Mr. Treadwell was a small, likeable man who worked for a prosperous company in New York City, and whose position with the company entitled him to an office of his own. Late one afternoon on a fine day in June a visitor entered this office. The man was stout, well-dressed, and imposing. His complexion was smooth and pink, his small, near-sighted eyes shone cheerfully behind heavy, horn-rimmed eyeglasses.
“My name,” he said, after laying aside a bulky portfolio and shaking Mr. Treadwell’s hand with a crushing grip, “is Bunce, and I am a representative of the Society for Gerontology. I am here to help you with your problem, Mr. Treadwell.”
Mr. Treadwell sighed. “Since you are a total stranger to me, my friend,” he said, “and since I have never heard of the outfit you claim to represent, and, above all, since I have no problem which could possibly concern you, I am sorry to say that I am not in the market for whatever you are peddling. Now, if you don’t mind—”
“Mind?” said Bunce. “Of course, I mind. The Society for Gerontology does not try to sell anything to anybody, Mr. Treadwell. Its interests are purely philanthropic. It examines case histories, draws up reports, works toward the solution of one of the most tragic situations we face in modern society.”
“Which is?”
“That should have been made obvious by the title of the organization, Mr. Treadwell. Gerontology is the study of old age and the problems concerning it. Do not confuse it with geriatrics, please. Geriatrics is concerned with the diseases of old age. Gerontology deals with old age as the problem itself.”
“I’ll try to keep that in mind,” Mr. Treadwell said impatiently. “Meanwhile, I suppose, a small donation is in order? Five dollars, say?”
“No, no, Mr. Treadwell, not a penny, not a red cent. I quite understand that this is the traditional way of dealing with various philanthropic organizations, but the Society for Gerontology works in a different way entirely. Our objective is to help you with your problem first. Only then would we feel we have the right to make any claim on you.”
“Fine,” said Mr. Treadwell more amiably. “That leaves us all even. I have no problem, so you get no donation. Unless you’d rather reconsider?”
“Reconsider?” said Bunce in a pained voice. “It is you, Mr. Treadwell, and not I who must reconsider. Some of the most pitiful cases the Society deals with are those of people who have long refused to recognize or admit their problem. I have worked months on your case, Mr. Treadwell. I never dreamed you would fall into that category.”
Mr. Treadwell took a deep breath. “Would you mind telling me just what you mean by that nonsense about working on my case? I was never a case for any damned society or organization in the book!”
It was the work of a moment for Bunce to whip open his portfolio and extract several sheets of paper from it.
“If you will bear with me,” he said, “I should like to sum up the gist of these reports. You are forty-seven years old and in excellent health. You own a home in East Sconsett, Long Island, on which there are nine years of mortgage payments still due, and you also own a late-model car on which eighteen monthly payments are yet to be made. However, due to an excellent salary, you are in prosperous circumstances. Am I correct?”
“As correct as the credit agency which gave you that report,” said Mr. Treadwell.
Bunce chose to overlook this. “We will now come to the point. You have been happily married for twenty-three years, and have one daughter who was married last year and now lives with her husband in Chicago. Upon her departure from your home your father-in-law, a widower and somewhat crotchety gentleman, moved into the house and now resides with you and your wife.”
Bunce's voice dropped to a low, impressive note. “He is seventy-two years old, and, outside of a touch of bursitis in his right shoulder, admits to exceptional health for his age. He has stated on several occasions that he hopes to live another twenty years, and according to actuarial statistics which my Society has on file he has every chance of achieving this. Now do you understand, Mr. Treadwell?”
It took a long time for the answer to come. “Yes,” said Mr. Treadwell at last, almost in a whisper. “Now I understand.”
“Good,” said Bunce sympathetically. “Very good. The first step is always a hard one—the admission that there is a problem hovering over you, clouding every day that passes. Nor is there any need to ask why you make efforts to conceal it even from yourself. You wish to spare Mrs. Treadwell your unhappiness, don’t you?”
Mr. Treadwell nodded.
