The Jack Finney Reader

by Jack Finney

  Why, thank you, Alec, Tim said, surprised and touched.

  Alec nodded, and walked toward the doorway. I'll get ready for bed now. He went up the stairs.

  For several moments they sat silent, and then Tim shrugged. Well, maybe there's hope.

  Of course. Essentially children want to co-operate, and I think I managed to make him feel more or less the host here. Eve nodded complacently. You've got to give them a sense of responsibility. Remember the weekend this spring when we were out with the Webbers?

  Remember? With unparalleled delight. He smiled. Without the business he inherited, Al Webber would be a two-toned double-dipped bore. But with it, he's utterly charming.

  Well, they seemed a little lost with Alec, I thought; remember how he acted in the cab? And I wondered at the time if they really had much feeling for the psychology of a child. Mr. Webber especially.

  Well, what the hell can you expect from a guy like Al Webber? He's nice enough, and all that, I suppose. Tim smiled again. But to put it as tactfully as possible, he has no brains. His forehead slopes as much as his chin; he has the profile of an arrowhead. Give him tail feathers, and he'd look like a giant woodpecker.

  Well, I know you don't really like him, but —

  I like him! I like him fine. In fact, he fascinates me. I suspect that he's entirely controlled by motor impulses from the spine, like a dinosaur, bypassing the higher nerve centers completely. Tim gestured at the shelves under the windows. Look at those albums; all classical and symphonic. You can't tell me that guy really appreciates them.

  No. Eve smiled a little. It's the electrical equipment that interests him; that's his hobby. He told me about it, at enormous length, the weekend we saw them. It's high-fidelity; all he wants to do is bring out every least note of the flutes and oboes, the timbre of the violins in the background, and all that; they could be playing Turkey in the Straw, with Toscanini conducting, for all Mr. Webber knows or cares. She sighed. But I do think I can talk to his wife. Children simply need guidance, and I think this week-end is really an opportunity. In just this short time, we can actually show them a definite improvement in Alec.

  Eve … The whispered sound was low, quiet, but very clear; it seemed to fill the room, coming from nowhere, and Eve glanced around her, eyes startled. You are going to die, the strange voice spoke again in a ghostly whisper, and Eve swung toward the loud-speaker under the windows. This is the Avenger! Heh, heh, heh, heh! The low ominous laughter suddenly broke into a high-pitched giggle.

  His mouth twisting wryly, Tim gestured with his thumb at the ceiling. My fellow tycoon — the electrical genius, the man with the teabag brain — obviously has a recorder upstairs hooked to the phonograph down here.

  A faint click sounded from the loudspeaker, and again Tim and Eve turned toward it. For a moment there was a humming sound, and then from the loud-speaker a woman's voice said, — seemed a little lost with Alec, I thought; remember how he acted in the cab? And I wondered at the time if they really had much feeling for the psychology of a child. Her eyes widening, Eve's jaw dropped as she recognized her own voice. Mr. Webber especially, it concluded.

  Well, Tim's voice replied, what the hell can you expect from a guy like Al Webber? He's nice enough, and all that, I suppose. But to put it as tactfully as possible, he has no brains. His forehead slopes as much as his chin; he has the profile of an arrowhead …

  Their conversation went on, remorselessly, every word and intonation. Tim and Eve sat frozen, jaws slack, staring at the loud-speaker. I suspect, the loud-speaker said in Tim's amused voice, that he's entirely controlled by motor impulses from the spine, like a dinosaur, bypassing the higher nerve centers completely …

  Eve moaned softly, Oh, Tim! Her voice rose in a frantic wail: Tim, what'll we do? Tim, get up there! Get that record away from him! We simply cannot let him pla— She stopped, her face aghast, as her recorded voice continued relentlessly, — could be playing Turkey in the Straw, with Toscanini conducting, for all Mr. Webber knows or cares.

  Tim was on his feet, striding toward the doorway, as the loud-speaker concluded, — really an opportunity. In just this short time, we can actually show them a definite improvement in Alec. Then, for several minutes, Eve simply sat in stunned horror on the davenport; from upstairs she heard the faraway murmur of Tim's voice, and Alec's voice in reply.

