Description
read The Chaser,” ” The Story of an Hour,” ” Button, Button”watch and answer the worksheet
Unformatted Attachment Preview
Button, Button
RICHARD MATHESON
The package was lying by the front door-a cube-shaped carton sealed
with tape, their name and address printed by hand: “Mr. and Mrs.
Aurthur Lewis, 21 7 E. Thirty-seventh Street, New York, New York 10016.”
Norma picked it up, unlocked the door, and went into the apartment. It
was just getting dark.
After she put the lamb chops in the broiler, she sat down to open the
package.
Inside the carton was a push-button unit fastened to a small wooden
box. A glass dome covered the button. Norma tried to lift it off, but it was
locked in place. She turned the unit over and saw a folded piece of paper
Scotch-taped to the bottom of the box. She pulled it off: “Mr. Steward will
call on you at 8:00P.M.”
Norma put the button unit beside her on the couch. She reread the
typed note, smiling.
A few moments later, she went back into the kitchen to make the salad.
The doorbell rang at eight o’clock. ”I’ll get it,” Norma called from the
kitchen. Arthur was in the living room, reading.
There was a small man in the hallway. He removed his hat as Norma
opened the door.
“Mrs. Lewis?” he inquired politely.
“Yes?”
”I’m Mr. Steward.”
“Oh, yes.” Norma repressed a smile. She was sure now it was a sales
pitch.
SHORT STORY
103
DECISIONS
DECISIONS
“May I come in?” asked Mr. Steward.
”I’m rather busy,” Norma said, ”I’ll get you your whatchamacallit,
though.” She started to turn.
“Don’t you want to know what it is?”
Norma turned back. Mr. Steward’s tone had been offensive. “No, I
don’t think so,” she replied.
“It could prove very valuable,” he told her.
“Monetarily?” she challenged.
Mr. Steward nodded. “Monetarily,” he said.
Norma frowned. She didn’t like his attitude. “What are you trying to
sell?” she asked.
”I’m not selling anything,” he answered.
Arthur came out of the living room. “Something wrong?”
Mr. Steward introduced himself.
“Oh, the-” Arthur pointed toward the living room and smiled. “What
is that gadget, anyway?”
“It won’t take long to explain,” replied Mr. Steward. “May I come in?”
“If you’re selling something-,” Arthur said.
Mr. Steward shook his head. “”m not.”
Arthur looked at Norma. “Up to you,” she said.
He hesitated. “Well, why not?” he said.
. . ..
They went into the living room and Mr. Steward sat in Norma’s chair. He
reached into an inside coat pocket and withdrew a small sealed
lope. “Inside here is a key to the
dome,” he said. He set the
table. “The bell is connected to our office.”
envelope on the
“What’s it for?” asked Arthur.
“If you push the button,” Mr. Steward told him, “somewhere in the
world someone you don’t know will die. In return for which you will
receive a payment of $50,000.”
Norma stared at the small man. He was smiling.
“What are you talking about?” Arthur asked him.
Mr. Steward looked surprised. “But I’ve just explained,” he said.
“Is this a practical joke?” asked Arthur.
“Not at all. The offer is completely genuine.”
“You aren’t making sense,” Arthur said. “You expect us to believe-”
“Whom do you represent?” demanded Norma.
Mr. Steward looked embarrassed. ”I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to tell
104
SHORT STORY
BUTTON, BUTTON
you that,” he said. “However, I assure you, the organization is of international scope.”
“I think you’d better leave,” Arthur said, standing.
Mr. Steward rose. “Of course.”
“And take your button unit with you.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t care to think about it for a day or so?”
Arthur picked up the button unit and the envelope and thrust them
into Mr. Steward’s hands. He walked into the hall and pulled open the
door.
‘Til leave my card,” said Mr. Steward. He placed it on the table by the
door.
When he was gone, Arthur tore it in half and tossed the pieces onto
the table.
SHORT STORY
DECISIONS
DECISIONS
Norma was still sitting on the sofa. “What do you think it was?” she
asked.
“I don’t care to know,” he answered.
