The Jack Finney Reader

by Jack Finney

  I know. But we couldn't begin to afford a real trip to break out of the rut. Haven't the time or money. He walked beside her, yanked up the blind, and they stood looking out on the square. So I guess you'd call this a kind of instant trip; the car motor hardly warm before it's over. Still, it beats a three-day drive, doesn't it? Trip's just started, and we've already arrived!

  Fran didn't answer, and he turned to look at her. Her face was reddening. David! Did you really register as Mr. and Mrs. John Smith?

  He grinned. Sure. Why?

  I called you David. Twice. And the clerk heard me. I'll never be able to look at him again.

  You won't have to. We'll stay right here. Have dinner sent up, and eat it at a table beside the windows, the way they do in the movies.

  Can you do that? Well, of course you can in a hotel. It's been so long, I forgot. Oh, let's, David! It's a wonderful idea.

  All right. I'll phone and ask for menus in a few minutes. There was a big davenport along one wall, and David swung an end of it around so it was near the window. Meanwhile, let's enjoy the view. He sat down, lifted his feet to the coffee table, and Fran sat down beside him. Okay, Mrs. Smith?

  Oh, yes! You know, it's strange, but this is like a trip. It feels just like one. We haven't been gone much more than an hour, and I'm already beginning to miss the children.

  Oh, lord.

  Fran raised her feet, ankles crossing, to the coffee table beside his. They are cute kids, aren't they?

  He nodded, smiling wryly, fondly. Yeah. Last night, I was walking past Junior's room. I thought he was asleep long since, but he called to me. Wanted to know how old I'd be when he was seventy-one. He shrugged. You wonder what they're thinking about, don't you? I tried to find out, but he was off on something else — had I ever seen it raining on one side of the street and sunny on the other?

  What did you tell him?

  I said yes. I did once, when I was a kid. I never forgot it. Bright sun on one side, rain on the other.

  What did Junior say to that?

  Said if he'd been there, he'd have walked exactly down the middle of the street and got wet on one side and stayed dry on the other.

  What did you say?

  I suggested he carry half an umbrella and wear half his slicker, half his rain hat, and one rubber boot. Wear shorts and one sandal, and so forth, on the other side.

  What did he say to that?

  He laughed. He liked that.

  Fran nodded, smiling. Remember when we took Sue to the zoo? Junior was just a baby, and she was only a year older. She asked what some building or other was. It was the animal hospital, and we told her so. David was nodding, smiling. It must have been a week or ten days later when she said, Mommy, you know the animal hospital at the zoo? I said yes. Well, the doctors and nurses, she said, are they animals?

  Yeah, that was wonderful. Remember the first time she saw snow? When we took her to the mountains. We got there at night, and when she walked out of the cabin in the morning and stepped onto the snow, she went in up to her waist. She said. 'There's something wrong with this snow!' She thought you walked on top of it.

  Fran put a hand on his knee. You like being a father, don't you, David?

  Well, I'll tell you, at the risk of being grossly oversentimental. Sometimes, when one of the kids says Dad, I get an actual thrill along my spine. Yeah, I like being a father; I sure as hell do. And sometimes I could brain them. But aren't we off on the wrong story, Mrs. Smith? Chapter twenty-six of something from the old ladies' rental library? Don't try to crawl out of chapter one of my book, kiddo. Why do you think I fed you all that expensive booze? You hungry, by the way?

  No, not especially, but it's after seven — dinnertime.

  Dinnertime where? In the suburbs, maybe. But not here, baby, not with Good-Time Davey. Here, there's plenty of time. For everything.

  She turned to look at him. That's true, isn't it? she said slowly. The kids aren't asleep yet. They're not even in bed. But here, that doesn't matter at all, does it?

  No, it doesn't, he said. It doesn't matter one damn bit.

  Later, when they were sitting at a linen-covered table for two by the window, Fran reached for the glass coffee urn warming over a stubby candle in a metal stand, re-filled her cup, then turned to the window again. All her life and for over seven years of David's, they had been seeing Union Square, but never from this angle; here it was new. They sat silently, looking down at the green square in the heart of the city, criss-crossed steadily by foreshortened figures of pedestrians, occasionally aflutter with pigeons, surrounded by the illuminated fronts of expensive stores and by street lights, neon, and all the rush and clamor of Friday-night traffic. It was exciting.

