by Jack Finney
Tim put down his book, gazing at her affectionately. Anything you want. You are my true love, my bride, my morning star and evening sun, worthy of infinite courtesy, and we'll do absolutely anything you want to do, anything your heart desires, so long as it doesn't involve my moving off the davenport.
Eve looked at him warningly. We haven't been to the movies for a long time.
For that, I've been offering up daily prayers of thanks. But I'll go, he added hastily, We'll pick out the worst movie we can find, a difficult decision, and I'll take you, walking on the outside of the walk for all the world to see.
We might just do that, said Eve coolly. It won't hurt you to go to a movie for once.
Okay. Tim sat up. I don't quite know how it happened, but somehow I have been maneuvered into a position of moral disadvantage, so I might as well yield gracefully. He took the paper from the table beside him, found the movie listings, and folded the page back. Nine Gals and a Gob. How's that?
You're making it up. There is no such picture.
I am only reading what it says here. How about this? A double feature: Atomic Blonde and Sierra Maverick.
Keep looking, she said. There must be something good.
I know of nothing in our experience to warrant such optimism. Here's a thing called The King and the Courtesan.
That might be all right. It got good reviews — pretty good, anyway. It's historical; you like historical movies?
Well, it's hard to say. Tim paused and put the paper in his lap. There's a certain peculiar quality about historical movies, a certain recurring feature about them that's fascinating. Do you know what I mean?
No.
Well, in every historical movie I ever saw, this same kind of thing happened invariably, and I got so interested that — although I hadn't meant to tell you — I finally wrote one myself, it seemed so easy. It's a Civil War movie, pre-Civil War, really. You want to hear about it?
No.
Well, the picture begins — no, wait. This deserves a little less perfunctory treatment; after all, it's the New York première. Picture the scene. Just before we leave for the theater, we are standing at the door here. You are wearing a corsage of gardenias and hollyhocks, a token of my esteem.
Yes, I know. You remember to bring flowers home every time you write a movie.
I open the door, bowing you out with a click of my heels. We enter the elevator and I snatch off my hat and kiss your hand, my lips moving thrillingly from your wrist to your elbow. Outdoors, I move quickly to the very outer edge of the sidewalk. As a matter of fact, I am so polite I walk in the gutter, tipping my hat at every third step.
I can't stand it, Eve said. Let's take a cab.
Better than that. This is a world première, so a grateful studio provides us with a limousine. In the lobby of the theater, thronged with adoring starlets, I speak a few modest, dignified and obscene words into the microphone, and we are immediately shown to our seats. For the first and only time in our lives, we are about to see a picture from the beginning. I help you off with your coat, nuzzling your hair in the darkness, and the curtain rolls back.
We hear the muffled beat of drums from the sound track and the title flashes on the screen. Sons of the Blue and Gray, it says, by Timberlake Ryan, Academy Award Winner, and a murmur and then a burst of applause sweeps the house. You lean close and whisper, I knew you could do it, darling. What a lucky day it was when you clipped that coupon and mailed it to the Write-Right Correspondence Institute.
Tim grinned at her. The screen darkens and, very faintly, far in the background, we hear The Battle Hymn of the Republic. Then a voice, the narrator, says, Eighteen fifty-two! The lush verdant prairies of Illinois! A new frontier, and a new nation emerging into lusty young manhood!
The screen brightens and we see two men walking along a country road. They wear old-fashioned clothes and side whiskers, and in the distance we see a village — houses, a church steeple and stuff. One of the men says. There it is! Springfield! Mark my words, it'll be the biggest city in Illinois! Then he laughs — yak, yak, yak — and says, There's one little jerkwater village up north claims it's gonna be the biggest city in the state. Bigger than Springfield, even! Can you imagine that!
Absurd, says the other guy. What village you talking about?
Waal, says the other, scratching his head, I fergit. Some sort of outlandish name. Oh, yes, he says, I recollect, now. Chicago, he says Now, ain't that somethin'? Yak, yak, yak!