She tried to smile but couldn’t. “Aren’t you curious at all?”
“No.” He shook his head.
After Arthur returned to his book, Norma went back to the kitchen and
finished washing the dishes.
“Why won’t you talk about it?” Norma asked.
Arthur’s eyes shifted as he brushed his teeth. He looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.
“Doesn’t it intrigue you?”t
“It offends me,” Arthur said.
“I know, but”-Norma rolled another curler in her hair-“doesn’t it
intrigue you, too?”
“You think it’s a practical joke?” she asked as they went into the bedroom.
“If it is, it’s a sick one.”
Norma sat on her bed and took off her slippers. “Maybe it’s some kind
of psychological research.”
Arthur shrugged. “Could be.”
“Maybe some eccentric millionaire is doing it.”
“Maybe.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Arthur shook his head.
“Why?”
“Because it’s immoral,” he told her.
Norma slid beneath the covers. “Well, I think it’s intriguing,” she said.
Arthur turned off the lamp and leaned over to kiss her. “Good night,”
he said.
“Good night.” She patted his back.
Norma closed her eyes. Fifty thousand dollars, she thought.
. . .
In the morning, as she left the apartment, Norma saw the card halves on
the table. Impulsively, she dropped them into her purse. She locked the
front door and joined Arthur in the elevator.
While she was on her coffee break, she took the card halves from her
1 intrigue you: spark curiosity in you
106
SHORT STORY
BUTTON, BUTTON
purse and held the torn edges together. Only Mr. Steward’s name and
telephone number were printed on the card.
After lunch, she took the card halves from her purse again and Scotchtaped the edges together. “Why am I doing this?” she thought.
just before five, she dialed the number.
“Good afternoon,” said Mr. Steward’s voice.
Norma almost hung up but restrained herself. She cleared her throat.
“This is Mrs. Lewis,” she said.
“Yes, Mrs. Lewis,” Mr. Steward sounded pleased.
”I’m curious.”
“That’s natural,” Mr. Steward said.
“Not that I believe a word of what you told us.”
“Oh, it’s quite authentic,” Mr. Steward answered.
“Well, whatever-” Norma swallowed. “When you said someone in
the world would die, what did you mean?”
“Exactly that,” he answered. “It could be anyone. All we guarantee is
that you don’t know them. And, of course, that you wouldn’t have to
watch them die.”
“For $50,000,” Norma said.
“That is correct.”
She made a scoffing sound. “That’s crazy.”
“Nonetheless, that is the proposition,” 2 Mr. Steward said. “Would you
like me to return the button unit?”
Norma stiffened. “Certainly not.” She hung up angrily.
.. . .
The package was lying by the front door; Norma saw it as she left the elevator. Well, of all the nerve, she thought. She glared at the carton as she
unlocked the door. I just won’t take it in, she thought. She went inside
and started dinner.
Later, she went into the front hall. Opening the door, she picked up the
package and carried it into the kitchen, leaving it on the table.
She sat in the living room, looking out the window. After a while, she
went back into the kitchen to turn the cutlets 3 in the broiler. She put the
package in a bottom cabinet. She’d throw it out in the morning.
. . .
2 proposition: offer; proposal
3 cutlets: pieces of meat cut to serving size
SHORT STORY
1Qj
DECISIONS
DECISIONS
“Maybe some eccentric millionaire is playing games with people,” she
said.
Arthur looked up from his dinner. “I don’t understand you.”
“What does that mean?”
“Let it go,” he told her.
Norma ate in silence. Suddenly, she put her fork down. “Suppose it’s
a genuine offer?” she said.
Arthur stared at her.
“Suppose it’s a genuine offer?”
“All right, suppose it is?” He looked incredulous. 4 “What would you like
to do? Get the button back and push it? Murder someone?”
Norma looked disgusted. “Murder.”
“How would you define it?”
“If you don’t even know the person?” Norma said.
Arthur looked astounded. “Are you saying what I think you are?”
“If it’s some old Chinese peasant ten thousand miles away? Some diseased native in the Congo?”
“How about a baby boy in Pennsylvania?” Arthur countered. “Some
beautiful little girl on the next block?”
