The Jack Finney Reader

by Jack Finney

  Uh, huh, he answered. I smiled expectantly and didn't move. Yeah, they are, Al said. I continued to wait, still smiling, still holding my magazine up. I know the game: we've been married six years. He was hoping I'd consider his comment sufficient and let him get back to his book. Or that I'd be the one to get up. So I waited. Al is a polite man, and he started to rise. In an instant I was on my feet, carrying the magazine over to him. And because he'd kept his comfort, I'd earned my interruption. He laid his book in his lap and took my magazine.

  Aren't they darling? I knelt on the floor beside Al's chair. ‘Widow's Walks,’ they're called.

  Yeah, I've seen them, Al said. The old whaling days. The women watched for the men at sea.

  So that's what they're for!

  Sure. That's why the name. Half the time the husbands never came back.

  Well, no danger of your drowning at the office, dear. And I could watch for you to come home after work. How about building one on our roof?

  That half-irritated, half-pitying look men reserve for women's impracticality came over his face, but before he could turn to look at me, I was smiling. He grinned, then. Oh, sure, he said, I'll start tomorrow.

  I waited three nights before I mentioned it again. We were walking home from the movies. And I waited till we were less than a block from home; just time enough to voice his objections, not time enough to get dead set against it. I've been thinking, Al. It would be nice to have a 'Widow's Walk.' It'd be easy to build, and now I was excited and enthusiastic. You're so handy with tools and the plans are all in the magazine. It'd be so nice in the evening. I'll bet we could see the river, and —

  Oh, Annie, Al said, in the first place — And I listened, and nodded, and agreed.

  It was just an idea, I said: we had reached our porch and he took out his keys. But you're right, it wouldn't be practical. And as we entered the house, I added only this, Your mother would like it, though. Then we had to be quiet: she was asleep.

  It took less than two days. Spring came to stay on a Thursday. The sun was warmer, closer, the ground moist and crumbling, and the air was alive. Al, I knew, would be aching to build something, anything. He's a marvel with tools and loves to work with them. The lumber was delivered on Friday, dumped in the back yard, and I signed the receipt.

  I grinned when Al came home. What's the wood for? I asked, and Al grinned back. His mother had to be told, then, and I let Al tell her. She mumbled and muttered about the lumber on the flower beds. Is there anything she likes, anything that meets with her royal approval? But I didn't care, not this time.

  Sunday, it happened again. That damned, unexpected panic! Maybe I relaxed too much — it was that kind of day. Everything green and alive, the outdoor sounds so new and clear and soft; the sort of day you think of when someone says, “Spring.” It should have been perfect.

  Al was working on the roof in the sun — no shirt. His mother and I on the lawn in canvas chairs, she with the Sunday paper, while I shelled peas. Dinner was a comfortable two hours off, the meat was on and needed no attention. You could feel the air, soft and cool, moving across the backs of your hands. And it carried sound as it never does otherwise. A dog barking, many houses away, the chitter of birds, and the soft, clean sound of the wood as Al worked on the little, half-finished platform he'd built on the roof. A pause, then the sudden loose clatter of light new planking as it dropped on the heavier timbers already in place. A grunt from Al as he got down on his knees, then the skilled tap, tap of his hammer nudging a board to position. The tiny rattle of nails, the sharp ping, ping as he set one in the wood, then the heavy, measured, satisfactory bang, bang, bang, on a rising scale, as he drove it home.

  He's going to fall, she said nastily.

  Oh, no, Mother, Frank's light as a cat on his feet. I spoke gently, kindly, and I smiled. She didn't answer directly, didn't look at me.

  Don't see the use of it, anyway. Porch on a roof!

  But, Mother, I said, you'll love that porch! That was a mistake: her face set. Any urging from me is like pulling a mule with a rope. I said nothing more, but I was annoyed at myself and at her. If you only knew, I thought, and then, without warning, the panic broke. I hadn't expected, hadn't allowed for it, but suddenly the sound of that hammer, bang, bang, bang, was the sound of a hammer building a scaffold. The next plank scraped and bumped hollowly over the others, then dropped into place. And I couldn't bear to hear the next nail, to hear the sound of her scaffold moving nearer and nearer to completion. I rose, turned, set the bowl carefully on my chair, and ran to the house.