Tim looked at Eve. Do you begin to recognize the one fascinating feature of practically all historical movies? he asked.
Just barely, she said. You make it so subtle.
Just then, Tim continued, our heroes pass a young man in a field at the side of the road. He's an unusually tall and lanky guy. He wears homespun pants, he has a big sharp nose, needs a haircut and he's very homely. He's working in the field splitting rails. He straightens up, wipes his brow, and says, Howdy, neighbors.
Howdy, they reply, and as soon as they've passed, one of them says, Who was that?
Him? says the other. Oh, he's just some no-account yokel. Came up here to Illinois from Kentucky not long ago. Some kind of half-baked lawyer. And get this — he's got political ambitions! Yes, sir, he runs a little grocery store and stays up half the night a-studyin'. Wants to make something of himself. Wants to be a state senator or something. Maybe even President someday! Why, the crazy young fool! He'll never amount to nothin'!
I don't know, says the other. There's something striking, something unusual about his face.
Don't you kid yourself, says his friend. That jerk's never going to get anywhere.
What's his name?
His name? Waal, now, I don't rightly recall, and he pushes back his hat, staring up in the air, scratching his head. Oh, yes! he says, I remember now! Yak, yak, yak! His name? That rail splitter from Kentucky, you mean? Why, that feller's name is George. Yes sir, George V. Henderson, and he'll never get anywhere!
The voice of the narrator comes in again as the screen darkens, and says, And he was right! George Henderson ran for the Senate, lost the election by twenty-six thousand votes, and was never heard of again!
Then, said Tim, to the music of John Brown's Body, the picture ends, and here we are home again, in time to read a good book, saving a full hour and a half of dull aching misery.
Eve did not smile. Okay, she said, so you don't want to go to the movies either.
Either? Tim looked at her. What do you mean, either? That was the only suggestion made, that I know of.
You know what I mean, all right. She sighed. The polite Mr. Ryan, always thinking of his wife.
He grinned at her. How would you like a poke in the nose?
Eve smiled, then shrugged a shoulder. Well, I don't care. This business of just because a man is married, he has to forget all the little —
— courtesies.
Exactly. And —
Look. Tim got up from the davenport, crossed the room, and sat down on the arm of Eve's chair. Fredric March, singlehanded, is not quite enough to account for all this. He smiled down at her. Who were you talking to today?
Talking to? She looked up at him. What do you mean?
You know what I mean.
Why, I was talking to various people.
Tim smiled suddenly, triumphantly. Including Marge?
Marge? She sounded puzzled and a little indignant, as though she'd never before heard the name. Marge who?
You know who. They live in the building across the street. Marge, the model wife of the model husband.
If you mean Marge Vetter — Eve shrugged — why, yes, as it happens, I ran into her today in the supermark —
I thought so. Tim grinned. All is clear to me now. And I'm ashamed of you, trying to shove all the blame onto poor Fredric March. Well, it took me a while to figure it out, but how is dear Walter? How is that wonderful man who brings flowers home to his wife for just no reason at all? The man who calls his wife up in the middle of the d
ay just because he was thinking of her and wants to know how she is. The man who puts his wife's galoshes on for her. That notorious puller-out of chairs. The perpetual valentine. The wonderful man who pops up and down like a piston every time the ladies, bless them, leave or enter the room. How is that darlin' man? I'm sure you heard all about him.
I most certainly did, said Eve. They've been married six years and he still —
I know, said Tim. And I'll get him kicked out of the union if it's the last thing I do. He grinned down at her. However, I can see what you've been through today and you have my sympathy. It must be galling to the average wife to have to listen to Marge on the subject of Walter, and have so little to brag about when her turn comes. Well — he stood up — from now on, Walter's my model. Walter and Fredric March. Look; I'll take you to the movies. I'll put on a tie, and you pick out a —
No, Eve said. There really aren't any good ones showing, and it isn't just the movies anyway. It's —
How about a little cassino, then? Tim said hastily. With an exaggerated gesture, bowing from the waist, he offered his arm. Come. I'll escort you to the davenport.
