by Jack Finney
Who? she said impatiently. Who is it?
Why, it's Grace! He lifted his head again, his face surprised and delighted. Grace Morrison.
Who?
You know; Grace Morrison. The girl I was going with before we —
Oh, yes, Ann said, the interest removed from her voice, and she turned and disappeared into the kitchen. After a moment she called out to him. Did I ever meet her? she said.
Charley looked up quickly at the open doorway, grinning. Don't give me that, he said. You know darn' well you didn't. You'd remember, all right.
Ann appeared in the doorway and walked to the table carrying a tray holding the coffeepot, bread, butter and two dishes of cereal. I suppose so, she said, and smiled. She put bread in the toaster, pushed down the lever, and the machine began to click. Odd sort of girl, wasn't she?
Odd? How do you mean, 'odd'? Oh, he said, I guess she was a little Bohemian in her ways at one time, but there was nothing really odd about her. He grinned affectionately at his wife. She was quite a pretty girl.
Ann sat down at the table, unfolding a napkin in her lap, and tasted her orange juice. Then she reached for the invitation, glancing at the postmark on the envelope. A blonde, wasn't she? She looked at Charley. Seems to me you said, once.
That's right, he answered. Not one of these blond sort of blondes, though. He stared at his plate, visualizing the girl again. Her hair was kind of light, sort of honey-colored, I guess you'd say, and very pale and shiny; beautiful hair.
He began to smile faintly and his voice took on a fond and reminiscent tone. And her skin was — you know the kind — that wonderful skin that sometimes goes with hair like that. Very delicate and smooth, a perfect complexion. He looked up at Ann, grinning wickedly. Really quite a dish.
But Ann sat staring, her face astonished, at the wedding invitation in her hand. For Heaven's sake! she said. She glanced up at Charley briefly, accusingly. Why didn't you tell me!
Tell you what?
Why, it's Alec! She began to smile incredulously, and slowly looked up again, her face shining with excitement. Alec House!
House? I thought the name was familiar when I read it, but I can't quite place —
Why, you know, Charley; he's the boy I was going with when you and I met!
Oh, yes — he smiled — the Creep.
I didn't know they knew each other.
No, neither did I. Not surprising, though; they were both part of the same general crowd in Oak Park; just like we were before we moved into Chicago.
Ann returned her eyes to the engraved paper in her hand, and began to smile, tenderly, wistfully. Alec House, she said dreamily. And now he's getting married.
The toast popped up and she removed it from the toaster. Well, she said, in a manner of one obliged to admit a now incontrovertible fact, I suppose this Grace of yours must be a good-looking girl if Alec — She looked at Charley suddenly. Were you actually engaged to her?
Well, no, he answered. Not exactly, I mean. It was just that — well, there was nothing actually said, not really, that is, but — that is, I was — how old? — about thirty and sort of feeling it was time to be married, and — He hesitated, then shrugged to suggest that the precious phrase which would exactly describe this tenuous state of affairs was too unimportant to search for.
I see, said Ann slowly, in a way which meant that she didn't. She hesitated as though searching for words, then continued as though stating a thought aloud simply to clarify it in her own mind. You wanted to marry her, she said, in a tone of reasonable understanding, so you proposed to her, I expect. Maybe several times, even. Her voice was a little wistful now, faintly sad. But then when she wouldn't, and you finally met me, why —
Charley looked at her pityingly, slowly shaking his head. Oh, no, you don't, he said. I don't fall for an act like that. He grinned. I will gladly leap up most any time and cover you with passionate kisses and smother you with flattering endearments, but not for a stunt like that.
Well, you said. In spite of herself, she had to smile. You said you were practically engaged to her, and naturally I supposed —
Charley ignored this and continued shaking his head, grinning at her, Imagine it, he said. Jealous of a girl I haven't seen —
Jealous, said Ann scornfully. I'm not jealous at all. Don't be absurd.
A girl, he continued, I haven't seen or thought of — that I've hardly thought of for six years or more.
