by Jack Finney
He tested his plan. The fingers of his left hand clawlike on the little stripping, he drew back his other fist until his body began teetering backward. But he had no leverage now—he could feel that there would be no force to his swing—and he moved his fist slowly forward till he rocked forward on his knees again and could sense that this swing would carry its greatest force. Glancing down, however, measuring the distance from his fist to the glass, he saw it was less than two feet.
It occurred to him that he could raise his arm over his head, to bring it down against the glass. But, experimenting in slow motion, he knew it would be an awkward girl-like blow without the force of a driving punch, and not nearly enough to break the glass.
Facing the window, he had to drive a blow from the shoulder, he knew now, at a distance of less than two feet; and he did not know whether it would break through the heavy glass. It might; he could picture it happening, he could feel it in the nerves of his arm. And it might not; he could feel that too—feel his fist striking this glass and being instantaneously flung back by the unbreaking pane, feel the fingers of his other hand breaking loose, nails scraping along the casing as he fell.
He waited, arm drawn back, fist balled, but in no hurry to strike; this pause, he knew, might be an extension of his life. And to live even a few seconds longer, he felt, even out here on this ledge in the night, was infinitely better than to die a moment earlier than he had to. His arm grew tired, and he brought it down.
Then he knew that it was time to make the attempt. He could not kneel here hesitating indefinitely till he lost all courage to act, waiting till he slipped off the ledge. Again he drew back his arm, knowing this time that he would not bring it down till he struck. His elbow protruding over Lexington Avenue far below, the fingers of his other hand pressed down bloodlessly tight against the narrow stripping, he waited, feeling the sick tenseness and terrible excitement building. It grew and swelled toward the moment of action, his nerves tautening. He thought of Clare—just a wordless, yearning thought—and then drew his arm back just a bit more, fist so tight his fingers pained him, and knowing he was going to do it. Then with full power, with every last scrap of strength he could bring to bear, he shot his arm forward toward the glass, and he said, Clare!
He heard the sound, felt the blow, felt himself falling forward, and his hand closed on the living-room curtains, the shards and fragments of glass showering onto the floor. And then, kneeling there on the ledge, an arm thrust into the room up to the shoulder, he began picking away the protruding slivers and great wedges of glass from the window frame, tossing them in onto the rug. And, as he grasped the edges of the empty window frame and climbed into his home, he was grinning in triumph.
He did not lie down on the floor or run through the apartment, as he had promised himself; even in the first few moments it seemed to him natural and normal that he should be where he was. He simply turned to his desk, pulled the crumpled yellow sheet from his pocket, and laid it down where it had been, smoothing it out; then he absently laid a pencil across it to weight it down. He shook his head wonderingly, and turned to walk toward the closet.
There he got out his topcoat and hat and, without waiting to put them on, opened the front door and stepped out, to go find his wife. He turned to pull the door closed and the warm air from the hall rushed through the narrow opening again. As he saw the yellow paper, the pencil flying, scooped off the desk and, unimpeded by the glassless window, sail out into the night and out of his life, Tom Benecke burst into laughter and then closed the door behind him.
Collier's, October 26 1956, 138(9):82, 84-88, 90-91
A Dash of Spring
A magazine illustration would never fit this story. For one thing, the girl (her name is Louise Huppfelt) isn't good-looking enough. As for the guy (Ralph Shultz is the name), he's too short, and he wears glasses.
No, Louise Huppfelt and Ralph Shultz are real-life people, and — no use denying it — life in the stories is just a little bit different. A lot different, in fact — a lot better, and if real life would only get wise to itself, it would imitate slavishly some of the wonderful people who live in the stories. Oh, they have problems, yes, wouldn't you like to trade your problems for theirs? Take the high cost of housing, for example. They have no worries about that. Most of those wonderful people live in big rambling homes, country estates, or beautifully decorated apartments. They're happy, and it must be contagious because even the people in the ads are happy. All it takes is a can of floor wax. Or give them a new kind of razor blade and they grin with ecstasy. And go crazy with delight over a box of corn flakes. While you, dear reader, a victim of real life, what do you do on a rainy Monday morning? You just sit there, like Ralph Shultz or Louise Huppfelt, chewing away on those very same corn flakes with a miserable look on your face.
