by Jack Finney
“He says he can explain.”
“That’s what he said yesterday.”
“This is yesterday’s paper.”
“It is not; I can see the date on the front page here, and it’s today’s.”
“Well, what Reagan says is on the front page, isn’t it?”
There was a pause, then reluctantly she said, “Yes.”
“What’s he say?”
“He says he can explain.”
“That’s what he said yesterday.”
“I’m leaving! You’re so unfriendly! Why don’t you show your face?”
“It looks like Lon Chaney’s in Phantom of the Opera. Remember?”
“Yeah, I saw it on TV; I liked The Unholy Three better.”
“That was good, too.”
“Well, I have to go now. Bye!”
I heard her footsteps, but the sound didn’t decrease in volume and I knew she was just standing there marching up and down in place.
She stopped, there was a moment’s silence, then I said, “You’re still there, aren’t you?” There was no answer, and I said, “I know you’re out there; I can hear you breathing.”
She said, “I hate you! You’re just like my husband.” This time, listening to her steps, I knew she was really walking away.
I took the newspaper down and saw what I’d been waiting for: the mailman. I walked toward him, and just before he turned in toward Hetty’s building, I said, “Morning! Anything for me?”
“Morning, Mr. Bennell. Yep!” He shuffled through the stuff, then handed me a little stack of mail.
Around the corner at the counter of a little coffee place, I looked them over. There was a letter from Hetty’s mother, several bills, some junk mail with unsealed envelope flaps, and the new Reader’s Digest. I slid the wrapper down and read the paper flap pasted to the front of the magazine. It said, Science Reveals: Give Up Smoking, Feel Better 15 Ways! With a felt-tip pen, I inked out Smoking, lettered in Custer, and pushed the magazine back into its wrapper.
The circular in one of the junk letters said, “Accept this amazing offer! Try Time for a month, and see if your evenings aren’t more rewarding!” and I replaced Time with Ben. The other ad was a soap coupon, “Good for one bar of Dove”; I replaced bar with night, and Dove with Love, and added my name at the bottom. I pasted one of my own stamps over each real stamp on all the envelopes, walked around to the apartment building, and dropped the mail into Hetty’s box. That night, around six, I phoned. I said, “This is Ben, sweetie,” and she replied with a short string of words I didn’t think she knew and hung up before I could reply. Still, I told myself, she’d at least answered me, and that was progress.
Two nights later Hetty and Custer were back at the little restaurant; I felt sure Custer called it “our place.” But old Cus wasn’t liking it so well a minute or so later when Hetty picked up a cigarette and Custer took a book of restaurant matches from the slot in the glass ashtray to light it for her. Because she puffed, lighting the cigarette, then her eyes widened and she made a sudden squeaking sound, pointing at the matchbook in Custer’s hand with my face instead of the proprietor’s printed on the cover and smiling up at her. Still holding the lighted match, old Cus turned the matchbook to look, bringing the tip of the flame to the matches—which flared up like a torch, burning Custer’s hand. He threw them aside in panic and they landed across the aisle on another table, the man leaping up to beat at the flame with his napkin, while the woman with him snatched her glass and threw the water at the flame, almost but not quite hitting it, landing on the man’s pants instead.
It was a delightful tableau, and the instant Custer jumped to his feet apologizing and dabbing at the man’s pants with his napkin, Hetty raised her eyes to the restaurant window, knowing full well who she would see. She knew I couldn’t hear her through the window, so with careful exaggeration she slowly mouthed her three-syllable message.
I wasn’t quite sure what she’d said, so in the drugstore next door I stood on the weighing machine looking into the mirror: “I . . . love . . . you,” I said slowly, very carefully forming each syllable just as Hetty had done. Then I smiled happily; the lip movements, it seemed to me, were the same as hers. “I . . . loathe . . . you,” I said then, and frowned, because this, too, looked exactly the same. Even more slowly and distinctly I again said, “I love you!” and smiled, almost sure that was it. Then “I loathe you,” I said, and now it seemed to me that maybe the odds favored the latter. The guy behind the prescription counter and a couple customers were staring at me, so I dropped a dime in the slot and left. I weighed 158, and the other side of the card said YOU WERE BORN TO HANG.
