by Jack Finney
Zoe was at the switchboard, looking—with clothes on—as lovely as ever, and I stopped; there was no one else around. I took out the little pink box, opened it, and showed her the bracelet. "Just bought this," I said.
She glanced at the bracelet, then up at me. "Bought it? Or did you find it in a box of Crackerjack?"
"Bought it. Try it on; I'd like to see how it looks."
She frowned but picked up the bracelet, slipped it over her wrist, then held out her arm to inspect the result; it looked terrible. I said, "Zoe, you are now my slave; kiss me, you mad fool!" and she stood up, walked out of her little enclosure, grabbed me around the waist, bent me far back—it was like a reverse scene from a Rudolph Valentino movie—stared into my eyes for a moment, then kissed me. Enormous blue sparks flashed and crackled around the room like St. Elmo's fire; it was the most wildly abandoned and passionate kiss I'd ever imagined, and I've imagined some beauties.
It didn't stop, either. Behind us the switchboard buzzed, then another buzz began in a slightly different key, then a third. But I didn't realize it was the switchboard; I thought it was my nerves twanging in ecstasy and my mind and senses threw up their hands and went down for the first, then the second time, and were just going under for the third when I managed to reach out with my little remaining strength and yank the bracelet off her wrist or there's simply no telling what might have happened. Zoe raised her lovely head, stared down at me for a moment, said, "For heaven's sakes," and let me drop to run for her board. I fell flat on my back, banging my head on the floor, and raising a considerable lump. Then I hurried on, fifteen minutes late for work, as Zoe began clearing her board of calls, murmuring, "Sorry!"
In my office I closed the door, sat down at my desk, and with trembling hands began putting the bracelet back into its box. The door opened, and Frieda walked in saying, "Did you know there's a blacksmith shop down on Twenty-eighth Str—•" Then she stopped, her mouth still open, and stood staring down at the bracelet in the pink heart-shaped box. She leaned closer, her hair fell over her face, and with both hands she pulled it aside like Stanley parting the jungle vines. For a moment longer she stared, then said, "Isn't it beautiful! Oh, Ted, it's the loveliest thing I've ever seen!"
I looked at her quickly but she wasn't kidding. Her eyes, face, and voice were filled with the kind of yearning the Little Match Girl might feel gazing through the store window at the doll she could never have, and I realized that Frieda was probably the only human being in the civilized world who could think that damn bracelet was beautiful. I knew I could get another at noon, so I said, "You like it? It's yours," and handed it to her box and all. I was glad I did, because Frieda was entranced. Thanking me again and again, she put it on, then stood revolving her wrist so the bracelet would catch the light till I thought her arm would fall off.
That noon I stood in the magic shop, and I couldn't believe—my mind wouldn't accept—what the man was telling me. But he repeated it. "That's right; a guy bought one right after you left this morning, and half an hour later he came back for the rest. Wanted to buy a gross, but I didn't have them."
I could hardly speak. "But … can't you get more?"
He shrugged, turning a page of the News. "I'll try. I'll ask the salesman next time he comes around. But he don't ever seem to have the same thing twice. Tried to get more of those glasses, but couldn't. Seems like he's more interested pushing new items than repeats."
I didn't eat lunch; I didn't feel like it. I bought an Almond Joy, but could only eat half. And when, wandering aimlessly around, I passed an embalming school, I didn't even bother reading the placard in the window.
Back at the office I felt even worse, because in came Frieda to thank me again, holding her arm up so I could admire the bracelet. I sat looking at it and thinking that this was typical of me; here was the only genuine Egyptian slave bracelet, I knew now, that I'd ever get my hands on, and of all the wrists of all the girls in the world I'd somehow managed to get it onto Frieda's. Looking at it as her wrist twisted and flashed like the revolving red light on top of a cop's car, I thought of what might have been.
I pictured myself going to Hollywood; I'd have had to travel by bus, eating almost nothing, but I could have managed it, and it would have been worth it. Somehow, I knew, I could have gotten into the studio, found Anita Ekberg, and when she wasn't looking, slipped the bracelet onto her magnificent wrist, and then—but I couldn't bear to finish that lovely dream, not with Frieda standing there wearing the bracelet, yakking away about it and smiling down at me from behind and around those insane glasses.