There's no doubt about it, as Ralph and Louise would be the first to agree, it's time we changed, changed real life to life as it should be, life as it's lived in the stories. Maybe that's the solution to world peace. Maybe it isn't, of course, but at least it's as good as a lot of others you read.
Anyway, take a recent issue of a certain very fine magazine. Ralph and Louise both read it, and you probably did, too. On page thirty you saw UNDER THE SKIN. Can a beautiful, wealthy girl find happiness?
On the next page was an article: HAS HOLLYWOOD GONE HOLLYWOOD? A debate by a panel of famous stars.
And on page thirty-four — here's the one you read first — RECIPE FOR LOVE. A dash of spring, a boy and a girl … and just a pinch of loneliness.
Now, millions of people read that story, including Ralph Shultz who lives in a boarding, house on East Twenty-sixth Street. After supper one night, in his shirt sleeves and wearing a pair of battered old slippers, Ralph sat down in his ancient easy chair, picked up his magazine, leafed through it, looking at the illustrations first, then turned back to RECIPE FOR LOVE and began to read.
There were other empty seats on the bus, he read, quite a number, in fact. But the other half of this vacant seat was occupied by a girl. Not just a girl, but a girl whose deep red hair picked up and held some of the choicer tints of the late-afternoon sun.
Yippee, said Ralph mournfully.
A girl whose eyes, whose soft, brown eyes, were queen-size and touched with flecks of gold.
Ralph whistled through his teeth.
A girl, the tall young man decided, who was very much worth sitting next to. And so, because he was young and because it was spring the young man sat down … next to the girl with the beautiful queen-size eyes.
Yeah, said Ralph, I ride the bus every night and just show me a girl like that. And if I did see her, so what? My hair isn't wavy, I barely hit five ten and a half, and I wear glasses besides. Rimless glasses. Wonder if horn-rimmed glasses would look more distinguished, maybe?
Now, hundreds, maybe thousands of other people were reading that story at just about the same time Ralph was. People Ralph had never heard of — Louise Huppfelt, for instance. She was alone, as she often was., in her little two-room apartment on Fortieth Street, not kissing anybody, not wearing a beautiful sea-green gown. She was wearing a rather ratty old bathrobe, in fact, and she'd just washed out her stockings, and settled down for a spot of reading.
RECIPE FOR LOVE, she saw, and she sighed and said, Brother, that's just what I need.
There were other empty seats on the bus, quite a number, in fact. But the other half of this vacant seat —
Don't tell me, said Louise.
— was occupied by a girl.
Surprise, surprise.
A girl whose deep-red hair —
Don't they ever have plain, brown hair like mine?
— whose deep-red hair picked up and held some of the choicer tints of the late-afternoon sun.
All my hair ever picks up are some of the choicer tints of New York soot.
Her soft, brown eyes, were queen-size and touched with flecks of gold.
Oh, brother! said Louise. And what does he look like — our hero?
Tell me quick! I just can't wait!
Down on Twenty-sixth Street, Ralph Shultz, his feet up on the bed now, slouched down in the easy chair and read Continued on page 78.
Ralph turned the pages and read: The young man glanced at the girl — who gave not a sign that she was even slightly aware of his existence.
That's more like it, said Ralph.
If anything, she paid even closer attention to her crossword puzzle. The young man watched her pencil poised over the paper, hesitating at 22: horizontal, seven letters. Twisting his head, he read the definition, Favorite: a minion. The young man leaned close, Darling —
What? said the girl her brows arched in surprise and indignation. What did you say?
The young man smiled. I said, Darling, he replied. That's the word you're looking for. Favorite: a minion; the word is darling.
The girl frowned momentarily. Oh, she said then, and smiled. The word in the puzzle, you mean. Her white teeth flashed and her red lips curved with laughter. For a moment, she said,I thought you —
The young man interrupted. Maybe I did, he said softly. Maybe I really meant it when I said darling.
