The Jack Finney Reader

by Jack Finney

  Tim crossed the room to the davenport, took a handful of peanuts, and sat down, his legs sprawled out before him.

  Eve sat in the chair facing him and made herself smile. Well, she said, that's that.

  Munching his peanuts, staring wide-eyed at nothing, Tim nodded. Yeah.

  I think they had a good time.

  Sure. Sure, they did.

  They were silent for a moment; then Eve said, Ann Darrow's beautiful.

  Again Tim nodded absently. Yeah.

  Eve tried not to, but she had to go on. Her face is lovely.

  Mm-hm.

  And her figure's just perfect.

  Tim nodded and tossed a few more peanuts into his mouth.

  Far better than mine.

  Apparently considering this, he stared at her thoughtfully. Oh, he said then, I suppose so. Technically speaking. By tape-measure standards. But — he frowned at Eve, hunting for the phrase — she doesn't begin to have the … well, class that you have, if you know what I mean. She's beautiful like the hundreds of Hollywood starlets you see in the movies and forget ten seconds later. You're a much better-looking woman than she is, he said.

  Incredibly it came to Eve that he meant this, that there was no thought of flattery or consolation in his mind, that he was saying what was for him the simple truth. For a moment her eyes stung, and she stared at Tim, absentmindedly munching peanuts, and felt a tremendous surge of love for him. She made herself speak lightly. Well, I'd better be, she said. I've got a very handsome husband.

  He smiled slightly. It's funny, he said. I know for a fact that you mean that. But I'm not even close; I'm an average-looking man and nothing more. But don't you agree with me.

  I don't, she said, and then she had to add, Neither did Ann Darrow.

  He shook his head. No. Then his smile widened. Oh, I saw what was going on, all right. As much as you did, and maybe more. And it's even possible that I enjoyed her little play for me. But she wasn't actually seeing me, Eve; she was seeing you. Eve looked puzzled, and Tim, his face serious and intent, said, That girl saw the way you feel about me sometimes, Eve; in your eyes, expression, your voice and the very way you move. And nothing intrigues a woman more than another woman in love. She wants to know why, and if she's not in love herself, she's envious. Why, baby, that girl is jealous of you. Not of the husband you have; whatever I am, there are plenty of others who are more so, and she meets them all the time. What she wishes she had, Eve, isn't me, but the way you are able to feel about a man, a capacity I doubt that she has. You're a better woman than she is, Eve, and she knows it.

  You make me feel wonderful.

  Tim smiled, and didn't answer directly. You know, he said, resting his head on the back of the davenport, I have a good time at a thing like the party tonight. I walk around feeling gay and witty and charming and handsome as hell — because you're there in the room giving me that feeling. But I wouldn't be much without you. Eve started to reply, but he said, Come on now, old lady, let's not talk it to death. He stood up, and Eve stood up, too.

  Then she paused and looked at Tim, frowning. By the way, what did you say to Jack Greer?

  When?

  When you stopped the argument, and he walked out of the room so suddenly.

  Oh. He hesitated. Nothing much.

  Come on. What did you tell him?

  Well — I told him his shirt tail was out, in back.

  Eve nodded; then suddenly her eyes narrowed, and her jaw dropped. You did not! she said in a shocked voice. Incredulously, she said, But I know what you did tell him. Honestly! she shook her head. No wonder he left the room so fast. Then suddenly she smiled, and believing completely that this was the truth, said, I had a wonderful time tonight.

  So did I, Tim said. Come on, now. He toward the kitchen, an arm around Eve's waist. Let's clean the joint up, Mrs. Jukes.

  Collier's, September 20, 1952, 130(12):64-66, 68-69

  Diagnosis Completed

  (written with F.M. Barratt)

  Well, here it is, the old doctor said, as the car swung into a side street. The last call I'll ever make. The young man at the wheel glanced at him, but the old man was smiling, so he smiled, too. I've always hated this case, Dr. Lerner said a minute later. I'll be glad to drop it on your shoulders.

  Oh? Why?

  Dr. Lerner was already rebuking himself for having said too much. He'd better let young Dr. Knapp acquire his own prejudices. So he simply answered, Because there's never any place to park.

