Three by Finney

by Jack Finney

  Across the station floor, running, across Lexington Avenue, while drivers leaned on their horns in insane fury, I made my way to Herman’s stand and slapped FDR face up on the counter. With only a glance, then, at the Chrysler Building just across the street, and at the masthead of the New York Post which Herman had amusingly thrust down into the front of my pants, I sprang into a cab at the curb and began waving a fifty-dollar bill under the driver’s nose, which twitched appreciatively. It was his, I said, if he got me to Fifty-first and Third in under five minutes, and I was flung back into the seat as we shot forward. In a rubber-burning stop, we were at Custer’s building in four minutes, the driver turning to yank the bill from my hand, and I was out and racing for the building lobby.

  He was home. My thumb jammed against his bell, and Cus yanked open the door; he was wearing a white shirt, dark tie, dark-blue suit, white carnation in lapel—wedding-bound. He stared, then began shaking his dark-haired head. “Too late, too late, too late!” he kept saying, but I shoved past him and walked to a desk across his living room.

  I didn’t say a word; from my inside coat pocket I took a stack of bills, set it on the desk top, and stepped back. His mouth slowly opening, Custer stared at the lovely green back of the uppermost bill, and at the marvelous little figures in each corner reading 100. Money talks, and this said, Touch me, Custer. He reached out a forefinger hypnotically, and, his other hand pressing down on the stack, began flipping through the bill ends of the top packet, counting; there were a hundred. His brown eyes glazing, Custer’s counting forefinger moved down the side of the little stack, reverently touching the brown-paper bands which enclosed each of the packets; there were twenty-five. A neat little stack, only a few inches high, but Custer murmured in a choked voice, “My god . . . it’s a quarter million bucks.” Then he whirled to face me. “Where were you!” he yelled in anguish. “You’re too late, too late!”

  I was nodding slowly, suddenly stunned. “I know . . . I should have realized . . . I didn’t think! The wedding’s in an hour—less than an hour. It wouldn’t be right, not now”—I reached for the money—“to do this to Hetty!”

  “Hetty, hell!”—He slapped my hands away. “I’m talking about my boss!” He grabbed the phone, dialed at top speed, then stood wild-eyed. “Al! My god, I thought you’d left! I’ve got it, Al, the money! Is there still time to . . . ?” He stood listening, actually holding his breath; then his eyes flamed with an unholy light. “Thank god! Don’t move! Wait for me! I’m coming!” He snatched up the stack of bills and raced for the door, cramming them into every pocket.

  I should have felt triumph, wild exultation. Instead, walking slowly out, and then down to the street, I was scared. Had I done right? Yes! I kept telling myself. Whatever temporary shock Hetty would feel tonight was infinitely better than marrying a man who would actually sell her out for money. I’d done right, I knew it, but slowly walking the streets, I couldn’t stop thinking of how she must feel. And presently—I’d told myself I was wandering aimlessly, but all the time I knew where I was going—I stood outside my old apartment, the tiny apartment where, if only I’d known it, I could have found happiness with Hetty. Maybe she needs me, I told myself, and went in.

  “Your wife’s out, Mr. Bennell,” said the doorman. “Gone to get married. Probably be back soon. Any message?”

  “Nothing special; just tell her her husband called.” She’d left for the church—what if she heard the news there! I ran out, raced to Lexington, shouted at passing cabs for ten minutes, and when I got one the driver didn’t know where St. Charley’s was. We found a phone booth after a while, found it listed way downtown, we got there, the church was lighted, doors closed, I tiptoed in, and—recurring nightmare!

  Once again, a crowded church, a robed and smiling minister. Once again, Hetty standing facing him, though this time her dress was different. And once again—oh, sure, you knew it all the time, but I didn’t; I never learn!—there stood Custer, dark-haired and brown-eyed this time, but still the same, always the same! Once again, in this world and every world, probably, he’d stolen my money, and now he was stealing my wife!

  And once again now, with awful finality, the terrible words began: “If any man can show just cause . . .” Once more, nightmarishly, my mouth opened to cry out, and once more I was unable to speak. “If any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak,” the minister concluded, and for a dizzy, spinning, insane moment I thought my voice had replied.

