The Jack Finney Reader

by Jack Finney

  Charley sat back and sipped his drink absently. In a few minutes Ann came back and sat down on the couch. She smiled wryly and shrugged a shoulder in a gesture that said she'd been silly and knew it and wanted to let the matter drop.

  Charley said, Want to do something? Go to a movie or something?

  Well — how soon will you be hungry?

  Not for a long time.

  All right, let's do, then. We can have sandwiches when we get back.

  Fine. What's playing?

  I don't know. I'll look in the paper.

  Don't bother. We'll live dangerously — just go to the show and take our chances.

  All right, Ann said. Just let me have the john to myself for five minutes, and I'll be ready. …

  In the bedroom, standing at his mirror, Charley put on a tie. Then he took his wallet, keys and some change from the little dark-green leather box on his dresser. He put them into his pockets and stood looking down at the little box. Then he glanced toward the closed door of the bathroom, picked up the little box and walked out to the kitchen.

  He opened the back door and went out onto the porch, then walked down the two flights of wooden stairs to the small courtyard below. Under the stairway, he pushed back the lid of a metal container and dropped the leather box inside it. Then he went back upstairs, two steps at a time. He was adjusting the knot of his tie at the mirror when Ann came out of the bathroom.

  The movie was neither very bad nor very good. But when it had ended and they walked up the darkened aisle of the theater, it occurred to Charley that he had enjoyed it, and that he had never liked movies before he married Ann. But now, he realized, accepting them for what they were, he enjoyed them, with Ann, as often as not.

  They turned from under the lighted marquee of the theater toward the bus stop, and Ann took Charley's arm. For a dozen steps they walked along in companionable silence, then Ann pulled at Charley's arm, leading him to a window display. Oh, look, Charley; aren't they cute?

  He looked at a row of glossy, bright-colored china flowerpots in the window, each with a tiny china butterfly or bird perched on its rim. Yeah, he replied, they are.

  Aren't they darling? Ann turned back to the display, smiling.

  Charley watched her face from the corner of his eye, delighted at her pleasure.

  On the corner, while they were waiting for their bus, Charley turned to Ann and said, Pots sub.

  What? She looked at him, puzzled.

  Pots sub.

  That's what I thought you said.

  Charley sighed. It's ‘Bus Stop’ read backward. Sometimes I'm frightened by your appalling ignorance.

  Forgive me, said Ann. ‘Pots sub’ is ‘Bus Stop’ read backward. So what?

  The bus pulled in to the curb. They got on, and Charley dropped their fares into the box, then followed Ann down the aisle. It scores three points for me, he said. He sat down beside her.

  How come?

  They're both real words: ‘pots’ and ‘sub.’ A rare specimen — hard to find. As for a ten-point scorer …

  Well? What scores ten points?

  Charley grinned. It not only has to mean something, but -

  I know, said Ann disgustedly. It has to mean something vulgar.

  Right! said Charley happily. I knew an evil mind like yours —

  Your mind was the tip-off. She sat silent for a moment, then she said, Have you found any ten-point —

  Charley began to laugh at her.

  Well! Ann tossed her head indignantly; then she grinned. Okay, what are they?

  His voice rising, each word louder than the last, Charley said, Do you really want me to tell you? Right here on the bus? Out loud? Okay, the best one I ever saw —

  All right, all right, Ann said hastily. Now, take it easy and keep quiet. She nodded at the windowpane. Just look out the window.

  Okay. He turned to the window. There's another three-pointer for me. Charley indicated a sign in a furniture store display: Sleep-Eezee Bed. That should really score ten points. Reading each word backward, from left to right, it's a regular love-nest headline — Peels eezee deb. Ten points.

  Three. Don't be greedy.

  Okay, three. And I'm six ahead now.

  Ann turned her head rapidly, looking through the window. There's one! Three points! ‘Murder.’ That's a good one.

  Murder? Charley turned, trying to follow her gaze.

  Sure, Ann said smugly. She turned to face front again. ‘Red rum.’ Backward. it's ‘murder.’

  Where? He looked at her suspiciously.

