The Jack Finney Reader

by Jack Finney

  Ruth was sitting on the davenport beside me some two or three minutes later, clutching my forearm. "Ben, calm down!" she was saying. "He won't let you get near him with a poker, an iron bar, or anything else; you think he doesn't know you'd want to try? Even if you did, you might kill him, and one thing you're not going to do for Arnie is murder!"

  "Then I've got to warn Arnie; go over that wall again, and—"

  "Ben, Ben, you're not thinking, you're just wild! Right now Nova's sitting at his window; you know he is. You couldn't even open the garage door before he'd see you, and he'd be out there as fast as you would. Or just phone San Quentin."

  I was on my feet shouting at her. "Are you trying to tell me there's nothing to do! That we just sit here and let him go out and take Arnie!"

  She was shaking her head. "No," she said. She reached up, and put a hand on my arm. "Ben, I hate that old man. If his hand touched mine, I couldn't be comfortable till I'd washed it a dozen times. And anything more than that—" She just shook her head, eyes closing. Then she opened them, her face white. "But, Ben, it's death for Arnie, the gas chamber, or … the worst half-hour I'll ever live through. What right have I got to choose! Other women have been through even worse, and survived! Oh, Ben, can I let Arnie go to the gas chamber?"

  "No!" I actually shouted it, staring down at her wild-eyed. "Ruth, no! That's" — I couldn't find the words — "wrong! It's not possible to even think about! What do you think I am! Why, damn it, I love you!"

  Her hands were at her face, and she was whispering, "I couldn't. I couldn't have done it! But Arnie in the gas chamber … but I couldn't have. Ben, I love you, too," she said, hands still over her face. "I can't help it, but I do; I wish I were dead." Sitting down beside her, I held her close. After a time, she looked up at me. "What are we going to do?"

  "Listen." I said quietly, "Could you get on the phone, and talk to Nova? Lower your voice, get close to the phone, and sound upset, as though you'd been crying. Tell him — tell him you finally brought me around, that we had a big fight about it, but I had to say yes. Tell him — anything; just talk. Tell him you'll be over in a few minutes; make it real, believe it yourself, sound upset and tearful. Just hold him there, Ruth, till I can get out of the garage, and past his house in the car. Give me all the time you can, then hang up, lock all the doors, and wait. Ruth, can you do that?"

  She nodded. "Ben, kiss me," she said, and I did.

  I held her tight, and kissed her then, and I wished we were a long way from here, I wished anything but the way things were. Then we went out to the kitchen, and as I stepped into the garage, Ruth picked up the phone, leafing through the book.

  Once again I climbed that dark hill, and once again entered the prison as I had before, climbing down directly beside the furniture factory, and leaving my rope suspended from the wall; I had no time to waste. The area looked the same — silent, empty — and the bare earth at my feet in the light from the walls looked undisturbed. I actually had to kneel, my eyes only inches from the ground, as I hunted for the tiny circlet of screening. I couldn't find it. Minutes passed, as I stumbled on my knees over that patch of earth between the high concrete wall and the factory.

  Finally I had to do it. "Arnie!" I called, in as loud and harsh a whisper as I dared. "Arnie!" I said it louder. "It's Ben! Open up!" Then I drew a deep breath, and shouted it. "Arnie! It's Ben!" Then I heard a sound, turned, and Arnie was heaving himself out of his shelter just behind me, eyes wide and questioning, his face white and washed-out looking under the black stubble. "We've got to leave!" I said. "Don't ask any questions, but be ready for trouble!"

  He just nodded quickly, and jerked his chin at the rope hanging down the wall. I ran to it, and climbed it. Grasping a metal post on the wall top, I pulled myself to my feet, and a quiet voice in the darkness below me on the other side said, "All right, come down easy; I've got a gun on you." And then I saw Nova, his bulky silhouette barely darker than the ground he stood on, and I knew it had been foolish to hope Ruth could fool him into stupidly waiting in his house, giving us the time we had needed. I pulled up my rope, Nova watching me from below, gun aimed at my belly, and I looped it around a guard rail, clattering and banging the hook against the metal. Then I tossed the hook and rope end over, and slid down, face to the wall. As my feet touched the ground, the gun muzzle pressed into my back and Nova said, "Hands on your head; and walk down the road slow."