You started to say you hadn't thought of her at all. But then you changed. She looked at Charley, waiting for an answer.
He reached across the table and put his hand over hers. He looked at her for a moment, smiling gently, then said, Is there anything you want me to tell you that you don't already know? About how I feel about you, I mean?
She smiled then. No, she said gently. But I have to have a little fun, don't I? I have to tease you a little sometimes. And myself, too.
Sure, said Charley. He was silent for a moment, then he continued. I've thought about Grace once in a while. I've wondered what had happened to her, is all. And it's true we were sort of on the edge of an understanding, and I'm sure it would have gone further, except that — well, then I met you.
Of course, said Ann softly. I know. She nodded several times and a faraway look came into her eyes. I know, she repeated, I know how it was. Like Alec and me.
Were you engaged to him?
No. Not really, that is. It was like you said. He'd been — oh, talking about the ‘future’ in a vague, slightly frightened sort of way. She smiled. Just like you did. And I knew he was going to propose; just like I knew you were.
How do you mean, like you knew I was? Why, I didn't know myself till the night we —
I know you didn't know, but I did. Why, I told my mother we were going to be married at least two weeks before you asked me. Ann smiled and began buttering her toast.
Charley looked at her half doubtfully, suspiciously, for a moment, measuring the probable truth of this; then he smiled and began stirring his coffee. Pretty smart, weren't you?
She looked at him affectionately. I didn't have to be too smart.
No, I guess you didn't, said Charley. For several moments he was silent, sipping his coffee, then be spoke again. So this prophetic intuition of yours told you this guy, this Alec what's-his-name, was going to propose to you.
Of course.
And what would you have said when he asked you?
Oh, now that isn't fair, Ann said quickly. That's not a fair question.
Come on, now, he said, grinning. You'd have said yes, wouldn't you?
I don't know, she said coolly. I really didn't know what I'd do.
Well, did you know in my case?
I certainly did. Why, Mother and I were already making plans; we'd even written my aunt about it.
Charley sipped some more coffee. But if I hadn't come along about then, you might have said yes when this Alec asked you; isn't that right? He didn't wait for an answer but continued in a reasonable I-can-understand-it tone. Well, I can't say that I blame you. Handsome guy and all that.
Handsome, she said. As if that were the only thing.
Well, I'm not handsome.
Now, that's ridiculous! You're very nice-looking! Anyway, you'd think I'd been a schoolgirl interested in nothing but a face. Ann shook her head slowly and smiled. Who's being silly, now?
Charley grinned suddenly. I am, he said. We could both give lessons to a couple of adolescents. He picked up his cup and passed it to her. Gimme some more coffee, he said in a tone which was really an apology.
Ann put down her toast and filled his cup.
He read through his mail, but his thoughts, still, were on the wedding invitation lying on the table. He was, he admitted this to himself, a little jealous of his wife's old beau and he felt the foolishness and childishness of this. It was not, he assured himself, because Alec was a good-looking man; so was he, he thought.
It was simply the knowledge that Ann had once cared
enough about someone else even to consider marrying him. And then he made himself admit that it was, also, the fact that Alec was a handsome man. And he knew now how Ann felt about Grace and he marveled at this, for Ann — he looked up at her now — Ann was prettier still.
She was reading again, he saw, the wedding invitation lying beside her plate. A Saturday, she murmured to herself. The wedding's a week from Saturday.
Why? said Charley. You thinking of going?
Oh — her tone dismissed the matter as too trivial to warrant more than a bored consideration — I don't know; I might. If we aren't doing anything else. And if I happen to think of it.
He grinned, then. Listen, he said, you may be kidding yourself, though I doubt it, but you aren't kidding me. Wild elephants equipped with chrome-steel harnesses couldn't drag you anywhere else on the day of that wedding.
Why? How do you mean?
Don't kid me, he said smiling. I'm not saying you give a darn about this handsome old flame of yours, but schoolgirl or not, when he gets married you'll be there. And when the girl — I don't say you're jealous of her — but when the girl is someone I might have married, why, honey, you'll be at that wedding if they have to carry you from your deathbed.