  On a sign back there. Ann gestured vaguely at the window.

  Charley studied her face for a moment, I don't believe for a moment you saw a sign that said ‘red rum.’

  Well … She grinned.

  Charley shook his head. That's the trouble with letting women into clean sport; they're fundamentally savage, basically uncivilized. No sportsmanship, no —

  Pat no regal rats. Ann smiled, her hands clasped primly in her lap.

  And just where do you see that?

  The bus was slowing for a traffic signal, and Ann pointed to a blue neon sign in a tavern window on the corner. Right there. ‘Star Lager on Tap.’ Reading from right to left, ‘Pat no regal rats,’ four words. Fifteen points.

  Ten, Charley said. Ten is the most you can get.

  Okay, ten. Which puts me four points ahead. Ann grinned, And we get off at the next stop.

  Charley leaned forward, studying every sign in sight as the bus moved ahead. My game, he said, and an amateur walks in and with a combination of rank chicanery and typical beginner's luck —

  You're just too civilized, that's your trouble. Come on. She put a hand on his sleeve. Let's get off while you're only four points behind.

  They walked the block and a half home, Ann's arm under Charley's, the night air cool and fresh on their faces; and Charley felt good. Halfway home, Ann said, Did you ever play that game before?

  Oh, Lord. Charley sighed in mock resignation, shaking his head at Ann.

  What do you mean? she said. What's wrong?

  Don't kid me, Charley said. Yes, I played it with Edith. Once.

  Ann was silent for several steps, then she said, Well, did she like it? I think it's cute.

  Yes, I guess so. But she couldn't let it alone.

  How do you mean?

  Charley shrugged. Oh, she had to make something out of it. Couldn't just treat it as something mildly amusing for the moment and let it go at that. A week or so later we were in a cab with some people, going somewhere. So Edith introduced this game; I think she hoped it would sweep New York or something. Nothing of the sort happened, of course — matter of fact, these people were bored with it — and I never felt like bringing it up again. He looked at Ann and smiled. Relax, he said. …

  At home, they had a Sunday-night supper of canned soup, sandwiches and coffee; then Charley offered to wash the dishes. He carried the few plates and the cups to the kitchen and, sleeves rolled up, began to wash them with a soaped dishcloth under the running tap. He smiled at himself.

  Old domestic Charley, he thought. Sunday movies, then home doing the dishes. All I need now is a pipe and slippers.

  Through the closed door of the kitchen, he heard the sound of the front-door buzzer, and he hoped it wasn't company dropping in; he wanted to spend the rest of the evening alone with Ann. He heard the murmur of her voice down the hall, then silence, and he knew no one had come in, and was relieved.

  He dried the few dishes and put them away, then walked into the living room, rolling down his sleeves. What'll we do? he said. Want to play some backgammon, or read in bed, or what?

  Let's read in bed. We don't want to stay up too late.

  They turned out the lights and went into the bedroom, and Charley stood, unbuttoning his shirt, staring absently at Ann; she was sitting on the edge of the bed taking off her blouse. I don't want to go to work tomorrow, he said.

  What do you want to do? Ann went to the closet an
d got out their pajamas.

  Just stay home with you.

  Okay. You can help with the washing. She tossed Charley's pajamas onto the bed.

  All right, he said. Don't think I couldn't. I've done washing in my day.

  Do you really want to stay home? She began folding back the bedspread. You could call up the office; you haven't had a cold in a long time.

  No. If I did that every time I felt like it, I'd show up at the office about one day a week.

  Okay, Ann said. She took a magazine from the bedside table and got into bed. Then quit dawdling and get in here.

  Right away. Charley turned to the dresser mirror and studied his face; he leaned closer, exposing his teeth and examining them carefully. Then he brushed his hair. Finally, he took his wallet, keys and change from his pocket, and actually lifted the lid of the little leather box on his dresser before he realized it was back again.

  He turned to look at Ann; she was reading her magazine, holding it up before her face. I don't think I beat you enough, Charley said quietly.

  No? Why? Ann said. She did not look up.

