by Jack Finney
Well, of course; I had to be polite. But that doesn't mean I'm going to tour the —
And, now I remember! His voice was excited. She did say something about the summer meetings, and you practically promised —
I did no such a thing and you know it. Eve replaced the telegram in its envelope, looking questioningly at Tim. I wonder if I should wire them tonight? Or maybe phone? And simply explain that —
I don't think so, he said casually. You can explain a lot better in a letter. Just say you'd love to, but your husband's an infidel, and —
Eve nodded. I'll write tomorrow. She laid the telegram on the table beside her and sat staring at it for a moment longer. What in the world, she murmured finally, shaking her head; then she picked up her magazine again.
For a few minutes the room was quiet, Eve idly turning pages, Tim reading and occasionally glancing over at Eve, his face expressionless. Presently the telephone rang.
I'll get it, Eve said. It's probably Ann.
If it's for me, tell them to deliver the money at the service entrance, In thousand-dollar bills, Tim waited till Eve picked up the telephone in the kitchen, then he grinned.
Hello, said Eve, then paused. Yes, she said calmly. Yes, it is. Again she paused, then, her voice confused and a little higher, she said, Well — well, just a minute. Tim! she called excitedly.
Lazily, absently, he said, Yeah?
Tim, come here! Hurry! Carrying the telephone, she moved quickly to the doorway as far as the cord would reach, tilting the receiver out from her ear so that Tim could hear a tiny voice chattering rapidly from the telephone.
… And now, Mrs. Ryan, it was saying excitedly — and Tim recognized the gleeful voice of his friend Harry Fitznell — for a genuine and beautiful Everett fitted handbag, complete with compact, cigarette case, lighter, jeweled comb, lipstick container, and all kinds of wonderful goodies, I want you to identify correctly the following tune! Remember, Harry shouted happily, you have just sixty seconds from the moment our forty-piece orchestra begins playing! All right, boys.
What is it? Tim stood in the doorway, his eyebrows raised questioningly. Casually he leaned against the doorframe.
Some radio program! Eve whispered frantically. They want me to — She held up a hand for silence, pressing the receiver tight against her ear, her eyes narrowed and her forehead wrinkled in concentration. Then a look of desperation came into her eyes. Oh, what is that? I know it so well! Again she tilted the receiver toward Tim, and from it he heard the sound of an orchestra, issuing, he knew, from Harry Fitznell's living-room phonograph.
What do you mean? Tim said, slowly, stupidly. You mean the name of that song?
Yes! Of course! Tim, hurry! What is it? You know it!
Yeah, he said slowly, and rubbed his chin reflectively. Seems to me I do. Now, let's see. Hand on chin, he stared thoughtfully at the ceiling.
Again Harry Fitznell's voice squeaked from the receiver. Now, take your time, Mrs. Ryan! You have thirty seconds to go! Think! Think hard, now! For a lovely Everett fitted handbag, what's the name of this song? Hurry! Take your time!
All right! Eve said into the phone. Just a minute! Tim! she begged.
The Missouri Waltz?
No! Oh, no, Tim; but it is some state. Tim, I can't think.
The Eyes of Texas Are Upon —
No! Something about Indiana, I think. She was gnawing at her thumbnail, while the music of the tiny orchestra tinkled in the receiver.
Only five seconds left, Mrs. Ryan. I'm sorry, but … The voice trailed off ominously, and Eve stared helplessly at Tim.
For just a moment longer he looked at her, his face apparently strained with thought; then he smiled happily and snapped his fingers. On the Banks of the Wabash.
OnthebanksoftheWabash! The words tumbled from Eve's lips into the telephone.
On the Banks of the Wabash? the voice repeated doubtfully. Well, Mrs. Ryan — There was a dramatic pause. That's exactly right! On the Banks of the Wabash is the name of that song, and you have won a genuine Everett fitted handbag which will be delivered to your home tomorrow morning! Thank you, Mrs. Ryan, and congratulations! There was a click in the receiver as the telephone was hung up on the other end.
Well, I'll be darned, said Tim. Was that right?
Eve nodded complacently, putting down the receiver. She reached up to turn off the kitchen light. Yep, she said, her voice smug and contented.
Well, I'll be darned. He went into the living room, and back to the davenport. What is this handbag? Anything you can really use?