An hour and thirty-seven minutes later Hetty and Custer came out of the restaurant, Custer touching his mouth with his fingertips, cheeks puffing in a revolting belch. Then, with the tip of his tongue, he began working on something caught in his teeth, while I skulked along in the street beside a line of parked cars, following them to J’Ambon, a small intime nightclub not far away.
The doorman, dressed like a short, stout Marshal of France in what appeared to be a cut-down uniform of de Gaulle’s, greeted them—“Bon joor, mess aimees!”—and they went inside. I came out from behind a raked Rolls, stepped up onto the curb, and studied the entertainment poster: it was a mother, father, and nine children, called The Jukes Family, who sang folk songs. Then for half an hour I sat in the back of the Rolls, the fur lap robe over my knees, occasionally mixing up a drink from the portable bar and writing on the other side of my budget envelope with a pencil stub, frequently altering and correcting.
In the alley back of the nightclub, I walked in through the fire door, and found the Jukes family sitting morosely in the tiny dressing room, most of the younger kids on the older kids’ laps, the youngest of all lying under his mother’s chair, thumb in his mouth, clutching a copy of Variety like a security blanket. They were all in sort of Robin Hood costumes. Dad Jukes accepted my proposal, fifty bucks, and envelope, in that order, and I left as he sounded a “mi, mi, mi,” for a quick half-hour rehearsal before show time.
When the show began, I was sitting in the gloaming at the bar, staring through enormous dark glasses over the heads of the people at the tables, including Hetty’s and Custer’s, at the tiny stage. The Jukeses were first on the bill, and they straggled in, each carrying a stool, and sat down in a line of descending order of height, beginning with Dad on the right. He wore a guitar on a sling, gave it a plonk, and to the tune of “Blue-tail fly” they all sang—rather nicely, I thought:
Custer eats worms; he don’t care!
Custer eats worms, medium-rare!
Custer eats worms, the kind with hair!
Hetty, marry Ben today!
Then, to the same tune, but rapidly double-timing the words, they jumped into the second verse:
Custer-HAS-the-social-graces-of-a-cretin-and-a-boor!
And-a-GLIMPSE-of-Custer’s-mind-is-like-a-journey-through-a-sewer!
Oh-CUSTER-lost-a-battle-that-was-fought-with-horse-manure!
Hetty-marry-Ben-Bennell-shout-hip-hooray!
Old Cus was on his feet in gorilla posture, knees bent, fingers clawed, looking around the room for my throat; Hetty threw a quick glance at the bar, our eyes met, and I blew her another kiss. She drew her forefinger across her throat, and since Custer was turning toward the bar—I had prudently paid my bar bill when the Jukeses first appeared—I left, a shade puzzled over Hetty’s gesture until it occurred to me that she’d probably meant to blow me a kiss but that her hand had missed her mouth.
Next morning I was up early, as on every morning; I didn’t sleep too well at the Y. I did my exercises, not as with so many people by touching my toes, but the opposite, gradually easing into an upright position. At breakfast, by which I mean I was walking down Lexington Avenue eating an apple, I stopped for a morning paper. Hunting through the wire basket for the one in best condition, I suddenly stood frozen—it’s always astonishing to see a newspaper photo of
someone you know. Smiling up at me from the trash basket were Hetty and Custer in black-and-white newsprint, the caption over the photo rather horribly reading, COMING NUPTIALS ANNOUNCED.
Hypnotized, I read on, ignoring the cigarette stubs, apple cores, orange peels, and wads of gum dropped onto the page by inconsiderate passersby. They were to be married, the paper said incredibly, in EIGHT DAYS—at St. Charley’s, a small informal church—and I turned and ran for a phone booth half a block ahead.
In the booth I dialed, finger trembling, then glanced at my watch; Hetty would just be having breakfast. The phone rang a couple times; then the recorded voice came in: The - number - you - have - reached - is - no - longer - in - service. The - new - number - is - unlisted.
I hung up and walked out, so stunned I forgot to retrieve my quarter and had to go back for it. Again I looked at my watch, then hailed a cab; there might just be time to get to Hetty’s before she left for work.