  I clasped my hands on my head, still facing the wall. and moaned, "My ankle, I can't walk; it's—"

  "Move!" Nova stepped up beside me, pulling at my shoulder, prying me from the wall, and Arnie, legs doubled up, hugging his knees, dropped from the wall he had climbed to the moment Nova spoke, onto Nova's back, smashing him to the ground with such terrible force that I knew if he'd landed squarely it would have broken Nova's neck. Arnie rolled, hugging his legs, then scrambled to his feet, and ran back. He snatched up the gun which had spun from Nova's hand, and then, his feet straddling Nova's body, Arnie leaned over him, the gun barrel aiming directly at Nova's head. From the jerk of Arnie's hand, I understood suddenly that he was tugging at the trigger, and I reached out, and yanked the gun from his hand.

  "Oh." Arnie said, in a little sound of surprise and understanding, "the safety's on; gimme that gun."

  I said. "No; let's get out of here," and Arnie blinked, then nodded, and turned to pull down my rope, then pick up his from where he'd thrown it as he leaped.

  We couldn't leave Nova there, and we took him under an arm, and dragged him to his feet, staggering toward the road with him, and the hill just beyond it. And astoundingly, this massive man began to walk, stumbling along, shaking his head, and beginning to mutter. Within half a dozen steps, he was wrenching his arms from ours, and I shoved the gun into his back, and we climbed the hill, then down the other side to our cars.

  I had Nova drive into my open garage in my car, with me in the back seat, the gun at his head. Arnie, following in Nova's car, parked it at the curb, then came on into the garage. I pulled the garage door down, watching Nova, then turned to see Ruth standing in the kitchen doorway staring at us. Arnie hurried across the garage, stepped up into the kitchen grabbed Ruth to him, and then stood, his back to me, holding her, squeezing her tight, his cheek against hers, and murmuring something, I couldn't hear what — while Ruth stared at me over his shoulder, her eyes stricken and pleading for help. Herding Nova before me, I moved toward them, my mind hunting for words.

  But I didn't find them. A man at gunpoint before me, Ruth in Arnie's arms, all I could think of to say was, "Arnie," and when he turned to look at me questioningly — I didn't know how to tell him! All I could say was. "Arnie, it's about Ruth and … me. Arnie, you'll have to try to understand!" I stopped, because he was no longer listening. His head swung to Ruth, and, her face anguished, she could only nod; but that was enough. He turned and walked into the living room, his face averted, and we followed after; I motioned Nova to a chair, and he sat down.

  Arnie was standing, staring out the window at the dark empty street. When he turned back, he was smiling, and he glanced from Ruth to me. "I can understand it," he said. "You've been here, together, and …" He shrugged, and said, "Well, I can understand it. Sure I can! And I won't hold it against you. Either of you! I was gone, and … You've both done a lot for me! But now I'm out, and"— the smile was gone, and his voice was suddenly desperate — "Ruth, we'll forget it! Forget it ever happened! I'll never mention it! You'll come along with me, and—"

  "Arnie!" I said, and he turned to stare at me. "You don't understand," I said, my voice begging him to try. "It's not what you think. Arnie, we love each—"

  "Don't say it!" He spat it out like a single word. "I don't want to hear it"— he was shaking his head violently. "It's not true! It can't be. You only think—"

  "Arnie, Arnie," I said desperately, "It is true. I'm sorry, we didn't mean it, never intended it. we tried not to, but—"

  His hand was up, cutting me off, and now he walked tow
ard Ruth, sitting on the davenport. He bent down to stare into her eyes. "You say it," he said softly. "So far you've only nodded your head. But now I want to hear it from you, if you've got the nerve. You tell me you've ditched me! You tell me you didn't have the simple guts and loyalty to stick with me; go ahead!" he shouted. the cords of his neck standing out. "Tell me!"