Eve walked to her chair, shaking her head in amused disgust at his question. It is only the handbag I've mentioned to you casually at least eight times. Tim, I've been hinting for one for weeks.
You have?
Of course.
Well, now you've got one. He lay back, picking up his magazine again. What color is it?
Eve frowned. He didn't say. I just hope it's black; they come in different colors.
Tim nodded. I think it will be. In fact, I'm sure it will be black.
You think they'll really send it?
He smiled at her. Of course they will. I am absolutely certain that a black Everett fitted handbag will be delivered to you sometime tomorrow morning. I think I can promise that,
Eve nodded. Nice, she said, then picked up her magazine again. She turned several pages, then leaned closer, studying an advertisement. She held it up for Tim to see. Smart dress, don't you think?
He looked over. Yeah. Very nice.
I might look at it tomorrow. I imagine Best's would have it, or Lord & Tayl—
The door buzzer sounded, and Eve stood up and walked slowly across the room, still holding her magazine, studying the advertisement, The buzzer sounded again impatiently, and Eve opened the door.
Ryan? The voice in the hallway was hoarse and irritated, hardly recognizable to Tim as the ordinarily quiet, pleasant tones of Mr. Ackermann, a Third Avenue petshop proprietor,
Yes?
Fer you, the voice snarled, and there was the bump and scrape of wood on the stone floor of the outer hallway; then the quick sound of departing footsteps.
Well, just a moment! Eve called. What —
Got no time, lady. Yer's ain't the only delivery, you know. The voice was far down the hall, and an instant later the heavy metal door leading to the building stairway creaked open, clanged shut again, and the hallway was silent.
Well, for Heaven sakes, Eve murmured indignantly, then Tim saw her stoop and reach a hand out into the hallway. The hand was suddenly withdrawn and Eve screeched. She straightened up hastily, retreating a step, stared down at the hallway floor for an instant, then turned to Tim, her face shocked. Tim!
Yeah? He sat up slowly, finishing a line he was reading, then stood up and strolled to the doorway, smiling pleasantly, questioningly. For a moment he stood looking down at a large box, the top and bottom of wood, the sides of heavy wire mesh; then he stooped and peered into the box. Well, I'll be damned. Turning his head, he grinned up at Eve. A monkey, a regular grind-organ monkey. He looked back into the cage. Cute, isn't he?
Well, for Heaven sakes! Eve said. Is that all you've got to say! Tim, go catch that man! It isn't for us!
He shrugged helplessly. Never catch him now.
Well, what are we going to do!
Tim picked the box up by a handle on top and carried it into the living room. Only one thing we can do. What do you usually do with a foundling left on your doorstep? If you have even a spark of humanity. We'll have to adopt him. And never tell him he was a foundling. Or we'll give him a sense of rejection.
Eve stamped her foot. Now, cut it out! Tim, this is no time for gags. You've got to find that man, and —
Tim was holding the cage at eye level, and a foot-high monkey, its eyes glittering, its hands clutching the wire sides of the cage, squatted on the floor, staring out at them.
Attractive little face, Tim said, smiling pleasantly at Eve. Tonight, I suppose, we
can make up a little bed. Use two of my handkerchiefs for sheets. Think you could borrow a nursing bottle from the people next door? Nurse him, mother him, make him feel wanted?
Tim, I am not going to have that filthy little —
Taking a pencil from the table, Tim thrust the blunt end into the cage. For a moment the monkey stared at it, cocking his head, then suddenly he grabbed it with both hands and, his feet braced on the bottom of the cage, began to tug, trying to wrest it from Tim, his little tan forehead wrinkled in a ferocious scowl.
Still holding the pencil, Tim set the cage on a table and, stooping, peered in at the monkey, who paused, glared at Tim, then resumed his tugging. Tim turned to look at Eve, who stood beside him now, stooping to look into the cage, her arms folded tight against her chest, out of harm's way. After a moment she turned, met Tim's gaze, and grinned. He is cute, she admitted.