“Would it make you feel better,” asked Bunce, “if I told you that Mrs. Treadwell shared your own feelings? That she, too, feels her father’s presence in her home as a burden which grows heavier each day?”
“But she can’t!” said Mr. Treadwell in dismay. “She was the one who wanted him to live with us in the first place, after Sylvia got married, and we had a spare room. She pointed out how much he had done for us when we first got started, and how easy he was to get along with, and how little expense it would be—it was she who sold me on the idea. I can’t believe she didn’t mean it!”
“Of course, she meant it. She knew all the traditional emotions at the thought of her old father living alone somewhere, and offered all the traditional arguments on his behalf, and was sincere every moment. The trap she led you both into was the pitfall that awaits anyone who indulges in murky, sentimental thinking. Yes, indeed, I’m sometimes inclined to believe that Eve ate the apple just to make the serpent happy,” said Bunce, and shook his head grimly at the thought.
“Poor Carol,” groaned Mr. Treadwell. “If I had only known that she felt as miserable about this as I did—”
“Yes?” said Bunce. “What would you have done?”
Mr. Treadwell frowned. “I don’t know. But there must have been something we could have figured out if we put our heads together.”
“What?" Bunce asked. “Drive the man out of the house?”
“Oh, I don’t mean exactly that.”
“What then?” persisted Bunce. “Send him to an institution? There are some extremely luxurious institutions for the purpose. You’d have to consider one of them, since he could not possibly be regarded as a charity case; nor, for that matter, could I imagine him taking kindly to the idea of going to a public institution.”
“Who would?” said Mr. Treadwell. “And as for the expensive kind, well, I did look into the idea once, but when I found out what they’d cost I knew it was out. It would take a fortune.”
“Perhaps,” suggested Bunce, “he could be given an apartment of his own—a small, inexpensive place with someone to take care of him.”
“As it happens, that’s what he moved out of to come to live with us. And on that business of someone taking care of him—you'd never believe what it costs. That is, even allowing we could find someone to suit him.”
“Right” Bunce said, and struck the desk sharply with his fist. “Right in every respect, Mr. Treadwell.”
Mr. Treadwell looked at him angrily. “What do you mean— right? I had the idea you wanted to help me with this business, but you haven’t come up with a thing yet. On top of that you make it sound as if we're making great progress.”
“We are, Mr. Treadwell, we are. Although you weren’t aware of it, we have just completed the second step to your solution. The first step was the admission that there was a problem; the second step was the realization that no matter which way you turn there seems to be no logical or practical solution to the problem. In this way you are not only witnessing, you are actually participating in the marvelous operation of The Blessington Method which, in the end, places the one possible solution squarely in your hands.”
“The Blessington Method?”
“Forgive me,” said Bunce. “In my enthusiasm I used a term not yet in scientific vogue. I must explain, therefore, that The Blessington Method is the term my co-workers at the Society for Gerontology have given to its course of procedure. It is so titled in honor of J. G. Blessington, the Society’s founder, and one of the great men of our era. He has not achieved his proper acclaim yet, but he will. Mark my words, Mr. Treadwell, some day his name will resound louder than that of Malthus.”
“Funny I never heard of him,” reflected Mr. Treadwell. “Usually I keep up with the newspapers. And another thing,” he added, eyeing Bunce narrowly, “we never did get around to clearing up just how you happened to list me as one of your cases, and how you managed to turn up so much about me.”
Bunce laughed delightedly. “It does sound mysterious when you put it like that, doesn’t it? Well, there’s really no mystery to it at all. You see, Mr. Treadwell, the Society has hundreds of investigators scouting this great land of ours from coast to coast, although the public at large is not aware of this. It is against the rules of the Society for any employee to reveal that he is a professional investigator—he would immediately lose effectiveness.
“Nor do the investigators start off with some specific person as their subject. Their interest lies in any aged person who is willing to talk about himself, and you would be astonished at how garrulous most aged people are about their most intimate affairs. That is, of course, as long as they are among strangers.