  Then Fran picked up her cup as David turned back to the table, their eyes met, and Fran smiled. Hello, she said softly.

  Hi, he said. Did I say that lazily enough? Fran nodded, still smiling, and David sighed with pleasure. I just don't understand what people have against sin and luxury. It's such fun. Here I am: young, single, healthy, and wealthy; wallowing in creature comfort; a golden girl beside me, her lovely flannel bathrobe hinting deliciously of the goodies underneath.

  Oh, for heaven's sakes.

  I just can't figure out what the reform crowd has against all this, can you?

  Nope.

  What do you want to do tonight? See a show? We might just possibly get tickets for the Curran or Geary, if there's a play on.

  Fran nodded. We could try if you like.

  Or we could go to a nightclub, maybe. There are some new ones we've never been to — plenty of them. Most of them, in fact. Or we could take a cab to North Beach and sit over a brandy or two at Enrico's, at one of the sidewalk tables. Watch the people go by, just the way they do in Paris.

  They all sound nice. But you know what I'd really like to do?

  What?

  Promise you'll say so if it doesn't appeal to you. Because any of the things you named are fine with me. Promise?

  Yeah.

  Well, this may sound silly — it is silly — but I'd love to go down to the lobby, pick out a handful of new magazines and some candy, then come back up here and read in bed. A whole, long evening of just reading in bed, without once having to make the kids brush their teeth, or find them nightclothes, or give them baths or vitamins or drinks of water, or referee their fights, or say good-night six times, or answer questions, or send them back to bed, or read them stories. A whole, long evening of absolutely uninterrupted, peaceful—

  I'm not sure you fully understand the modern novel, Fran. The central characters can't be in bed all the time. Or can they? Maybe they can: maybe we're living a new best-seller. Personally, I think its the greatest idea I've heard in years. You belong on the Plans Board.

  They read in the big double bed for over three hours — eating candy, occasionally looking up to smile, or talk, or trade magazines, or read a line or paragraph aloud.

  A little before eleven. Fran put down her magazine and looked at David. He was lying on his back, his pajama coat unbuttoned, his knees up, hands clasped under his head. Outside their open windows, there was very nearly complete silence now; the streets around the square were almost empty. Through several seconds, the only sounds were a man's footsteps on the sidewalk three stories below and the never-stopping small clatter of the cable-cars' cable trundling along in its slot under the pavement of Powell Street.

  Then, in the distance, Fran heard the musical cling-clang of a cable-car bell, and she said, Listen.

  Yeah. Nice.

  You know, it just occurred to me that there must be people from London and Paris, from Venice and Rome, who come here to San Francisco. Some of them are probably in this hotel right now, listening to that very same cable-car bell, all excited and thrilled to be here.

  That's true. You forget about it, living here; but we're in one of the romantic spots of the world, too, aren't we? Fran nodded, and he said, You agree, do you? You feel romantic? And she nodded again.
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  They had breakfast in bed the next morning, a linen-covered table beside them, all the windows open on a sunny, breezy, blue-skied day.

  Propped up by two pillows, sipping her coffee, Fran said, This is my idea of sin — breakfast in bed. It's the most slothful, lazy, wonderfully luxurious thing I know of, so it must be wrong.

  Yeah, it's great, David said, but I'm forced to tell you that I've finally had all I can stand of bed. I know it was me who lured you into this weekend of sin, but you've had us in bed ever since. He threw back the covers and swung his legs to the floor. Now it's time for some action. he said. We're getting dressed. Then we'll go out and prowl through Gump's — all three floors, pricing their most expensive jewelry and Oriental jade. He turned in the bathroom doorway. We'll check out of the hotel first — not that I ever want to leave, but we can't afford any more. After Gump's, we'll get the car, drive to the beach, and walk along it if it's not too cold or windy. Then lunch at the Cliff House at a table overlooking the ocean. I don't know what we'll do this afternoon, but the resting up is over. We're in condition now, and we'll visit the zoo, maybe, or the Japanese Tea Garden — anything you want. Tonight, something big. Dinner out and then a play, if there's anything on. Then, finally — home, I guess. We'll drive back over the bridge in our pumpkin pulled by mice. The toll collectors will be amazed. I'll be shaved in three minutes, he said, and shut the door.

