by Jack Finney
Becky actually moaned when we saw the prints, and I think we all felt sick. It’s one thing to speculate about a body that’s never been alive, a blank. But it’s something very different to have that speculation proved. There were no prints; there were five absolutely smooth, solid black circles.
Sitting in the living room again, I said to Jack, “You’ve got the word for it, all right. It’s a blank, still waiting for the final impression.”
He nodded. “What’ll we do? You got any ideas?”
“Yes.” I sat looking at him for a moment. “But it’s only a suggestion, and if you don’t want to go through with it, nobody’ll blame you.”
“What is it?”
“Remember, this is only a suggestion.” I leaned forward on the davenport, forearms on my knees, and now I turned to Theodora. “And if you don’t think you can take this,” I said to her, “you’d better not try it. I’m warning you.” I looked at Jack again. “Leave it where it is, down on that table. Then we’ll re-establish the conditions under which the body first appeared. Tonight you’ll go to sleep. Jack; I’ll give you something to take.” I turned to Theodora. “But you stay awake; don’t sleep for an instant. Every hour I want you to go downstairs and look at that—body. If you see any hint of a change, hurry upstairs and wake Jack up, right away. Get him out of the house—both of you get out right away—and come right down to my place.”
Jack looked at Theodora for a moment, then he said quietly, “I want you to say no, if you don’t think you can go through with that.”
She sat biting gently at her lip, staring at the rug. Then she looked up, first at Jack, then at me. “Would Jack wake up? Could I wake him any time?”
“Yes. A slap on the face and he’ll wake right up. Now, listen, even if nothing happens, wake him up if you find you can’t stand it. You can both come down to my place for the rest of the night then, if you want.”
She nodded, and stared at the rug again. Finally, she said, “I guess I could.” She looked up at Jack, frowning. “As long as I know I can wake him any time, I guess I could.”
Jack glanced at Theodora and then said, “We’ll try it.”
We sat then and talked some more, and around twelve the Belicecs got their coats and drove downtown with us to pick up Jack’s car. They said good night—Jack smiling a little, Theodora not bothering to try—and got into their car. Becky and I waved and drove off.
On our way to her house, through the dark empty streets, Becky said quietly, “There’s a connection, isn’t there. Miles? Between this and—Wilma’s case?”
I glanced at her quickly, but she was staring straight ahead through the windshield. “What do you think?” I said casually. “You think there’s a connection?”
“Yes.” She didn’t look to me for confirmation, but simply nodded as though she were certain. After a moment she added, “Have there been other cases like Wilma’s?”
“A few.” I watched Becky from the corner of an eye.
But she didn’t react, or say anything for nearly a block. Then we swung into her street, and as I drew the car in to the curb and stopped at her walk, she said, still looking straight ahead through the windshield, “Miles, I’d meant to tell you this after the movie.” She took a deep breath. “Ever since yesterday morning,” she said slowly, keeping her voice calm, “I’ve had the feeling that”—she finished in a panicky rush of words—“that my father isn’t my father at all!” Darting a horrified glance at the dark shadowed porch of her home, Becky covered her face with her hands and began to cry.
I don’t claim much experience with crying women, but in stories I read, the man always holds the girl close and lets her cry. And it always turns out to have been the wise, understanding thing to do. Anyway, I liked holding Becky. There in my car, on the silent street in front of her home, Becky fitted into my arms very nicely. I was worried and scared, even panicky, but there was still room for enjoying the warm, alive feel of Becky pressed close.
WHEN her crying tapered off to an occasional sniffle, I said, “How about staying at my place tonight?” The idea was suddenly and astonishingly exciting. “You can have a room to yourself—”
“No”—Becky sat up, keeping her head ducked so I couldn’t see her face, and began fumbling through her purse—“I’m not frightened, Miles, just worried. It’s as though Dad were sick. Just not himself, and—Well, it’s just no time for me to leave,” she said, looked up at me, and smiled. Suddenly she leaned toward me and quickly kissed me on the mouth, very firmly and warmly. Then she opened her door and got out. “Night, Miles. Call me in the morning.” She walked quickly along the brick path leading to the darkened porch of her house.
