeted me, then set down her clothes and peered over my shoulder. “Why, look at that.”

  “What?”

  “Those little doll’s clothes. Aren’t they cute.” She picked up a pair of Alvin’s jeans. “Why, they look so real. There’s even a little label.”

  “Well, you know Calvin Klein,” I said uneasily. “He’ll put his name on anything.”

  “Look at this,” Mrs. Grossman called out to Mrs. Hapgood, who had just come in. “These are the cutest things I’ve ever seen. Tiny Calvin Kleins.” Mrs. Hapgood rushed over and peered at the jeans. “And a little pair of Levi’s. I wonder how they do it.”

  “Um,” I said, taking the jeans from them.

  Mrs. Hapgood picked up a pair of briefs, holding them up with two fingers. “I didn’t know dolls wore jockey shorts. Look, they’re labeled, too – Fruit of the Loom. Are these for a Ken doll or something?”

  “No,” I said sadly. “Ken dolls are larger.”

  “Little fitted sheets.” Mrs. Grossman held one up. “It even says Sears.” I took the sheet and folded it, trying not to betray my nervousness. “So authentic. Where did you get them?”

  “Um.”

  “You must tell me, Jessica. My granddaughter would love something like that.”

  “Er, they’re my niece’s,” I said quickly. “For her dolls. I don’t know where she got them. She left them here last time she visited. I figured I’d wash them and mail them to her.”

  “You must find out where she got them.”

  “I’ll try.” I picked up my clothes and hurried from the room. At least they hadn’t seen Alvin’s little laundry bag and tiny socks, which might have made them wonder even more.

  I was unprepared for what I would find in the bedroom when I returned.

  A dead fly lay inside the fence, skewered with a pin. Alvin was sprawled in front of the dollhouse, one arm over his eyes.

  “Alvin?” I was afraid to touch him. He stirred. “What happened?”

  “Don’t shout.” He got up, looking unsteady, and went into the house, then picked up his megaphone. His tiny hands were shaking. “A fly attacked Meowser. I had to kill it.”

  “Where’s Meowser?”

  “Under the bed. I don’t think he’ll be out for a while.”

  I stared at the fly. “Well, you sure got it. You’re still a lot larger than a fly.”

  “But Meowser isn’t. And it’s hard to stab one of those guys. Its buzz sounded like a motorboat, and its eyes – ugh. I think I’ve got blood on my pants.” He seemed a bit calmer as he went into the dining room and sat down, propping his elbows on the table as he held the megaphone. “It could have been worse. If it had been a bee, I’d be finished. You’ve got to make sure you don’t let any more into the apartment.”

  “I’d better check the place. I’ll get a can of Raid.”

  “No! Do you want to kill me?” He set the megaphone down and rubbed his temples. “No Raid,” he said in an almost inaudible tone.

  He looked pitiful, sitting at the table with tiny sections of the Times scattered across it, and my heart went out to him. “Alvin, shouldn’t we enlarge you? You’re in danger all the time. I worry constantly about what might happen.”

  “What do you think I do?” He picked up the megaphone. “Look, I’m okay. I’m not going to be scared off by a fly. I’ll get along.” He paused. “Maybe you could shrink me a couple of Valiums.”

  A month had passed. I had gone over our bills, and the news was not good.

  Alvin was sitting at his table, making notes along the margin of one page. Catching sight of me, he picked up his megaphone. “Jessie? You’d better buy me more paper – I’m running low. You can get a couple of typewriter ribbons, too.”

  I sat down in front of the dresser. “How can you possibly be out of paper?” But I knew. He had thrown out many tiny scraps over the course of the month, more than he had used for the manuscript itself. “Why can’t I just cut some paper into little pieces?”

  “That won’t work. The shrinker will only enlarge things that have been shrunk. Uncle Bob made sure of that. It’s a safety feature – otherwise, you might enlarge something by accident. Like a fly.” I shuddered. “I can’t turn in manuscripts on inch-long paper.”

  “I have news for you, Alvin. I just went over our bills. We’ve only saved thirty bucks.”

  “Thirty bucks!”

  “That’s right.”

  “But that’s impossible.”

  “Oh, no, it isn’t. The electric bill is huge. It wiped out almost everything we saved on other things.”

  Alvin shook his head. “It must be the shrinker. Uncle Bob didn’t tell me how much power it used. There’s just one answer. Don’t shrink anything unless you have to.”

  I was angry. “Damn it, you’ve been small for a month, and all we’ve saved is thirty bucks. Is it really worth it?”