All right, said Eve, and she stood up. One game, twenty-five points.
Tim walked to the desk and got out the cards, then moved a lamp closer to the davenport, and they sat down, the cards and a score pad on the cushion between them. Tim gathered up the cards. Now, let's see, he said. would Walter try to pawn off the deal on his wife? No, never! So I'll shuffle. He smiled, widening his eyes in exaggerated solicitude. Comfy, dear?
He dealt out the cards and they began to play. They played through the deck, and presently, when they had finished, Tim gathered up the cards and counted points. Eye had won nine of the eleven points in the deal.
You play very well, dear, he said. I'll shuffle again, and if you care to refer to me as Lord Chesterfield, it's only what I deserve.
Again they played through the deck, and as Eye won the last card and began to count points, Tim looked at her, frowning a little, and said, I wonder if it's true what I heard about Walter just recently.
No, said Eve. She wrote their scores on the pad. But what is it?
I hear he wears a nightcap to bed so he can tip his hat to his wife just before —
Oh, shut up, said Eve, and she began to laugh.
Tim dealt out the cards and picked, up his hand. Too bad Marge found him first, he said, leering. Here — he discarded the deuce of spades — here's your chance; little cassino. Eye picked it up with the deuce of hearts. Of course, Tim continued, he's no Fredric March. As a matter of fact, he's just Walter Vetter, though that's hardly his fault. But he is polite.
For a time they played, quietly, Tim shuffling and dealing and counting up points. Presently, Eye won the final card of a deal and Tim said, You've got the most cards, obviously, and I'll count spades. He thumbed through his cards, counting rapidly. Spades, too, he said, and that puts you out. He smiled at Eye. Always let your wife win; that's my advice to young husbands who are in bad.
Let me win, said Eye. I can just see you. She smiled. This never was your game.
Tim grinned at her and picked up the cards and score pad and put them on the table beside the davenport. Should we read in bed for a while?
Yes, Eye said, and she stood up and crossed the room to pick up her sewing box.
Tim snapped off the lamp beside the davenport, then came over to Eye and put his arm around her shoulders. Maybe you're right at that, he said gently. Maybe it's true; I suppose I haven't been paying enough attention to the little husbandly courtesies.
Well …
He kissed her gently, then smiled down at her and said, I guess you are right. So how will it be if I start practicing the little courtesies right now? He stepped to one side and, smiling at Eve affectionately, gestured toward the living-room doorway with one arm, his palm turned upward. Après vous, madame, he said, bowing her through the door before him.
Eve looked at him for a moment, and her eyes were wide now, very gentle and soft. Then she drew herself erect, tall and regal as a queen, nodded graciously at Tim, and walked past him, her head held high, smiling proudly.
As she passed, Tim turned and — not painfully, but not gently, either — brought his knee up in a swift little kick, throwing Eve off stride, and she gasped in outrage and started to turn. But then she stopped, hesitated for an instant, and instead she walked on. She started to giggle as Tim snapped the last light off and followed her into the bedroom.
Collier's, June 25, 1949, 123(26):20-21, 62-64
Sneak Preview
Slowly, Al backed the car, then cut the wheels and leaned out the window to watch the parked car at the rear. The bumpers clicked and he drew his head in and edged the car forward. Then he set the hand brake, switched off the ignition, and sat back, turning to his wife beside him. Well, he said, this is it, chaps.
Yes. She leaned forward to look out the windshield up at the tall stone building beside them. She studied the building, frowning, then sat back again, making no move to leave the car. Al, what do you think?
He shrugged. I don't know. I'd say yes, though. Soon find out, anyway. He watched her face for a moment, then drew her toward him. Nervous? he said gently.
No. Not really. She sat up again as though to get out of the car, but instead she sat looking absently out at the crowds passing on the sidewalk. Dotty was telling me —
Look, Debbie, you can stop worrying about what Dotty or anybody else says now. He reached across her and opened the door. How foolish can we get? Sitting here wondering, when the answer — he nodded at the building outside — is right upstairs there. Come on; let's go find out.