  As they approached the corner of Third Avenue, the young man slowed, then stopped the car at a parking space so small Dr. Lerner would have passed it by. He backed the car neatly into it.

  Dr. Lerner was happy today. Most valuable ability a New York doctor can have, he said, and grinned. He was a big old man, tall and wide. His face was lined, his black-and-white hair was very thick, and there was something old-fashioned about his appearance — possibly the gold watch chain across his vest. Two patients here. He nodded at the corner drug store. A man and his wife, the Prines. He runs the drugstore, and they live in the apartment above it. Dr. Lerner leaned forward, fumbling for his black bag on the floor of the car. Precarious cases, both of them. She's a diabetic, he's a cardiac, and their lives depend on a delicate artificial balance, maintained with insulin in her case, nitroglycerin in his. They don't take illness too well.

  I'm glad I'll never have to come here again. The sentence formed itself, but he didn't speak it. I've seen cases of physical disability, he went on carefully, which actually ennobled the patient. Mediocrities turned into something more, by a physical handicap. But these two took the opposite road. Each is wrapped up in his own problems, incapable of giving or receiving the sympathy and understanding each needs from the other. They hate each other, he thought; I'm glad I'm nearly finished with this case.

  The drug store was closed, dark, and empty, Dr. Lerner noticed, mildly surprised, and the two men walked toward the front door. The young doctor was as tall as Dr. Lerner but 40 pounds heavier, and his young face was open and amiably intelligent. Attending Chicago druggists' convention, a typewritten notice taped to the door read; Back Monday A.M. Meanwhile customers were directed to a nearby drug store for emergency prescriptions.

  As, they walked back to the side-street entrance that led upstairs to the Prines' apartment, Dr. Lerner said, Well, no matter; you'll meet Prine next time. Not much to do for him, anyway. He might live thirty years, with good luck. With bad luck, his heart could go tomorrow. He knows that, and he's pretty self-contained. She's the problem here — an invalid personality, a true hypochondriac, if the term isn't out of fashion in modern medicine. He smiled and winked at the young doctor beside him.

  Mostly, the job here, Dr. Lerner went on, as he and Dr. Knapp climbed the stairs, is to quiet her fears from visit to visit, as best you can. When you leave, give her husband some harmless prescription for whatever she feels is wrong with her. A pill one time, a capsule, or something in a bottle, the next. Her prescriptions are free. He glanced at the younger man. Don't look so shocked, boy. Prine knows what I'm doing, of course. Every doctor issues harmless prescriptions for the chronic complainers, and every pharmacist fills them. Perfectly ethical, and sound therapeutics. Last time, he said, I prescribed gelatin capsules filled with distilled water for Mrs. Prine. One before each meal, for indigestion. They'll cure it, too.

  Upstairs, the door to the Prine apartment stood ajar. Dr. Lerner pressed the bell button, and waited, feeling good; he expected to live in good health for fifteen more years, and to read a thousand more books.

  There was no answering movement inside, and after a moment Dr. Lerner rang the bell again. This time, it seemed to him, it sounded emptily in side the apartment, and when he took his finger off the button, it was very quiet.

  He pushed the door open, and stepped into the living room. Mrs. Prine — he saw her immediately through the wide doorway to the kitchen — was seated at the plastic-topped kitchen table, the upper half of her body lying
across it, her head down on one cheek between her sprawled arms, facing them. Dr. Lerner hurried toward her, lumbering and stiff, but when he reached Mrs. Prine and lifted her arm, it was cold, and when he let go, the arm thumped woodenly back onto the table top. Rigor mortis was advanced.

  Now, forty-five years from medical school and the dissecting laboratories, Dr. Lerner still hated, undiminishedly, the occasional necessity for studying a dead face, but he did so nevertheless. Mrs. Prine's thin, joyless features were contorted into a final realization of the many fears she had lived with. The rigid muscles held her pale lips drawn back in a silent snarl. The exposed teeth, their surfaces dried, were a dull white. It was a miserable death — the face showed it — and fury rose up in Dr. Lerner: the feeling of impotence and guilt over losing a patient, whatever the cause. To accept a death was always hard; to accept this one, in the final moments of his career, was nearly impossible.

