by Jack Finney
Even now — so soon — there are times, and they come more frequently, when I'm no longer certain in my mind of just what we did see, or of what really happened here. I think it's perfectly possible that we didn't correctly interpret everything that happened, or that we thought had happened. I don't know, I can't say; the human mind exaggerates and deceives itself. And I don't much care. We're together, Becky and I, for better or worse.
But this much I know: once in a while, the orderly, immutable sequences of life are inexplicably shifted and altered. You may read occasional queer little stories about them, or you may hear vague distorted rumors of them, and you probably dismiss them. But — some of them — some of them — are quite true.
Collier's, December 24, 1954, 134(13):62, 64-65, 68-69, 71-73
Legal and Tender
In stocking feet and wearing a slip, Ruth Callandar walked into the living room, a blue dress over one arm, her sewing box under the other. She sat down in a large upholstered chair near the window, the morning sun streaming in over one shoulder and shining on her dark-blond hair.
Remind me to take a swatch of the davenport material along with us, she said matter-of-factly. I want to get draperies the same shade.
Her young husband, stretched out on the davenport, nodded absently, continuing to read his magazine. Lifting a knee, he pulled a fleece-lined slipper from his foot, then glanced up to toss it across the room. It landed on a small table near the doorway, almost but not quite pushing a metal ash tray to the floor. A gray cloud of ashes puffed up out of the tray and settled down over the tabletop. Okay, he said, and grinned.
A corner of Ruth's mouth quirked in annoyance. Honestly, she said. A man twenty-four years old -
The Benjamin Callandar reminder service, he said defensively. As you're about to leave, you see that slipper on the table. Now, what's that doing there? you ask yourself. Oh, yes, the swatch. Thank heaven for the Ben Callandar memory system; it's infallible.
It's also lazy, unsightly, and at least half the time destructive. She moistened the tip of a length of blue thread and slipped it expertly through the eye of a needle. I'd rather take my chance on forgetting.
Reactionary. But typical through the ages of woman, an instinctive foe of progress. Man discovers fire, and all his wife can say is, Ashes all over the cave! Smoke getting into everything! I really think you might be more considerate! Grinning, he watched Ruth, her head bent over a small rip in the seam of the dress she was mending.
Not lifting her eyes, she said firmly, We're getting dressed as soon as I finish this; we've got a lot to do today.
How soon you be finished?
About one minute.
Benjamin Callandar sighed. My day off, he said.
She glanced up, a tiny vertical frown line on her smooth young forehead. Ben, it's our only chance to do these things. You've got to get a new suit; you look like one of the Collyer brothers. Do you think I enjoy all these errands?
Yes.
Well, I don't.
Ruth resumed her sewing, and for a moment or so Ben lay watching her. Then he said, Brothers and sisters have I none, and Ruth glanced up at him. But — he continued, then said, Let's see, now. Picking up his magazine, he turned a page. Oh, yeah. Brothers and sisters have I none, he repeated, eyes scanning the page, but this man's uncle is my cousin's son. He laid the magazine face down on his chest and looked expectantly at Ruth.
Yes - she nodded - I know that one. It's his father, or something.
Nope.
She frowned a little, lowering her head to take a stitch in the material on her lap; then she looked up at Ben. How does it go again?
Brothers and sisters have I none, he said, carefully pronouncing each word. But — again he picked up his magazine - this man's uncle is my cousin's son. He smiled inquiringly. Get it?
Eyes on her sewing, Ruth murmured, Brothers and sisters have I none — Then, hands poised over the dress, she looked up to stare at Ben, her brown eyes puzzled and intent. But this man's uncle — What's the rest?
Is my cousin's son.
Uncle, Ruth murmured. This man's uncle — For a moment longer she sat staring thoughtfully at Ben; then she shook her head and resumed her sewing. I don't know, she said, without interest. What's the answer?
You can't figure it out? His lean, tanned face seemed surprised.
No, I can't. She did not interrupt her work. What's the answer?
His mother-in-law, Ben said, in a tone suggesting that a child should have known this.
His mother-in-law? The sewing stopped again, and Ruth stared across the room at him, frowning.
Yes, of course. Don't you see? Brothers and sisters have I —
Never mind that. How do you figure his mother-in-law?