  Presently Tim came down the stairs, and walked into the room. His lips a compressed line, eyes bitter, he dropped onto the davenport, shaking his head in reluctant amazement. Alec has just pointed out to me that even if I found and took that damned recording, he could, and most certainly would, describe to his parents exactly what it said — adding the choice news that kindly old Uncle Tim wrenched the recording, with brutal force, from his childish little hands. For a moment he stared at his wife, his eyes bewildered. Eve, there's not a damn' thing I can do.

  Her hand rose slowly to her throat. But — Tim? What'll happen? Will you — lose the account?

  Damn it, of course we will!

  But your job! Tim, will …?

  He looked at her, hesitating, then shrugged angrily at the uselessness of denying this. I'll be out on my ear by ten o'clock Monday morning.

  She began to cry, covering her face with her hands, and Tim stared at her for a moment, then slipped an arm around her waist. Now, what the hell, he said quietly, it's only a job. I can always find another. A better one, too. We don't have to worry — He stopped, and she lowered her hands to look at him. Suddenly he grimaced. Look, will you go upstairs and get that kid to bed? I'll lose my mind if we don't get a moment's peace, and —

  And this is the week end, Eve said, that I've been looking forward to.

  Some twenty minutes later, Eve called, Tim, from the head of the stairs, and Timberlake Ryan wearily stood up. On tiptoe he climbed the stairs, carefully making no sound. As his eyes reached the level of the floor above, he saw Eve leaning in a doorway, limp and exhausted.

  Hi, Uncle Tim! Howsa boy! On an old cedar chest in the upper hallway, Alec was propped upside down, his body extending up along the wall, legs pointing to the ceiling. Yap! he barked, his eyes glittering. Yap, yap! He stared at Tim challengingly.

  In sheer helpless frustration, Eve stamped her foot. Now, you just stop that! You hear me? On the verge of tears, she turned to Tim. He's had two drinks of water, been to the bathroom twice; I've read him four stories — four! — put an extra blanket on his bed, and took it off again. Tim, I simply can't stand any more —

  He had an arm around her shoulders, urging her gently toward the stairway. Downstairs, he said firmly. Go mix yourself a drink. He turned to the boy, smiling. You just wanted to see your old Uncle Tim, didn't you, son?

  Sure! Alec shrieked. Yap, yap!

  Go on, Tim said, and pushed Eve gently onto the first step. Downstairs. Golly, I'm thirsty, he said. I need a good cold drink of water.

  Me, too! Alec shouted instantly, rolling into a sitting position.

  Tim, for Heaven's sakes! Eve turned and glared at him.

  He glanced guiltily at Eve, and said to Alec, No, you're not thirst—

  I am, too! I need a drink of water! I want a drink!

  All right! Tim held up a protesting hand. Go on to bed, and I'll get you one. He walked into the bathroom, and after a moment came out, a glass of water in one hand. Grimly, he nodded at Eve on the staircase. I'd better take one of these, he said, tossed an aspirin tablet into his mouth, and took a sip of water. Maybe I should eat them by the handful, like peanuts.

  Eat what? Alec demanded. What was that you took?

  Tim looked at the boy. Grow-up-quick pill, he said. I take them all the time.

  Aw, it was not! What's a grow-up-quick pill?

  Exactly what the name implies, Tim told the boy. You take them if you want to grow up quick; pretty soon I'll be eight feet tall.

  I want one too!

  Tim, for Heaven's sakes! What's the matter with you!

  I want one! Uncle Tim, I —

&nb
sp; Well, you can't have one, and that's final. Here — he handed the glass to the boy — you can have a drink, and that's all. He gestured wearily at Eve. Go on downstairs; I'll work this shift.

  In the living room, Eve began leafing through a magazine, glancing unseeingly at the illustrations. Less than five minutes later Tim walked into the room, and she looked up at him incredulously. He asleep?

  Yeah. Tim sat down on the davenport beside her, leaned his head on the back of the davenport, and sat staring at the ceiling.

  What are you thinking?

  Oh, just daydreaming.

  About what?

  Various pleasures — he lifted his head to smile at her wanly. The joys of vivisection. The deep satisfaction that comes from a job of embalming well done.

  Eve nodded. How in the world did you quiet him down?

  I don't know that I should say. But I assure you no jury will convict; it was him or me.

  Well, she said wearily, you did pretty well with him. Though I do think it was foolish to mention water. You might have known Alec would want a drink too.