  On the table, in the midst of the paper wrappings it had come in, stood an insulin bottle, its flat rubber top punctured. Beside it lay a hypodermic syringe, the plunger down, the shiny needle tip dulled with a fleck of dried blood. Obviously she had taken her morning insulin shot, and now Dr. Lerner felt certain of the cause of death. Ever seen death by insulin shock, Doctor? he said brutally, glaring at the young face with the look of the intern still on it. Then take a good look; it's all fine experience.

  He was venting his rage and frustration on the young doctor, and he knew it and was ashamed.

  Now the old man allowed himself to cross the room and sink down, trembling, into a chrome kitchen chair at the wall. She was an experienced diabetic! he cried out protestingly. Momentarily confused, young Dr. Knapp frowned uncomprehendingly, and, in his irritation, Dr. Lerner spelled it out for him. Look, boy, he said angrily, why does a diabetic take insulin? Because his body won't supply it naturally, and the body must have insulin to convert the sugar it ingests at every meal. So what happens when you get too much insulin? The excess insulin will burn up all the sugar in your body! And you go into shock.

  His anger suddenly gone, Dr. Lerner continued, and the tone of his voice was an apology. But Mrs. Prine knew that, Doctor, just as well as we do. She'd had an insulin shot twice a day before meals for the last eleven years. She knew what the warning symptoms of insulin shock felt like, and she knew what to do about it. He shook his head, baffled. It's so simple! When a diabetic feels shock symptoms, he simply eats sugar. And the sugar counteracts the excess insulin. Every diabetic knows that! There's no need to die of insulin shock! He frowned suddenly, peering across the room. Do you see her sugar container anywhere on the table? She carried it in a small match box.

  At the table, Dr. Knapp glanced down. Yes, it's here. It's open. He stooped to look into the little metal box. And empty.

  Then she did take her sugar. His eyes baffled, Dr. Lerner murmured, I don't understand it. Of all her worries, insulin shock was the real one, and she always kept that little match box crammed with sugar. Ate with it beside her, slept with it under her pillow, never took a step without it. So she took sugar today, all right, the moment she felt shock symptoms. … He glanced quickly about the room, hunting the answer to this puzzle.

  On the drainboard of the sink stood an open tin of dry mustard, and beside it a nearly empty glass of yellow brown fluid. Mustard and water — an emetic, the old man said, his voice stunned. My God, she took an emetic, and got rid of the sugar!

  Dr. Knapp crossed the room. He looked carefully at the sink. Yes, he said, his voice subdued,, she did, all right. There are particles of undissolved sugar cubes here; she must have gotten rid of the sugar within seconds after she took it. Anxious to demonstrate his own medical knowledge, he added, She didn't leave the sugar in her stomach long enough for the excess insulin to absorb it. No wonder she died of shock.

  The old man came to the sink. Dr. Knapp was right; there lay the damp fragments of the sugar cubes Mrs. Prine had chewed up and swallowed. And with them he saw, before he turned away, the pathetic capsule of water she had taken at his direction, for indigestion. Well, he said bitterly, she'll never suffer from indigestion, real or, imaginary, any more, or fear of insulin shock, or anything else.

  He turned blindly into the living room, fighting the knowledge that this was his fault; this was one he had bungled. Then he said it aloud. Well, Doctor, he said, the last day of my career, and high time it ended. I treated that poor woman's fears with useless, childish remedies, and there in the kitchen you see the result. He stopped at the windows, and stared down at the street, Suicide, he said wearily.

  Suicide? Dr. Knapp's tone was doubtful.

  Dr. Lerner swung around. Why not? he asked, swift hope in his voice. He had never really liked Mrs. Prine, but he furiously did not want her to have died, in this most miserable of ways, because someone had bungled.

  Well, after all — the young man shrugged —she did take sugar to counteract the shock. Took her digestion capsule and had breakfast, besides. Now, what kind of suicide is that?

  A typical kind! the old man snapped. Like most of them, a deep, long-standing urge to die, plus a spur-of-the-moment decision to do it! He made himself quiet down. Son, she didn't have the cold nerve for planned suicide. But at some point — we'll never know how or why — she was able to make up her mind suddenly; it's a sort of wild hysteria with that kind. Maybe took an extra shot of insulin; I don't see why her normal dose should produce shock. But then, when the shock begins, she loses her nerve — and goes for the sugar. Now, she's safe, and instantly the pendulum swings back again. Once more she wants to die, and so she gets rid of the sugar immediately. Talk to the police, son! They've seen suicides teeter on a building ledge, working up their courage, then losing it, over and over again. Talk to a pathologist. Insulin suicides do happen.