“Now you’re loading things.”
“The point is, Norma,” he continued, “what’s the difference whom
you kill? It’s still murder.”
“The point is,” Norma broke in, “if it’s someone you’ve never seen in
your life and never will see, someone whose death you don’t even have
to know about, you still wouldn’t push the button?”
Arthur stared at her, appalled. “You mean you would?”
“Fifty thousand dollars, Arthur.”
“What has the amount-”
“Fifty thousand dollars, Arthur,” Norma interrupted. “A chance to take
that trip to Europe we’ve always talked about.”
“Norma, no.”
“A chance to buy that cottage on the island.”
“Norma, no.” His face was white.
She shuddered. “All right, take it easy,” she said. “Why are you getting
so upset? It’s only talk.”
After dinner, Arthur went into the living room. Before he left the table,
he said, ”I’d rather not discuss it anymore, if you don’t mind.”
4 incredulous: doubtful; suspicious
108
SHORT STORY
BUTTON
BUTTON
Norma shrugged. “Fine with me.”
. . .
She got up earlier than usual to make pancakes, eggs, and bacon for
Arthur’s breakfast.
“What’s the occasion?” he asked with a smile.
“No occasion.” Norma looked offended. “I wanted to do it, that’s all.”
“Good,” he said. ”I’m glad you did.”
She refilled his cup. “Wanted to show you I’m not-” She shrugged.
“Not what?”
“Selfish.”
“Did I say you were?”
“Well”-she gestured vaguely-“last night … ”
Arthur didn’t speak.
“All that talk about the button,” Norma said. “I think you-well, misunderstood me.”
“In what way?” His voice was guarded.
“I think you felt” -she gestured again-“that I was only thinking of
myself.”
“Oh.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Norma-”
“Well, I wasn’t. When I talked about Europe, a cottage on the island-”
“Norma, why are we getting so involved in this?
“”m not involved at all.” She drew in a shaking breath. “”m simply
trying to indicate that-”
“What?”
“That I’d like for us to go to Europe. Like for us to have a cottage on
the island. Like for us to have a nicer apartment, nicer furniture, nicer
clothes, a car. Like for us to finally have a baby, for that matter.”
“Norma, we will,” he said.
“When?”
He stared at her in dismay. “Norma-”
“When?!”
“Are you”-he seemed to draw back slightly-“are you really saying-”
”I’m saying that they’re probably doing it for some research project!”
she cut him off. “That they want to know what average people would do
under such a circumstance! That they’re just saying someone would die,
in order to study reactions, see if there’d be guilt, anxiety, whatever! You
SHORT STORY
109
DECISIONS
DECISIONS
don’t think they’d kill somebody, do you?!”
Arthur didn’t answer. She saw his hands trembling. After a while, he
got up and left.
When he’d gone to work, Norma remained at the table, staring into
her coffee. I’m going to be late, she thought. She shrugged. What difference did it make? She should be home, anyway, not working in an office.
. . .
While she was stacking dishes, she turned abruptly, dried her hands, and
took the package from the bottom cabinet. Opening it, she set the button unit on the table. She stared at it for a long time before taking the key
from its envelope and removing the glass dome. She stared at the button. How ridiculous, she thought. All this furor over a meaningless
button.
Reaching out, she pressed it down. For us, she thought angrily.
She shuddered. Was it happening? A chill of horror swept across her.
In a moment, it had passed. She made a contemptuous noise.
Ridiculous, she thought. To get so worked up over nothing.
She threw the button unit, dome, and key into the wastebasket and
hurried to dress for work.
. . .
She had just turned over the supper steaks when the telephone rang.
She picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Lewis?”
“Yes?”
“This is the Lenox Hill Hospital.”
She felt unreal as the voice informed her of the subway accident-the
shoving crowd, Arthur pushed from the platform in front of the train. She
was conscious of shaking her head but couldn’t stop.
As she hung up, she remembered Arthur’s life-insurance policy for
$25,000, with double indemnity for”No.” She couldn’t seem to breathe. She struggled to her feet and
walked into the kitchen numbly. Something cold pressed at her skull as
she removed the button unit from the wastebasket. There were no nails
or screws visible. She couldn’t see how it was put together.