I watched her go. And all the time I was aching, wild to go right along with her, and at the same time I was griped as hell, because it was the last way in the world I wanted to feel just now, about her or any other girl . . .
Some two hours later, when the telephone rang, my bed lamp was still on I’d been reading, not expecting I could fall asleep for a while, yet I had, right away. It was three o’clock. Reaching out for the telephone, I noted the time automatically.
“Hello,” I said, and as I spoke I heard the telephone at the other end crash down into its cradle. I knew I’d answered at the first ring; no matter how tired I am at night, I always hear and answer the telephone instantly. I said, “Hello!” again, a little louder but the line was dead, and then the dial tone began, and I hung up.
SITTING on the edge of the bed, I began to curse tiredly. I was fed up—with phones, with events and mysteries, with interrupted sleep, women who bothered me when I only wanted to be left alone, with my own thoughts with everything. Finally, when I’d turned off the light, and was nearly asleep again, I heard footsteps on the porch stairs, then the quick peal of the doorbell, followed instantly by a frantic, rapid tapping on the glass of the front door.
It was the Belicecs: Theodora, wildeyed, incapable of speech; Jack with furious, dead-calm eyes. We said only the bare words necessary to get Theodora, half carrying her, up the stairs and onto a guest-room bed, a blanket over her, and some sodium Amytal in a vein.
Then Jack sat on the edge of the bed and watched her for a long time twenty minutes maybe, holding her hand between his, staring at her face Finally, I nodded my head and said, “She’ll sleep for several hours at least Jack—maybe even till eight or nine in the morning. Then she’ll wake up hungry and she’ll be all right.”
Jack nodded, accepting that, then stood up, turning toward the door, and I followed after him.
My living room is big and we sat there, Jack and I, across from each other, each with a drink. After a few sips of his, staring down at the floor Jack began to talk. “Theodora woke me, shaking me by the front of my shirt—I slept with my clothes on—and slapping me so hard my teeth jarred. I heard her”—Jack looked up at me frowning; he usually chooses his words rather carefully—“not calling me, exactly, but just saying my name in a subdued, desperate kind of moan, ‘Jack Jack, Jack.’ ”
He shook his head, bit his lower lip a couple times, and then took a deep swallow of his drink. “I came to; she was hysterical. She didn’t say any thing: she just stared at me for a second, wild and sort of frantic, then whirled away, darting across the room to the telephone. She grabbed it, dialed you, stood waiting for a second, the couldn’t stand still, slammed the telephone down, and began crying out at me—very softly, as though someone might hear—to get her out of there
Again Jack shook his head. Not thinking, I took her wrist and started leading her down the basement stairs to the garage and the car, and she began to fight me, yanking her arm to get loose, shoving at my shoulder, her expression wild. We went out the front door then and down the steps. Even then she wouldn’t come near the garage or basement; she stood well out on the road, away from the house, while I got the car.”
Jack took a swig of his drink, and stared at a living-room window, shiny black against the night. “I’m not sure what she saw,
Miles. I couldn’t take time to go see; I knew I had to get her out of there. And she didn’t tell me anything on the way down here. She just sat there, huddled up and shivering, pressed tight against me.” For several moments he stared at me somberly. “We proved something, all right, Miles,” he said then with quiet bitterness. “The experiment worked, I guess. Now what?”
I didn’t know, or try to pretend I did. I just shook my head. “I’d like to get a look at that thing,” I said. “See what happened.”
“Yes, me, too. But I won’t leave Theodora alone just now. If she woke up and called, and I didn’t answer—the house empty—she’d go out of her mind.”
I didn’t answer. I thought about driving up to Jack’s place alone, right now. I thought of going into Jack’s basement, bumping into the table, finding the light overhead, finally; I thought of turning it on and lowering my eyes to look at—whatever had sent Theodora into shocked hysteria. And I was ashamed. I didn’t want to do what I’d let Theodora do; I didn’t want to go up there to that house in the night, not alone.
