by Jack Finney
Charley saw none of these things, of course. He heard only the ringing sound of the phone, and he wet his lips and smiled hopefully.
The girl stood now, tightening the cord of her old brown bathrobe. As she walked toward the phone she moved slowly, allowing it to ring once again, and her negligible hips swayed slightly. She surveyed the room haughtily, her eyes passing over, though not really seeing, the battered wooden dresser, tiny wash-basin, dust-colored rug, or the wallpaper designed by a manic-depressive. Then she lifted the phone and spoke, and the voice that came from this plain and diminutive girl would have surprised — even astonished — Charley if he had been there to see her.
But he didn't see her and and was not astonished; only delighted. Kim Novak might have answered the phone in just that way, or Katherine Hepburn, or Greta Garbo. This was, in fact, a blend of the better qualities of all three of these voices. All she said was Hello, but it was a low and vibrant liquid sound, the practiced essence of a thousand movies, rich, lovely and thrilling. This wonderful sound traveled uptown with the speed of light, emerging from the receiver at Charley's ear, and instantly a curious thing happened.
Above Charley's phone booth in Pennsylvania Station, a small gray cloud formed. It was a little vague in outline, its edges wispy, fleecy. From the bottom of this cloud a tail protruded, like a curved sword, a scimitar, down into the phone booth, ending in a sharp point just over Charley's head. As it formed, the interior of the cloud was illuminated by a soft pink light.
Strangely, no one in the station noticed this cloud; but then most of these hurrying people frowned down at the floor, and none of them lifted their eyes.
Inside this cloud, in full, rich color over Charley's head, a girl lay on a chaise lounge. She wore a flame-colored evening dress and was very beautiful. Her hair, as soft as cobwebs, was canary gold; her eyes were blue and long-lashed; her lips a moist and living red; somehow her face was indistinct. Her figure was magnificent, straining in places at her brilliant gown, and she lay, one long leg outstretched, the other raised to reveal, through a slit in the skirt, a perfect halfsphere of nylon-skinned knee. She lay there in languorous grace, her lovely face tilted up to the white-enameled phone that she held casually, her loose sleeve trailing down her slim white arm.
Hello? said the astonishing voice in the receiver at Charley's ear, and the red lips of the girl in the cloud over his head formed the same word.
Charley replied, and if the girl's voice was astonishing, his was astounding. It was neither high-pitched nor did it squeak; it bore no relation, in fact, to the little sailor in the phone booth who used it. Ronald Coleman says hello in a very similar way; a nearly identical way, in fact, for Charley had practiced.
Hello, Charley's wonderful voice replied in the receiver in the bedroom twenty-four blocks downtown, and instantly another cloud, very like his, formed in the air above the girl's head. It was a shade more shallow, however, a little more cramped, for the bedroom ceiling was rather low. In fact, as she stood there holding the phone, the girl's head nearly touched the bottom of the cloud, and the tallest spike of her hair protruded into its lower edge. From the side of the cloud a long tail shot out, curving back into a point aimed at the girl's left ear.
Within the cloud's luminous interior, a man appeared, cut off at the waist by the lower edge of the cloud, but seeming to be, in relation to the room in which he stood, just under six feet six inches tall. He might have used a yardstick as a hanger for his jacket, which fitted his shoulders to perfection. It was dark in color and seemed to be a dinner jacket, for the young man stood in profile, revealing a black bow tie and the front of an immaculate, starched white shirt. His nose was very straight, his chin strong and full, and his black hair, glossy at the sides, broke on top into crisp little waves. The young man in the fleecy cloud was leaning casually, negligently, on the white mantel of a great, open fireplace.
This is Charles Blaine, said Charley's amazing voice from the phone in the girl's hand, and the lips of the man in the cloud over her head formed the same words, smiling a little, his white teeth flashing in the firelight. A lighted cigarette in a long ivory holder appeared suddenly in the left hand; he flicked the ashes delicately, gracefully, toward the open flames. Is this, the resonant, cultured voice from the telephone continued, and then dropped, softly, caressingly, Annie Beasely?