“These subjects are met at random on park benches, in saloons, in libraries—in any place conducive to comfort and conversation. The investigator befriends the subjects, draws them out—seeks, especially, to learn all he can about the younger people on whom they are dependent.”
“You mean,” said Mr. Treadwell with growing interest, “the people who support them.”
“No, no,” said Bunce. “You are making the common error of equating dependence and finances. In many cases, of course, there is a financial dependence, but that is a minor part of the picture. The important factor is that there is always an emotional dependence. Even where a physical distance may separate the older person from the younger, that emotional dependence is always present. It is like a current passing between them. The younger person by the mere realization that the aged exist is burdened by guilt and anger. It was his personal experience with this tragic dilemma of our times that led J. G. Blessington to his great work.”
“In other words,” said Mr. Treadwell, “you mean that even if the old man were not living with us, things would be just as bad for Carol and me?”
“You seem to doubt that, Mr. Treadwell. But tell me, what makes things bad for you now, to use your own phrase?”
Mr. Treadwell thought this over. “Well,” he said, “I suppose it’s just a case of having a third person around all the time. It gets on your nerves after a while.”
“But your daughter lived as a third person in your home for over twenty years,” pointed out Bunce. “Yet, I am sure you didn’t have the same reaction to her.”
“But that's different,” Mr. Treadwell protested. “You can have fun with a kid, play with her, watch her growing up—”
“Stop right there!” said Bunce. “Now you are hitting the mark. All the years your daughter lived with you you could take pleasure in watching her grow, flower like an exciting plant, take form as an adult being. But the old man in your house can only wither and decline now, and watching that process casts a shadow on your life. Isn’t that the case?”
“I suppose it is.”
“In that case, do you suppose it would make any difference if he lived elsewhere? Would you be any less aware that he was withering and declining and looking wistfully in your direction from a distance?”
“Of course not. Carol probably wouldn’t sleep half the night worrying about him, and I'd have him on my mind all the time because of her. That’s perfectly natural, isn’t it?”
“It is, indeed, and, I am pleased to say, your recognition of that completes the third step of The Blessington Method. You now realize that it is not the presence of the aged subject which creates the problem, but their existence.”
Mr. Treadwell pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Why not? It merely states the fact, doesn’t it?”
“Maybe it does. But there’s something about it that leaves a bad taste in the mouth. It’s like saying that the only way Carol and I can have our troubles settled is by the old man’s dying.”
“Yes,” Bunce said gravely, “it is like saying that.”
“Well, I don’t like it—not one bit. Thinking you’d like to see somebody dead can make you feel pretty mean, and as far as I know it’s never killed anybody yet.”
Bunce smiled. “Hasn’t it?” he said gently.
He and Mr. Treadwell studied each other in silence. Then Mr. Treadwell pulled a handkerchief from his pocket with nerveless fingers and patted his forehead with it.
“You,” he said with deliberation, “are either a lunatic or a practical joker. Either way, I’d like you to clear out of here. That’s fair warning.”
Bunce’s face was all sympathetic concern. “Mr. Treadwell,” he cried, “don’t you realize you were on the verge of the fourth step? Don’t you see how close you were to your solution?”
Mr. Treadwell pointed to the door. “Out—before I call the police.”
The expression on Bunce’s face changed from concern to disgust. “Oh, come, Mr. Treadwell, you don’t believe anybody would pay attention to whatever garbled and incredible story you’d concoct out of this. Please think it over carefully before you do anything rash, now or later. If the exact nature of our talk were even mentioned, you would be the only one to suffer, believe me. Meanwhile, I'll leave you my card. Anytime you wish to call on me I will be ready to serve you.”
“And why should I ever want to call on you?” demanded the white-faced Mr. Treadwell.
“There are various reasons,” said Bunce, “but one above all.” He gathered his belongings and moved to the door. “Consider, Mr. Treadwell: anyone who has mounted the first three steps of The Blessington Method inevitably mounts the fourth. You have made remarkable progress in a short time, Mr. Treadwell—you should be calling soon.”