Abruptly, she began to smash it on the sink edge, pounding it harder
and harder, until the wood split. She pulled the sides apart, cutting her
110
SHORT STORY
BuTToN, BuTToN
fingers without notlcmg. There were no
transistors in the box, no wires or tubes.
The box was empty.
She whirled with a gasp as the telephone
rang. Stumbling into the living room, she
picked up the receiver.
“Mrs. Lewis?” Mr. Steward asked.
It wasn’t her voice shrieking so; it couldn’t be. “You said I wouldn’t know the one
that died!”
“My dear lady,” Mr. Steward said. “Do you
really think you knew your husband?”
SHORT STORY
111
The Chaser, by John Collier
Alan Austen, as nervous as a kitten, went up certain dark and creaky stairs in the
neighborhood of Pell Street, and peered about for a long time on the dime landing before he
found the name he wanted written obscurely on one of the doors.
He pushed open this door, as he had been told to do, and found himself in a tiny room, which
contained no furniture but a plain kitchen table, a rocking-chair, and an ordinary chair. On
one of the dirty buff-colored walls were a couple of shelves, containing in all perhaps a
dozen bottles and jars.
An old man sat in the rocking-chair, reading a newspaper. Alan, without a word, handed him
the card he had been given. “Sit down, Mr. Austen,” said the old man very politely. “I am
glad to make your acquaintance.”
“Is it true,” asked Alan, “that you have a certain mixture that has-er-quite extraordinary
effects?”
“My dear sir,” replied the old man, “my stock in trade is not very large-I don’t deal in
laxatives and teething mixtures-but such as it is, it is varied. I think nothing I sell has effects
which could be precisely described as ordinary.”
“Well, the fact is. . .” began Alan.
“Here, for example, “interrupted the old man, reaching for a bottle from the shelf. “Here is a
liquid as colorless as water, almost tasteless, quite imperceptible in coffee, wine, or any other
beverage. It is also quite imperceptible to any known method of autopsy.”
“Do you mean it is a poison?” cried Alan, very much horrified.
“Call it a glove-cleaner if you like,” said the old man indifferently. “Maybe it will clean
gloves. I have never tried. One might call it a life-cleaner. Lives need cleaning sometimes.”
“I want nothing of that sort,” said Alan.
“Probably it is just as well,” said the old man. “Do you know the price of this? For one
teaspoonful, which is sufficient, I ask five thousand dollars. Never less. Not a penny less.”
“I hope all your mixtures are not as expensive,” said Alan apprehensively.
“Oh dear, no,” said the old man. “It would be no good charging that sort of price for a love
potion, for example. Young people who need a love potion very seldom have five thousand
dollars. Otherwise they would not need a love potion.”
“I am glad to hear that,” said Alan.
“I look at it like this,” said the old man. “Please a customer with one article, and he will
come back when he needs another. Even if it is more costly. He will save up for it, if
necessary.”
“So,” said Alan, “you really do sell love potions?”
“If I did not sell love potions,” said the old man, reaching for another bottle, “I should not
have mentioned the other matter to you. It is only when one is in a position to oblige that one
can afford to be so confidential.”
“And these potions,” said Alan. “They are not just-just-er-”
“Oh, no,” said the old man. “Their effects are permanent, and extend far beyond the mere
casual impulse. But they include it. Oh, yes they include it. Bountifully, insistently.
Everlastingly.”
“Dear me!” said Alan, attempting a look of scientific detachment. “How very interesting!”
“But consider the spiritual side,” said the old man.
“I do, indeed,” said Alan.
“For indifference,” said the old man, they substitute devotion. For scorn, adoration. Give one
tiny measure of this to the young lady-its flavour is imperceptible in orange juice, soup, or
cocktails-and however gay and giddy she is, she will change altogether. She will want
nothing but solitude and you.”
“I can hardly believe it,” said Alan. “She is so fond of parties.”
“She will not like them any more,” said the old man. “She will be afraid of the pretty girls
you may meet.”
