by Jack Finney
We're still using the wonderful adjective cellar, and Cousin Len's columns are getting better every day. A collection of them appeared in book form recently, which you've probably read. And there's talk of selling the movie rights. We also find Cousin Len's adjective cellar helpful in composing telegrams, and I used it, mostly at the inch-and-a-half level, in writing this. Which is why it's so short, of course.
Ladies' Home Journal, April 1948, LXV(4):279
Breakfast in Bed
Lifting the breakfast tray from his lap, Mr. Timberlake Ryan set it on the floor beside him. Then, planting an elbow on his pillow and propping his head in his hand, he pulled the blanket up over one shoulder and turned to grin at Eve beside him. The life of a sloth is the life for me, he said. He raised his other arm and without turning his head, groped behind him for the table at the side of the bed. Radar me in, he said.
Eve finished a last sip of coffee and turned to look at the table. Left, she said, and Tim's hand moved to one side. The other way, and his hand, hovering over the tabletop behind him, changed its direction. Further back, she said, and his arm extended. Still more. Tim frowned, and now, nearly flat on his back again, stretched his arm full length. Drop, said Eve, and his groping fingers descended to touch and pick up the cigarettes on the table behind him.
Roger, said Tim, and placed a cigarette in his mouth. Now, radar me the matches.
Here — Eve took a folder of matches from the other table at her side of the bed, and handed it to Tim. This is easier than radaring.
Roger, said Tim, over, and he lighted his cigarette.
You'll set the bed on fire.
You always say that, but somehow I always disappoint you. His eyelids slowly began to close and the muscles around his mouth relaxed so that the cigarette hung from his lips as though it were about to fall.
Enjoy yourself, Eve said. And fast. Because it's ten thirty.
Tim opened. his eyes. So what? It's Sunday.
Yes, but it's time to get up.
Why? he said. He reached out to the wall, tugged at the cord of the Venetian blind, and filled the room with sun. Why is it always time to get up? You know, that's what's wrong with the world — people get up. Naturally, then, they're cranky and irritable and they go out and start wars. That what you're trying to do? You want to fight? Want to wrestle?
Anything to get you out of bed.
Tim grinned. That, I assure you, would not be the best method.
No, but really, Tim — Eve shook her head, dismissing his remark, and frowned — it's terrible just to lounge around and waste the day. She set her tray on the floor decisively. We ought to get out and do something.
What, for example?
Well, anything. Get outdoors. Visit the zoo in Central Park. Or one of the museums or something.
Tim turned to lie flat on his back, drew up his knees, and blew a jet of smoke at the ceiling. You've just convinced me, he said, that the smartest thing I can do is stay in bed till Monday morning.
Well, you suggest something then.
What about shooting some pool? At the Paradise Billiard Parlor on Third Avenue, ladies invited.
I know! Eve sat up, suddenly excited. I knew there was something. Helen Beardsley is having a cocktail party. This afternoon. She said to drop in if we could. Tim, let's go!
I'll look funny in pajamas.
No, Tim, let's do. She turned, smiling, her face animated. She's having —
I know who she's having. Tim tossed a stack of Sunday papers to the foot of the bed, punched up his pillow, and lay back again. She's having that same strange group of pseudo people from another world who are present at all Sunday-afternoon cocktail parties. And at no other time or place. They materialize just for these parties. They never arrive; they're always there when you come. And they never leave; after a time, when the liquor's gone and the smoke gets thick enough, the hostess opens the windows, airs out the rooms, and they disappear with the smoke.
It might be fun, Tim. We don't have to stay if —
I'm afraid to go. Someone might open a window and we'd disappear, too. Then we'd be caught. We'd be one of them, having no other existence but Sunday cocktail parties, doomed for eternity.
That's better than staying in bed for eternity. She narrowed her eyes, caught her underlip in her teeth, and gazed through the wall opposite the bed. I can wear my black suit, she said, with my new pin and earrings — is your gray suit pressed?