  Charley smiled. Come on, he said, put that magazine down.

  Ann lowered her magazine to see him standing there, the little box in his hand.

  Apparently I don't torture you enough, he said, so you have to torture yourself. What the hell did you put this back for?

  I didn't. Not exactly, I mean. The janitor found it. I guess they pick up garbage and stuff on Monday morning, and he was emptying the trash can. He found the box and brought it up to make sure we really meant to throw it away; it was while you were doing dishes. He knew whose it was — it has your initials on it, remember? In gold. So I told him it was thrown out by mistake, and put it back on your dresser. It's a nice little box, Charley — really. Very expensive and in very good taste.

  Yeah, sure. But let's get rid of it.

  But why?

  You know why.

  Well - Ann shrugged and picked up her magazine. You can if you want. It's yours, Lord knows. Then she lowered her magazine again. But I really wish you wouldn't, Charley. I've got to grow up. So you were married before. To somebody else. Well, now you're married to me, and that's all that matters. But don't you see what it means if I make you throw it away? I just won't let the damn' thing be that important to me!

  Okay, okay, he said, and he turned to the dresser and put the box down. But I really don't want it.

  Well, do what you like. I guess the truth is — she smiled ruefully — that it doesn't matter now whether we keep it or throw it away. She raised her magazine and began to read.

  Charley finished undressing, took a book from the bedside table, and got into bed. Before he started to read, he glanced up at the little box on his dresser, and for the first time in two years he really saw it, and he knew what Ann had meant. He's been married before, it said to her, sitting there on the dresser, a tangible part of a mysterious other life which her husband had lived with somebody else. It was the past, the unalterable fact of it, which had risen up between them, and neither keeping this reminder of it nor throwing it away could change that fact for them.

  Charley turned to his book and began to read. He read to the bottom of a page, then turned the page, glancing up at the little box again. For a moment he looked at it, narrowing his eyes; then he put down the book, got up and walked to the dresser. He picked up the leather box and tossed it onto the bed, and Ann looked up.

  Charley got back into bed, and handed the box to Ann. Take a good look at it, he said. Describe it.

  How do you mean?

  Just describe it. What does it look like?

  Well, it's small and — she began.

  You're damned right it is.

  Charley took the little box from her. He opened it, revealing his wallet, as wide as the box, nearly covering the bottom. On top of the wallet lay his key chain and some coins, nearly filling the shallow space.

  Cramped little thing, isn't it? Charley said. Funny, I never thought of that till now, but it's just big enough — no generosity, no room to spare. It was bought for a purpose, you know — to keep the top of a dresser neat and bare. That's the kind of room it came from, Ann, a formal kind of room, an interior decorator's idea of the way a bedroom should look. Severe straight draperies, pastel walls, a single abstract print framed in blond wood, and a bed you felt you shouldn't get into without wearing a tie. Nothing like this room. He smiled. No chintz curtains, or flowered wallpaper, or stockings hanging on the back of a chair.

  Annie, look at this box. He held it out to her again. It ought to tell you something. It's formal, it's dignified, and it's lifeless. It's depressing. It's in such depressingly good taste. What the hell, Annie, it's like the room and the home and the life that it came from.

  She reached out and took the box from his hand. I'm glad you said that. She looked down at the little box for a moment, then looked up at him wonderingly. You really are happy with me, aren't you?

  Of course. He nodded at the box. Ann, you'd never have bought one like that — stiff and formal, ungenerous —

  No, she said, I'd never have bought one at all. I always wondered why you bothered to put your wallet and things into it every night.

  Darned if I know. Just habit.

  Well, why not just toss those things on your dresser? This is our room and nobody else's. It's not for show.

  Guess I will. He smiled: Which means we don't need this thing any more. Let's throw it out.

  No, I think I'll keep it.

  As a trophy?

  No, nothing like that. I just want to keep it, and maybe look at it now and then. It might do me good.

  Okay. Charley took the box, removed his wallet, money and keys, and handed it back to her. It's yours, he said. Then he got up, walked to the dresser, tossed the things in his hand onto the top, and came back to bed.