Oh, murder, said Ralph. Oh, death. If — I ever tried anything like that, they'd have to thaw me out for two straight days with a blowtorch. I can see it now; she smiled, her red lips curving with laughter as she said, 'Scram, buddy, you look like a hop-head to me.' Tell me more, quick! Then what did she say?
Fourteen blocks north of Ralph's room, at just about this same time …
The girl looked up now, at the young man. Boy, what a story this is, said Louise without enthusiasm. Now, what? Is our hero handsome?
She looked at his friendly grin, and the laughter in his dark blue eyes.
Oh, ecstasy!
He pushed back his hat, now, in a sudden, boyish gesture.
And she saw that his toupee was slightly twisted? Nope!
She saw the gleam, like glints on blue steel, in the tight-knit curls of his dark, shining hair.
Oh, tell me, said Louise with a heart-rending sigh, what bus is that? The Washington Square bus? The Twenty-third Street crosstown? I know it isn't the bus I ride every night, because I've never seen you there, lover. And what if I did? I do crossword puzzles on the bus, all right, but my eyes aren't queen-size.
And so Louise Huppfelt, in her two-room apartment on Fortieth Street, and Ralph Shultz, in his one-room on Twenty-sixth Street, both continued, more or less happily, reading RECIPE FOR LOVE.
Look, said the young man, if you don't have dinner with me, I'll haunt you till you'll just have to give in — in self-defense. So, he said softly, make it sooner, will you? Please? Continued on page 91.
There's an ad for, soup on page ninety-one; maybe you saw it. Says: BE HAPPY! EAT SOUP FOR ENERGY — THREE TIMES A DAY! Wonder if it would work? And the people in the ad certainly look happy — Mother, Father, both children, and Grandmother all eating soup and smiling. They look happy, all right. Full of energy, too. Especially Grandmother. Wonder what happened to Grandfather? Probably didn't eat enough soup. Well, anyway — (Recipe for Love. Continued.)
Well, said the girl, maybe I should have dinner with you. And the young man smiled. But then again, she said, maybe I shouldn't. And the young man's smile collapsed. But, she added — and his smile came back — I will. Why don't you pick me up at my apartment around seven?
Louise's reaction upon reading this point in the story was unfortunate. Oh, why, she wailed, doesn't life live up to these wonderful stories!
Now, what do you say we skip a little? Turn to the end of the story and see how it all worked out? The young man arrived at the girl's apartment okay, and …
He stood there in the doorway, and for a moment he stopped breathing. A sea-green gown swept from her bare shoulders, followed every luscious curve all the way to her ankles. Her hair was alive with a light of its own, and the cream of her skin, the red of her lips, made a picture impossibly beautiful. For a moment he actually closed his eyes, and then the miracle spoke.
Why, she said, you're dripping wet! It must be pouring out!
Ah — yes, the young man answered, it is. Maybe I'd better go hunt up a cab while you wait here.
A cab! she answered. Why, you'll never find a cab in this rain. Look, we have to eat, but we don't have to drown. You get that wet coat off and sit down by the fireplace. I'll put on an apron and stir us up some crepes suzette. And we'll have a quiet evening. How does that sound?
It didn't sound so good to Ralph Shultz, because he threw the magazine across the room.
How does that sound? he said. A quiet evening alone with a babe like that! It sounds wonderful, he said miserably. Marvelous! It sounds impossible! Oh, life, real life, when are you ever going to catch up with life in these marvelous stories?
Well, out of the clouds, down to earth, back to grim life. The gray, miserable, sickly daylight always comes around, as you very well know, and you've got to get up, go to work, work all day, and trudge home again at night. Which is what happened to Ralph Shultz the following day. He, was coming home, walking along toward Fifth Avenue and thinking — well, it would be nice to say he was thinking some profound thoughts. But this is real life, don't forget, and about all he was thinking was: What a lousy job: I'd like to quit. I'd like to walk in and tell that old … Wish I could start my own business. Raise hamsters, maybe. They say there's money in that. Or start a diaper service. Hire a secretary, a nice-looking one, and …
Ah, excuse me, mister! Ralph said aloud. I'm sorry! I was —
Hey, if de sidewalk's big enough for me, it oughta be big enough for you, Jack.