Tim pointed the cigarette at Eve. Now, look. I can spare you from something you've often mentioned yourself. I've heard you say there always comes a time at one of these affairs when you wish you were home in bed. Well, by careful planning and foresight, I can arrange that. We'll simply stay —
Five minutes, she said. Then we get up.
Now, wait a second. He sat up. Reserve your decision till all the evidence is in. Get your imagination to working. Picture step by step the perils of getting up. First thing that happens, the floor is cold and one of your slippers is missing.
They're both right here.
The hot water, as it sometimes is on a Sunday morning, is lukewarm. You bathe anyway and get a little chilled. Just enough so that going out into this treacherous weather develops a nice spring cold.
The water's hot. I at least washed my face before breakfast.
Then you dress, wasting an hour of a day meant for rest and leisure. I'll have been waiting, of course, for fifty-five minutes, staring at my fingernails, since it takes me only five minutes to dress.
Since when? Eve inquired.
Ten at the most. Then we leave. Now, I don't know where this alleged Beardsley woman lives, but I guarantee it's at least forty blocks from here.
Eve grinned. She lives on Eighty-sixth Street.
I knew it; forty-four blocks. So that means —
Give me a cigarette.
Okay, radar me —
No, none of that. Try moving that weary body. It might awaken some hidden store of energy.
Here — Tim handed Eve a cigarette, took one himself, and lighted them.
Eve lay back against the head of the bed again, blew out a puff of smoke, and said, Then what?
We waste another half hour of this precious day just getting there. We arrive and ride up in the elevator. The elevator operator, by some secret method unknown even to stars of the stage and screen, manages to sneer at us without moving a muscle of his face. He is completely justified.
We reach the Beardsley apartment. The door is open. From within comes a curious sound like surf breaking on a rocky beach. It is as though dozens of people have crowded themselves into a small room or two, replaced the air with smoke, and proceeded to shout at one another without stopping for breath. This, unbelievable as it sounds, is exactly what has happened. It is a Sunday-afternoon cocktail party. Now — right now, a finger tip touching the doorbell — there is still one fateful second left in which to turn around, get back in that elevator, sneer at the operator, and race for home and bed. You want to?
Eve smiled at him sweetly. No, let's go in; it sounds like fun. You make it seem fascinating.
Tim shook his head sadly. A leading mass psychiatrist recently proved that this is exactly the thought sheep have as they follow the Judas sheep onto the ramp that leads down into the stockyard. So we go in.
Our hostess greets us with a scream signifying joy. She hides our hats and coats and leaves to get us a drink. I see a man I know slightly that I don't care for. Next to him is the only vacant seat in the room. You see an old school friend you hate. I join him. You join her, kissing her, no doubt. He sneered.
No, I don't. Eve looked at him contemptuously. That's a man's idea, picked up from the movies, that women are always kissing each other.
So I talk to this guy. We have nothing in common but a mutual acquaintance whom neither of us has heard of for five years, whom we didn't know very well, and remember only vaguely. We discuss him thoroughly. Presently the man leaves to get another drink. He never comes back.
Now, I ask you, with complete faith in your usual wisdom, why would two sensible people get up from a thoroughly delightful bed and travel long distances to go to a daytime nightmare like that?
Because, Eve said calmly, you've so completely convinced me that nothing could actually be as dull as you sound.
His voice dropped to a low, tense pitch. Suddenly I am aware of an electric something, a presence that somehow communicates itself across that crowded room. I look up from my drink — and there she is. A tall, willowy, incredibly beautiful woman. A complexion beyond belief; living ivory tinged with the first flush of dawn. Raven hair, so black and lustrous you almost expect to see stars in its depths. Intense, yet strangely soft, brown eyes; eyes that can be savage, reckless, and still — you know this instinctively — eyes that can fill with a world of understanding. For a long moment we gaze at each other wordlessly. Yet somehow we have spoken volumes. We tear our eyes apart and then … she makes her way through that crowded room, her motions effortless, graceful, fluid as quicksilver.
‘Slinky,’ is the word, eh?