“She will actually be jealous?” cried Alan in a rapture. “Of me?”
“Yes, she will want to be everything to you.”
“She is, already. Only she doesn’t care about it.”
“She will, when she has taken this. She will care intensely. You will be her sole interest in
life.”
“Wonderful!” cried Alan.
“She will want to know all you do,” said the old man. “All that has happened to you during
the day. Every word of it. She will want to know what you are thinking about, why you
smile suddenly, why your are looking sad.”
“That is love!” cried Alan.
“Yes,” said the old man. “How carefully she will look after you! She will never allow you to
be tired, to sit in a draught, to neglect your food. If you are an hour late, she will be terrified.
She will think you are killed, or that some siren has caught you.”
“I can hardly imagine Diana like that!” cried Alan, overwhelmed with joy.
“You will not have to use your imagination,” said the old man. “And, by the way, since there
are always sirens, if by any chance you should, later on, slip a little, you need not worry. She
will forgive you, in the end. She will be terribly hurt, of course, but she will forgive you-in
the end.”
“That will not happen,” said Alan fervently.
“Of course not,” said the old man. “But, if it did, you need not worry. She would never
divorce you. Oh, no! And, of course, she will never give you the least, the very least,
grounds for-uneasiness.”
“And how much,” said Alan, “is this wonderful mixture?”
“It is not as dear,” said the old man, “as the glove-cleaner, or life-cleaner, as I sometimes call
it. No. That is five thousand dollars, never a penny less. One has to be older than you are, to
indulge in that sort of thing. One has to save up for it.”
“But the love potion?” said Alan.
“Oh, that,” said the old man, opening the drawer in the kitchen table, and taking out a tiny,
rather dirty-looking phial. “That is just a dollar.”
“I can’t tell you how grateful I am,” said Alan, watching him fill it.
“I like to oblige,” said the old man. “Then customers come back, later in life, when they are
better off, and want more expensive things. Here you are. You will find it very effective.”
“Thank you again,” said Alan. “Good-bye.”
“Au revoir,” said the man.
The Story of an Hour
Kate Chopin
Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break
to her as gently as possible the news of her husband’s death.
It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in
half concealing. Her husband’s friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been
in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently
Mallard’s name leading the list of “killed.” He had only taken the time to assure himself of its
truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in
bearing the sad message.
She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to
accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister’s arms.
When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no
one follow her.
There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank,
pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul.
She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with
the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was
crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which some one was singing reached her faintly,
and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves.
There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and
piled one above the other in the west facing her window.
She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except
when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep
continues to sob in its dreams.
She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain
strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on
one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a
suspension of intelligent thought.
Copyright © by Holt, Rinehart and Winston. All rights reserved.
Kate Chopin’s “The Story of an Hour” originally published 1894.
There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She
did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky,
reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air.
Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that
was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will—as powerless
as her two white slender hands would have been.
When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She
said it over and over under her breath: “free, free, free!” The vacant stare and the look of terror
that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and
the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body.
She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and
exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial.
She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death;
the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw
beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her
absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome.
There would be no one to live for her during those coming years; she would live for herself.
There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and
women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind
intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief
moment of illumination.
And yet she had loved him—sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could
love, the unsolved mystery, count for in the face of this possession of self-assertion which she
suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being!
“Free! Body and soul free!” she kept whispering.
Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhole, imploring for
admission. “Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door—you will make yourself ill. What are
you doing, Louise? For heaven’s sake open the door.”
“Go away. I am not making myself ill.” No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through
that open window.
Copyright © by Holt, Rinehart and Winston. All rights reserved.
Kate Chopin’s “The Story of an Hour” originally published 1894.
Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days,
and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long.
It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long.
She arose at length and opened the door to her sister’s importunities. There was a feverish
triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped
her sister’s waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the
bottom.
Some one was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a
little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far from the
scene of the accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine’s
piercing cry; at Richards’ quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife.
But Richards was too late.
When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease—of joy that kills.