“I’ll see you in hell first,” said Mr. Treadwell.
Despite his parting shot, the time that followed was a bad one for Mr. Treadwell. The trouble was that having been introduced to The Blessington Method, he couldn’t seem to get it out of his mind. It incited thoughts that he had to keep thrusting away with an effort, and it certainly colored his relationship with his father-in-law in an unpleasant way.
Never before had the old man seemed so obtrusive, so much in the way, and so capable of always doing or saying the thing most calculated to stir annoyance. It especially outraged Mr. Treadwell to think of this intruder in his home babbling his private affairs to perfect strangers, eagerly spilling out details of his family life to paid investigators who were only out to make trouble. And, to Mr. Treadwell in his heated state of mind, the fact that the investigators could not be identified as such did not serve as any excuse.
Within very few days, Mr. Treadwell, who prided himself on being a sane and level-headed businessman, had to admit he was in a bad way. He began to see evidences of a fantastic conspiracy on every hand. He could visualize hundreds—no, thousands—of Bunces swarming into offices just like his all over the country. He could feel cold sweat starting on his forehead at the thought.
But, he told himself, the whole thing was too fantastic. He could prove this to himself by merely reviewing his discussion with Bunce, and so he did, dozens of times. After all, it was no more than an objective look at a social problem. Had anything been said that a really intelligent man should shy away from? Not at all. If he had drawn some shocking inferences, it was because the ideas were already in his mind looking for an outlet.
On the other hand—
It was with a vast relief that Mr. Treadwell finally decided to pay a visit to the Society for Gerontology. He knew what he would find there: a dingy room or two, a couple of underpaid clerical workers, the musty odor of a piddling charity operation—all of which would restore matters to their proper perspective again. He went so strongly imbued with this picture that he almost walked past the gigantic glass and aluminum tower which was the address of the Society, rode its softly humming elevator in confusion, and emerged in the anteroom of the Main Office in a daze.
And it was still in a daze that he was ushered through a vast and seemingly endless labyrinth of rooms by a sleek, long-legged young woman, and saw, as he passed, hosts of other young women, no less sleek and long-legged, multitudes of brisk, square-shouldered young men, rows of streamlined machinery clicking and chuckling in electronic glee, mountains of stainless-steel card indexes, and, over all, the bland reflection of modem indirect lighting on plastic and metal—until finally he was led into the presence of Bunce himself, and the door closed behind him.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” said Bunce, obviously relishing the sight of Mr. Treadwell’s stupefaction.
“Impressive?” croaked Mr. Treadwell hoarsely. “Why, I've never seen anything like it. It’s a ten-million-dollar outfit!”
“And why not? Science is working day and night like some Frankenstein, Mr. Treadwell, to increase longevity past all sane limits. There are fourteen million people over sixty-five in this country right now. In twenty years their number will be increased to twenty-one million. Beyond that no one can even estimate what the figures will rise to!
"But the one bright note is that each of these aged people is surrounded by many young donors or potential donors to our Society. As the tide rises higher, we, too, flourish and grow stronger to withstand it.”
Mr. Treadwell felt a chill of horror penetrate him. “Then it’s true, isn’t it?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“This Blessington Method you’re always talking about,” said Mr. Treadwell wildly. “The whole idea is just to settle things by getting rid of old people!”
“Right!" said Bunce. “That is the exact idea. And not even J. G. Blessington himself ever phrased it better. You have a way with words, Mr. Treadwell. I always admire a man who can come to the point without sentimental twaddle.”
“But you can’t get away with it!” said Mr. Treadwell incredulously. “You don’t really believe you can get away with it, do you?”
Bunce gestured toward the expanses beyond the closed door. “Isn’t that sufficient evidence of the Society’s success?”
“But all those people out there! Do they realize what’s going on?”
“Like all well-trained personnel, Mr. Treadwell,” said Bunce reproachfully, “they know only their own duties. What you and I are discussing here happens to be upper echelon.”
Mr. Treadwell’s shoulders drooped. “It’s impossible,” he said weakly. “It can’t work.”