Twice I opened my mouth to tell her that I had to have that bracelet back, that it was a family heirloom and that I'd get her another that was bigger, better, and even gaudier. But I simply could not get the words out; I just couldn't do it. Could you take a big delicious piece of candy away from a child, telling her you'd get her a better one some other time? It just wasn't possible to take that bracelet away, yet the thought of a genuine slave bracelet being entirely wasted was more than I could stand. It was too much to bear, and I had a sudden idea.
I took out my glasses, put them on, and then—careful not to lift my eyes too high and catch sight of her face—I slowly looked up at Frieda. The embroidered forget-me-nots were gone today but I hadn't forgotten; there beside my desk, ankles bowed outward and one wrist steadily revolving, stood the world's most spectacular figure. And now, by an inspired act of will, keeping my eyes carefully lowered, I pictured Zoe's lovely face at the upper end of that splendid torso. It was a spectacular combination, and I stood up saying, "Kiss me; you are my slave," and she did, her arms winding immediately around my neck.
It was great! It was wonderful! And when we finally stopped, Frieda sighed deeply and said, "Do you always put on your glasses to kiss a girl?" I said yeah, and she said, "Then why are your eyes closed?"
"Shut up and kiss me again," I said and she did and this time it lasted even longer and was tremendous. Just kiss a girl like Zoe some time with your arms around a figure like that, and you'll know what I mean. It was so great, in fact, that the actual truth of what was happening faded from my mind. In a fit of delirious absentmindedness I languorously opened my eyes, and there only half an inch away and staring into mine were Frieda's eyes—all of them. I got so dizzy I had to break loose and sit down on the edge of the desk; not because of the split-level eyes in assorted sizes—I was used to them now—but because every single one of them was chock full of love. They were filled with it! They swam with it! And from an enormous distance I heard Frieda saying, "Oh, Ted, darling, you're wonderful! I love you! Open your eyes!"
I couldn't; I'd closed them again instantly and they were squeezed tight as though I had soap in them. Then I forced myself; cautiously opening my eyes to a slit I looked again. They were still there in front of me, those four half-eyes each aflame with the light of love, and I slammed my eyelids shut knowing that, although it hardly seemed possible, I'd managed to make things infinitely worse. "I'm crazy about you, Ted!" Frieda was saying. "I'm your slave!" She reached out and pulled off my glasses saying, "Please open your eyes and kiss me again!"
Bravely, I looked out once more; she was peering tenderly out at me from behind that jungle of hair looking as though she'd just jumped from a plane in a burlap parachute in which she'd become hopelessly tangled. I thought of pretending to faint, when my phone rang and I snatched it up before the first ring had stopped. It was just one of the account men with one of the foolish questions they ask, and which I answered with a word. But I kept the phone at my ear long after he'd hung up, saying, "Yeah," and "You bet," over and again, occasionally looking up at Frieda and shrugging helplessly. Finally she had to leave, giggling and murmuring horrible endearments, and I hung up the phone, covered my face with my hands, and planted my elbows on the desk squarely on the glasses Frieda had put there, smashing both lenses, but I was beyond caring.
Later, splashing cold water on my face in the washroom, I wondered what to do.
Here was a girl helplessly in love with me and it was all my fault; maybe I was morally obliged to pretend that I, too—but I knew I couldn't do that. I went back to my desk, and three times that afternoon Frieda looked in hopefully, lovingly, and I told her that I had a headache. At quitting time I found her waiting at the elevators, and told her my headache was far worse and by this time it was true; it throbbed and pounded, and I stumbled home to a night of hideous dreams.
I don't know whether Frieda guessed the truth that night; I'm just not sure. But all next morning she didn't come into my office, though I kept glancing up every time footsteps sounded anywhere near my door. When noon came and she still hadn't come in, I was suddenly filled with remorse and fear. This was a nice girl, I'd probably hurt her feelings terribly, and—what if she were at the river, in it by now going down for the last time, refusing to struggle? All noon hour I prowled along the river front cursing myself, worrying, and when I got back to the office, and sat down at my desk, and Frieda came in friendly and happy as ever, I jumped up and yelled, "Where were you this noon!?"
