by Jack Finney
He glanced down at the sitting tiger, who licked his chops. Then Charley spoke, raising one arm to show us the open book in his hand. It says here — he studied the text, apparently reading as he talked — that in hypnotizing animals it is necessary first to obtain their attention and confidence with food. He laid the book down on the open working shelf just below the level of the window.
Then he held up a large, shallow, thinwood dish, the kind butchers used in those days to pack ground meat in; it was heaped, we saw, with blood-red hamburger. Charley set the dish down at one side of the window. His hands were busy for a moment; then he held them up, and we could see that he was packing a handful of ground meat into a baseball-sized sphere. Taking careful aim, he tossed the ball, underhanded. It struck the tiger squarely on the nose, and he recoiled, a blur of tan and black, snarling. But he had smelled the meat. His tongue swiped his nose, and he scooped the ball from the grass with his front teeth, swallowed it instantly, then stretched his neck toward the window, yearning up for more.
Charley had a second meatball ready, poised in his left hand; now the fingers of his right hand began rhythmically extending and drawing back, his arm moving slowly back and forth, making passes in the air at the tiger's staring eyes. Your eyes are getting heavy, he murmured to the tiger. You are getting sleepier and sleepier. The animal growled, and Charley quickly tossed the meat. This time the tiger caught it in mid-air and swallowed it in a gulp, instantly staring up for more.
Charley made another meatball, holding it up for the tiger to see, and the animal reared up, his forepaws scratching the side of the house, his face no more than four feet from Charley's unwavering eyes, his attention complete. Charley prudently lowered the window a bit more; then his fingers again undulated gracefully, his arm swaying like a charmed snake, and it would not have surprised me at all to see miniature lightning-lines dart from his fingertips to the tiger's fascinated eyes. You want to sle-e-ep, he droned. Your eyes are so-o-o heavy. He tossed the meatball, and again the tiger snapped it up in mid-air.
The Councilmans' dinner made seven or eight meatballs; and after each Charley murmured steadily of sleep, sle-e-ep, his arm making graceful passes. Then the meat was gone, and the beast sat there growling, wide awake as ever, his appetite only tantalized, obviously. Charley left the window, the icebox door opened and slammed shut, and Charley reappeared with half a dozen pork chops lying on the butcher's paper they'd been wrapped in.
Again Charley murmured to the tiger, while his arm swayed, the fingers curling. Then he tossed out a chop. The tiger caught it, chewed just once, and we heard the bone crunch to splinters. Then he gulped, the chop was gone, and still he yearned up for more, his tail switching, his ears steadily flattening and rising.
In the tree, we sat silent and motionless — all but Mrs. Councilman. From time to time she would moan softly, and say, Oh, oh, oh, in utter anguish and despair. Charley must have seemed insane to her, tossing her pork chops to the tiger, at regular intervals and murmuring unceasingly. Your eyes are so heavy, he droned. You want to relax. Relax and rest. Rest every weary muscle, and sleep, sleep, sle-e-ep. From time to time, he would glance down at his book, and once he raised it, and we all stared at the black-haired, evening-clothed man on the cover, while Charley turned back a page and studied the text.
He must have seemed mad to Mrs. Councilman, and even we had doubts that Charley really knew what he was doing. But we watched intently for any signs of success, and were not actually surprised when presently they appeared.
You can't keep your eyes open, Charley was saying, his fingers waving like ribbons in a breeze. And now they are closing, closing. And they did. The tiger dropped to his belly, his forelegs extended, and yawned tremendously. Then he turned his head to look back at us, and his eyes blinked lazily, and actually closed for a moment.
But he growled immediately, opened his eyes, and stood up once again; and Charley tossed him another chop. The tiger caught it, but this time he lay on his belly to chew, lazily, the bone crunching again and again. He swallowed, dropped his chin to his paws, and gazed dreamily up at Charley. Sleep, said Charley. He glanced at his book, then nodded to us vigorously, smiling. Sleep, he said, you are so very tired. And the tiger yawned, and rolled on his side, blinking repeatedly. Rest. Charley's voice dropped to a whisper. Rest and sleep. You are, oh, so weary.