There wasn’t, though. She didn’t answer my ring at her door, and when I tried my old key, it wouldn’t go into the lock. I stooped to examine the lock and saw that it was new. Standing there staring at her closed and silent apartment, then turning slowly away, I wondered if perhaps she was trying to avoid me.
It wasn’t easy to smile as I walked out of the building, greeting the doorman and replying that yes, I had been away on a trip, and yes, it was good to be back. “Your wife getting married, Mr. Bennell?” he said, swaying slightly. “Lotsa wedding presents arriving!” I said that yes, she was; he said, “Congratulations!” and I thanked him and gave him a half-dollar, still smiling, still trying to see the bright side of things.
But was my courtship really working, I had to ask myself, out on the sidewalk; working slowly, perhaps, but with a cumulative effect not visible to the eye, like water dripping on granite? Maybe, but the trouble, I’d begun to realize, was that before Hetty realized this, too, she might be married. I had to see her, I knew, had to; a few minutes alone with her, I told myself, and this little tiff would soon be forgotten.
The big box I got free of charge: an empty color-TV carton on the sidewalk in front of a store. But eleven yards of white tissue paper, a huge white ribbon, and a pair of paper wedding bells cost me $14.90 at Dennison’s. It was worth it, though: that night when Hetty came home from work, there before her door stood the huge white-wrapped box, obviously a wedding present, and—crouched in a ball inside it—I heard her gasp of excitement and felt happy to be bringing her such pleasure.
I’d allowed for the fact that with my weight inside it, Hetty couldn’t drag the box into her apartment, and I’d cut the bottom out of the carton. As Hetty picked up the box by the white cord, I pulled down from the inside a little to give the illusion of weight, and we walked into the apartment together side by side just like old times, except that I was crouched to a height of two and a half feet and was momentarily invisible.
Exclaiming in anticipation, wondering aloud what in the world this was, Hetty had a little trouble deciding where to set the box down, and I worked up a bit of a sweat, scurrying around underneath the carton, rapidly changing directions, even scooting backwards for a couple yards, and if you think that’s easy, squatting in the dark under a box, give it a whirl sometime. Fortunately the living room was carpeted, and she didn’t hear my steps; and while she untied the ribbon, carefully saving the bow and paper bells, I had time to catch my breath.
Finally, the paper off, Hetty pulled open the flaps, and I popped up in the box, on my knees and flinging my arms out, like Al Jolson, and yelling, “Surprise!” I got one: a hard open-palmed right to the cheek, another with the left. Then Hetty burst into tears, clapped her hands over her ears as I tried to speak, and began stamping her feet frantically up and down, violently shaking her head, refusing to listen, eyes squeezed shut, and shrieking, “Get out, get out, get out, get out, get out—GO!”
Well, a house doesn’t have to fall on me. I left, wandering out into the city, feeling I didn’t understand women and wondering what to do about this momentary infatuation of Hetty’s. I turned onto Fifth Avenue, the only idle-paced wanderer in the rush-hour crowd, and it occurred to me that there might damn well be nothing to do; that once again Hetty and Custer were going to be married. I was glad I wouldn’t be getting an invitation this time; I didn’t think I could go through it again.
I was, I suppose, at the lowest ebb of my life, almost beaten. Then I remembered King Bruce in the peasant’s hut watching the spider patch up the broken threads of his web—once, twice, thrice, and finally succeeding!“By George,” I said aloud, “I’m not beat yet!” and a surge of determination, an actual outpouring of adrenalin, science tells us, moved through my veins. Suddenly I began excitedly walking in little circles on the pavement, people ducking around me, because I could feel it, I could feel something coming. Then it came! A little cloud formed just over my head, and inside it an enormous light bulb with a short brass chain. The chain pulled, and the bulb came on: brilliantly, people squinting in annoyance, averting their faces. It disappeared, the cloud breaking up quickly and blowing away, and I stood on the sidewalk grinning with excitement. A middle-aged clubwoman bumped into me and began beating me angrily about the head with a rolled-up newspaper, but I just went into defensive position, arms around my head, ducking away, walking rapidly down the street, still grinning, a man with a destiny and a destination.
I was nervous: this was make or break, a spectacular idea and a splendid gamble, but a gamble I knew I could lose. If so, I also knew, it meant I’d never had a chance to win.