Yes, Annie replied with a Hepburn-Novak-Garbolike sigh, and with exquisite grammar, this is she.
Well, said the phone at her ear, you don't know me, but — then intimately, softly — you will soon, I hope, and over her head, in the cramped cloud in Annie's little bedroom, a butler wearing a vest, striped horizontally in contrasting shades of green, crossed the book-lined wall at the back of the huge room in which the young man seemed to stand, and the young man turned his broad back nearly filling the cloud, in order to watch him.
My ship just got in tonight, Charley's voice continued from the phone. I'm in the Navy. The young man in the cloud over Annie's head turned lazily to face front. His bow tie had become a long, black, beautifully tied cravat, and his jacket was now dark blue. Over the left breast pocket was a double row of ribbons; his cigarette holder had become a pipe, and on each sleeve of his coat was a triple band of gold. His face was darker, tropically tanned, and he smiled intimately. One of the men — the voice in the phone subtly emphasized this last word — one of the men suggested I call you. Do you remember Benny? Benny Aicher.
Oh, said Annie, and she laughed, pleasantly, liquidly. Dear Ben. How is Ben? I haven't heard from him in quite a long time.
He's fine, just fine, Charley's wonderfully modulated voice replied, and the young officer overhead smiled with Annie in tolerant remembrance of dear Ben. He's not with us this trip, but he thought maybe — perhaps, that is — you'd come to dinner with me; I'm a stranger in New York.
Annie smiled eagerly, excitedly, and shuffled her feet nervously, stepping closer to the phone. But when she spoke, her voice seemed doubtful. Well-l she said slowly, I don't know.
This lovely sound, with its doubt and hesitation, sped through the wires to Pennsylvania Station, was reproduced in the receiver at Charley's ear, and in the pink mist over his phone booth the gorgeous girl in red frowned slightly, thoughtfully. Then her lips, moved as Annie's voice continued, I'm not dressed.
Instantly, delightfully, the red gown disappeared from the cloud over Charley's phone booth, and the stunning girl lay there, one slim leg still outstretched on the chaise lounge, one lovely knee raised; she wore only a pink bra, incredibly sheer silk stockings, and a really enchanting, lace-edged half-slip. She was a beautiful creature.
He smiled happily, and for a moment his voice lost its Colmanesque quality and climbed one full and excited octave. Well, he squeaked, maybe I'd better come d—
But I think I can make it, said Annie hastily. Now, let me see. The voice in Charley's ear paused for a moment, and the girl over his head leaned forward, riffled the pages of a leather-bound notebook on the table beside her, studied a page for a moment, then leaned back again and smiled sweetly. Yes, said Annie, I'm free tonight.
Good, said Charley, wonderful! His voice in the phone at Annie's ear was again deep, rich, suave and gentle. Should I — shall I — come down and pick you up?
No-o, she said thoughtfully, and glanced round her room. It's too long a trip, and we'd just have to go uptown again. I'll meet you. Where are you, at your hotel? In the soft pink mist over her head, a door opened and a waiter appeared carrying a large silver bucket from which the neck of a tall green bottle protruded. The young Commander at the phone gestured suavely, indicating a place on the floor, and the waiter put down the bucket and quietly left the hotel room.
No, said Charley, I'm in a phone booth. At Penn Station. I called the minute I got in. For a moment the cloud over Annie's head went dim, then it brightened and the young Commander sat in a phone booth, wearing, rakishly, a gold-braided cap.
Well, said Annie, I'll meet you there, at the station.
Did you say Penn Station? I could meet you at the foot of the escalators.
Fine, he said. 'Bout a quarter to eight?
I'll try to make it, she said graciously; then suddenly her eyes widened and the antennalike spikes of bound-up hair stood even more rigidly erect. Her mouth opened slowly, and when she spoke again, all traces of Hepburn, Novak and Garbo were gone, replaced by the voice of stark reality. But how will you know me? she wailed.
The six-foot-six voice from the movies laughed gently, deliciously amused. Oh, it said, don't worry; I'll know you all right. See you soon. And then the voice ended in a caressing tone. 'Bye.