Copyright © by Holt, Rinehart and Winston. All rights reserved.
Kate Chopin’s “The Story of an Hour” originally published 1894.
Button, Button
RICHARD MATHESON
The package was lying by the front door-a cube-shaped carton sealed
with tape, their name and address printed by hand: “Mr. and Mrs.
Aurthur Lewis, 21 7 E. Thirty-seventh Street, New York, New York 10016.”
Norma picked it up, unlocked the door, and went into the apartment. It
was just getting dark.
After she put the lamb chops in the broiler, she sat down to open the
package.
Inside the carton was a push-button unit fastened to a small wooden
box. A glass dome covered the button. Norma tried to lift it off, but it was
locked in place. She turned the unit over and saw a folded piece of paper
Scotch-taped to the bottom of the box. She pulled it off: “Mr. Steward will
call on you at 8:00P.M.”
Norma put the button unit beside her on the couch. She reread the
typed note, smiling.
A few moments later, she went back into the kitchen to make the salad.
The doorbell rang at eight o’clock. ”I’ll get it,” Norma called from the
kitchen. Arthur was in the living room, reading.
There was a small man in the hallway. He removed his hat as Norma
opened the door.
“Mrs. Lewis?” he inquired politely.
“Yes?”
”I’m Mr. Steward.”
“Oh, yes.” Norma repressed a smile. She was sure now it was a sales
pitch.
SHORT STORY
103
DECISIONS
DECISIONS
“May I come in?” asked Mr. Steward.
”I’m rather busy,” Norma said, ”I’ll get you your whatchamacallit,
though.” She started to turn.
“Don’t you want to know what it is?”
Norma turned back. Mr. Steward’s tone had been offensive. “No, I
don’t think so,” she replied.
“It could prove very valuable,” he told her.
“Monetarily?” she challenged.
Mr. Steward nodded. “Monetarily,” he said.
Norma frowned. She didn’t like his attitude. “What are you trying to
sell?” she asked.
”I’m not selling anything,” he answered.
Arthur came out of the living room. “Something wrong?”
Mr. Steward introduced himself.
“Oh, the-” Arthur pointed toward the living room and smiled. “What
is that gadget, anyway?”
“It won’t take long to explain,” replied Mr. Steward. “May I come in?”
“If you’re selling something-,” Arthur said.
Mr. Steward shook his head. “”m not.”
Arthur looked at Norma. “Up to you,” she said.
He hesitated. “Well, why not?” he said.
. . ..
They went into the living room and Mr. Steward sat in Norma’s chair. He
reached into an inside coat pocket and withdrew a small sealed
lope. “Inside here is a key to the
dome,” he said. He set the
table. “The bell is connected to our office.”
envelope on the
“What’s it for?” asked Arthur.
“If you push the button,” Mr. Steward told him, “somewhere in the
world someone you don’t know will die. In return for which you will
receive a payment of $50,000.”
Norma stared at the small man. He was smiling.
“What are you talking about?” Arthur asked him.
Mr. Steward looked surprised. “But I’ve just explained,” he said.
“Is this a practical joke?” asked Arthur.
“Not at all. The offer is completely genuine.”
“You aren’t making sense,” Arthur said. “You expect us to believe-”
“Whom do you represent?” demanded Norma.
Mr. Steward looked embarrassed. ”I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to tell
104
SHORT STORY
BUTTON, BUTTON
you that,” he said. “However, I assure you, the organization is of international scope.”
“I think you’d better leave,” Arthur said, standing.
Mr. Steward rose. “Of course.”
“And take your button unit with you.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t care to think about it for a day or so?”
Arthur picked up the button unit and the envelope and thrust them
into Mr. Steward’s hands. He walked into the hall and pulled open the
door.
‘Til leave my card,” said Mr. Steward. He placed it on the table by the
door.
When he was gone, Arthur tore it in half and tossed the pieces onto
the table.
SHORT STORY
DECISIONS
DECISIONS
Norma was still sitting on the sofa. “What do you think it was?” she
asked.
“I don’t care to know,” he answered.
She tried to smile but couldn’t. “Aren’t you curious at all?”