  Her eyes suffering, she said, "I can only tell you, Arnie, that I love Ben. And if it'll help you, and I hope it will, that I didn't love you, much as I liked you, and still do. We'd never have been married, Arnie, I know that now, and Ben had nothing to do with that. Even if I'd never met Ben, you and I could never—"

  He turned away from her. "Well. I'm glad," he said quietly, conversationally, addressing no one in particular. "I'm damn glad to know we'd never have been married. Because you're a tramp," he said, turning to Ruth again, "and I'm lucky to find it out now. Whoever happens to be around — that's who appeals to you, as it turns out. I'm away, out of circulation, so whoever comes along suits you just as well."

  I could have said something, I could have moved across the room, and shut him up, but I didn't have the heart, and I knew Ruth would understand it.

  "Well, I wish you luck with her, pal," he said to me. "I wish you luck with this two-bit—" He began to cry. "Ruth. please come with me," he said in a low voice. "Ruth, I've counted on it" — his eyes squeezed shut, the tears running down his cheeks. "Ruth, you've got to. Oh, Lord" — he swung away toward the window, hiding his face — "I'm alone."

  This was worse than anything I'd ever expected. I couldn't stand it, and counting on Ruth to say so if Nova moved, I crossed the room, put an arm around Arnie's shoulders, and said, "You've got to try to understan—"

  "No!" — he jerked away. "You took her away, damn you! You help me escape — take Ruthie away — that's a fair trade, I suppose! Well, I just don't want to understand." He turned and walked past me, toward the hall. "I'm still dependent on you. Benny," he said quietly. "I'm not allowed any pride. I've got to shave. I need clothes, and I need the key you've got for me." And I nodded, told him where he could find what he needed, and gave him the key to the apartment we had rented. Then I sat down on the davenport beside Ruth, to sit watching Nova till Arnie was ready to go. Presently he walked out through the living room, shaved and dressed, wearing a suit of mine. He walked straight to the door, opened it, and walked out without looking at any of us, and my heart cried out for him, but there was nothing to say. A moment later we heard Nova's car start up.

  Then we sat in silence, in the dead of night, drained of emotion. Nova sat impassively, his face averted. I gave Arnie a half hour's start, plenty of time, then got up, and motioned Nova to the door with the gun. He walked out, and as he crossed the lawns toward his own house, I broke open the revolver, unloaded it, then called to him. When he turned, I tossed his gun across the lawn to land at his feet. He glanced at me, then stooped, picked up his gun, and walked on toward his door, as I closed mine.

  In the living room I dropped into a chair, and when we spoke it wasn't about Arnie; we weren't up to that yet. Ruth said, "What about Nova, Ben?"

  "I don't know." I shook my head. "I just don't know what he'll do, Ruth, or what I can do about it. I'm hoping he'll do nothing. He messed this up, and Arnie got away; Nova wouldn't look good explaining that. The big single-handed capture is fine if it works, but you're a blundering fool if it doesn't. Nova should have phoned Quentin, and they'd have walked out into the prison, and picked up Arnie with as many men as they needed. Instead, Nova lost him. The kind of guy he is, I think maybe he'll just keep his trap shut. But you never know; he hates us, for sure. And for all I know he's on the phone right now telling everything he knows, whatever they may think of him." I sighed. "But I'm tired now, Ruth; I'm dead tired, and I'm sick of planning, sick of thinking, sick of the whole damn thing, and I couldn't hold Nova here forever. If I could do something — anything at all — to get you in the clear, I'd be doing it. But I don't know what to do. I'm just tired as hell, Ruth. I feel pretty bad, and all I want to do is go to sleep."

  The phone didn't ring all night, and no one pounded at our door. I slept the whole night through, worn out. But twice, I learned later, Ruth awakened to lie there listening for — something. And in the morning, at breakfast, she heard it — the doorbell; and when I opened the door a sheriff stood there; another sat at the wheel of the police car at the curb. Would we come out to San Quentin, please?

  They drove us to Quentin, no one speaking, then in through the gates, and up to the vine-covered Administration Building. They escorted us to the reception room of the Warden's office, and a girl led us into the office.