Of course. Tim gently pulled on the pencil, bringing the monkey's hands against the side of the cage, and the animal released the pencil, screeching indignantly, glowering and grimacing at them both, and Eve laughed. I knew you'd come to love him. Tim sat down on the davenport, slouching back, his hands in his pockets, watching the cage. We can dress him up; you can make little suits out of my vests, so they'll match mine. And we'll train him: have him pass drinks and empty ash trays at parties. And at night he'll cuddle in your arms, and you can rock him and croon to him.
Eve smiled and sat down in her chair, watching the cage. I wonder if you could train him to do tricks; I suppose you could. She frowned. Tim, you've got to do something; we can't keep him here tonight. I wouldn't know what to feed him.
Eggs. Scrambled eggs and —
Tim, I mean it. You've simply got — The monkey screeched suddenly, an astonishingly loud and angry sound, and Eve jumped, and the monkey grabbed the wire mesh and shook it till it rattled. Tim I simply will not have that — The door buzzer sounded abruptly, and Eve jumped again. Her face furious and indignant, she strode to the door and flung it open.
Yer name ain't Bryant! snapped the angry voice of Mr. Ackermann. That ain't yer monkey, lady, and I —
It certainly is not! Eve turned toward the living room. Tim!
Tim got hastily to his feet, snatching up the cage on his way to the door. Handing it past Eve, he gave it to the scowling man in the hall.
Not even glancing at Tim, the man at the door took the cage, and still glaring at Eve, said, Whyn't you say so in the first place?
I did! I mean I called you, and you simply —
I got no time to waste with wrong deliveries, lady. I'm a busy man, even if you —
Tim, do something! Say something! Eve said.
Tim smiled at Mr. Ackermann, kindly, politely. So sorry, he said. We'd grown to love the little fellow.
Mr. Ackermann turned, sneering, cage in hand, and strode down the hall to the stairway door, opened it, and disappeared. The metal door banged shut behind him.
Eve stared down the hall for an instant longer, then turned indignantly to Tim. Before she could speak, he said hastily, Would you rather bawl me out, or have me fix a heady and delicious drink? Which I'm sure you need about now.
Eve closed her mouth, looked grimly at Tim for a moment, then said, I'll take the drink. But believe me, it's a close decision. Shaking her head, she turned toward the bedroom, Bring them in here, she called back, and we'll have them in bed. Bring some books and magazines along.
Grinning, Tim walked into the kitchen, took glasses from the cupboard, opened the refrigerator, and brought out a tray of ice cubes. A few minutes later, when he bad mixed two drinks and was stirring them with a spoon, the telephone rang and be answered it, then called to Eve, It's for you. It's Ann. A moment later Eve came in and picked up the telephone.
Hello, Ann; I was going to call you, she said, and Tim rolled his eyes at that, picked up the two glasses, and walked toward the doorway. You are? said Eve. Oh, Annie, that's wonderful! She turned from the telephone. Tim! Ann's going to have a baby!
Swell. He stopped in the doorway and spoke over his shoulder. Tell her congratulations. He walked on toward the bedroom.
In the bedroom he switched on both bed lamps, set Eve's drink on the dresser, took a sip of his own, then put it down. Standing before the mirror, he began slowly unknotting his tie. He felt pleased with himself, and stood complacently watching his reflection. He had, he felt, correctly analyzed a subtle but very real need of his wife's, and had met that need at considerable trouble and even expense. But it had been worth it, he felt. He would, he knew, have to tell her the telegram had been faked, and perhaps the truth about Mr. Ackermann's visit. But he hoped it would not occur to Eve to doubt the authenticity of the supposed call from the radio program. He was suddenly eager for Eve to come in, to see her face and hear her voice as she went over the astonishing events of the evening, and he wished she would finish with her telephone call.
A few moments later Eve came into the room, as Tim sat on the bed removing his shoes. Smiling and humming softly to herself, she began briskly turning the bedspread down, and Tim stood up, watching her fondly, waiting for her to speak. After a moment he said softly, Well, baby, how do you feel?
Oh, wonderful! She glanced up at him, her eyes sparkling with pleasure.
Tim grinned and, unbuttoning his cuffs, again stood watching Eve as she folded the top sheet back over the light blanket. Well, baby, he said, after a moment, did things happen tonight? The way you were hoping they would? Was it the kind of evening you were talking about?