“No.” He shook his head.
After Arthur returned to his book, Norma went back to the kitchen and
finished washing the dishes.
“Why won’t you talk about it?” Norma asked.
Arthur’s eyes shifted as he brushed his teeth. He looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.
“Doesn’t it intrigue you?”t
“It offends me,” Arthur said.
“I know, but”-Norma rolled another curler in her hair-“doesn’t it
intrigue you, too?”
“You think it’s a practical joke?” she asked as they went into the bedroom.
“If it is, it’s a sick one.”
Norma sat on her bed and took off her slippers. “Maybe it’s some kind
of psychological research.”
Arthur shrugged. “Could be.”
“Maybe some eccentric millionaire is doing it.”
“Maybe.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Arthur shook his head.
“Why?”
“Because it’s immoral,” he told her.
Norma slid beneath the covers. “Well, I think it’s intriguing,” she said.
Arthur turned off the lamp and leaned over to kiss her. “Good night,”
he said.
“Good night.” She patted his back.
Norma closed her eyes. Fifty thousand dollars, she thought.
. . .
In the morning, as she left the apartment, Norma saw the card halves on
the table. Impulsively, she dropped them into her purse. She locked the
front door and joined Arthur in the elevator.
While she was on her coffee break, she took the card halves from her
1 intrigue you: spark curiosity in you
106
SHORT STORY
BUTTON, BUTTON
purse and held the torn edges together. Only Mr. Steward’s name and
telephone number were printed on the card.
After lunch, she took the card halves from her purse again and Scotchtaped the edges together. “Why am I doing this?” she thought.
just before five, she dialed the number.
“Good afternoon,” said Mr. Steward’s voice.
Norma almost hung up but restrained herself. She cleared her throat.
“This is Mrs. Lewis,” she said.
“Yes, Mrs. Lewis,” Mr. Steward sounded pleased.
”I’m curious.”
“That’s natural,” Mr. Steward said.
“Not that I believe a word of what you told us.”
“Oh, it’s quite authentic,” Mr. Steward answered.
“Well, whatever-” Norma swallowed. “When you said someone in
the world would die, what did you mean?”
“Exactly that,” he answered. “It could be anyone. All we guarantee is
that you don’t know them. And, of course, that you wouldn’t have to
watch them die.”
“For $50,000,” Norma said.
“That is correct.”
She made a scoffing sound. “That’s crazy.”
“Nonetheless, that is the proposition,” 2 Mr. Steward said. “Would you
like me to return the button unit?”
Norma stiffened. “Certainly not.” She hung up angrily.
.. . .
The package was lying by the front door; Norma saw it as she left the elevator. Well, of all the nerve, she thought. She glared at the carton as she
unlocked the door. I just won’t take it in, she thought. She went inside
and started dinner.
Later, she went into the front hall. Opening the door, she picked up the
package and carried it into the kitchen, leaving it on the table.
She sat in the living room, looking out the window. After a while, she
went back into the kitchen to turn the cutlets 3 in the broiler. She put the
package in a bottom cabinet. She’d throw it out in the morning.
. . .
2 proposition: offer; proposal
3 cutlets: pieces of meat cut to serving size
SHORT STORY
1Qj
DECISIONS
DECISIONS
“Maybe some eccentric millionaire is playing games with people,” she
said.
Arthur looked up from his dinner. “I don’t understand you.”
“What does that mean?”
“Let it go,” he told her.
Norma ate in silence. Suddenly, she put her fork down. “Suppose it’s
a genuine offer?” she said.
Arthur stared at her.
“Suppose it’s a genuine offer?”
“All right, suppose it is?” He looked incredulous. 4 “What would you like
to do? Get the button back and push it? Murder someone?”
Norma looked disgusted. “Murder.”
“How would you define it?”
“If you don’t even know the person?” Norma said.
Arthur looked astounded. “Are you saying what I think you are?”
“If it’s some old Chinese peasant ten thousand miles away? Some diseased native in the Congo?”
“How about a baby boy in Pennsylvania?” Arthur countered. “Some
beautiful little girl on the next blo
