by Jack Finney
I walked to him, put a hand on his shoulder, my mouth opening to say something, I didn't know what; but he jerked his shoulder out from under my hand, turned, and strode across the room to Ruth. "Come here, bitch," he said and grabbed her to him, his hands moving down her body cruelly, clutching her to him, squeezing her flesh. "Every night I was in prison I thought about this, and I'm going — "
Even then I remembered — I knew I had to — to move beside them to a position where I could still see Nova. Then, gun still in one hand, I grabbed Arnie's shoulder and yanked him loose, his feet stumbling backward, Ruth pulling away from him. Then I shoved him hard, aiming for his chest but actually striking his neck with the heel of my hand. He staggered back; but I saw in his eyes that he was coming for me, and I was glad of it.
I shoved the gun at Ruth, my thumb sliding the safety off; she took it, and I said rapidly, "Watch Nova, nothing else, no matter what happens. And shoot if he starts up out of that chair." Then Arnie, his balance recovered, was moving toward me, and I wanted nothing more than to feel my fist crack against his face. I felt sorry for him, I truly did, and I was sick of feeling sorry for him, too. In that moment all the fear and awful risk he'd put us both through was in my mind, all we'd done and felt for him; and now what I was going through was too much, and I knew that Arnie should have taken this in any way but the way he had.
He swung at my face and missed, his arm shooting over my right shoulder and the thumb of his fist scratching my neck; our chests touched, and for an instant our eyes were only inches apart and we stared at each other with utter coolness and fury. I couldn't swing my arm, I could only thrust him away; and he tottered backward, trying to swing at me, but off balance and without leverage. I stepped forward and slipped on the waxed wood floor, swinging at him and striking him awkwardly on one shoulder so that he twisted around a little and struck a corner of the television cabinet with his ribs. It was a ridiculous clumsy fight — I don't think I'd swung a fist at anyone since I was a boy in grade school. Arnie turned quickly back to me, and we stood there, swinging awkward blows at each other, neither of us striking where we intended: clumsily struck blows, awkwardly fended off, our feet slipping and sliding on the floor, the sounds of our breathing loud and harsh. I was dead tired almost immediately, and so was he; and then a blow of mine aimed at his jaw struck him on the cheek, grazing past it, but still a fairly hard blow; it knocked him down, or he slipped on the floor, and he lay partly on his back, partly on his side, and I stood over him. For a moment we stared at each other, and then I saw that the fight was over; neither of us, we both knew, wanted to continue; it meant nothing now.
I stepped back, and Arnie got to his feet. "All right, Benny," he said quietly. "You helped me escape; took plenty of chances for me, you really did; you did a good job. So you take my girl in exchange. It's a fair exchange, I suppose, maybe I shouldn't complain; we're all square now. You don't leave me anything, though, no dignity at all; I'm still a beggar, still dependent on you, still asking favors. I've got to shave, Benny, I need some clothes, and I need the key you've got for me." I nodded, and told him where he could find what he needed. Ruth had dropped to the davenport, and I sat down beside her then, to sit watching Nova till Arnie was ready to leave.
I'd never in my life felt worse than I did then, sitting there on that davenport waiting. I knew that nothing worse could have happened to Arnie. I've often read that you can do no greater harm to a man than to strike at his ego — at the secret conception he has of himself — in a way he's got to acknowledge and cannot deny. Some men are invulnerable to that; they have an inward feeling and conviction of worth that cannot be changed. But Arnie was the very reverse. An inward feeling of worth and of being somebody in his own right was something he'd never had, and something therefore that he had always craved. And he felt it only when others supplied it; when they assured him by their words and actions that he was somebody. Ruth was the best thing that had ever happened to Arnie, and now it turned out that it had never happened at all; now he knew not only that he'd lost her, but that he'd never even had her. He was nothing now, I knew he was feeling; he was nobody, not even a man; an outcast.
And I was guilty, I couldn't help feeling; I'd done this to him. I knew I couldn't have prevented it, could never have made things turn out any differently. There is never any justice in who loves whom, no fairness at all. Arnie needed Ruth so much that it was impossible that he could ever keep her. And so today the brothers had fought; Arnie fighting for what he'd already lost, himself; and I fighting my resentment at what I'd had to do to my brother.
He walked into the room, shaved, and wearing a shirt, tie, and suit of mine, his face blank of expression. All he said was, "I won't be in touch," then I handed him the key to the apartment we'd rented for him and the address on a slip of paper. I could see by his face when he took them that he was feeling how dependent he was on us for everything. But he took them, not looking at me, opened the front door, and walked out into the night; my heart cried out for him, but there was nothing to say. A moment or so later we heard Nova's car start up.