“Come, come,” Bunce said not unkindly, “you mustn’t let yourself be overwhelmed. I imagine that what disturbs you most is what J.G. Blessington sometimes referred to as the Safety Factor. But look at it this way, Mr. Treadwell: isn't it perfectly natural for old people to die? Well, our Society guarantees that the deaths will appear natural. Investigations are rare—not one has ever caused us any trouble.
"More than that, you would be impressed by many of the names on our list of donors. People powerful in the political world as well as the financial world have been flocking to us. One and all, they could give glowing testimonials as to our efficiency. And remember that such important people make the Society for Gerontology invulnerable, no matter at what point it may be attacked, Mr. Treadwell. And such invulnerability extends to every single one of our sponsors, including you, should you choose to place your problem in our hands.”
“But I don’t have the right,” Mr. Treadwell protested despairingly. “Even if I wanted to, who am I to settle things this way for anybody?”
“Aha.” Bunce leaned forward intently. “But you do want to settle things?”
“Not this way.”
“Can you suggest any other way?”
Mr. Treadwell was silent.
“You see,” Bunce said with satisfaction, “The Society for Gerontology offers the one practical answer to the problem. Do you still reject it, Mr. Treadwell?”
“I can’t see it,” Mr. Treadwell said stubbornly. “It’s just not right.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Of course I am!” snapped Mr. Treadwell. “Are you going to tell me that it’s right and proper to go around killing people just because they’re old?”
“I am telling you that very thing, Mr. Treadwell, and I ask you to look at it this way. We are living today in a world of progress, a world of producers and consumers, all doing their best to improve our common lot. The old are neither producers nor consumers, so they are only barriers to our continued progress.
“If we want to take a brief, sentimental look into the pastoral haze of yesterday, we may find that once they did serve a function. While the young were out tilling the fields, the old could tend to the household. But even that function is gone today. We have a hundred better devices for tending the household, and they come far cheaper. Can you dispute that?”
“I don't know,” Mr. Treadwell said doggedly. “You’re arguing that people are machines, and I don’t go along with that at all.
“Good heavens,” said Bunce, “don’t tell me that you see them as anything else! Of course, we are machines, Mr. Treadwell, all of us. Unique and wonderful machines, I grant, but machines nevertheless. Why, look at the world around you. It is a vast organism made up of replaceable parts, all striving to produce and consume, produce and consume until worn out. Should one permit the worn-out part to remain where it is? Of course not! It must be cast aside so that the organism will not be made inefficient. It is the whole organism that counts, Mr. Treadwell, not any of its individual parts. Can’t you understand that?”
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Treadwell uncertainly. “I’ve never thought of it that way. It’s hard to take in all at once.”
"I realize that, Mr. Treadwell, but it is part of The Blessington Method that the sponsor fully appreciate the great value of his contribution in all ways—not only as it benefits him, but also in the way it benefits the entire social organism. In signing a pledge to our Society a man is truly performing the most noble act of his life.”
"Pledge?” said Mr. Treadwell. “What kind of pledge?”
Bunce removed a printed form from a drawer of his desk and laid it out carefully for Mr. Treadwell’s inspection. Mr. Treadwell read it and sat up sharply.
“Why, this says that I’m promising to pay you two thousand dollars a month from now. You never said anything about that kind of money!”
There has never been any occasion to raise the subject before this, Bunce replied. “But for some time now a committee of the Society has been examining your financial standing, and it reports that you can pay this sum without stress or strain.”
"What do you mean, stress or strain?” Mr. Treadwell retorted. “Two thousand dollars is a lot of money, no matter how you look at it.”
Bunce shrugged. “Every pledge is arranged in terms of the sponsor’s ability to pay, Mr. Treadwell. Remember, what may seem expensive to you would certainly seem cheap to many other sponsors I have dealt with.”
“And what do I get for this?”
“Within one month after you sign the pledge, the affair of your father-in-law will be disposed of. Immediately after that you will be expected to pay the pledge in full. Your name is then enrolled on our list of sponsors, and that is all there is to it.”