Well, said Annie doubtfully, and for a moment the naked facts of life stood staring her in the face; then they were smothered and lost in a fog of pink mist. All right, said Katherine, Kim and Greta, and then, lingeringly, 'Bye, now.
The young, handsome naval officer in the cloud over her head picked up his bag and strode jauntily off, returning the salute of an enlisted man, and disappeared in the dissolving mist.
In Penn Station, Charley stepped from the phone booth, hitched up his pants, adjusted his hat, tilting it sharply over one eye, and walked off, smiling blissfully while the girl in the cloud over the phone booth selected a bonbon from a box on the table, and stood, hands on her hips, surveying her figure approvingly; and then, swaying gracefully, walked away and faded out, humming “Toujours L'Amour.”
At seventeen minutes of eight, by the great clocks suspended in the mighty entrance archways, Penn Station was busy. Under the tremendous ceiling, infinitely high over their heads, hundreds of tiny figures crisscrossed the vast marble acres of floor space. At the escalators, sluggishly flowing up to and down from the long corridor that led out to the street, a small knot of people moved and shifted, stepping onto or off the moving stairs. Others stood waiting, out of the way at the sides of the escalators, watching the faces of the moving crowd.
In one of these waiting groups stood Charley, his shoes newly shined, arms folded on the knotted black kerchief on his chest. His lips were puckered in a noiseless whistle, and he occasionally rocked back on his heels, then forward on his toes, his thin white face content and expectant.
On the other side of the escalators stood Annie, in her green cloth coat with the beaver collar. She wore her new black hat, and stood, feet together, hands folded demurely over her shiny patent-leather bag. Her small white face was now whiter still from powder, her lips were reddened, and her brown hair hung below her hat in stiff and regular waves. She stood there, small and sweet, very neat and very young. She looked hopeful, expectant, as she watched the people streaming by.
They waited quietly, Charley on one side of the moving stairs, Annie on the other, their heads turning slowly, searching the crowd. Once or twice they glanced up at the clocks, but leisurely, unworriedly, for it was still only sixteen minutes of eight. Occasionally their glances crossed, their eyes met for a moment, but impersonally, not stopping, and moved past and beyond each other, searching for someone who had not yet appeared and to whom the other bore no resemblance.
They waited quietly, serene and patient, and presently, very nearly at the same time, their eyes grew dreamy. Once again twin clouds formed over their heads. The clouds were oval in shape, smokewhite in color, their circumferences scalloped in neat arcs, and from the bottom of each a tail curved downward, narrowing into points over each of their heads.
The clouds had no depth, they were paper thin, and they almost met over the moving stairs. Occasionally the head of a more than usually tall man or woman, ascending or descending on the escalators, passed directly through the bottom edge of one of these clouds, but none of them seemed to notice. Nor did any of the hundreds of people on the vast floor of the station seem to see these neat clouds; except once, when an elderly man hurrying to the Long Island trains glanced up, narrowed his eyes in astonishment, then shook his head as though dismissing and denying what he had seen. And he simply clutched his newspaper more tightly under his arm, hurried on across the floor, and disappeared through the exit to the lower level.
Within the cloud over Charley's head was reproduced that section of the station floor immediately before him. And across it, too, there moved hurrying people. But in the cloud they were dim and ghostlike, except for one figure that stood out from the others in bold relief.
She might have been a model or a showgirl or the heiress to eight million dollars. She was slim and tall, her hair like cornsilk and the color of new gold. She moved with the grace of a dancer, her legs slim and lovely, and she wore an indistinct but exquisitely tailored black coat; over one arm she carried a vague but rich fur. She was wonderfully pretty, though her face, too, was somewhat unclear, and she seemed to be looking for someone. Below the cloud, his eyes half closed, rocking gently on his feet, heel to toe, Charley stood smiling complacently.
The girl in the cloud moved her head gracefully, her face prettily puzzled as she tried to peer around or — standing on tiptoe — over the heads of passers-by. Then suddenly she smiled and moved forward swiftly, both hands outstretched in greeting.