Ruth and I sat in silence then, there in the dead of night, worn out and drained of emotion. Nova sat impassive, his face averted, waiting. I gave Arnie half an hour's start, plenty of time, then got up and motioned Nova to the door. He walked out and, as he crossed the lawn toward his own house, I broke open his revolver, unloaded it, then called to him. When he looked back, 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; and I closed mine.
20
I dropped into a chair, and we were silent for several moments. Then, when we did speak, it wasn't about Arnie; we weren't up to that yet. "What about Nova, Ben?" Ruth said quietly.
"I don't know." I shook my head tiredly. "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 he'll keep his trap shut, but you never know; he hates us now, that's for sure. And he could be on the phone this very second telling everything he knows, whatever they think of him." I sighed. "But I'm tired now, Ruth; 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 how or what I could do. I'm just tired as hell, Ruth. I feel pretty bad, and all I want to do is to go to sleep."
The phone didn't ring; and no one pounded at our door. I slept the rest of the night through, worn out. But twice, I learned later, Ruth awakened to lie there listening for — something. It seemed impossible that nothing was going to happen, that no one was coming after us.
I woke up in the morning, I bathed and dressed; Ruth was already in the kitchen when I came out; and nothing happened. The day was bright and clear, the sun streaming into the kitchen where Ruth stood at the stove frying bacon. I sat down at the kitchen table and began reading the paper; I was wearing slacks and a white shirt, with no tie. There was nothing in this early edition about Arnie; and when eight o'clock came, and Ruth switched on the kitchen radio, there was only a brief announcement that the San Quentin inmate had escaped last night, stealing a car at gun point on the highway, and that the car had been found abandoned in San Francisco early this morning. We began to hope then, both for Arnie and for us; but still we almost superstitiously avoided talking about Arnie or all we'd gone through, as though not to tempt fate. I realized presently that we were even lowering our voices, as though not to disturb or even ripple the surface of this apparent calm.
But when the doorbell chimed at eight-twenty, both of us at the breakfast table, our heads swung to stare a
t each other; then I got up to answer it, knowing our hopes had been foolish.
It was a California State Sheriff, standing there in his tan uniform on the concrete walk at the front door, another at the wheel of the police car with the gold star on the door parked at the curb. He was polite and pleasant enough, though he didn't smile, and he didn't actually arrest us. He didn't put it that way, at least; would we come out to San Quentin, please? he wanted to know; they wanted to talk to us out there. So I nodded, asked him in, then put on a tie and coat while Ruth changed her dress.
They drove us out to Quentin, no one speaking, drove in through the gates, then along the water-front on up to the vine-covered Administration Building. They escorted us into the reception room of the Warden's Office, and a girl led us right into his office.
It's a big, very long room, green-carpeted, with white Venetian blinds at the windows; and as we walked silently across the rug toward the big desk at the far end of the office, the Warden stood up from his desk — a man in his forties, of average height and weight, straight brown thinning hair, and a patient intelligent face.
"I'm the Warden," he said quietly, and we murmured something in reply. He indicated two chairs beside the big desk then, 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 for some time, 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 us without involving himself — by merely picking up his phone. Yet I couldn't even mention his name short of confessing everything we'd done. I felt Ruth's hand slip under my arm.
"Now, I have no great respect," the Warden was saying, "for anonymous phone calls or letters." He sat back in his swivel chair, idly picking up a brass letter opener; then he glanced up at me again. "But I have to pay attention to this one. For one thing, he does 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 brother escaping just after you arrive up here. But that's not all your neighbor told me. He suspects it was you and not your brother, he says, who stole a car last night at the point of a wooden gun. He saw you leave your house not long before the car was stolen, dressed in what seemed to be prison clothes. And you returned some time afterward. Maybe you stole that car, he suggested, to make us believe your brother was out; thus giving him his actual opportunity later on last night." The Warden shrugged. "It's not impossible."
"I wear blue denims around the house, Warden," I said. "So do a lot of people. And we did go out last night in our car. But what can I say except that I did not steal someone else's car?"
"Nothing." He nodded, agreeing with me. "So I'm not even going to ask you if you helped your brother in some way; I'm not a law-enforcement officer anyway." He leaned forward, his eyes on mine. "But I am going to ask you — this is why you're here — to tell me where your brother is, if you know."
I smiled, and so did he a little sadly. Then he held up two fingers, leaning toward me over the desk top. "Two things you've got to think about, Mr. Jarvis. You've come under suspicion, so, if you helped your brother escape, we will probably find it out. I can't possibly make you any sort of promise about what the district attorney of this county will or won't do then, but I can tell you this. Like any other prosecuting attorney anywhere, he can, for good reason, decide not to prosecute a case. Which makes sense." The Warden sat back. "A man embezzles money, for example, and through remorse, conscience, or fear, changes his mind, returns it, and is often not prosecuted. It isn't good sense or good public policy to treat those men who, in effect, undo their crimes in the same way you treat the men who don't. It wouldn't offer much incentive in future cases."