  “Reckon maybe I can,” drawled a voice from the other end of the aisle, obviously that of a tall lean Ranger. Like everyone else, I turned and saw, walking up the aisle toward the front of the church, a short, stout, bald man in a gray double-breasted business suit, apparently a TV fan. He looked calm, but the man with him, much the same type, in a dark suit, looked furious. “Shore am sorry, ma’am,” the first little man said, stopping before Hetty; then he turned to Custer, opening his coat to reveal a small gold-and-blue-enamel badge pinned to his shirt. “You’re under arrest,” he said.

  “Why?” “Why?” “Why!” “WHY!?” said Custer, Hetty, the minister, flower girl, organist, janitor, and a hundred others, and it was the second little man who answered, actually shaking with rage, flickering a fist under Custer’s nose.

  “Because you’re a crook! A fraud! A cheat!” he said, and I nodded my head each time. “You gave me these! Two hundred and fifty thousand bucks’ worth!” He was holding a greenback stretched between his hands up to Custer’s eyes, Cus drawing back, trying to see it.

  “And what’s wrong with that!” Cus was saying. He’d turned, trying to get away from the enraged little man, and now he was actually being backed down the aisle, the man following right after him still shoving the tautly stretched bill at Custer’s face. Standing on tiptoes like everyone else, I could see it now: the dark face of a hundred-dollar bill, the numerals in the upper corners, the familiar oval engraving of a President’s face in the center.

  “Wrong!?” the little man said, nearly choking. “Wrong!?” He was still shoving the bill at Custer’s white face as they moved down the aisle, and now I had a much closer look at the bill I had brought from an alternate world, and suddenly saw what Custer was staring at, and what the little man meant. “Just tell me,” yelled the man, “tell me: WHO IS ‘PRESIDENT GEORGE C. COOPERNAGEL’!” And once again handcuffs clicked for Custer, this time around his wrists.

  Let me skip over the next ten days and bleak nights at the Y; the Saturday-night chop-suey special at the cafeteria, bread-pudding-with-hard-sauce dessert included, being the only bright spot of all those long days. Skip to the knock at my door as I lay in my L-shaped bed hopelessly trying to sleep, and to Jose’s voice saying, “Phone call.”

  “Ben,” said the forlorn tiny voice in the lobby phone-booth receiver, “it’s Hetty. Could you come over? I’m lonely!” she said, and began to cry.

  I was there, still in pajamas, before she hung up, I believe, and when I saw on the davenport, where she’d been looking at it, the box of stationery, the famous box of stationery with which I’d proposed, I gulped. “Remember?” said Hetty, and I nodded, unable to speak. Then I was able to speak—“Be a shame to waste that good paper,” I began—and was unable to stop.

  Yes, of course we’re married again, but do not think—life is real!—that living with Hetty has somehow become a permanent idyll. Just exactly as before, I’ve regressed to ignoring her—life is earnest!—to not seeing her, not listening, hardly speaking. And then the tears, recriminations, and sometimes, lord help us, even reminiscences of gallant and courtly Custer begin. But things are not what they seem, and these periods don’t last long now. They’re soon followed by smiles, adoration, compliments on how loving I’ve been lately. It’s as though, Hetty generally remarks, I’d been away, and my old self come back. I smile at her then, just standing there looking at my darling Hetty with renewed love and appreciation, idly flipping and catching the good-luck piece—
a thin dime—that I always carry with me nowadays. Wherever I go.

  You come across them, you know, every once in a while, if you just keep your eyes open: Ulysses Grant quarters, Coopernagel nickels, Woodrow Wilson dimes. They’re worth finding because it’s just as the ad said when I was a kid: Coin Collecting can be FUN! And all I can say in farewell is: Why don’t you start, too? Tonight!