  He stood waiting, anxious for some contradiction of his theory, but Dr. Knapp was anxious to get away from the place. Shouldn't we phone the police? he said.

  Certainly we'll phone the police! the old man said angrily. But where's the hurry? Boy, he said desperately, I owe something more to Mrs. Prine than this. He gestured savagely toward the kitchen. This was my case, my responsibility, for eleven years. Damn it, I won't let it end like this! His voice softened; he was pleading. Don't just take my word, son; diagnose the case, the way you would any other.

  Dr. Lerner began pacing the room. How do you diagnose? he asked feverishly. Here's how I do it. In my mind, I picture little arrows swaying like compass needles, as I go through the symptoms. If they all steady, finally, and point the same way, the diagnosis is clear, and I act on it. But sometimes, if you hunt for it, you'll find one little arrow, hidden in with the rest, that points in the opposite direction. Never ignore it! His eyes were glittering. If it won't swing around and line up with the others, be certain it's only a red herring before you drop it. Because sometimes, boy, all the others will swing around to line up with it! Find me the other arrow, son; go over this for any sign, big or little, that points in any direction but suicide.

  For a moment, feeling something of the old man's battle, Dr. Knapp stared at him, his eyes widened in thought. Then he sighed, and shook his head.

  All right, son, the old doctor said. Let's phone the police. I wonder what she thought, at the very last, he murmured. I wonder what she felt, and if she was sorry. I hope she wasn't afraid.

  I wonder. The young doctor nodded, his imagination and sympathy engaged. Then his eyes widened suddenly, and he turned into the kitchen to squat beside the table, peering under Mrs. Prine's body. Yes! he said then, answering the question that had arisen in his mind. She did! She left a note!

  Dr. Lerner squatted beside Dr. Knapp. Just visible, far under Mrs. Prine's motionless chest, lay a white corner of paper, and Dr. Lerner began forcing his big-veined old hand under the weight of Mrs. Prine's body.

  Shouldn't we leave that for the police? Dr. Knapp said nervously.

  Not bothering to answer, Dr. Lerner pulled the little paper free, bringing a pen
cil stub rolling out onto the table with it. The tremulous handwriting and the way the words were run together made it plain that Mrs. Prine hadn't even had strength enough to lift the pencil from the paper as she wrote her last note. Nor had she had the strength to finish it. Poisoninsu — her final note said, the last word trailing off unfinished. Poison insulin, Dr. Knapp's stunned voice whispered.

  Yes, the old man murmured, staring down at the little bottle of insulin on the table. Then he reached out, picked it up, and stood looking at it. By God, she was murdered! he said.

  You think the insulin was poisoned?

  For seconds the old doctor didn't answer. Then he said quietly, No; in spite of this note. Because what kind of fool plan for murder would that be? He looked up at Dr. Knapp. It would be idiotic — certain and immediate conviction. And while Prine may be a murderer, he isn't a fool. Idly he shook the fluid in the little bottle, staring at it thoughtfully, No, he said contemptuously, the police will test this, of course, but there'll be no poison in it. And yet, nevertheless, that is no suicide note; it's an accusation of murder. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the thin-rubber top which covered the mouth of the bottle. Then he nodded at the paper wrappings on the table. This is a new bottle, he said slowly. She used it for the first time this morning.

  Dr. Knapp nodded, waiting.

  But there are two puncture holes in the rubber cap, the old man pointed out. A hypodermic needle has been in here twice.

  Doctor Lerner, you don't want this to be suicide, and I can't blame you, the young man said, But now you're reaching; you're trying too hard. There are two holes in the rube ber cap because she made them both. Took her normal shot before break fast, later decided on suicide, and took another.

  And the note? Dr. Lerner. asked.

  The young man shook his head, Written in shock; you can't make too much out of that. And, after all, a double dose of insulin was poison for her. Which is probably all that she meant. There at the last, her mind was confused, and she was simply trying to explain what happ—