  The instant the door latch clicked, Fran reached for the phone on the bedside table, and when the hotel operator answered, she gave a number — very softly, so David wouldn't hear. After a few moments, she said, Hello, Mrs. Narwell. How are the children?

  Presently, David came out of thebathroom, walking fast, rubbing his newly shaved face, his eyes eager. Let's go, kid. Let's move. Or I'll have to find myself a live one. I hear this town is full of them.

  When Fran came back into the room, David, fully dressed, was standing at the open window with a foot up on the radiator top. He turned, smiling. Ready? I've got the bag packed, all but your toothbrush. Fran nodded, and he frowned, studying her face. What's wrong?

  Nothing, she said, smiling at him brightly. Nothing at all, really.

  Nothing at all, really? Come on, Fran, what's the trouble?

  Well, it really is nothing, David. It's just that I phoned home to check on the kids, make sure they were behaving. And Mrs. Narwell said Sue has a little fever and doesn't feel too good. She's in bed. It's nothing much. Mrs. Narwell feels sure it's just a cold coming on. There's no need to change our plans, she said. Sue will be perfectly all right with her. And Fran smiled brightly. So let's go and have fun. We can phone home every now and then, just to make sure she's all right.

  David nodded thoughtfully, then said, Okay. But he didn't move. Finally, he grinned wryly and said, Sure, let's do that. We'll go and have a wild, gay, carefree time, with brief interruptions every once in a while to check up on your sick child. Is that your plan?

  Well, certainly. It's the first time we've been away together, just the two of us, in over two years. There's no reason we can't just—

  Fran?

  Yes?

  Your reasoning is flawless. Sue has a little cold or flu, probably; she'll be all right. But you want to go home, don't you? Right now. And see for yourself.

  She hesitated until it was too late to lie. Oh, David, I'm terribly sorry, but yes, I do. I know it's silly. I know she's all right. I know Mrs. Narwell would take perfect care of her. But I want to see her myself. David, I'm terribly—

  Forget it. Don't worry about it, he said, turning toward the open bag on the luggage rack at the foot of the bed. We'll check out and go home.

  In the car, as they approached the long ramp leading to the bridge, Fran said, I shouldn't have told you. I should have kept it to myself and not spoiled your weekend. I shouldn't even have said I phoned.

  I'd have known you phoned.

  How?

  The call was on our bill.

  Oh, of course. I forgot.

  Well, they don't forget. All the calls were on our bill. Both of them.

  Both? I made only one call. They must have — She stopped.

  He was grinning at her. I know. I made the other. While you were in the bathroom this morning. I don't know what Mrs. Narwell must have thought of us. So I knew Sue was sick and was trying to decide whether to tell you.

  Fran laughed, shaking her head. You never really escape, do you? You can try. You can pull at the chains. You can pretend you're young and free again. But once you have children, you never get away.

  No, you don't.

  She glanced at his profile, then said quickly, But I do feel as though we've actually had a trip, David. It was fun, even the little while we had. It really was, and I feel as though we've been away for quite a while. It's surprising. I'm actually excited about seeing the children, aren't you?

  Sure.

  Again she studied his profile. Really?

  He glanced at her. Sure. I'll be glad to see them. Though I'll admit I could have postponed it a little longer. For the rest of the weekend. Or until they've finished college. Her head turned toward him, and he said quickly, I'm only kidding. I'll be very glad to see them. But I was just thinking that lord knows when you and I will be alone together in Paris, London, or Venice, if ever. We can't even make San Francisco.

  Fran sighed. I guess a man loses a lot when he gets married and becomes a father — much more than a woman, maybe. I often see you chafing at the bit, David — at being tied down. More than you realize.