  Yeah. I might have known.

  And that business about the make-you-grow-up pill, or whatever it was. She shook her head in mild reproof. Alec was absolutely certain to want one too.

  Absolutely certain. Tim suddenly grinned.

  For a moment Eve stared at him, then sat bolt upright. Tim! she said in an astonished whisper. Timberlake Ryan, did you —

  Look, let's just relax, Tim said. My nerves are —

  Tim, I want the truth! Did you —

  Now, look — He sat up. We tried your brand of child psychology, gave it a fair shake. So then I tried mine. Don't worry, he said grimly, he's a tough little character; an atom bomb wouldn't shake him.

  You did! Her voice was astonished. You really did —

  Well — Tim shrugged — it was his idea. He positively demanded a grow-up-quick pill. So for the sake of our sanity, and with his complete cooperation — Tim grinned again — I slipped the kid a Mickey.

  Knowing the answer, her voice awed, Eve said softly, A sleeping pill?

  We child psychologists prefer to refer to them as grow-up-quick pills. And he had it, don't forget, in a glass of pure wholesome water. Conked off like a cherub in less than five minutes.

  But, Tim, won't it hurt him? Eve asked anxiously.

  Of course not. It's an extremely mild kind, more of a sedative, actually. And I gave him less than half a dose. Furthermore, he hadn't the least idea what it was, and will undoubtedly never have another till he has kids of his own. Now, relax; forget it. He put an arm around her waist, smiling, drawing her toward him. Alone at last, he said.

  Eve looked up at him, trying to smile, then her face twisted, the tears brimming in her eyes. I'm sorry, Tim. I'm terribly sorry, but — I'm just in no kind of mood. Oh, Tim, that horrible recording.

  Oh, he said, I found that.

  Where? she asked, her voice dull and uninterested.

  In Al's closet. He's got a tape recorder you can turn on from the cabinet down here. That's what Alec was doing, fiddling with the knobs there, while conning us with polite chatter. His father probably turns it on at parties, then plays it back later; he'd think that was wonderful fun. You can erase the recording by simply running the tape through the machine again. Which I did.

  Eve shrugged forlornly. But Alec'll tell them about the recording.

  Yeah. He will.

  And then if they try to play it —

  They will. You can count on that. Do you recall our conversation as recorded by Alec?

  Do I, she said bitterly. Word for word. Oh, Tim, I could cry, when I think —

  Quiet. Tim reached over and twisted a knob. It clicked, he waited a moment, then raising his voice a little, he said, I think Alec's a pretty sweet little kid, don't you, Eve? Al and Ruth have done wonders with him.

  For a moment, her mouth open, Eve simply stared at him in astonishment. Suddenly she smiled. Why, yes, she said clearly, raising her voice, I do. I remember noticing that they had a real feeling for the psychology of a child. Mr. Webber especially.

  Well, Tim replied thoughtfully, what else would you expect from a guy like Al Webber? You can tell from his face he has brains, the profile especially; it has the strength of an arrowhead. He's sharp as a woodpecker.

  Well, I know you really like him — Eve clapped a hand over her mouth.

  Certainly I like him! I like him fine. In fact, he fascinates me. Such entire control of his motor impulses; amazing co-ordination of the higher nerve centers; just look at this radio-phonograph he built! And those albums — all classical and symphonic. You can't tell me that guy doesn't really appreciate them.

  Of course, Eve said delightedly. All that electrical equipment is his hobby. He told me about it the weekend we saw them; he was fascinating. It's called high-fidelity, and he can bring out every least note of the flutes and oboes, the timbre of the violins in the background, and all that. Why, I think Mr. Webber could make Turkey in the Straw sound as though Toscanini were conducting! She choked in sudden, violent, helpless and silent laughter, then took a deep breath and continued. But I do think I'll talk to his wife; I think this week-end is really an opportunity. In just the short time we have, we can learn a great deal about bringing up children.

  Yeah — Tim reached out and twisted the black knob, clicking it off — we sure as hell can. He grinned at Eve in enormous delight. Now, let them play it! And it will be absolutely obvious that in his youth and innocence, Alec completely misinterpreted everything we said. Hell, even Alec will never be sure!