Custer was home, in his East Fifty-first Street “digs”: living room, bedroom, kitchenette, and bath. He answered his doorbell in shirtsleeves, tie pulled down, his face astonished when he saw it was me. After I pried his hands from my throat and got my voice back, I suggested that he listen, just listen, for crysake; he could kill me afterward if he still felt like it.
We sat down in the living room, and I said, “Custer, how would you like me to give you two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash?”
He laughed. “You? You haven’t a dime. Hetty told me; she felt sorry for you, you’re such a pathetic little grub. She wanted to cancel the alimony till I argued her out of it!”
“Thanks; you always were a generous bastard with other people’s money. But Hetty is wrong. Look me in the eye while I say it, and you’ll see that it’s actually true: I can give you two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, Custer, in cash; and I will.”
There’s something about the truth that’s recognizable: a sound of the voice, a look in the eye, that hardly anyone can fake. Custer stared at me and knew that somehow it was actually true. He laughed again, trying to bluster. “And just what do I have to do?”
“You know what you have to do: give up Hetty.”
“So you can marry her? Well, I’ll tell you something, stupid: you haven’t got a chance.”
“I know that. I did once; she loved me once. A lot more than she could ever love you. But I kicked it all away. Forever. I know that, finally. But I still love Hetty! And one thing I’m sure of is that the worst thing that could happen to her is to marry a son of a bitch like you.” He started to get up. “Hold it! If I’m wrong you can prove it right now. And I’ll apologize. Tell me, Cus: what would you do? If somebody gave you two hundred and fifty thousand bucks.” I was watching his eyes, hardly daring to breathe, not at all sure I was right about Custer. Then, way down deep in his eyes, far below the surface, something moved. Something stirred and shifted down there, and hope roared through me.
Custer shrugged, “humoring” me. “Well, if you must play games,” he said casually, “it just happens I could buy out my boss for that: the stupid bastard has got himself in a money bind. It’s almost a million-dollar business,” Custer said, a note of excitement creeping into his voice. “And it’ll be a lot more than that in just a few years. Right at this particular moment I could get it for a quarter million—cash.” He pretended to laugh as though he knew
we were only talking. “You trying to tell me you’re serious?”
I nodded slowly. “Yes. I am. And you know it. I can, and I will, hand you that quarter million. Break off with Hetty, and it’s yours.”
“Just for laughs, how do I know you can do it?”
“Give me till the wedding. If I don’t produce, we have no deal. That’s simple enough.”
He grinned at me nastily. “You manage to sound pretty holy about this, but are you really thinking about Hetty? Or is it just dog-in-the-manger? You think it’s right to break up her wedding plans?”
“You’ll decide that, Custer, not me. If you really love Hetty, you’ll turn me down. You’ll actually refuse the one chance you’ll ever have”—I leaned toward him, lowering my voice—“to own the business that you’ll only work for otherwise.” I sat back again. “In that case I’m wrong about you, and Hetty ought to marry you. And will. So there’s no harm done. But I think I know you, Cus, old friend. From way back. I don’t think Hetty or anyone else is worth two hundred and fifty thousand dollars—not to you. In that case, hell, yes, I’m right to do this! Because I’ll be saving Hetty from another lousy marriage. To a miserable fink like you.”
I stood up. “You know I mean it, Cus: I’ll give you a quarter million in cash, to let Hetty go. To give her the chance to find happiness, finally . . . with someone . . . somewhere.” He sat staring up at me, hypnotized. My voice very soft, I leaned toward him, and said, “Cus, take the money. You know damn well you’re a bum. Do something decent for once in your life: break off with a girl you’ll only make miserable. Do something decent and get paid for it! You’ll be rich in five years.” I waited, motionless; I’d shot my bolt.
After a few moments Custer came out of his trance. “She’s a nice girl,” he said casually. “You were nuts to lose her.” He smiled at me amiably. “But there are other nice ones, too, aren’t there? And I don’t know if there’ll ever be another chance to grab this business. I’ll take the money, you bastard!” His arm shot out, pointing at me like Uncle Sam in the poster. “But I’m telling you: you don’t show up with the dough, I’m going to marry Hetty, and to hell with you! Now maybe you better just run along out of here before I decide that killing you is worth more than two hundred and fifty grand.”
