Old man Phinger was strange, very strange indeed. Every morning he’d wake up before the sun rose, walking into town to his job at the florist. It was difficult to say what was peculiar about the old man. He didn’t walk with a limp, or have a glassy stare to his eyes. He was small and hunched over, moving slowly and carefully, the same as any man of his humble age. He seldom talked but when he did he was polite, making casual conversation while he worked the till at the shop. His family had died long before he took the florist position, yet despite his sorrowful past, nobody in town felt sympathy for the lonesome widower. He was just... strange. When examined further, the good people of Drainsville came to a unanimous conclusion as to what about Old Man Phinger was troubling. “The finger” the people would say, shuttering at the thought of it. What the people were referring to was rather the lack of a finger on Old Man Phinger’s left hand. Whenever he was asked how he lost the finger he would always make up a different story, smiling slightly and swearing on his word it was the truth. The townspeople learned not to trust Old Man Phinger’s tall tales, but there were still whispers about the story he never dared tell.
It was 1942. At the time Richard Phinger had been working his way up the corporate ladder in the plastics industry, spending long hours at the office as he tried to make a better life for his new family. While Richard Phinger went to work every day at the plastics factory, Patty Phinger looked after the house and little James Phinger who was just learning to toddle. Every day for a year Mr. Phinger would leave for work at six-o-clock sharp, and Patty would start her day, taking care of little James and going about the house, tidying and straightening where she saw fit. She would sing to herself as she worked, perfectly content to manage the house while Mr. Phinger managed the funds. As the year wore on Mr. Phinger was returning home later and later and Mrs. Phinger found herself waking up in bed alone, her husband nowhere to be found. When Mr. Phinger was home the conversation was polite, but removed, the old flirty banter now gone from their marriage. One evening it had been raining dreadfully hard, droplets of water pounding the roof like bullets. Mr. Phinger sat in the living room, leaning back in a musty upholstered chair, last Sunday’s paper obscuring his face. Little James was sitting in his playpen, content to stack colored blocks and knock them down again with his chubby fists. Mrs. Phinger was working in the kitchen, making dinner when she sighed exasperatedly; noticing Mr. Phinger had thrown his coat, hat, and briefcase on the kitchen table, which was one of her worst pet peeves. She scolded her husband, “I told you to put your work things up when you got home so I didn’t have to fuss with it when I’m cookin’!” She waited for her husband to respond, but her only reply was a soft snore, coming from behind the wall of newsprint. She could’ve hollered at him something awful, but James was in the room and she knew it would upset him, so she just sighed again and went over and picked up Mr. Phinger’s jacket that was strewn over his other belongings. When she lifted the coat off the sleek, black briefcase, she noticed its hinge was ajar. Mrs. Phinger was curious, her husband had always been careful to keep his brief case secured, its official contents were too confidential even for her eyes. Mrs. Phinger’s heart raced as she peered back over her shoulder, checking to makes sure her husband was still asleep in his chair. Then she quietly lifted the case up, thinking she’d just take a quick look at what was in the “ top secret” files her husband always kept carefully stowed.
At first Patty Phinger did not comprehend what she saw. She starred at it for a long few seconds, confusion running through her head, slowly and surely to be replaced by rage. Patty thought of the woman in the photo as she grabbed the long, gleaming, steak knife from the counter. She thought of her short glossy hair that fell in curls, and her short dress that showed off her slender legs. Mrs. Phinger crossed the room, clutching the bright red shawl in her left hand, the sickly scent of perfume still potent. She stepped across James’s playpen, distracted. The photo had been kissed with bright red lipstick, and had been signed. The woman’s name repeated over and over inside Mrs. Phinger’s head. Scarlet. Scarlet. Scarlet. She saw how her husband’s grip on the paper had slackened, his left hand on the armrest, a golden band gleaming in the warm glow of the lamp light. Mrs. Phinger stopped in front of him, setting Scarlet’s scarf lightly in Mr. Phinger’s lap. She lightly took his hand in hers, just as she’d done the first time she met him. She felt the curve of his fingers and counted down to the one that mattered. She stroked the length of his third finger, her fingertips brushing over the golden wedding band that was the symbol of his commitment to her. A commitment he chopped off with Scarlet. Mrs. Phinger was simply repaying the favor, and with a dull thud and a scream, his commitment was ended...with Scarlet.