  Al called to me, What's the matter? then he yelled. Annie!

  The meat! I shrieked, and yanked the screen door open.

  I leaned on the kitchen table, hands flat on the top, my eyes closed. Take hold of yourself, take hold of yourself, I muttered senselessly, and then, in a moment or two, I was all right. The heavy, hollow, hammer sound began again and I listened. Yes, I thought, a scaffold. For her. Make it good and strong.

  What a ridiculous weakness, though. Not to be able to count on yourself, to trust yourself! Oh, I wish she'd die of her own accord!

  She won't though. She knows I want her to. Yes, she's that stubborn! Al finished the porch — it's really very cute — but she wouldn't use it. He painted it Sunday night, a light green, and we went up next morning before he went to work. His mother, too: trust her to be in on everything. But she wouldn't go back. I'd try to keep from urging her, but sometimes I couldn't help it. Then she'd smile, stay just where she was, and answer, No, you go up, dear. I'm comfortable right where I am. Then I'd have to go up there and sit.

  Things work themselves out, though. I stopped talking about the porch, and spent a lot of time there. It was rather nice, and presently she began to suspect that I liked getting away from her. And maybe she was a little lonely. Then, one evening at dinner, Al mentioned the porch. I told him how much I liked it, how quiet and so sort of away from things it seemed. Maybe it was my speaking of the pleasant quiet that gave her the idea. She thought it would be so nice to have a radio up there — the one from the kitchen, perhaps. She knows I use it whenever I'm cooking. I wanted her to start using the porch so much that I nearly agreed with her. But I caught myself.

  I don't know that a radio would be so good up there, Mother. It's —

  Don't see why not! she answered instinctively. Like to hear a few programs myself, sometimes, and if we're going to sit up there all the time —

  I was elated, We'll see, I said, coldly, and later when she'd gone to bed, I told Al, Put the radio up there tonight — from the kitchen. I hardly ever use it.

  You're sweet, he said, and kissed me. He's a darling.

  Now she likes the porch. Loves it! She puffs and mutters her way up to the attic, rests for a few moments on the old cedar chest, then pulls herself up the new flight of stairs to the roof. And there she sits, with her fan and her handkerchief, all morning long, till the sun gets at it from the west. Of course she has me on the jump all the time. Downstairs for the mail, for her glasses, for a drink of water, for anything and everything she can think of. Do you mind, Annie? I'd go myself, but —

  Sometimes I'll say, In a minute, and then let her wait. But usually I answer, Of course not, Mother, I have to go down anyway. And I don't mind. Not in the least. Because it makes me madder and madder every time she does it. And that's what I want.

  I know I can't trust myself, can't be sure I won't stop an instant before it happens, unable to go through with it — unless I see red. I really do see red. Some people think that's a figure of speech, but it isn't. When I get really furiously angry, it's as though a sheet of red cellophane were in front of my eyes. I actually see red, and then I can do anything.

  I think it's going to happen soon, now — about the radio. Things work themselves out, you see. She had to use it, of course, once it was up there. And she's discovered a particularly unpleasant program. It comes on at ten; oldtime songs played on an organ, and an obnoxious-voiced man read
ing bad poetry. Ten, she knows, is when I've always listened to Woman of Destiny. I asked her, the other day, if she'd mind my occasionally hearing it just to keep up with the story. She guessed not. But when I get up there, after breakfast dishes and the beds, there she sits listening to her program. Never a move, never a suggestion to change it to mine. I haven't said any more. I just sit there, seething. She knows it, too, and likes it.

  One other thing has been happening, lately. I've forgotten, several times, to fold the canvas chairs when we leave the porch for the day. Then, next morning, the seats are damp from the dew and she has to sit on the rail till the chairs dry. She's complained about it.