  He waited a moment. Well, I'm not going to say you're wrong. You don't fully realize it beforehand, but the price of children is most of your freedom and all of your independence. He glanced at her face and said, You're all upset because I feel that way. But remember one thing.

  What's that?

  He was slowing for the toll booth at the bridge entrance, a hand out his window. He dropped his quarter into the collector's hand, nodding a response to the man's thanks. Then he answered Fran's question. That they're worth it, he said, and nothing else matters besides that.

  And they drove on across the bridge toward home.

  McCall's, October 1962, XC(1):106-107, 192, 194-196

  Time Has No Boundaries

  When I walked into Sergeant Ihren's office, he stood up reluctantly, as though he weren't sure but that he'd be throwing me into a cell in the next few minutes and would regret such politeness. I'm Bernard Weygand, I said brightly, stopping at his desk, but he didn't smile.

  Yeah, he said. Nice of you to come, he added suspiciously and gestured at the chair before his desk. We both sat down.

  Glad to come, I said, though I have no idea why you want to see me.

  He didn't rise to that; he just sat looking me over. Pretty young to be a professor, aren't you? he said.

  Well, actually I'm an assistant professor.

  Young for that too, aren't you?

  Sure. That's the reason for these metal-rimmed professor-style glasses and the burlap suit; it helps the image, as the political-science boys say. He didn't smile; I had the sudden feeling that he was absolutely uninterested in anything but his work; that, except for crime news, he read nothing; that he was intelligent, shrewd, perceptive and humorless; and that he probably knew no one but other policemen and didn't think much of most of them. He was a young-middle-aged, undistinguished, formidable man and, if he'd murmured boo just then, I'd have leaped from my chair and confessed to anything.

  He said, There's some people we can't find, and I thought maybe you could help us. I looked politely puzzled, but he ignored it. One of them worked in Haring's restaurant; you know the place, been there for years. He was a waiter, and he disappeared at the end of a three-day weekend with their entire receipts — nearly $5000. Left a note saying he liked Haring's and enjoyed working there, but they'd been underpaying him for ten years, and now he figured they were even. Guy with an oddball sense of humor, they tell me. Ihren leaned back in his swivel chair and frowned at me. W
e can't find that man. He's been gone over a year now and not a trace of him.

  I thought he expected me to say something, and I did my best. Maybe he moved to some other city and changed his name.

  Ihren looked startled, as though I'd said something even more stupid than he expected. That wouldn't help! he said, irritated.

  I was tired of feeling intimidated. Bravely I said, Why not?

  People don't steal in order to hole up forever; they steal money to spend it. His money's gone now, he feels forgotten, and he's got a job again somewhere as a waiter. I looked skeptical, I suppose, because Ihren said, Certainly as a waiter; he won't change jobs. That's all he knows, all he can do. Remember John Carradine, the movie actor? Used to see him a lot. Had a face a foot long, all chin and long jaw; very distinctive. I nodded, and Ihren turned in his swivel chair to a filing cabinet. He opened a folder, brought out a glossy sheet of paper and handed it to me. It was a police WANTED poster and, while the photograph on it did not really resemble the movie actor, it had the same remarkable long-jawed memorability. Ihren said, He could move, and he could change his name, but he could never change that face. Wherever he is, he should have been found months ago; that poster went everywhere.

  I shrugged, and Ihren swung to the file again. He brought out and handed me a large oldfashioned sepia photograph mounted on heavy gray cardboard. It was a group photo of a kind you seldom see any more; all the employees of a small business lined up on the sidewalk before it. There were a dozen moustached men in this and a woman in a long dress, smiling and squinting in the sun as they stood before a small building, which I recognized. It was Haring's restaurant, looking not too different than it does now. Ihren said, I spotted this on the wall of the restaurant office; I don't suppose anyone has really looked at it in years. The big guy in the middle is the original owner who started the restaurant in 1885, when this was taken; no one knows who anyone else in the picture was, but take a good look at the other faces.

  I did and saw what he meant; a face in the old picture almost identical with the one in the WANTED poster. It had the same astonishing length, the broad chin seeming nearly as wide as the cheekbones, and I looked up at Ihren. Who is it? His father? His grandfather?