He stood for a moment, looking down at the tiger, then tossed the last chop, which fell on the grass not an inch from the tiger's nose. The animal sniffed it without stirring, his nose twitching, and seemed to debate whether to bother taking it or not. Then he did, raising his head just far enough to pull the chop into his mouth with his teeth. He lay back then, chewing slowing, his eyes heavy and blinking. Yes, said Charley, more softly than ever, you are going to sleep. In a soft soprano, he began to sing, leaning far out the window. Sweet and low, sweet and low; wind of the west-ern sea-ee. Sweet and low, sweet and low — He paused, humming softly, studied the motionless tiger, then turned from the window.
A moment later, we heard the telephone receiver being lifted from the hook, and I waited to hear Charley ask for the police. Give me the Register-Mail office, he said briskly. Emergency. There was a pause; then Charley said, Send someone down here, quick, and he gave the address. There's a tiger in the back yard. We captured it. Yes, the one from the circus. He's here, right now, hypnotized, but I don't know how long the trance will last so get down here fast. And be sure you bring a cameraman! Then he hung up.
The screen door opened slowly, and Charley cautiously appeared on the top step and looked down at the tiger, who was lying with his head on his forepaws, his huge tongue occasionally flicking out to lick his whiskers, his eyes closed. Sleep, said Charley, slowly coming down the stairs. Both hands, now — one a little behind the other — were at work, the fingers curling and uncurling at the tiger's head. Rest, said Charley, every muscle relaxed. The tiger sighed, his striped side and white belly swelling tremendously; then the breath hissed through his nostrils, and he lay there in the grass, breathing quietly, fast asleep.
I suppose it must have taken several minutes, but it seemed to me that almost instantly we heard car brakes squeal, then the sound of running feet approaching. The Register-Mail reporter came charging around the corner of the house into the yard, his camera in his hand, then stopped, his heels digging into the grass, as he saw the tiger on the ground. A split second later, the chief and another policeman came plunging into him, almost knocking him over. Then they all stood gaping, staring down at the tiger, then up at Charley. Casually, Charley stepped forward, his thumbs hooked in his belt, to the tiger's side. Don't worry, he said. He's scientifically mesmerized.
The newspaperman recovered first, and raised his camera. Wait, said Charley. He took his book from a back pocket, opened it and held it at chest level, as though he were reading, the cover facing the camera. He spread the fingers of his other hand, aimed at the tiger's nose, lifted one foot and planted it gently on the tiger's ribs. Okay, he said then, and the man snapped the picture that appeared in over one hundred papers in nine different states.
We were climbing down from the tree and the yard was suddenly filling with people, the newspaperman snapping photographs of the house, the open window, us, the tiger, Charley, and everything else in sight. I am sure, in spite of the evidence lying on the ground before them, that the newspaperman and the police would never quite have believed what had happened, but an adult, Mrs. Councilman, had been there too, and she confirmed, in excited, almost hysterical detail, the fact that Charley had indisputably hypnotized the tiger.
It seems strange, now, to recall this omen of the future. I still had Charley's bandanna in my hand, and I wanted to return it. But even as I approached him, I was dimly aware that he had passed irrevocably into a sphere beyond and above me, and I stopped beside him in awe. He was talking, easily, to the adults crowded around him, and I'd no more have interrupted than I'd interrupt the President of the United States. So I simply tu
cked the bandanna part way into his hip pocket, opening the pocket gently and cautiously so as not to disturb him. I caught a glimpse of, and for an instant touched, an object in his pocket. Then Charley turned, smiling graciously, and pushed his handkerchief deep into his pocket. The circus men arrived at that moment, with a huge net, and then — all at once and all together — the frantic mothers came and we were all, including even Charley, whisked from the scene.
The event was a screaming sensation. A full third of the Register-Mail's front page that night was occupied by the picture of Charley, book in hand, his foot on the tiger's chest; and the headline was set in the type that had been last used to announce the Armistice after World War I.
Three Chicago newspapermen came in on the afternoon train. Charley held his first press conference on his front porch, serving coffee and explaining modestly that any boy could have done it. And that night, from the main ring of the circus, Charley was introduced as a hero. The caged tiger sat beside him, and as the band played Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean, Charley, his book in his hand, made graceful passes at the beast, who simply sat there this time, glaring crossly at Charley as though his head ached. At Charley's request, the rest of us were with him, standing on the sawdust in the spotlight, sharing his glory. He always took care of his friends.