I was suddenly angry with myself. And I took my anger and shame out on Jack. “Listen”—I was on my feet, staring furiously across the room at him—“whatever we’re going to do about this, we’ve got to start doing it! So what do you say? You got any ideas? What’ll we do?” I was a little hysterical, and I knew it.
“I don’t know,” Jack said slowly. “But we’ve got to move carefully, make sure we’re doing the right th—”
“You said that! You already said that early this evening, and I agree, I agree! But what? We can’t sit around forever till the one correct move is finally revealed to us!” I was glaring at Jack, then I forced myself to calm down. I thought of something, turned and crossed the room rapidly, picked up the downstairs telephone and dialed a number.
When the ringing at the other end of the wire finally ended, I had a mental picture of Dr. Manfred Kaufman, black hair mussed, eyes barely open, wondering who could possibly be calling a psychiatrist at this hour, as though he were an ordinary G.P. “Hello, Mannie?” I said, when he answered.
“Yes.”
“Listen”—I made my voice exaggeratedly solicitous—“did I wake you up?”
That brought him to life, cursing like a wild man.
“Okay, okay, Mannie, listen”—I was still smiling, but the tone of my voice promised no more bad jokes. “Something has happened, Mannie, and I’ve got to see you. Just as fast as possible, and it has to be here, at my place. Get over here, Mannie, as fast as you can; it’s important.”
Mannie’s quick-minded; you don’t have to repeat or explain. For just an instant he was silent, then he said, “Okay,” quietly, and hung up.
I was enormously relieved, actually happy, crossing the room toward my chair and my drink again. In an emergency calling for brains, or most anything else, Mannie’s the first man I’d want on my side, and he was on his way, and now I felt we were getting somewhere. I picked up my drink, ready to sit down, and I actually had my mouth open to speak to Jack, when something happened: I broke out into a cold sweat, and I stood there stockstill for several seconds, utterly paralyzed with fear.
Then, quickly, I began to move, but in a fog of panic. I was wearing pajamas and slippers, and I ran to the hall and grabbed up my light topcoat from a chair. I had only one all-consuming thought, and it was impossible to do anything but what I did—act, move, run. I’d forgotten all about Jack, forgotten Mannie, as I yanked the front door open and ran down the steps into the night. I had my hand on the door of my car when I remembered that the ignition key was upstairs, and it simply wasn’t possible for me to turn around and go back. I began to run—as hard as I could.
WHEN I got to Becky’s, I could hardly see; my throbbing heart seemed to pile blood behind my eyeballs, filming my vision. I went straight to a basement window, but it was locked. I bunched the hem of my coat around my fist, held it against the glass of the window, and pushed, increasing the pressure till suddenly it cracked. One piece fell inward and dropped into the basement—onto a cardboard carton, it sounded like, making very little sound. Then I reached in, unlatched the window, opened it, and crawled in feet first. Pressing against my chest as I slid down, I felt the fountain-pen flashlight I carry in my coat; then, standing in the basement, I turned it on.
The feeble little beam showed nothing at all beyond a step or two ahead. Slowly I shuffled around the dark unfamiliar basement, passing bundles of old newspapers, a rusting screen door, a paint-smeared sawhorse, an old trunk, an old sink and a pile of discarded lead piping—and I began to get panicky. Time was passing, I wasn’t finding what I was certain was here somewhere, and what I had to find if it wasn’t already too late.
Then I found the cupboards. They were built against an end wall, extending the full width of the basement, from floor to ceiling. In the weak beam of my flashlight, I’d thought at first that they were the wall itself. I opened the first set of double doors; the shelves were loaded with canned goods. I opened the next set of doors beside them and the shelves were dusty and empty, all but the bottom one.
THERE it lay, flat on its back, eyes wide open, arms motionless at its sides. I got down on my knees beside it. I think it must actually be possible to lose your mind in an instant, and that perhaps I came very close to it. And now I knew why Theodora Belicec lay on a bed in my house in a state of shock, and I closed my eyes tight, fighting to hold onto control of myself. Then I opened them again and looked, holding my mind, by sheer force, in a state of cold and artificial calm. This thing lying on its back on that dusty shelf in the feeble orange glow of my flashlight was an unfinished, underdeveloped, vague and indefinite Becky Driscoll.