High up in the Medical Arts Building forty minutes later, Al sat waiting in a low, upholstered chair, an open magazine on his lap. Occasionally he glanced up at the closed door opposite, listening to the muffled sounds of voices or footsteps behind it.
The door opened and Debbie came out. She took her gloves and purse from the magazine table, her back to Al. Through the opened door he could see the nurse standing at her desk, busy with papers, and he kept his voice low. Well?
She turned, glancing at him briefly. Tell you outside. Then she raised her voice, calling to the nurse, Good-by!
Outside in the hall, they walked toward the elevators in silence, till the slowly closing door of the doctor's office clicked shut. Then Debbie stopped and turned to Al, her eyes excited and awed. Well, it's true, she said softly, Al, it's really true! She grinned. To quote the eminent doctor, I am pregnant as hell.
Well, well — he took her in his arms and smiled — and how did that happen? You ask him that? He lowered his head, his mouth brushing her hair close to her ear, Well, now we know, he said. And I'm glad. It's wonderful, baby.
Are you? She drew back, looking anxiously up at his face. Al, are you really?
Of course I am, he assured her. What did you think?
She moved her shoulders in a little shrug. You always used to say —
Al took her by the arm, and they walked to the elevators. I used to say a lot of things. I used to say I wouldn't be married till I was thirty, and look what happened. He bent to kiss her. You gonna have a fat little baby?
Looks like it, she said cheerfully, then she laughed, shaking her head. Damn, That's the trouble; I will look like it. Al, will you —?
Sure, he said. You'll be bulging but beautiful, to me.
Downstairs, out on the sidewalk in the late-afternoon sun, they walked along in silence until they reached the car. Then Debbie said, Al, is this too silly? Do you mind, I mean, if we take just a few minutes more? I'd like to … buy something. For the baby. Just some little thing. It's silly this soon, I know, but —
Look. Al paused, his hand on the door handle. I know I haven't been the traditional prospective father. When we first suspected, I didn't rush out to buy a football for the kid, and I don't intend to. He opened the door and motioned Debbie in, But I'm not going to eat him either, when he arrives. Or she
. Matter of fact, I kind of hope it's a girl. He watched as Debbie drew her feet and then her coat free of the door, then he slammed it shut, and got in on the other side. It's just that it's a serious business having a kid. He smiled. But I think it's swell. My folks had children, and so did yours, I believe, and they seemed to get along. Certainly we'll go buy something; anything you want. …
It was early evening when they got back to their apartment, and Al hung his hat in the hall closet while Debbie began opening her packages in the living room — a tiny jacket of embroidered yellow silk, no larger than a man's handkerchief, and two little bibs. Al came in and looked at them, fingering them, and agreed they were cute. Then, while Debbie rewrapped them, he walked to the desk, found some papers in one of the drawers, and lay down on the davenport.
For a time he looked through his papers — several printed folders and two typewritten pages — then he became aware of a telephone conversation in the dining room. I see, Debbie was saying, then she paused. Yes, of course, … Yes, the doctor told me. … How many times? … Oh, of course. … Yes. … Yes, I will; I'll feel free to call you. Thanks loads; you're a darling, Dotty. …
Presently the call ended, Debbie came into the living room and sat down on the edge of the davenport, facing Al. Dotty was telling me —
She certainly was.
Well, she's been through it, remember, and she says that during the first month I should be sure —
Al laid his hand gently on her arm. Didn't the doctor tell you about the first month?
Yes.
Then let's do what he says and forget Dotty. One kid doesn't make her an exper—
Well, of course. Her voice was amused. But it's nothing, Al; it's just what women tell each other. The doctor can't tell you everything. She looked at him affectionately. Then her eyes slowly widened and she looked absently into the distance. Dotty says don't wait too long getting the things I'll need for the baby. She says it's surprising how fast the time goes. You think you've got plenty of time, just months and months, then all of a sudden you're ready for the hospital.