Actually, I only mentioned the episode once to Charley and that was the day it happened, just before the Chicago reporters arrived. That empty bottle I saw in your pocket this morning, I said casually, as we waited on his front porch. The only other bottle I've seen just like it was on a shelf in the Councilmans' bathroom — and it was full then. Full of Mr. Councilman's sleeping tablets.
Charley considered this comment, staring thoughtfully out at the street. Then he said quietly, I had a phone call from the company that printed my hypnotism book. They've heard the news, and they want to print my picture in their ads, with a signed testimonial, and they're paying me for it — a nice piece of money. Enough, he added delicately, for everyone. You helped me, he said, and clapped me on the back. You held the bandanna, in case it was needed. I want to split the profits with you; I want you for my partner from now on. He put his arm affectionately around my shoulders. I think you've got the right qualifications, he said, and we shook hands on it.
Just then the Chicago reporters drove up in a rented car, and while they interviewed Charley, I hung around in case he needed me to back up his story.
I guess you can see that I think Charley's a great man. I don't say his methods would always stand the full light of day, but for that matter, neither did those of any great President we've had. His aims, though — and this is what counts — are right, and he usually achieves them, one way or another. Don't get me wrong; I'm not announcing Charley's candidacy. In fact “Charley” isn't his first name at all, and I haven't even hinted at his last, because I don't want to seem to be speaking for him. But frankly, I'd love to see him nominated and elected, not only because I think he'll make a fine President; but because I'll make a pretty good Secretary of State myself. As Charley himself has said, with an arm around my shoulders, I've got the right qualifications.
Collier's, May 31, 1952, 129(22):70, 72-73
There is a Tide.....
I'll say this for myself, and it's something that gripes me: if I had any other story to tell — if I said I'd seen a blue horse, a wild antelope or a three-toed sloth in my apartment — I'd finally be believed by the people who know me, when they saw I wasn't kidding, because I'm simply not the kind of guy to pull a pointless hoax. And I'm not a pathological liar.
I'm normal, I'm average, I even look like most people. I'm sound in body and limb, if not in wind; I'm married; twenty-eight years old; and I don't “imagine” or “dream” things that aren't so — a particularly exasperating explanation a number of people have offered me. I'll admit that at least once a week I imagine I'm president of McCreedy & Cluett, the big candy and cough-sirup company I work for, and once I even dreamed I was. But believe me, I don't sit down in the president's office and start giving orders. In the daytime, anyway, I have no trouble remembering that I'm actually assistant sales manager; no trouble distinguishing reality from dreams.
The point I'm beating you over the head with is that if I say I saw a ghost, people who know me ought to remember these things. I don't mind a few snickers at first; this sounds ridiculous, and I know it. In a modern, seventeen-story New York apartment building on East Sixty-eighth Street, I saw a plump, middle-aged ghost wearing rimless glasses. So snicker if you want, but at least consider the evidence before you laugh out loud.
I saw the ghost in my own living room, alone, between 3 and 4 in the morning, and I was there, wide awake, for a perfectly sound reason: I was worrying. The candy we make is doing pretty well, but the cough sirup isn't. It only sells by the carloads, that is, and the company would naturally prefer to measure sales in trainloads — big, long trains with two engines. That wasn't my problem as much as Ted Haymes, the sales manager's. But I did see a chance in the whole situation, to put it bluntly, of beating him out of his job, and I worried about it, at the office, at home, at the movies, while kissing Louisa hello, good-by or what's new. Also while awake or asleep.
On this particular night, my conscience and I woke up around 3, all set for some wrestling. I didn't want to disturb Louisa; so I grabbed the spare blanket and bundled up on the davenport in the living room. I did not sleep; I want to make that plain. I was full of my problem and wide awake. The street outside was dead; there'd be minutes at a time when not a car went by, and once, when a pedestrian passed, I could distinctly hear his footsteps three stories below. The room was dark, except for the windows outlined by the street lamp, and with no distractions the battle of ambition versus conscience began. I reminded myself of the spectacular variety of ways in which Ted Haymes was a heel; you could hardly ask for a more deserving victim. Besides, I wouldn't be knifing him in the back, or anything.