  Ann took the little box and put it on the table beside her. Then she moved closer to Charley. Aren't we silly? she said.

  Yeah. Charley smiled — at himself, at Ann, at the mystery and absurdity of all human beings. Then he reached out and turned off the light.

  Collier's, June 24, 125(25):26-27, 57-58

  My Cigarette Loves Your Cigarette

  The lights turned red on Fifth Avenue and traffic slowed and stopped. Mr. Timberlake Ryan turned from the sidewalk to cross the street in the middle of a block, on his way from the office to keep a lunch date with his wife. Suddenly he saw her on the opposite sidewalk, glancing at store windows as she walked, and he kept her in sight, craning his neck as he worked his way between motionless cabs and busses — a lean dark man in a light summer suit, his long legs moving fast.

  But as he reached the curb he stopped, the beginning of a smile on his thin face. His wife had paused at a jewelry-store window, and Timberlake Ryan stood, chin lifted, staring at her over the heads of the Saturday-noon crowd of pedestrians. Then she walked on, and again he hurried after her.

  He was grinning broadly now, sidling rapidly through the sluggish crowd, his eyes intent on Eve, a small neat figure in a tailored gray suit, her fine blond hair and black cart-wheel hat disappearing and reappearing through the moving crowd.

  At a cross street, she stopped at the curb, cars and trucks streaming past, and as he approached, Tim admired her figure and legs; the full calves and delicate ankles, the straight lines of her stocking seams, and her small feet in high-heeled black pumps. He was not sure what he was going to do, but he felt that somehow this was an opportunity.

  When he had almost reached her, the traffic lights changed. Cross-town traffic stopped, and in the moment before Fifth Avenue roared into life again, there was almost a silence on the busy street, and he could hear the sound of his own footsteps on the pavement. He whistled then; a low, insinuating, two-note whistle. He knew Eve had heard, and as she started across the street, he pressed a finger against the side of his nose to disguise his voice, and, walking directly behind her, he spoke quietly, his voice coarse an
d thick, crudely intimate. Hi, good-looking, what's your hurry?

  Ignoring the voice, she walked on, and Tim, still directly behind her, slipped a hand under her arm and said, Come on, baby, don't be like that.

  Without turning her head, Eve spoke from the side of her mouth. Not now, she said softly, I'm meeting my husband. But come back along here in an hour.

  He stopped dead, his hand sliding from under her arm as she walked on, and for a moment he stood stock-still, his mouth slowly opening. Then he grinned, and in a few long strides caught up with her. Listen, wise guy, he said.

  Oh, hello! Eve turned, smiling brightly. I was just talking about you.

  So I heard, he said grimly. His mouth twitched in a smile. Don't you even bother to look and see who's picking you up?

  You think a woman has to turn and stare in order to know that? She shook her head, smiling. Tim Ryan, the shadow; the private eye. I spotted you in a store window a good two minutes ago, skulking along with that silly leer on your face.

  You did?

  Certainly. And I said to myself, If I weren't married to him, I wouldn't let that guy pick me up in a million years.

  You'd swoon with delight if anyone like me even smiled at you. They turned east on Fifty-seventh Street. Tim guiding Eve through the crowd.

  Not with that corny approach. Is that how the boys in front of the drugstore did it, back in Mill Valley?

  It was the pool hall, not the drugstore, and my approach may have been corny but it got results.

  No doubt. Eve shrugged a shoulder. I'll bet you were quite a sheik. That's what they called them, isn't it, back in those days?

  I wouldn't know. He smiled. I may never see thirty again, but scores of beautiful women smiled at me on my way from the office.

  Eve looked at him, her brows rising. Well, maybe you think no one but you ever whistles at me?

  Tim moved to one side, looking Eve's figure up and down. Come to think of it, no, he said. I don't. He moved close again, took her arm under his and pressed it affectionately. You know, he said, I could go for you.

  Eve returned the pressure of his arm. You're not so bad, either. Except, she added, for that outdated slang of yours. Tim, I don't think people still say I could go for you and Don't be like that.