Maybe, said Ann, and she smiled calmly. Anyway, it's in the afternoon, so you don't have to go. And it's way out in Oak Park. You can stay home and listen to the ball game if you want.
Oh, Charley said casually, and he touched his mouth with his napkin and stood up. He bent and kissed his wife good-by. I don't know; it might not look right if I didn't show up at the wedding. I suppose I'd better go along with you.
I see, said Ann, and now she grinned at him. Well, you may be kidding yourself, and probably are, but you aren't kidding me. What was that about wild elephants?
The weather, a week from the following Saturday, was wedding weather; sunny, cloudless, the sky very blue. There had been a last hint of winter in the air that morning, but now it was warm.
In the church, the tall windows open and the fresh greenery visible outside, the air was pleasant, fragrant with spring, neither too cool for the bridesmaids in their pastel-bright gowns, nor too warm for the ushers in their dark formal clothes.
Charley and Ann arrived late — trains from Chicago's North Side to the West Side suburbs were infrequent and slow on Saturdays.
They stood, now, at the back of the large crowded church and far to the side, standing on tiptoe trying to get a glimpse of the groom.
But the groom, already up front facing the altar, was half hidden by the crowd, an anonymous figure in black made small by distance. And when suddenly, with only a brief preliminary trill, the wedding march boomed through the air of the church and they turned to look at the bride, she appeared, holding her father's arm, on the wrong side of the aisle for them; and all they could see, past the craning necks and moving heads around them, was a glimpse of white lace and the edge of a formal bouquet moving slowly up the aisle beyond them.
Then the ceremony began and they heard the ancient words, faint and faroff at the front of the church, but carrying clearly through the hushed flower-fragrant air, and Charley turned to look at Ann and saw that her eyes were big and wistful, happily sad.
He leaned toward her, smiling a little, and spoke quietly from the side of his mouth. I think the least you could do, he said, is cry a little. Just out of politeness.
Shut up, Ann murmured happily, and smiled and tried to suppress it as though afraid any movement on her face might spill a few tears, and she turned her eyes back to the couple up front.
Then, suddenly, the ceremony was over, and when the bride and groom had left the church, the crowd filled the aisles; and Charley and Ann moved with it, slowly, to the side door of the church and presently passed through out onto a large well-enclosed lawn.
The lawn was filled with people including, surprisingly, a number of children who, restless after the confinement of the church, had begun to romp and chase one another. So Charley and Ann stood, out of the way, leaning against the gray stone wall of the church watching the cluster of guests and new in-laws which surrounded the bride and groom, and waited for an opportunity to greet the new couple.
But almost immediately the bride emerged from the group leading an old woman by the hand, a valued old friend, apparently, for she led her off to one side away from the others. And now the bride faced them, though without seeing them, and began talking eagerly to the old lady. Her veil was thrown back, the afternoon sunlight full on her face, and for the first time they saw her clearly.
For several moments Charley and Ann looked at the bride without speaking. Then Ann spoke — she tried not to, tried to resist, but even as she did so she heard her own voice, soft with false sympathy. Too bad she has to stand in the sun like that.
Why? said Charley quickly, defensively. It isn't hot.
No, Ann agreed, and she wished she could stop, but — well, the sunlight isn't too flattering. For anyone, I mean, she added quickly.
Charley looked at her sardonically, Yes, you do.
Well, don't misunderstand me, said Ann — there was a momentum, she realized, in this kind of exchange, that once begun she was unable to end, and it had led, in the past, to the few quarrels she and Charley had ever had. She's a very — she seemed to search for a word — pleasant-looking woman.
But, said Charley.
But, she agreed, accepting the word, and this was the culmination of what she had to say, and of the absurd jealousy she knew she had harbored for two long weeks, it's perfectly true, and I've noticed it before, that these frail blond sort of good looks often do turn out to be — well, rather fragile, sometimes.