“I don't like the idea of my name being enrolled on anything.”
“I can appreciate that,” said Bunce. “But may I remind you that a donation to a charitable organization such as the Society for Gerontology is tax-deductible?”
Mr. Treadwell’s fingers rested lightly on the pledge. “Now just for the sake of argument,” he said, “suppose someone signs one of these things and then doesn’t pay up. I guess you know that a pledge like this isn’t collectible under law, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Bunce smiled, “and I know that a great many organizations cannot redeem pledges made to them in apparently good faith. But the Society for Gerontology has never met that difficulty. We avoid it by reminding all sponsors that the young, if they are careless, may die as unexpectedly as the old... No, no,” he said, steadying the paper, “just your signature at the bottom will do.”
When Mr. Treadwell’s father-in-law was found drowned off the foot of East Sconsett pier three weeks later (the old man fished from the pier regularly, although he had often been told by various local authorities that the fishing was poor there), the event was duly entered into the East Sconsett records as Death by Accidental Submersion, and Mr. Treadwell himself made the arrangements for an exceptionally elaborate funeral. And it was at the funeral that Mr. Treadwell first had the Thought. It was a fleeting and unpleasant thought, just disturbing enough to make him miss a step as he entered the church. In all the confusion of the moment, however, it was not too difficult to put aside.
A few days later, when he was back at his familiar desk, the Thought suddenly returned. This time it was not to be put aside so easily. It grew steadily larger and larger in his mind, until his waking hours were terrifyingly full of it, and his sleep a series of shuddering nightmares.
There was only one man who could clear up the matter for him, he knew; so he appeared at the offices of the Society for Gerontology burning with anxiety to have Bunce do so. He was hardly aware of handing over his check to Bunce and pocketing the receipt.
“There’s something that’s been worrying me,’’ said Mr. Treadwell, coming straight to the point.
“Yes?”
“Well, do you remember telling me how many old people there would be around in twenty years?”
"Of course.”
Mr. Treadwell loosened his collar to ease the constriction around his throat. "But don’t you see? I’m going to be one of them!”
Bunce nodded. “If you take reasonably good care of yourself there’s no reason why you shouldn’t be,” he pointed out.
“You don’t get the idea,” Mr. Treadwell said urgently. “I’ll be in a spot then where I’ll have to worry all the time about someone from this Society coming in and giving my daughter or my son-in- law ideas! That’s a terrible thing to have to worry about all the rest of your life.”
Bunce shook his head slowly. “You can’t mean that, Mr. Treadwell."
“And why can’t I?”
“Why? Well, think of your daughter, Mr. Treadwell. Are you thinking of her?”
"Yes."
"Do you see her as the lovely child who poured out her love to you in exchange for yours? The fine young woman who has just stepped over the threshold of marriage, but is always eager to visit you, eager to let you know the affection she feels for you?”
“I know that.”
“And can you see in your mind’s eye that manly young fellow who is her husband? Can you feel the warmth of his handclasp as he greets you? Do you know his gratitude for the financial help you give him regularly?”
“I suppose so.”
“Now, honestly, Mr. Treadwell, can you imagine either of these affectionate and devoted youngsters doing a single thing—the slightest thing—to harm you?”
The constriction around Mr. Treadwell’s throat miraculously eased; the chill around his heart departed.
“No,” he said with conviction, "I can’t.”
"Splendid,” said Bunce. He leaned far back in his chair and smiled with a kindly wisdom. "Hold on to that thought, Mr. Treadwell. Cherish it and keep it close at all times. It will be a solace and comfort to the very end.”
AUTHOR’S POSTSCRIPT: I understand that since the publication of the story a society much like the Blessington-Bunce outfit has been set up in an aluminum and glass tower on Madison Avenue, and even in these Recession days is prospering mightily. If you want the address just call on me. I get ten percent.
EDITOR’S NOTE: “The Blessington Method” won for Stanley Ellin the MWA Edgar for the best mystery short story published in 1956.