Well, that's the trick. He smiled brightly. You naturally assumed the answer would be a man, didn't you?
Well — I guess so.
He shrugged. But it couldn't be, if you stop to think about it. Brothers and sisters have I none, but this man's uncle - don't you see now? — is my cousin's son. The cousin could be a woman, you see. So the answer has to be his mother-in-law.
For several moments Ruth considered this, staring thoughtfully across the room; then she shook her head, dismissing the problem, and resumed her sewing. Well, I'm sorry, but I don't follow — Suddenly she lifted her head to stare at Ben, and after a moment he began to grin. Oh, for heaven sakes! she said disgustedly. When will I ever learn? Now, listen, we've got a lot to accomplish today; don't you have anything better to do than lie there and think up foolish —
Yes, I have. He began rapidly raising and lowering his black brows, his dark-blue eyes rolling wickedly. And if you'll step into the bedroom —
Ruth resumed her sewing. You better get dressed.
Don't you have that reversed?
And shaved. She looked up at him. Do you have that address — the place that makes draperies? I gave it to you.
If it hasn't been stolen. He rolled to one side and tugged his wallet from a hip pocket. Be a shame if that happened. Opening the wallet, Ben pulled out a sheaf of cards and slips of paper. Juniper two-eight-one — he started to read from a torn fragment. Who do you suppose that is?
I haven't the least idea.
Neither have I. Maybe I better just dial that number; might be impor—
Come on, now; quit stalling.
Here's an insurance receipt from the post office — Ben opened a little folded square of paper — stamped October eleventh, nineteen fifty-two. You suppose they got the package all right?
Who?
It doesn't say.
Ruth sighed.
And here's something, in my writing. Says, N. V. Saxton, or Sexton. Eight-eleven — something I can't read — Tucson, Arizona. That it? The drapery place?
I'm almost through here, Ruth said warningly. How much money do we have, incidentally?
Ben opened the money compartment of his wallet, brought out a ten- and two five-dollar bills, and held them up. That's all, I guess. Plus change.
Well, we'll just have to get a check cashed somewhere.
Fine. And while we're at it, I'm it favor of cashing a big one. Then drinks at the Top of the Mark and lunch at the Fairmont, and maybe the boat cruise around the Bay in the afternoon. Beautiful day for it. Dancing tonight, and —
Frowning, Ruth nodded absently. It will have to be a big check; your suit alone will cost —
Look. Ben held up a five-dollar bill pointing at the engraved portrait in its center. Abraham Lincoln. And he didn't have a new suit. From all his photographs, it's obvious that he had only one suit in his life. Made it himself I believe, out of homespun. And after that he was set for life; never even had it pressed. Didn't shave, either.
And he didn't fritter away his time having drinks at the Mark. Or taking the two-dollar cruise on the Potomac. Come on — she shook out her dress, glanced at it briefly, then picked up her sewing box — time to get dressed.
Good heavens, Ben murmur
ed, his voice astonished; he lay on the davenport staring at the five-dollar bill in his hand. Listen to this. He glanced up at Ruth, his face bewildered; then he pointed to a tiny inscription on the upper left face of the bill. This note, he began reading aloud, is legal tender for all debts, public and private, and is redeemable in lawful money at the United States Treasury, or at any Federal Reserve Bank. He looked up slowly, to stare frowningly at Ruth.
Well? What about it? Quit stalling.
Ruth, this is serious; don't you see? It says, This note is legal tender - again he pointed to the tiny inscription - and is redeemable in lawful money. Well, if legal tender isn't lawful money, what is?
Ben, I don't know what you're talking about.
This isn't lawful money, he said patiently, yet it's legal tender. Sounds to me as though the government is getting pretty confused.
So am I. She started to rise.
Wait! He held up a hand. This is important; I don't think the country realizes; I'm probably the only one who ever read this. The very fabric, the woop and warf, of our lives is bound up with confidence in our money; we assume the Treasury knows what it's doing. Yet obviously it's in a state of pure confusion. I can only hope, for your sake and the sake of all women, that your friend Georgia Neese Clark isn't at the bottom of this.