Ralph apologized to the big fat man and, resuming his thoughts, walked on. But that's enough of Ralph's thoughts. They were pretty much like the ones most of us think.
Ralph arrived at Fifth Avenue, the bus came, he got on, and — well, certainly. Of course, you've guessed it. Of course, Louise Huppfelt was on that bus. And you're saying, Some coincidence, all right! But wait a second. After all, they rode the Fifth Avenue bus every night, so once in a while they'd be bound to take the same one, wouldn't they? Anyway, it's only in stories that coincidences never happen. In real life they're commonplace. Happen all the time.
Well, there was Louise on the bus; not beautiful, but not bad, either. There were no mysterious high lights in her hair, but those plain ordinary high lights were pretty nice, too. And — well, what would you want Ralph to do? Sit down next to a big fat man? He sat next to Louise.
Not bad, he thought; not bad at all. Kind of cute, in fact. Wish she'd say something; ask me where some street is, maybe, or maybe drop something and I could pick it up, and … Hey, look — she's doing a crossword puzzle. Like the girl in that story! Hey, I wonder if I could work that same gag, and — no. Still, maybe. Let's see what she's working on. Twenty-nine verticle, five letters. She's got the first letter, H. Definition: Having to do with bees.
It's hives! he said aloud, a little too loudly, in fact; several people turned around.
What? said Louise. What did you say?
I said — he spoke too quietly, now. Louise could hardly hear him —I said — it's hives.
Hives! she said, her brows arched in surprise and indignation. On my hands? It certainly is not! That's sunburn and nothing else, and I really don't see what business it is of yours!
No! said Ralph. No, what I mean is, that's the word. In the puzzle!
It certainly is not, she said coldly. You're wrong on every count.
Well, I, said Ralph. That is, I — I only meant — I just thought —
Excuse me, said Louise, rising. I get off here.
And that was that. It's too bad, of course. Too bad that life doesn't behave the way it ought to, but it seldom does. In the stories life co-operates with the characters in it. The word in the crossword puzzle is darling, the conversation works out beautifully, and the girl does not get off the bus in the middle of it. But this girl did. She lived on Fortieth Street, this was Fortieth Street, s
o naturally she got off the bus.
What a dope, Ralph said to himself. What a moron you are. Did you really think it would work out like the story, you poor helpless boob? Did you think her ruby-red lips would curve with laughter, and … oh, nuts.
For a while he sat there,, looking out the window listening to an argument between the bus driver and a poor, old, white-haired lady. Then — I know what I should have said, he thought. I should have smiled and said, very softly, After all — what's a mere word between — friends. Then she'd have smiled, and sort of looked at me, and said, Now, really — Or no. No. Friends? she'd have said, and she'd smile again, and I'd say, Yes — I hope so, that is. And then she'd have said …
And all the way home Ralph Shultz figured out what he should have said, and what she would have said, and — oh, he worked out some very clever remarks. He had her laughing and giggling at some of the wonderful witty things he was saying. Only it was about seventeen minutes too late.
Louise got to thinking, too, as she walked home to her apartment with the cracked ceiling, on Fortieth Street. What in the world was wrong with me? she asked herself. Just why did I have to freeze him dead? He wasn't really trying to act smart, poor guy. He must have read that story about the girl on the bus. So he was just trying to work the same gag, that's all. Only it didn't work out quite right.
He was kind of cute, too, she thought. No magazine illustration or anything, but — nice. She laughed. Hives, he said. I could have helped him out a little. I could have said Mister, the word in the story was darling. Or no. No, that might seem a little too … I should have said, Sir, if you think I'm the kind of girl who could possibly respond to the advances of a strange man on a bus, you're absolutely right! And then he'd laugh, and I'd smile, and then he'd say …
And by the time she got home Louise had quite a little conversation assembled, too. But each of them spent the evening alone. It rained that night, too. It would have been a wonderful evening to spend by the fireplace, just the two of them. If Louise had a fireplace. Which she didn't.