  Timberlake Ryan sat back on the davenport. Child psychology, he said happily, it's wonderful. Once you get the hang of it. He turned to Eve beside him. Lady, he said softly, could I interest you in a life of sin? Again he put an arm around his wife's waist; and this time she snuggled up close.

  Collier's, March 4, 1955, 135(5):40, 42-43, 46-47

  Of Missing Persons

  Walk in as though it were an ordinary travel bureau, the stranger I'd met at a bar had told me. Ask a few ordinary questions — about a trip you're planning, a vacation, anything like that. Then hint about The Folder a little, but whatever you do, don't mention it directly; wait till he brings it up himself. And if he doesn't, you might as well forget it. If you can. Because you'll never see it; you're not the type, that's all. And if you ask about it, he'll just look at you as though he doesn't know what you're talking about.

  I rehearsed it all in my mind, over and over, but what seems possible at night over a beer isn't easy to believe on a raw, rainy day, and I felt like a fool, searching the store fronts for the street number I'd memorized. It was noon hour, West 42nd Street, New York, rainy and windy; and like half the men around me, I walked with a hand on my hatbrim, wearing an old trench coat, head bent into the slanting rain, and the world was real and drab, and this was hopeless.

  Anyway, I couldn't help thinking, who am I to see The Folder, even if there is one? Name? I said to myself, as though I were already being asked. It's Charley Ewell, and I'm a young guy who works in a bank; a teller. I don't like the job; I don't make much money, and I never will. I've lived in New York for over three years and haven't many friends. What the hell, there's really nothing to say — I see more movies than I want to, read too many books, and I'm sick of meals alone in restaurants. I have ordinary abilities, looks and thoughts. Does that suit you; do I qualify?

  Now I spotted it, the address in the 200two-hundred block, an old, pseudo-modernized office building, tired, outdated, refusing to admit it but unable to hide it. New York is full of them west of Fifth.

  I pushed through the brass-framed glass doors into the tiny lobby, paved with freshly mopped, permanently dirty tile. The green-painted walls were lumpy from old plaster repairs; in a chrome frame hung a little wall directory — white celluloid easily-changed letters on a black felt background. There were some twenty-odd names, and I found “Acme Travel Bureau” second on the list, between “A-
1 Mimeo” and “Ajax Magic Supplies.” I pressed the bell beside the old-style open-grille elevator door; it rang high up in the shaft. There was a long pause, then a thump, and the heavy chains began rattling slowly down toward me, and I almost turned and left — this was insane.

  But upstairs the Acme office had divorced itself from the atmosphere of the building. I pushed open the pebble-glass door, walked in, and the big square room was bright and clean, fluorescent-lighted. Beside the wide double windows, behind a counter, stood a tall, gray-haired, grave-looking man, a telephone at his ear. He glanced up, nodded to beckon me in, and I felt my heart pumping — he fitted the description exactly. Yes, United Air Lines, he was saying into the phone. Flight — he glanced at a paper on the glasstopped counter — seven-o-three, and I suggest you check in forty minutes early.

  Standing before him now, I waited, leaning on the counter, glancing around; he was the man, all right, and yet this was just an ordinary travel agency: big bright posters on the walls, metal floor racks full of folders, printed schedules under the glass on the counter. This is just what it looks like and nothing else, I thought, and again I felt like a fool.

  Can I help you? Behind the counter the tall gray-haired man was smiling at me, replacing the phone, and suddenly I was terribly nervous.

  Yes. I stalled for time, unbuttoning my raincoat. Then I looked up at him again and said, I'd like to — get away. You fool, that's too fast! I told myself. Don't rush it! I watched in a kind of panic to see what effect my answer had had, but he didn't flick an eyelash.

  Well, there are a lot of places to go, he said politely. From under the counter he brought out a long, slim folder and laid it on the glass, turning it right side up for me. Fly to Buenos Aires — Another World! it said in a double row of pale green letters across the top.

  I looked at it long enough to be polite. It showed a big silvery plane banking over a harbor at night, a moon shining on the water, mountains in the background. Then I just shook my head; I was afraid to talk, afraid I'd say the wrong thing.

  Something quieter, maybe? He brought out another folder: thick old tree trunks, rising way up out of sight, sunbeams slanting through them — The Virgin Forests of Maine, via Boston and Maine Railroad. Or — he laid a third folder on the glass — Bermuda is nice just now. This one said, Bermuda, Old World in the New.