Unexpectedly he agreed, and the moment he spoke Ann paid for her little triumph with a sudden sharp remorse, and she reached out to Charley and put a hand on his sleeve.
Yes, Charley said, and his voice was sad. He paused momentarily, looking at the bride, then shook his head slowly and sighed. Her skin was beautiful last time I saw her, he said quietly, really beautiful. Just about perfect, I guess. He was speaking more to himself than to Ann. But now; well, it's still nice, of course, but — six years has sort of done something to it.
He studied the bride intently then frowned worriedly. Her hair is sort of different, too. She's wearing it different, but that isn't it. Seems to me it used to sparkle so, it used to be so alive. For a moment longer he looked at the bride, then he turned away. She's changed, he said sadly, and it was as though he were protesting. She's so much older, somehow.
Ann took his arm and put it under hers, squeezing it tightly against her side. She's a very nice-looking woman, Charley, she said softly, and I know she was a lovely girl. And she seems — I can tell — like a particularly nice person, besides.
Yes, said Charley, and he smiled at Ann, returning the pressure of her arm, but then he looked back at the bride and frowned again. It's strange, he said, you're both the same age, you were both very pretty girls, but you've changed hardly at all and she's changed a lot. I don't know the reason, but I've noticed before; some people just age more slowly than others. You know what I mean?
I know, Ann said, I've noticed it in you; you're the kind of man who changes hardly at all between, say, twenty-five and forty, and she turned to Charley, her eyes affectionate, tender and soft.
But Charley had straightened, standing tall on his toes. His eyes, she saw, were staring over the heads of the near-by people, and he began to grin.
She turned to follow his gaze and saw the groom, clearly now, smiling and saying good-bys as the group around him began to break up and leave.
Well, said Charley in a delighted tone, and his grin widened, so that's Alec, the movie star? Whose job did you say he was after — Wallace Beery's, by any chance?
Ann stared at the groom for a moment longer, then turned to Charley. What are you talking about? she said sharply. He isn't fat.
No-o, Charley said happily, but he's — shall we say — prosperous-looking? And unless my
eyes deceive me, which they don't, there is quite plainly the beginning of a bald spot on the crown of our hero's head.
So what? said Ann. It's very small; hardly noticeable, in fact. And in his case I think it gives him a sort of — pleasing maturity. I honestly do.
Yes, said Charley, and he continued to grin, it does that, all right.
No, really; I think it actually gives him a certain distinction.
Of course, said Charley. No doubt about it. And I think we can predict that he'll become even more distinguished in just that way — to a point, I imagine, of almost total distinction. Little heavy around the jowls, too, isn't he? Or should I say mature?
He is still, said Ann quietly, a very good-looking man. She paused for a moment, then added almost to herself, But he has changed. Funny; I never imagined —
I know, said Charley softly, and he pressed her arm, gently, contritely.
The old lady patted the bride's shoulder, kissed her affectionately, and they saw she was about to leave. Charley, Ann said quickly, she'll see us, now. Don't let her know, don't let it show in your face that she's changed even a little.
I won't, said Charley, don't worry, and now the old lady left and the bride waved after her, called a farewell, then looked up and saw them.
She came toward them, then, smiling with pleasure, and Charley stepped forward to greet her. It's good to see you again, Grace, he said quietly, and he took her hands.
You, too, Charley, she said. It's been a long, long time, and he saw that she was genuinely glad to see him.
He introduced the two women, then, and they greeted each other and they all stood for a few moments talking pleasantly about the wedding.
Then the bride turned back to Charley and took both their arms. Come, she said, I want you to meet my husband, and, walking between them, led them across the lawn.
Ann knows your husband, said Charley, from a long time ago.
I know, said Grace, he told me when we were writing the invitations, and she smiled at Ann pleasantly.
The groom stood, shaking hands with an elderly man, smiling, talking, half turned away, not seeing them as they approached. So they stood for a moment, awaiting his attention, then he turned, saw Ann, smiled, and took her hands.