  Oh, things do work themselves out. One of these mornings the chairs will be damp again. I'll come up at ten and there she'll be, sitting on the rail listening that sanctimonious fool on the radio. I'll sit down beside her. She'll complain in that nagging voice of hers that I forgot the chairs again yesterday. I'll suggest that she might think of it herself occasionally. Then that sullen silence. I'll glance at the radio, then back at her; hinting that she might just suggest hearing my program for a change. She'll ignore that, as always. My blood will start to boil. And I'll let it. I'll feed the flames, remembering everything she's ever done, and that's plenty. I'll start back through the years and remember them all. And suddenly — I'll see red. Really red, just for an instant. Then, afterwards … panic? Well, let it come! Who wouldn't be panicky when she'd seen her mother-in-law fall two and a half stories to a cement driveway? Things, you see, do work themselves out. And it'll serve her right. It will! It'll — serve — her — right! The old bitch.

  I don't know, now, why I wrote what you've read. I started, I remember, with some idea of getting all my plans on paper. It became something else, of course, but I continued to write just the same. I meant to burn it, but I never have. I've kept it and read it, many times, over and over again.

  Somehow I didn't think much about Al's using the porch. Naturally he did, on weekends especially. He went up one Saturday morning, shortly after his mother. I'd forgotten the chairs again, the night before, and she was sitting on the railing. I suppose, this time, her attack was a real one. Al sat on the opposite rail, the width of the porch away, and she couldn't have been sure he'd be able to reach her in time. He almost did, though. When she started to fall, he shot across that porch faster than I'd ever seen him move before. I was watching; I'd been coming up the stairs and my eyes were level with the floor of the porch.

  He got a hand on her skirt, a tight strong hold, reaching way over the railing a split-second after she was clear of the porch. And then, as she plunged, her skirt went taut, yanked on his arm with the force of a whip, and the precarious balance he held, leaning way over the rail, was gone.

  Things do work themselves out, I suppose. Long after their husbands were dead and gone, the old seafarers' wives must have continued pacing the floors of their “Widow's Walks.” The name says that. Back and forth, back and forth they walked, day after day after hopeless day. As I do.

  Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, July 1947, 10(44):58-66

  I'm Mad at You

  Timberlake Ryan lay on the davenport watching his wife across the room and considering his choice of available weapons. A laugh — if he could just make her laugh in return, or even smile; but she'd be expecting that. Maybe an air of penitence plus great solicitude for her comfort; offer to fix a drink or get a pillow for her back — the telephone rang.

  Don't answer that! said Timberlake. No telling who it might be!

  There was no laugh, not even a smile. His wife looked at him coldly as she got up from her chair. I'm mad at you, she said. He winked at her, lewdly. She curled her upper lip in disdain, and walked out to the hall.

  Alice! he heard her say. How are you? He groaned loudly, sat up, put on his slippers, and padded out to the hall. … doing? Eve was saying. Why, we're not —

  — Jamming, said Timberlake, in a low insistent monotone. Jamming, yibbety, yibbety, yibbety!

  Eve covered the mouthpiece and glared at him fiercely. Then, smiling politely again, she spoke into the phone. We weren't doing a thi—

  — Jamming. Enemy broadcast, yibbety, yibbety, yibbety, yibbety —

  Tim!

  He looked at her sadly. A last-ditch measure, an act of desper—

  I don't think we have any plans, but let me just check with Tim. Hold on, now, she covered the mouthpiece again. It's the Melletts.

  You're telling me.

  They're calling from a drugstore; they're out walking and thought they'd drop in.

  Tell them wrong number.

  Tim, they're waiting.

  I have a severe case of cheri-beri. Aspirin doesn't help. It's contagious.

  Now, cut it out — they won't stay for long.

  How do you know?

  They have to be home at six; they have a sitter with the kids.

  How about the kids coming over and the Melletts staying —

  Nope, said Eve to the phone, not a thing! She made a face at Tim. He says come on over, we'd love to see you, and she covered the mouthpiece quickly as Tim moaned again and walked back to the davenport.

  Look, he said when she returned to the room, I know I have sinned. Eve picked up her book and resumed her reading. I'm not neat, he continued, and you get so tired of picking up after me and I really should be more considerate. He watched for the effect of this, ready to grin. Eve turned a page. I deserve punishment, he went on; she continued to read. But the Constitution expressly provides against cruel and unusual —

  Now, you just stop that, she said. Alice is one of my best and oldest friends —

  But she married a zombie.