  It's a big, quiet, very long room, green-carpeted, with white Venetian blinds at the windows. As we walked silently over the rug toward the big desk at the far end of the office, a man stood up from it; he was of average height and weight, had straight brown thinning hair, and a patient intelligent face, a man in his forties, wearing a brown double-breasted suit. "I'm the Warden," he said quietly, and we murmured something in reply. Then he indicated two chairs beside the big desk, and sat down as we did.

  He got right to it. "Early this morning," he said, "I received a phone call from a man who said he lived somewhere in your general neighborhood; an anonymous call. He's been watching you, he told me, has become suspicious, and says he has good reason to believe you helped your brother escape from San Quentin."

  With a sort of rueful admiration for Nova, I admitted to myself that it simply hadn't occurred to me how easily he could involve me without involving himself — by picking up his phone. I couldn't even mention his name short of confessing everything I had done. I felt Ruth's hand slip under my arm.

  "I have no great respect for anonymous calls," the Warden was saying; idly he picked up a brass letter opener, then glanced up at me again. "But I have to pay attention to this one. For one thing, he did know something about you; more than we did. He knew you lived here, at least, very close to the prison; you moved up from Los Angeles, he said, about a week ago. But in our records, on your brother's list of accredited visitors, we still have your old address; you didn't notify us of the change."

  I shrugged. "I just didn't think of it, Warden."

  "Well, it's a coincidence that interests us; your moving up here just before your brother escaped. But that's not all your neighbor told us. He suspects it was you and not your brother who stole a car last night at the point of a wooden gun. He saw you going out in what seemed to be prison clothes."

  I shrugged again. "I wear blue denims around the house, Warden. So do a lot of people. And we did go out last night. in our car, but—"

  He leaned toward me over the desk top. "Two things you've got to think about, Mr. Jarvis. You've come under suspicion, and now if you helped your brother escape, we will probably find it out. I can't make you any sort of promise about what the district attorney of this county will or won't do then, but if you tell us now where your brother is, he may not prosecute. This makes sense; in effect, you'll have helped undo your crime. But if you wait till we catch him, I think you'll end up here as an inmate." He held up a hand as I started to speak. "I know; if you helped your brother, it wasn't to turn him in, but I'm not finished. Your brother has to come back here, Mr. Jarvis, because your brother is a murderer." Again he held up a hand. "I don't mean actually; not yet. But just listen."

  He picked up a large white card, and I caught a glimpse of Arnie's photographed face stapled to its front. "He came in here," said the Warden, "for driving while drunk, killing a man with his car. I've always thought that crime betrayed callousness and indifference toward other human beings. Then" — he flicked his finger against a long series of penned notations on the back of Arnie's card — "his record here is one of fights and violence, beginning soon after his first months in the institution. And it's a growing record, the violence increasing and taking on a quality of dangerous recklessness. Six months after he arrived, we found a razor-sharp home-made knife in you
r brother's cell. Our psychiatrist's report on him tells us he's quite capable of killing. And a week ago, an officer here was struck on the head with a heavy weapon. We don't know your brother did it, but we suspect that he did, and I suspect you know that he did. It was a blow which might have smashed in the officer's skull, and the man who struck it, Mr. Jarvis, didn't care if it did, at the moment. Now, listen to me" — his face strained, he leaned far over the desk toward me. "I didn't begin this work yesterday. I began years ago as a correctional officer in the federal prison system, and now I'm a warden. I tell you out of the experience of years that there are times when I can say something like this with absolute certainty, and I say it now about Arnold Jarvis. I tell you he will kill somebody, unless we get him back here before he can."

  It wasn't reaching me, and he knew it. It worried me, but asking me to turn Arnie in was absurd, and he knew it, and he sat back in his chair, slowly and helplessly shaking his head. Then — actually almost speaking to himself, with no real hope of reaching me — he said something that terrified me. "I suppose it's impossible," he murmured, "to make you believe your own brother would murder to keep from going back to prison," and I felt the blood with-drawing from my skin. Believe? I'd almost done it myself. "I suppose it's impossible," the Warden was saying, "to make you believe your own brother is actually capable of pointing a gun at a man's head and pulling the trigger." But I'd seen him do it only hours before!