Ruth smiled. I'm sure she isn't; it's some man. Anyway, I don't think she's Treasurer any more.
Ben raised the bill to his eyes. You're right. Ivy Baker Priest, Treasurer of the United States, he read. Darn little difference, though, far as I can see. And the point remains: Woman's place is not in the Treasury monkeying with the currency.
Where is it?
At the Hotel Mark Hopkins having a drink with her husband.
Ruth picked up her sewing box and gathered up her dress. Time to get ready, she said, and stood.
Wonder what they'd give you if you demanded lawful money for this?
A sympathetic look, probably, before they hustled you out. Come on, now, Ben; let's get started, she said, and walked toward the doorway. At the doorway she turned to look at Ben; he was still lying on the davenport staring at the bill in his hand. She glanced down at his slipper on the tabletop beside her; then she picked it up, tossed it toward the davenport; it landed — accurately — and Ben's knees shot to his chest, and he sat up convulsively.
What's that for!
The Ruth Callandar never-miss memory system, she said sweetly. We've got lots to do today; remember? It got him up off the davenport, and later she made up for it. You're a half-wit, but I love you, she said, and pulled his face close.
At Montgomery Street, in the heart of San Francisco's financial district, they stopped, and, standing on the sunny sidewalk, Ruth consulted a little penciled list in her hand. She was dressed smartly, wearing the blue dress she had mended, a tailored coat, and a tiny hat. Ben, in a brown topcoat, was hatless; he had ignored the hat and tightly furled umbrella Ruth had set out for him, and, as if in agreement, the sun glinted on his crisp black hair. All right — Ruth nodded briskly at her list first the check, then the draperies. She glanced around the busy street. Which is your bank?
Ben nodded ahead. The brick one, half a block down. Then he took Ruth's arm. No, wait, he said, and nodded at a tall, imposing, gray stone building just ahead. It's that one.
You sure?
Absolutely. He glanced up at the clear blue sky, sniffing the cool air appreciatively.
They walked up the shallow stone stairs and into the vast marble lobby of the bank; inside there was only one window open, and Ben took his place at the end of the short line; there were two people ahead of him. Beside him, hands folded over her purse, Ruth stood glancing idly about and up at the vaulted ceiling far overhead. Then the short line moved forward, and a man entered the bank and joined the line behind them. Ben — Ruth nudged him, nodding at a marble desk in the center of the lobby — shouldn't you write your check first?
He shrugged. I should have, I guess, but I'll do it at the window; no need to lose my place. Another man entered the bank to join the line behind them; a moment or so later the woman ahead of Ben turned away from the counter, and Ben stepped up to the window.
Yes, sir? The teller, a plump-faced, pleasant-eyed man glanced inquiringly at Ben.
Ben pulled out his wallet. If you don't mind — he opened his wallet, brought out a five-dollar bill, and pushed it across the counter - I'd like some lawful money, please.
Frowning slightly, the teller picked up the bill. Stretching it taut between his hands, he looked closely at its face, turned it over to inspect the other side, then looked up at Ben. Looks perfectly good to me; something wrong with it?
Oh, no, Ben said quickly. I'm sure it's perfectly good. It's just that I want to redeem it — he smiled engagingly — for lawful money.
Again the man glanced at the bill in his hands but found no clue there to the question in his face. How do you mean? he said. This is legal. Perfectly good money. He pushed the bill across the counter to Ben.
Of course. Ben nodded vigorously. Perfectly good, naturally. But I want to redeem it. For lawful money. Smiling pleasantly, he pushed the bill back across the counter.
Ben! Ruth whispered. She stood rigidly beside him, tugging desperately, at his sleeve, her face a bright pink.
One second, dear, he said loudly, turning to smile at her, glancing at, and his smile including, the silent, staring people just behind Ruth. Be with you in a moment, he said cheerfully, soon as I get some lawful money. Turning back to the window, he leaned toward the teller, forearms on the counter. You see — he moved a finger to point at the tiny inscription on the bill — it says right here, This note … is redeemable in lawful money … at any Federal Reserve Bank. He shrugged a shoulder deprecatingly. So I'd like to redeem it. Softly he added, For lawful money. Then suddenly he turned to glance doubtfully around the lobby. This is a Federal Reserve Bank, isn't it?