  — and we don't see them often.

  Once in a decade is too —

  It won't hurt you this once. Anyway, remember I'm mad at you.

  Tim seemed to understand this non sequitur. I suppose I'd better put on a tie. He paused. It would be the neat thing to do.

  She considered this. No. But you might mix some drinks. They'll be here any minute.

  An excellent idea. Perhaps a shaker of germ culture?

  You just try behaving yourself, she suggested.

  Tim sighed and walked toward the kitchen. But at the doorway he turned to look back at his wife. She was, he thought, very lovable and amusing when she tried to be stern with him. Looking at her face, which was bent over her book, he smiled at her effort to maintain an appearance of annoyance. For her lips, he saw, wouldn't compress; they remained lovely and full. Her fine straight nose offset the tiny flare of its nostrils, the arched brows couldn't wrinkle her smooth full forehead, and the indignant tilt of her head was obscured by the softness of her fine yellow hair. She was very, very attractive, he thought, and wondered if it wouldn't be a good idea to say so.

  Eve looked up. Stop dawdling, she said. Timberlake Ryan moved on to the kitchen.

  The Melletts arrived, and Tim greeted them with a cordiality only his wife could recognize as being slightly burlesqued for her benefit. Funny, he said, not five minutes before you called I was just saying to Eve, What's happened to the Melletts? Why don't you give them a ring?

  Well, said Mrs. Mellett, why didn't you?

  Why didn't you, honey? said Tim.

  Eve linked her arm with Mrs. Mellett's and drew her into the living room. It's good to see you, Alice, she said, genuinely. The men followed them into the room.

  We all need a drink, Tim said, I know I do, anyway. How about it, folks? Honey, he lowered his voice and spoke solicitously to Eve, I don't think you'd better have any more.

  Timberlake, she said, with a rising, warning inflection, you fix me a drink.

  I really haven't given him a very nice Sunday, she thought guiltily, as Tim winked at the Melletts, then at her, and moved easily toward the kitchen. She compared, a little proudly and complacently, his lean six feet with the squat bulk of Jerry Mellett. I'm lucky, she thought. Whenever I compare him with anyone else, I keep falling in love wi
th my husband again. And she turned to Alice, a little sadly, remembering as always the shy, reserved, rather pretty girl Alice had been when they were friends in school. But now, she thought, the shyness and reserve had become only quiet dullness, and the prettiness remained only for those who remembered her at twenty. It's her husband's fault, Eve thought loyally. He's nice, really a very nice man, but — not very stimulating. Then, her conscience awake, she began chatting with Alice, eagerly and with real warmth and affection; she told herself she was glad they had come.

  As Tim returned with the drinks, Mr. Mellett said heartily, Well, what have you been doing with yourselves all day? We like to get out for a walk on Sundays, he continued, not waiting for an answer. Don't think it's good just to lie around doing nothing.

  Oh, Tiny answered, slouching down in his chair, we haven't been doing much. Just lying around. He avoided Eve's eyes, smiled brightly, and added, We've been thinking up new ways to be neat. We think neatness is very important.

  So do we, said Mrs. Mellett, and Mr. Mellett nodded.

  So does Eve. Wants to write a book on it, in fact. How to Achieve Happiness Through Neatness. A definitive work.

  Alice, said Eve, does Jerry clutter his desk with old envelopes and letters, ragged old newspaper clippings, and meaningless phone numbers scribbled on scraps of paper? Does he leave his closet door wide open, trail magazines through the house and stuff sweaters into drawers without folding them?

  I do, said Timberlake.

  Oh, Jerry's very neat, said Mrs. Mellett. I tell him his room looks like a West Point colonel's.

  Just habit, Mr. Mellett said modestly. I believe in orderliness.

  So do I. said Tim, in theory. But in practice I'm a slob. Just haven't mastered the technique, though I receive excellent instruction. I suppose I need a valet, as Eve keeps telling me. That's why I'm working so hard to get rich.

  Mrs. Mellett laughed. Any luck? she said.

  Oh, I've figured out several ways to make a million, but that isn't enough. I have other plans, too.