She sits down beside me. I knew it, she says, and her voice is the throb of a harp string. I knew that someday, somewhere … you and I must meet.
Yes. That's all I say, but there are depths of meaning in that simple word. Yes, I continue, and strangely, now, there is a note almost of sadness in my voice, I suppose … it had to happen.
What is your name, who are you? she asks, but before I can answer she continues breathlessly, Ah, but that doesn't matter. Names, labels, what are they to people like us? You may call me, she says, Clothilde.
Hello … Clothilde, I say. There is a grave smile in my eyes, yet I am like a drowning swimmer. And — like a swimmer who comes to the surface momentarily, only to sink again — I glance up, tearing myself loose from those hot brown eyes. Guiltily, I look to see if you are watching.
I am. Eve reached down at the side of the bed and took her cup and a tall silver coffeepot from the tray on the floor.
Tim turned on his side, facing her, and blew a puff of smoke at her face. Here, he said, close your eyes and pretend you're at a cocktail party.
Eve frowned and drew back, trying to blow the smoke from her face, holding the coffeepot in one hand and balancing her half-filled cup in the other. A little coffee spilled into the saucer. Now, cut it out, Tim! You're making me spill.
Tim sat up and took his cup from the floor. Any left?
Yes, hold out your cup. She began to pour and as the stream of coffee hit the bottom of Tim's cup, he raised and lowered it rhythmically, the thick rope of coffee alternately contracting and lengthening as he did so. Some of it splashed on the bedclothes, and Eve stopped pouring. You want some more? she said.
Yes, ma'am.
Then you know how to get it.
Yes, ma'am. He held his cup steady and Eve filled it. They both sat back against their pillows, propped against the head of the bed.
Well, Eve said, do you realize that I'm watching everything?
Sure, he said, because a dotted line suddenly appears in the air of that smokefilled room, connecting your eyes and mine. At regular intervals along the dotted line, are little daggers pointing at me. Just then a miniature cloud forms above my head; and inside the cloud a light bulb turns on; I have just had a brilliant idea. I turn to the gorgeous witch beside me and compose a smile which to her, seeing it full face, looks interested, fascinated. But to you, watching me in profile, my smile looks politely bored. This sounds difficult and it is, but I manage. Your suspicions lulled, you turn away, the dotted line disappears, the light bulb goes out, and the cloud drifts away to a corner of the room where it breaks up in a slight thundershower which no one notices.
Look, she says, conventions aren't made for people like you and I. I wince. We have no need for futile preliminaries. Would you like to have an affair with me?
Helplessly, hopelessly, I feel the words form on my lips, hear them spoken as though by another. Yes, I say. Oh, boy!
When? she murmurs. When can we meet — alone?
Well, I answer, running a finger around my collar band, how 'bout lunch sometime?
When? Her insistent voice is a heady throb like the repeated note of a —
— harp. Eve sipped her coffee, grinning.
Nope; a violin. She's versatile.
Sounds like a one-man band.
Well, I answer, I'm tied up tomorrow — lunch date with this guy from the office. Tuesday there's this meeting. Wednesday okay?
Wednesday, she says, and her voice is a murmur.
I make one last despairing effort. Tim stared into space, a look of resigned suffering on his face. Look, I say, I don't think my wife will like this.
Eve finished her coffee and set the cup in the saucer on her lap. Oh, don't mind me.
Your wife, Tim continued. Your wife, she says with a weary smile. A man like you has no wife; not really. She doesn't exist. No one exists … but you and I.
I can't stand it any longer. Me, I say.
What? she asks.
Me, I say, first person pronoun in the objective case; me, not I.
Oh, she says, and I meet her for lunch on Wednesday. I draw out our savings and take her to a real swank place. I know I'm not really happy; just infatuated. I try to break loose from her spell, to salvage something of our happiness — yours and mine — and our savings. But she orders dessert, our savings are gone, and suddenly it seems hopeless. With one last despairing thought, a brief moment of yearning for my wife and children, I surrender.
What children?