Charley? she seemed to say, in a soft flutelike tone. Charles Blaine? And in the cloud, a figure stepped out to meet her.
He resembled, vaguely, the dreamy sailor who stood underneath the cloud. He, too, wore a sailor's uniform, but it fitted his slim strong body to perfection. His face, also, was thin — slim, rather — and he looked like Charley as a handsome brother resembles the ugly duckling of a family. Somehow, though the girl whose hands he now held was surely five feet six inches tall, the sailor in the cloud was taller still. Below this happy scene, on the station floor, Charley smiled dreamily.
The young naval officer, too, in the adjacent cloud over Annie's head, was hurrying across the station, his face eager and alert. Then he smiled and began to run gracefully forward, skillfully avoiding the drab ghosts around him. And below the long tail, which curved down from this cloud, Annie smiled a little, shyly; her eyes were discreetly lowered.
Abruptly, the scene in Charley's cloud disappeared, like a light snapped off, and the cloud itself began to sway and buckle, and to lose its sharp definition at the edges. Then it broke up, swiftly, into long trailing fragments that coiled and twisted like smoke, separating into smaller and smaller strands that swelled and thinned and dissolved in the air of the station. And Charley, his head thrust forward, his mouth slowly opening, stared at a girl weaving through the crowds in the distance, and moving, indisputably, toward the escalators at which he stood.
She was, if anything, even lovelier than the late occupant of Charley's cloud, and considerably more real. She was equally slim, graceful, beautifully dressed, and though she had no furs she carried a huge green purse as though it were ermine. She was not smiling, though, but frowning a little, moving her lovely head imperiously from side to side, impatiently trying to see through the crowd, and she was, definitely, moving toward the foot of the escalators, where Charley stood.
He was facing reality now, and as always he faced it bravely. But somehow, as so often happened with Charley, this real-life scene wasn't working out as well as it might. For though he smiled and straightened to his full five-feet-five, he saw that, undeniably, this approaching beauty was taller than he was. As he watched her frowning in irritation at the crowd that impeded her, it was just a little difficult to picture her standing before him saying, Charley? Charles Blaine? and smiling happily down at his face.
Nevertheless, Charley smiled in tentative greeting. Though the message from his brain to the muscles of his face requested a smile gay and debonair, it appeared on his face a little weak and uncertain. He glanced down at his blouse, which, plainly now, did not fit perfectly, and he nervously smoothed it with his hands. His palms were suddenly moist, his tongue moved out and wet his lips, he blinked his eyes, glanced down at himself once more, and when he looked up now, the smile was nearly gone and a look of doubt had sprung into his eyes. Had he made a mistake in calling this girl?
For a moment longer he stood, tremulously smiling, facing this tall and haughty approaching beauty. Then the last remnant of his smile went away, and onto his face came the sickly look of a man who sees himself, momentarily, as others see him.
For an instant the cloud reformed over his head, and in it stood this girl with the green bag, her hands on her hips, glaring wrathfully, incredulously, down at a tiny, abject figure in a rumpled sailor suit. Then his nerve broke and he stepped quickly to one side behind a fat woman. Maybe the girl wouldn't notice him.
His eyes wincing in what he felt was contemptible cowardice, his head turned away toward the escalators, he stared miserably off into the distance, prepared to deny that his name was Charles Blaine, though he didn't think he'd be asked. And while his gaze passed directly through the space over Annie's head, his eyes did not see the few shattered tendrils of a white smokelike substance there, which were writhing in agony and expanding into nothingness.
Nor did he see Annie's pale face, tense and frightened, staring off into the crowd at a young man, taller by several inches than most of the hurrying people through which he was making his way toward the escalators. The young man was no Commander, Lieutenant-Commander, or even a jaygee. There was no gold on his cap visor, but there was, on his sleeve, the lonely stripe of an Ensign; and he looked the way the voice in Annie's phone had sounded. He was indisputably handsome, clean-cut; he looked as though he might be a Yale man, and he seemed to be searching for someone. Annie nervously clenched her fists, rubbing the palms of her hands with her fingers. Then she averted her face. She could not help smiling a little in anticipation.