Oh, yes. Her eyes widened and she stared off into space, slowly shaking her head in awe and delight. Imagine! she said softly, Ann going to have a baby. After all these years. Oh, yes. She looked at Tim again. Don't you see? That's exactly the kind of thing I was talking about.
His mouth opened a little and for a moment he stood staring at her. Then he said. Funny sort of telegram, wasn't it?
She looked at him blankly. Telegram? Oh, yes, that. She began plumping up the pillows. I'll write Edna in the morning. The faint, pleased smile returned to her lips.
Tim frowned. You suppose they'll send that purse, all right?
Oh, sure. Without looking up, Eve gave the pillows a final pat. I'm sure they will. She glanced around the room, looking for anything else that needed doing. Did you set the alarm?
Yeah, he said gruffly, and turned toward the closet, shaking his head. Glad something exciting happened tonight, he said dryly. I was afraid I might have to arrange a four-alarm fire in the living room. He turned to glance at Eve, but from the rapt and dreamlike expression on her face, he knew that she hadn't heard a word.
Collier's, June 30 1951, 127(26):28-29, 40, 41
Swelled Head
It was 10 A.M. on a Monday when Larry Ekker got the telephone call that meant he'd finally landed a big brewery account for the agency. The boss was shaking the hand of Lawrence D. Ekker, his newest and youngest vice-president, at eleven thirty-five. And at three fifteen, workmen were starting to move the east wall of Larry's office five feet out into the accounting department.
On Tuesday, Larry began wearing a fresh carnation in his lapel each morning, and his new office furniture, including a red leather couch and some framed hunting prints, arrived. Wednesday he had an air-conditioning unit installed. And on Thursday he was wearing a Homburg hat.
Now, these things were all right; they were badges of rank, like a colonel's eagles, and he rated them. But he got them too fast; there was no decent interval. Mr. Lawrence D. Ekker, formerly Larry, and a nice enough guy, now had a swelled head.
Hank Beck is our art director, a sandy-haired, cocky little man. He and I went to lunch with Larry that Friday to talk beer copy and art for the new account. Around noon we met at the elevators. Hank's shrewd blue eyes flicked over Larry's vice-president Homburg, and he cocked an eyebrow at me. But at the restaurant, as we checked our hats, Hank leaned down to peer admiringly into Larry's hat and he fingered the white silk lining. Nice, he said, his voice impressed.<
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We sat down at a table, and Hank snapped his fingers in exasperation. Forgot to make a phone call. He scanned his menu rapidly, then stood up. Order me the roast beef, rare, he said and walked out to the lobby.
But outside he passed the phone booth by and hurried — ran down the street, in fact — to the exclusive hat store a block away, whose label he had seen in Larry's hat. I want a dark blue Homburg, he said to the first clerk he saw. Size six and seven eighths, and I'm catching a train. The clerk, an English lord according to Hank, slid open a glass case and produced the hat. What initials shall I stamp in the band, sir? Hank told him, reaching for his wallet, and removing the size marks on the run he arrived back at the restaurant three minutes later. As he passed the checkroom, he handed the girl a dollar and the brand-new hat.
We ate and talked, and every now and then Hank would glance worriedly at Larry's head. Presently, his voice puzzled and solicitous, he said, Larry did you bang your head or something? It looks kind of — he held his hands up, palms parallel, drawing them apart a little —puffed out.
Larry frowned, touching the side of his head. No, he said wonderingly, of course not.
Hank nodded a quick yes-man agreement and changed the subject. But twice more his glance apparently unconsciously, flicked up at Larry's head, Then, seeming to realize what he'd been doing, he looked anywhere but at Larry's head.
As we walked out of the restaurant we put on our hats. But Larry's wouldn't fit. There was no doubt about it. With one hand on the front brim, the other at the back, he tugged carefully, but it wouldn't quite go down. He took it off and glanced inside. There was the virginal white lining, the maker's label, and the initials, L.D.E., gleaming goldenly in the sweatband. He tried it on once more. This time he forced it down, but the crease in the crown popped up from the strain, and Hank glanced curiously at Larry's head again. No one said anything all the way back to the office.
At three thirty that afternoon one of Hank's artists, Jack Connelly, walked into Larry's office with some proofs of brewery ads. Dropping them on Larry's desk, he frowned, staring. Say, what the hell happened to your head? he said.