The children, Tim said sadly, that might have been. And so this thing that could so easily have been prevented, happens. Because you yielded to the sadistic impulse to drag me from the bed and rest I so richly deserve, our lives are blasted, all hope of happiness gone.
Speak for yourself, said Eve. She folded her arms complacently. You were so busy with that harpy — she laughed. That's good. A harpy; in more ways than one. You were so busy with this civilized eel, you didn't notice who I was talking to.
Your old school chum. Tim began scratching Eve's leg with his toes, under the covers.
I got rid of her. And I got to talking with this man. Eve put a hand under the blankets and pinched Tim suddenly.
Ow!
Serves you right. I got to talking with this man; very tall, moves with the grace of an athlete, a suggestion of tremendous strength under the faultless lines of his beautifully tailored clothes. Crisp blond hair. Laughing blue eyes. A thin scar along the strong line of jaw; he'd been a flier in the R.A.F., and —
I thought I recognized him. Tim pinched Eve suddenly and moved quickly out of her way to the edge of the bed. Tall fellow? Thin? Weak blue eyes and bleached hair? I know him. A cad. Record of arrest for bigamy; wanted in the East for barratry.
But charming, so charming. Witty, gay, his voice like the deep notes of a flute —
Or a kazoo. Listen, if you think I'm dragging myself to some forlorn cocktail party so my wife can take up with a known dope fiend —
That's exactly what I do think. Eve threw back the covers and sat up. I've had enough of this and we're getting up right now. And while I'm getting dressed, you can wash the dishes, since it only takes you five minutes to dress. Then we're going —
I've got it! Tim snapped his fingers. I've been puzzling it out, trying to imagine what could possibly account for this urge to torture yourself. And suddenly I realized: It's that buried streak of Puritanism I've so often noticed in you.
Puritanism, Eve sniffed.
Oh, yes; it's there, all right. Why, I noticed it the first time we met, in fact. You were very proper and prim.
I was not!
Tim grinned at her mockingly, pulled the covers up and tucked them round Eve's waist. Oh, yes, you were! You tried to hide it, but my lovely Miss Curry was actually a very demure and proper young lady. But how you have fallen! Look at you now — in bed with a coarse, unshaven man.
Well, I can remedy
that — Eve started to throw back the covers again.
Now, wait a second! Tim grabbed her arm. I didn't say there was anything wrong with it! In fact, I think it's an excellent idea. C'mere and I'll show you what I'm —
We're both getting up right now. I'll do the dishes, but we're both getting up.
All right, all right, Tim spoke resignedly. But let's discuss those dishes first. It's hardly fair that you should do them.
Okay, then you do them.
That, too, has a tinge of unjustness.
Now, you're not going to stall any longer.
You wrong me, said Tim. That's not my purpose. I merely propose leaving this matter of the dishes to impartial chance. In fact, we'll settle this whole dispute on an all-or-nothing basis. If I lose, I not only get up, with a burst of song on my lips, but I do the dishes besides and then we go to this miserable cocktail party. Could anything be fairer?
And if I lose? said Eve sardonically.
Why, then, of course, in simple justice — Tim shrugged his shoulders — the opposite will prevail in each case: After you've finished these paltry few dishes, the work of a moment, we'll get some books, the backgammon board, turn on the symphony, and spend a pleasant Sunday in bed as Nature intended, recuperating from the toil of the week. But I expect to lose. He shook his head sadly. I have a feeling, a grim foreboding.
So have I, said Eve dryly. Just what method of chance did you have in mind?
Well — Tim smiled, a look of frank honesty — I'll think of a number —
Oh, no! You can get me on that once, but not twice. The last time I —
Okay, okay! he said hastily. Your implication wounds me, but I'll suggest another method — of skill, not chance. I'll count to three — now, get this — and the moment I say three, we both leap out of bed, which is just what you're trying to accomplish. And the first one to reach an erect standing position, both feet on the floor — loses.
First one to — really, Tim, do you honestly think I'm so stupid that —
No. But what can I lose by trying?