She just smiled, and shook her head. "Want some?" she said, holding out a wrapped candy bar clutched in her hand like a banana; but printed on the wrapper just above her fist I could see the first word, Love, and the beginning vertical stroke of the next, and since Love Nests aren't really my favorite, I said no, thanks. But when she peeled off the wrapper, and urged me again, it occurred to me that I could hardly be expected to kiss her with my mouth full of candy, so I took a bite. Surprisingly, it was delicious, and when she offered me some more, I took another. Her eyes gleaming with love, she said, "Finish it," insisting with a gesture, so I did— chewing slowly, postponing as long as possible what I was afraid would happen next.
It happened. "Kiss me, lover," Frieda said then, and I looked up at her, my mouth opening to say that my headache was back. But I didn't say it. My mouth stayed open but I just sat looking at her astounded. It had suddenly occurred to me that if Frieda would simply use a judicious bobby pin or two and unsnarl that knot at the back, her hair would not only stay in place but would become a very handsome pageboy bob. And that if she'd just take off those crazy— I stood up as though in a dream, and did it myself. I pulled off those nutty glasses, and her various half-eyes merged in pairs like the split images in a camera viewfinder coming into focus, and turned into a single set of enormous, beautiful, myopic blue eyes. She couldn't see me now but I could see her, and her face was absolutely lovely, every bit as beautiful as the accompanying figure which I now found I was holding in my arms. I started to say something about contact lenses but decided that could wait while this could not— and I kissed her long and lingeringly.
For a moment I drew back to look down at that wonderful face, then grabbed her to me again, murmuring all sorts of trite phrases such as "I love you," to which Frieda said, "Of course," and, "When can we get married?" to which she said, "As soon as I finish your birdhouse." Looking down over her lovely shoulder, I noticed the candy wrapper lying where she'd dropped it on my desk, and now I could read both the words printed on it. Love Potion, they said in big blue letters, and now I knew where Frieda had been during noon hour.
WHERE THE CLUETTS ARE
WHERE THE CLUETTS ARE
We had open books and magazines lying on every flat surface in the room. They stood propped in a row along the fireplace mantel and lay face up on the seat cushions of the upholstered chairs. They hung like little tents on the chair arms and backs, were piled in layers on the big round coffee table, and lay scattered all over the carpeted floor. Every one of them was opened to a photograph, sketch, floor plan, or architect's elevation of a house. Ellie Cluett sat on the top of the ladder I used to reach the highest of the bookshelves. She was wearing a gray sweater and slacks and was slowly leafing through an Architectural Forum. Sam, her husband, sat on the floor, his back against the bookshelves, and now he held up his book for us to look at. This was the big room I worked in and I was at my drafting table watching them.
"How about something like this?" Sam said. It was a color photograph of the Taj Mahal.
Ellie said, "Great. The big dome in the center is just right for a television aerial. Okay with you, Harry?"
"Sure. All I have to do is design the place. You'll have to live in it." I smiled at Ellie. She was about twenty-three, intelligent and likable.
Sam said, "Well, I wish you would design it and quit pestering us about it." He grinned to show he didn't mean it, though he did. Sam was wearing slacks and a sports shirt and was about my age—somewhere just over thirty.
Ellie said, "Yes, Harry, please. Have it built, and phone us in New York when it's finished. Surprise us! Honestly"— she gestured at the roomful of opened books and magazines —"I know we promised to look through all this, but it's driving me crazy."
"I'll have the rooms padded, then. In tasteful decorator colors."
"Damn it, Harry, I think you're being pointlessly stubborn," Sam said. "There are only two things that matter to me about this house, and you know what they are."
I nodded. Sam owned a big boatyard on the Sound. He wanted a house here in Darley, Connecticut, because it was only thirty minutes from the yard. He sold his boats by demonstration and entertainment, so he wanted an impressive house to take his prospects to.