Again the Warden sat forward, his eyes intent on mine. "You've committed a crime, and a deadly serious one, if you helped your brother escape. Wait till we catch him, and you'll probably end up here as an inmate. But if, instead, you now tell us where he is, you will, in effect, have undone your crime and have some chance to escape prosecution. That's all I can say to you about that."
I was shaking my head, starting to speak, but he held up a hand, shutting me off. "I know, I know," he said. "If you helped your brother, it wasn't in order to turn him in. But I'm not finished. Two things you've got to think about, and this is the second, and infinitely more important one." His voice dropped. "Your brother has got to come back here, Mr. Jarvis, he's got to. And fast. Right away. Because what do you think he'll do, faced with recapture, if he's given time enough to get hold of a gun? I'm certain he didn't have one when he left the prison, and unless you've given him one since — ?"
I shook my head.
"Then we've got to get him back quick while he's still unarmed. Otherwise he'll shoot to kill before he'll let them take him. Innocent men will die, Mr. Jarvis, unless you prevent it, right now."
I was shaking my head. "Who says so?" I said. "He's a convicted criminal, I suppose. And he's escaped from San Quentin. But who says he's a murderer besides? Not everyone will kill, Warden."
"I know," he said quietly. "But your brother will. Listen to me. I didn't begin this job yesterday, and I'm not a political appointee. California brought me here from out of state. This is my career; I've been in the federal prison system for many years, at nearly every job, beginning years ago as a custodial officer — guards, most people say, though I wish they wouldn't. Before that I was a police officer. So maybe you can believe me when I tell you I've developed almost an instinct for what the men here are like, and I am certain your brother will use a gun before he lets anyone bring him back here. There's something wrong with your brother, Mr. Jarvis; he's bragged and boasted here, he can't seem to resist it; and he's been taunted for it, and he's fought about it, often. And when he does, there's been a recklessness about it I don't like. He simply doesn't care at the moment what the consequences are; taunt him, rib him, as some of the men have done, and nothing seems to matter to him but to try somehow to erase it. I know that kind of man, Mr. Jarvis; a good many of them end up in prison.
"Listen" — he leaned toward me, holding my eyes with his own — "A short time ago an officer here was struck on the head with a heavy weapon — in your brother's cell block, and when your brother was there. It was a glancing blow, knocking him unconscious, and cutting his scalp; that's all. But it might equally as well have smashed the man's skull in; the man who did it, Mr. Jarvis, didn't care which at the moment. In the sense of proof, we don't know that your brother did it. But we are morally certain he did; we run a prison, Mr. Jarvis, and we know. And we have a witness who can identify the man who struck the guard. If it turns out to be your brother, as I'm sure it will, it means Death Row for him.
"This time, what's going to stop him from killing, it we give him time to get a gun since he's on his way to the Row anyway? Nothing, I tell you. Unless you help us now, men are going to die when your brother faces recapture. Or do you think that time won't come? That he won't be caught?" He shook his head a little. "If you think that you're wrong. The man who escapes and is never heard of again — because he's leading a quiet exemplary life — is so rare he hardly exists in reality. The kind of iron strength and terrible self-discipline that takes — to break all ties, and become a new man — that kind of strength almost always keeps the man in prison to serve out his time; he can take it. But your brother hasn't that kind of strength, he doesn't begin to. He can't break every old association; he's dependent on them and will come sneaking back to them; it's
an old and familiar pattern to us. And when he does we'll take him. Or he'll get into trouble once again, as he did before, and we'll get him then. Think about that moment of recapture, Mr. Jarvis, picture it in your mind; can you see him coming quietly and without resisting?" He shook his head. "No, Mr. Jarvis, he'll shoot. If he has time to get a gun. Men will be killed, and their blood will be on your hands. Are you willing to support their widows?" He slammed his fist down on the desk. "You've got to tell me now where he is!"
It wasn't reaching me, and he knew it, and he sat slowly and helplessly back in his chair. I believed him; I believed, at least, that he might be speaking the truth about Arnie; I could feel it in my bones. And yet to turn Arnie in — to say, Yes, you're right, Warden, and turn Arnie in — was asking too much. It was absurd, and he knew it.
"I suppose it's impossible," the Warden murmured, almost to himself, "to make you believe your brother is actually capable of pointing a gun at a man's head and pulling the trigger. You won't believe it till he's done it." But I'd seen him try to do just that only hours before. My God, I was thinking to myself, staring at the man across the desk from me, it's true; this is how Arnie is going to end up.
It was hard to talk. "But — he wasn't that way," I said. "He wasn't like that!"
"No. But he is now."
"Why?" I was leaning toward him over the desk. "What — what happened to Arnie!"
He just shrugged, his face sad and resigned. "Prison," he said. "That's what happened to him; he couldn't take it. It takes strength to come through prison whole, the way prisons are today."