  “Just don’t use it unless you have to.”

  “I was going to use it tonight,” I wailed. “I was going to enlarge you. How can I be romantic with someone who’s five inches tall?”

  “It’ll be all right,” he shouted through the megaphone. “I’m making progress with this book. Maybe I’ll be done with it sooner. You know, it’s funny – when I’m alone, I don’t feel small. Everything seems normal. I only feel small when you’re around.”

  I had, unhappily, heard that line before, although in different circumstances. “Listen. I’ll enlarge you, and we’ll celebrate the end of the month, okay?”

  “Oh, no. I’m going to be practical for once. You always said I wasn’t – Well, I’ll prove you wrong.”

  Within a week, I was in slightly better spirits. Being fearful of having friends over, even with the bedroom door closed, I spent more time at their homes, often staying out for most of the evening. It was a relief to be with people my own size. But I worried about the effects of solitude on Alvin, with no companions except Meowser and a giant wife. He was smoking more; his tiny ashtrays were always filled with minute butts. He would take two or three more drops in his martinis, and often several drops of wine. He could not speak to me for more than a few minutes at a time, because the effort of shouting through the megaphone exhausted him and made him hoarse.

  He was, of course, used to solitude, to long days at work, but when he had been large, he’d had some social life. Occasionally I toyed with the idea of shrinking a couple of his drinking buddies so that he’d have some company, but rejected the notion. His two best friends were also penurious writers, and they were unprincipled enough to take the shrinker and sell it, no matter how much misery it caused. I could have shrunk myself, but I shrank from that; if anything went wrong with the automatic device, we would both be tiny forever.

  I had also worried about the long-term effects of shrinking. “Don’t worry,” Alvin had reassured me. “Uncle Bob would sometimes stay small until the dust was to his ankles.”

  “He didn’t stay small for three months.”

  “It’s okay,” Alvin had said. But there were many evenings when I came home to find him in his little rocker, his tiny face growing paler from the lack of exposure to sunlight, his little hands tightly clenching the arms of the chair. I was beginning to see him as a little man, and wondered if I would ever again see him in any other way. He, I was sure, was beginning to view me as a giant, engulfing woman, someone who would swallow him.

  In the middle of the second month, I came home, mixed the martinis, and strode into the bedroom with my glass and the eyedropper, only to find Alvin pacing from the house to the fence.

  “Jessie?” he shouted through his megaphone. “I’ve been screaming at you ever since you came home. Didn’t you hear me?”

  I set the glass and the dropper down inside the fence. “What is it?”

  “Meowser’s gone.”

  “What do you mean, he’s gone?”

  “It’s my fault. I was going stir-crazy, so I decided to take a walk
around the dresser, and when I opened the fence, he slipped through. I tried to catch him, but he crawled over the side and went down to the floor. You should have seen him. He’d rest on the edge of a drawer, and then keep going.”

  I froze, then looked down at my feet, imagining the tiny cat crushed under one of them.

  “You’ve got to find him.”

  “How am I going to do that? He could be anywhere. My God – if he’s under the bed, he’ll choke on the dust.” I had never been good at cleaning places no one was likely to see.

  “I don’t think he’s in this room. You left the door open this morning, and I saw him go through it. I don’t think he’s come back yet.”

  I got down on my knees and searched the bedroom anyway, but found no sign of Meowser. “He’s not here,” I said as I stood up, “so he has to be in one of the other rooms. I’ll find him.”

  I tiptoed out, closed the door, and crawled around the apartment. “Here, kitty, kitty.” I lowered my voice. “Meowser.” Even though the apartment was small, it took a couple of hours to search it as I strained to hear his tiny meows and prayed that he wouldn’t run out only to be crushed under a hand or knee.

  At last I went back into the bedroom, where Alvin was sitting on the base of my glass, his back resting against its stem. “He’s not here,” I said.

  “He has to be.”

  “Oh, my God.” I lifted my hand to my lips. “He must be out in the hall. The door was open when I went to put down the groceries.” I ran out to the hall and dropped to my knees, peering at the carpeting.

  “What’s the trouble, Jess?”

  I looked up. Dan Elton stood in his doorway across the hall, sipping a Budweiser.

  “Er – a contact lens.” I grinned and slapped the carpet. “I lost a contact.”

  “I didn’t know you wore contacts. Let me help.”

  “Oh, no!” I almost shouted the words. “I don’t want you to bother.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “No, please. I’ll do it myself.”