Ben — tugging furiously at his arm, Ruth spoke between clenched teeth, but Ben merely turned, nodded at her briefly, then looked back at the teller, smiling pleasantly, waiting.
Well — yes, the man replied doubtfully, then added quickly, yes, of course it is. He picked up Ben's bill again and carefully read the little inscription. Slowly he glanced up at Ben again, stared at him for a moment, then suddenly he grinned. Well, I'll be darned, he murmured, his voice surprised and delighted. I've been here three years and never noticed that. He leaned forward on the counter, clasping his hands, and regarded the bill before him for a moment. Then he smiled up at Ben, a look of pleased respect in his eyes; Ruth, her back to Ben and the waiting line, stood staring desperately across the lobby. Well, the teller said consideringly, I can give you a new bill for this. He nodded at an open drawer beside him.
Ben pursed his lips thoughtfully, considering this. Another five? he said doubtfully. Just like this one?
Well, yes. The man shrugged. They're all Federal Reserve notes.
All with the same inscription as this: redeemable in lawful money?
The man nodded.
Regretfully, Ben shook his head. Wouldn't really help, then, would it? I'd be right back where I started.
The teller nodded in agreement. Silver? he said. I can give you five silver dollars, all brand-new, if you want.
Well, Ben said tentatively, is silver lawful money?
Darned if I know, the man said, and grinned.
To tell the truth, I don't either. It's just that your note says redeemable in lawful money. So I'd like to be sure that's what I get. Ben flicked the bill before him with a finger Hate carrying this unlawful stuff around.
Naturally. The man nodded in delighted agreement. Just a second, he said, and picked up a phone beside him. Mr. Hinkle, please, he said into the phone, and then after a moment, Mr. Hinkle? This is Carlson, window three. Man here has a five-dollar Federal Reserve note; says he wants to redeem it for lawful money. There was a moment's pause, then he said, Lawful money. The teller shrugged. I don't know; I thought
you would. He winked at Ben. Another pause, then he said happily, He doesn't want another bill. After all, as he points out, it'd be just like the one he brought in: still redeemable in lawful money. He waited, listening, then said cheerfully, Tried silver too. And he'll accept it, he says, if it's lawful money. Wants to be sure it's lawful, though. Is it? He grinned at Ben. Yes, sir, he said then. Yes, sir, I will.
The teller replaced the phone, then leaned forward on the counter, pushing Ben's five-dollar note back to him. See Mr. Hinkle, he said, smiling, and pointed across the lobby to a large desk behind a low-railed enclosure. At the desk a middle-aged, portly, well-dressed man sat, pen poised, staring frowningly across the room at Ben.
Ruth had fled, Ben saw, as he thanked the grinning teller and picked up his bill. She was on the other side of the wide lobby, as far away as she could get, seated on a stone bench facing the rear of the bank, the back of her heck a deep pink. Quietly Ben crossed the lobby; then he pushed open the gate in the low-railed enclosure and walked soundlessly over a soft, deep-pile rug to the big desk. The man behind it, face expressionless, nodded coolly at the chair beside his desk. Nodding his thanks, Ben sat down, placing his five-dollar bill on the desk before him. Ruth, seated rigidly on the stone bench just outside the waist-high enclosure, was less than two yards from his elbow. Her gaze immovably fixed on the rear of the bank, away from all eyes, she had not, Ben knew, either seen or heard him approach.
Now, then, said Mr. Hinkle, in a brisk no-nonsense voice, what seems to be the trouble?
Oh, no trouble at all, Ben said quickly and pleasantly; from a corner of his eye he saw Ruth start at the sound of his voice and her head begin to turn. But instead she kept her eyes on the shadowy rear of the bank, while her neck turned a still deeper red. Your teller, in fact, Ben went on, was very kind and pleasant. It's just that I'd like some lawful money. He pointed to the inscription on the face of the bill lying before them. The gruff, well-dressed man glanced at the bill but did not pick it up or read it, and Ben added, He didn't know what lawful money was. Ben laughed pleasantly, his tone and expression inviting the man before him to share the joke, but the man didn't smile. So he sent me to you, Ben said.