I rationalized, I explained, I hunted for a way of talking myself into doing what I wanted to do, and maybe half an hour went by. I guess I'd been staring through the darkness down at the davenport, or the floor, or the cigarette in my hand, or something. Anyway, I happened to glance up, and there, clearly silhouetted against the street light, a man stood at the livingroom windows with his back to me, staring down at the street.
My first quick thought was burglar or prowler, but in that same instant I knew it wasn't. His whole attitude and posture were wrong for it, because he simply stood there, motionless, staring down through the window. Oh, of course he moved a little; shifting his weight slightly, altering the position of his head a little. But in every way it was the attitude of a man up in the middle of the night over some problem.
Then he turned back into the room, and for an instant the street light caught his face from the side, and I saw it clearly. It was the face of a man around 60; round, plump, undistinguished. He was quite bald and wore glasses, the eyes behind them wide in thought, and in that pale, harsh light I saw he was wearing a bathrobe, and I knew it was no prowler; I knew it was a ghost.
How did you know? some of my wiseacre friends have asked. Was he transparent, yak, yak, yak? No, he wasn't. No long white sheet with holes for the eyes? several dozen people with rare, rich senses of humor have asked. No, this figure moving in the faint light looked ordinary, harmless and real. And I knew it wasn't, that's all. I just knew.
How did you feel? people have asked, trying to keep their faces straight. I was terrified. The figure turned absently into the room, and he began to walk toward the hall leading to the bedroom and bathroom, and I could feel the thousands of separate little follicles on my head prickle and swell.
He did a strange thing. From the windows to the hall, the path is clear, yet he altered his direction for several steps, exactly as though he were walking around some piece of furniture that was no longer there.
And all up and down the middle of my back, the skin turned suddenly cold. I was horribly frightened,
and I don't like the memory of it. Yet I wasn't worried. I felt no threat, that is, toward Louisa or me. I had the idea — the certainty, in fact — that for him I wasn't there at all, just as that invisible object was still there for him. And I knew, as he turned into the hall, out of my sight, that he wasn't going into the bedroom where Louisa lay, or into the bathroom, or anywhere else in that apartment. I knew he was going back into whatever time and place he had momentarily appeared from.
Our apartment is small, with just about adequate closet and cupboard space for a large family of mice. It took only a few minutes to search every last place a man might be hiding, and he was gone, as I'd known he would be. Some ghost, eh? A chubby, middle-aged ghost in a ratty old bathrobe; and not a moan, groan or peep out of him.
You know what occurred to me later, lying in bed wondering when I'd be able to sleep again? It just shows what silly thoughts you can have in the dark, especially when you've seen a ghost. He'd looked like a man who was fighting his conscience, and I suddenly wondered if it were the ghost of myself, half a lifetime later, still troubled by guilt, still talking myself into one more thing I knew I shouldn't do. My hair is thinning a little at the crown; I suppose I'll be bald someday. And if you added rimless glasses, 40 pounds and 30 years … I was actually a little frightened, and, lying there in the darkness, I decided that next morning I was going to stop Ted Haymes from taking the step that would probably get me his job.
At breakfast, I couldn't quite bring myself to tell Louisa about my decision or what had happened; it was just too silly in the daylight. Louisa talked, though — about cough sirup and sales plans, promotions and more money, and bigger apartments, with a shrewd, intelligent, fur-coat look in her eyes. I mumbled some answers, feeling depressed. Then I put on my Homburg and left for the office, looking like a rising young executive and wishing I were dead.
Right after I got there, Ted strolled into my office and sat down on the corner of my desk, pushing my papers aside — a remarkably annoying and absolutely typical thing for him to do. He started yapping about his big new cough-sirup sales plan, of course; it was simple, direct, inexpensive, and would sound good to the boss — I knew that. He had it all dressed up, but basically his play was distributing samples, in miniature bottles, during nice, brisk, pneumonia weather. He'd gotten cost figures, and he was about ready to present the plan and wanted to know if I agreed.