  • •

  MARION’S WALL

  • •

  • •

  CHAPTER ONE

  • •

  Dear Son: Just a quick note to say that if you and Jan feel sure you want an old Victorian, so called, I think you could do a lot worse: they’ve got a charm today’s penny-pinching architecture completely lacks. I lived in one during my own San Francisco days, and I write mostly to say that if in the course of your house-hunting you should find yourselves near a place called Buena Vista Hill, I wish you’d see if it’s still there, and let me know. It was in the last block at the southernmost end of Divisadero Street, Number 114, and was a fine old two-story frame building—I had the bottom apartment—with a gable roof, bay window, and a view of the city and Bay that would knock your eye out. I have fond memories of the place, and if you found one like it am sure you and Jan would be happy in it—happiness is often just a matter of making up your mind to be. Nuff sed!

  Not much news from here. Usual lousy Chicago February, though not too cold lately. Last Saturday . . .

  • • •

  I was standing near the top of a six-foot ladder, my hair almost brushing the high ceiling, flexing my hands to work out the stiffness. My fingers made a soft popping sound against my palms, and I raised my hands to my ears, listening. Then I lifted each foot in turn and revolved it at the ankle. Jan was kneeling at the foot of my ladder lifting handfuls of wet shredded wallpaper into a cardboard Tide box and at the sound of my fingers she looked up. I said, “I’m doing a dance. Of joy. Because this is such fun. What the hell time is it?”

  “Eleven-ten.” She was wearing blue denims and a black turtle-neck sweater. Jan has long dark hair—today it was tied back with a ribbon—she’s pale-skinned, and now without any make-up, in the hard daylight from the tall unshaded windows of the empty living room, she looked pale.

  “Eleven-ten, and we started at eight-thirty; nearly three hours so far. Goody. Hot dog. Son of a bitch. We’ll be at this all day right up till time to drive to the airport. All next weekend, too, probably.”

  “I thought it would just peel off with that thing.” She nodded at the wallpaper “remover” lying on top of my ladder, a shallow foot-square metal thing with a handle, a fog of wet-looking steam rising from its perforated faceplate. It was connected by a thin plastic hose to a chromed tank on the floor plugged to an electric outlet.

  “If you thought that, your vision of life has been corrupted. Outside of television commercials things never just peel right off.” I picked up the steamer, pressed it to the wall just under the ceiling, and began sliding it back and forth as though I were ironing the wallpaper. It was kind of fun, watching the paper darken from the moisture, but hard on the arms. I could feel flecks of wallpaper drying on my face and knew there were more lying on my hair, which is combed straight back but kind of springy, worn a little long like everyone else’s. My name is Nick Cheyney, incidentally, and I’m thirty; Jan’s twenty-seven. I’m fairly tall, skinny, my face has been described as “amiable,” and I wear metal-rimmed glasses. Today I was accoutered in dirty tan wash pants, a worn-out striped shirt frayed at the collar and torn at one shoulder, and sneakers of really record-breaking filth and raggedness over bare feet.

  Jan stood up and walked out to the kitchen with the filled carton on one hip. She came back with the empty carton and two mugs of coffee held by their handles in one hand. Of necessity she left the hall door open and our dog, Al, a tri-colored basset—which means brown-white-and-black, not red-white-and-blue—walked in. As Jan crossed the room toward the window seat, eyes on the coffee mugs, Al sat down on some wet curls of wallpaper to watch the activity, and I didn’t betray him. I winked, and he opened his mouth to smile, tongue lolling. I was working with the scraper now, wet paper wrinkling into pennant-shaped strips to hang limply or drop to the floor. Jan sat down on the bay window seat, setting the mugs on the sill, turned and saw Al, who smiled in friendly fashion. “Out!” Jan pointed. “You know better than that! You’ll have wallpaper all over the house!” He looked at her closely, wondering if she meant for sure. “Out! In the kitchen! Or go on out and play; it’s a nice day.” Al stood up, looking to me for help.

  “He says you’re violating his civil rights.”

  “He hasn’t got any today. Go on now!”

  Al left reluctantly, Jan following to close the door. “Take it up with ACLU, Al!” I called. “I’ll testify.” Using both hands now, I worked the scraper up and down rapidly till the entire dampened area was clear. “There you are. First preview of layer number three.” The newly exposed paper was a pattern of brown latticework entwined with dark-green ivy. I climbed down, walked to the window seat, and picked up my mug. “Well? Where do you place it? Early Horrible? Late Atrocious?” We stood tasting our coffee, staring up at the wall.