In a panic of fright and excitement, I got to my feet, my legs stiff, so that I stumbled. Then I moved—fast—up the basement stairs. In the living room. I swung onto the white-railed staircase, turned at the landing, then climbed silently, two stairs at a time, to the upper hallway.
There was a row of doors, all closed, and I had to guess. I tried the second, on a hunch, opened it wide and strode in, my flashlight on and moving rapidly to find the face of the sleeper. I was lucky; it was Becky, lying motionless in that little circle of light, the face a stronger, more vigorous duplicate of the parody of a face I’d left in the basement. I grasped Becky’s shoulder, my other hand holding the light. I shook her and she moaned a little but didn’t waken. I couldn’t wait another second. I heaved Becky up over one shoulder in a fireman’s carry. One arm curving up, holding her in place, I took the flash in my other hand. I walked down the stairway in the dark, sliding my feet, feeling for each step with my toes.
Then I was walking down the dark, empty street, alternately carrying Becky over my shoulder, then holding her in my arms. Just past Washington Boulevard, she moaned, then lifted her head, eyes still closed, and her arms came up and clasped me around my neck. Then she opened her eyes. Sleepily, like a child, she said, “What? What, Miles? What is it?”
“Tell you later,” I said quietly, and smiled at her.
“Miles, what’s happening?” She looked up at me. “Miles, are you kidnaping me? Carrying me off to your den or something?” She looked down and saw that under my unbuttoned coat I was wearing pajamas. “Miles,” she said mockingly, “couldn’t you wait? Couldn’t you at least ask me, like a gentleman? Miles, what in the world are you doing?”
Now I smiled at her. “I’ll explain in a minute, when we get to my place.” Her brows lifted at that. “Don’t worry, you’re perfectly safe; Mannie Kaufman is there, and both the Belicecs. You’ll be well chaperoned.”
Becky shivered suddenly; the night air was cool, and her nightgown was sheer. “Too bad,” she said. “The biggest adventure of my life, kidnaped from my bed by a good-looking man in pajamas. Carried through the streets like a captive cavewoman. And then he has to supply chaperons.”
Mannie was at my place; his car was parked in back of mine. On the porch I set Becky on her feet and gave her my topcoat, as
I should have done long before: I just hadn’t thought. She put it on and buttoned it, smiling; then we walked in, and Mannie and Jack were in the living room.
They stared, mouths open, and Becky just smiled and greeted them, as though she were dropping in for tea or something. I told her where she could find a clean pair of old blue jeans which had shrunk and were too small for me, a clean white shirt, wool socks, and a pair of moccasins. She nodded and went upstairs to find them.
Mannie looked at me searchingly. “Same thing?” he said quietly, nodding toward the stairs Becky had just climbed. “Did you find one at her place?”
“In the basement.”
“Well”—he stood up—“I want to see them. One of them, anyway. At her place, or Jack’s.”
I nodded. “Okay. Better make it Jack’s; Becky’s dad is at her place, I’ll get some clothes on.” I turned toward the stairs.
Upstairs, after we were both dressed, I told Becky as briefly as possible what she had already guessed—what had happened at the Belicecs’, and what I’d found in her basement—without going into details too much.
I was afraid of how it might affect her, but Becky’s eyes, I noticed now, were alive and eager, unafraid. I realized that because she hadn’t seen what Theodora and I had, she was more pleased and delighted than anything else, at all the excitement.
“Mannie and Jack and I are going to Jack’s,” I said to her. “Someone has to stay with Theodora. You are it.”
WE TOOK my car, all three in the front seat. When we climbed the dirt road in second gear and rounded the last turn, every single light in Jack’s house was blazing. For an instant it scared me—I’d expected the house to be utterly dark—and I had a quick mental image of a half-alive, naked and staring figure stumbling vacant-mindedly through that house clicking on light switches. Then I realized that Jack and Theodora wouldn’t have bothered turning off lights when they’d left, and I calmed down a little.