Sam said, "That's all I care about, and you won't change it if you lock me up in here."
"It isn't as though we'd really be living here," Ellie said gently. "We'll keep our apartment in New York, you can be sure. Except for the boat season, we'll hardly be in Darley."
I didn't want to lose this job. Just before the boat craze began, Sam Cluett started his boat works on nothing; now he was rich and offering me a free hand in designing a show place with nothing skimped. I wanted to do it and needed the money but I said, "I can't do it alone. If this house doesn't mean enough to you to give it some time and work and to develop some opinions and enthusiasms about it, then I don't want to design it. Because it would never be much of a house. It wouldn't be yours, mine, or anyone's. It would be a house without life or soul—or, even worse, the wrong kind of soul."
Absolutely identical looks came to their faces: brows raised in polite question, eyes alertly interested in and amused by the notion of a house with a soul.
I suspected that I was about to become an anecdote back in New York but I was going to save this job if I could and I smiled and said, "It's true, or close to it. A house can have a life and soul of its own. There's a house here in Darley, twelve years old and it's had nineteen owners. No one ever lives in it long. There are houses like it in every town in the world." I stood up and began walking around the room, hands shoved into my back pockets, picking my way through the scattered books.
Sam sat watching me from the floor, arms folded. Ellie sat on top of the ladder staring down at me, her chin on her fist. There was a faint smile of interest on each face and they looked like a couple of sophisticated kids waiting for the rest of a story.
I said, "It's an ordinary enough house but I prowled through it between tenants, once, and began to understand why it never kept an owner. Everywhere you look the proportions are just faintly unpleasant. There's a feeling of harshness to the place. There's even something wrong in the very way the light slants in through the windows. It wasn't the designer's fault; the house simply developed an ugly life and soul of its own. It's filled with unpleasant associations and after you're in it awhile it becomes downright repelling. I don't really understand why, and I'm an architect." I glanced at Sam, then at Ellie, smiling so as not to seem too deadly serious. Ellie's eyes were bright with interest. I said, "There's another house in Darley that no one has ever willingly left. Those who've left it, the husbands were transferred or something of that sort, and I've heard that each wife cried when she had to give up that house. And that a child in one family said and has continued to say that when he grows up, he's going to buy that house back and live in it. I don't doubt these stories because I've been in th
at house, too, and I swear it welcomes you as you step through the front door."
I looked at the Cluetts again, and began to hope. I said, "You've been in that kind of house; everyone has. For no reason you can explain you feel a joy at just being in it. I almost think that kind of house knows you're in it and puts its best foot forward. There's a kind of felicity about it, everything in it just right. It's something more and better than any designer could consciously plan. It's the occasional rare and wonderful house that somehow acquires a life and soul of its own, and a fine one. Personally, I believe that kind of house comes out of the feelings and attitude and actual love for it of the people who plan it and bring it to life. And that has to be the people who are going to live in it, not just the architect. When I design a house I want it to have a chance of turning out to be that kind. But you're not giving yours any chance at all."
It didn't work. For half an hour, the Cluetts were contrite and industrious, searching through my books and magazines, pointing out to me and each other houses, rooms, windows, doors, roof styles, bathrooms, and gardens they liked or said they did. I sat at my table again, listening, but I knew their interest was synthetic and I added no more notes to the pad in my clip board. I had only one: "Enormous master bdrm w. fireplace." But every client says that; I could have it printed on my note pads. And the Cluetts had nothing more to add; they really didn't care.
Finally, Ellie put a book back on the shelf beside her, then stood up on the ladder and began scanning the top shelf boredly. She reminded me of a child reluctantly doing homework, ready to welcome any diversion, and now she found one. Pulling out a book, she dislodged a thick wadding of paper crammed onto the shelf beside it and caught it as it fell. She unfolded it, opening it up finally to half a dozen big sheets of linen drawing paper each the size of a newspaper page. When she saw what was on the top sheet she slowly sat down on the ladder top, staring and murmuring, "For heaven's sake." After a moment she looked at me, saying, "Harry! What in the world is this?"