  “I don’t know exactly: the Thirties?”

  “Oh God. Is that all? If we have to work our way layer by layer back to 1882 or whenever, this place’ll be a foot larger all the way around, time we’re finished. And we’ll be in our sunset years.”

  “I know, but it’s interesting. To see what other people lived with. Most of them long dead, I suppose. You know something? Now, don’t bother teasing me about it, because I know it’s obvious, but—”

  “If these wallpapers could only talk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Probably bore the hell out of us. Mumbling away about the good old days. If I know these walls, and believe me I do, they’d never shut up.”

  “With you around they wouldn’t get a word in. Oh, I wish I knew who’d lived here, Nick! What woman picked out that ivy pattern? It’s not bad, you know. What did she look like, and who lay on a couch in this room staring up at the paper, counting how often the design was repeated. I wish there were some way to know.” She sipped her coffee.

  “There is, for a certain sensitive few of us.” I closed my eyes. “It was a big fat lady. With mean piglike eyes. Stark naked, her obscene tattoos writhing in the gaslight, she killed her husband in this very room.”

  “She may have started a tradition. Let’s see what the next layer looks like.”

  “No, that’s cheating. You have to take one layer off completely, all around the room, before you can look at the next. Same principle—honored by all men, ignored by all women—as a box of candy. You have to finish the top layer before—”

  “Oh, come on; say yes to life.” She set her mug on the sill.

  “Okay.” I had a couple more gulps of coffee, then climbed the ladder and began soaking the new ivy-patterned strip I’d just uncovered, slowly sliding the metal steam box back and forth till the white portions of the pattern were nearly indistinguishable from the green of the leaves. A corner of the paper dropped loose and peeled down an inch of its own soggy weight. I set the steamer down, took the corner, and with a steady gentle pull drew it down, slowly exposing a pink-and-green pattern of roses and leaves on a white background. “Okay, what’s this? Colonial? Elizabethan? Chaucerian?”

  “I don’t know, Nick, I’m really no expert. I’ve only read about it a little. Maybe it’s from the Twenties. I’d say the Twent—”

  She stopped because, still carefully drawing the dampened paper downward, I’d suddenly exposed three small arcs several inches apart. Each was an inch or so high, and of a red much brighter than anything in the pattern itself. I peeled on down to the bottom of the dampened area, the paper tore off in my hands, and I dropped it to the floor, then rubbed my thumb across the tops of the small red arcs. The red smudged, and I looked at my thumb, then at Jan. “Lipstick.”

 
“Well, peel off some more, see what it is!”

  Directly below the layer I’d just exposed, I soaked through another foot-high strip, the height of the steamer plate. Here the ivy-patterned paper was still covered by the layer before it, but I worked till I’d soaked both layers through. I began tugging them loose, carefully working with the scraper blade between wall and wet paper, and was able to loosen and peel both together. “Two layers at once; the gods are sleeping.” Jan didn’t answer; she stood motionless, watching as there was gradually exposed a foot-high letter M scrawled gracefully across the rose-patterned wallpaper in bright lipstick. “M for murder? Mopery? Merde?”

  “Nick, keep going!”

  Leaning out to the right from the side of the ladder, supporting the weight of the steamer with both hands, I soaked a double layer of paper beside the big M as far as I could reach. Again with help from the scraper blade both layers peeled, and the red M was the initial letter of a yard-long Marion lipsticked across the wall under the high old ceiling.

  Neither of us spoke now. As I scrambled down the ladder we glanced at each other, grinning with excitement. Jan helping, I dragged the ladder to the right, its legs shuddering across the bare wood floor, and trotted up again. And when I’d peeled down the next few feet of the adjoining wallpaper, Jan and I read Marion Marsh in a six-foot length of slanted red foot-high script. Just beyond the h of Marsh the fireplace chimney jutted from the wall, the paper ending at the bricks, and I climbed down to pull the ladder back to the left. “It’s a will! Written on the wall! And we’re the heirs. The first people to discover it. She’s left a million—”