by Jack Finney
Cora was nodding decisively. "That proves it."
"Of course! It …"
"No, no," she said irritably. "It proves that it wasn't Max; it couldn't be!"
I don't know why we were so irritable; fear of the unnatural, I suppose. "And just how does it prove that?"
"Oh, Pete! Can you imagine Max Kingery of all people wearing a hat like that? You've got to be"—she shrugged, hunting for the word—"some kind of extrovert to wear silly hats. Of all people in the world who would not wear a straw baseball cap with a red button on the top and three-inch-high initials on the front …" She stopped, looking at me anxiously, and after a moment I had to agree.
"Yeah," I said slowly. "He'd be the last guy in the world to wear one of those." I gave in then; there wasn't anything else to do. "It must have been someone else. I probably got the initials wrong; I saw what I thought they ought to be instead of what they were. It would have to be someone else, naturally, cap or no cap." Then the memory of what I'd seen rose up in my mind again clear as a sharply detailed photograph, and I said slowly, "But I just hope you see him sometime, that's all. Whoever he is."
She saw him ten days later. There was a movie at the Sequoia we wanted to see, so we got our sitter, then drove downtown after supper; the weather was clear and dry but brisk, temperature in the middle or high thirties. When we got to the box office, the picture was still on with twenty minutes to go yet, so we took a little walk first.
Except for the theater and a bar or two, downtown Mill Valley is locked up and deserted at night. But most of the display windows are left lighted, so we strolled along Throckmorton Avenue and began looking into them, beginning with Gomez Jewelry. We were out of sight of the theater here, and as we moved slowly along from window to window there wasn't another human being in sight, not a car moving, and our own footsteps on the sidewalk—unusually loud —were the only sound. We were at the Men's Shop looking in at a display of cuff links, Cora urging me once more to start wearing shirts with French cuffs so I could wear links in my sleeves, when I heard footsteps turn a corner and begin approaching us on Throckmorton, and I knew it was Max.
I used to say that I'd like to have some sort of psychical experience, that I'd like to see a ghost, but I was wrong. I think it must be one of the worst kinds of fear. I now believe it can drive men insane and whiten their hair, and that it has. It's a nasty fear, you're so helpless, and it began in me now, increasing steadily, and I wanted to spare Cora the worst of it.
She was still talking, pointing at a pair of cuff links made from old cable-car tokens. I knew she would become aware of the footsteps in a moment and turn to see whoever was passing. I had to prepare her before she turned and saw Max full in the face without warning, and—not wanting to—I turned my head slowly. A permanent awning projects over the store fronts along here, and the light from the windows seemed to be confined under it, not reaching the outer edge of the walk beyond the awning. But there was a three-quarter moon just rising above the trees that surround the downtown area, and by that pale light I saw Max walking briskly along that outer edge of sidewalk beside the curb, only a dozen yards away now. He was bareheaded and I saw his face sharp and clear, and it was Max beyond all doubt. There was no way to say anything else to myself.
I slipped my hand under Cora's coat sleeve and began squeezing her upper arm, steadily harder and harder till it must have approached pain—and she understood, becoming aware of the footsteps. I felt her body stiffen and I wished she wouldn't but knew she had to—she turned. Then we stood there as he walked steadily toward us in the moonlight. My scalp stirred, each hair of my head moved and tried to stand. The skin all over my body chilled as the blood receded from it. Beside me Cora stood shivering, violently, and her teeth were chattering, the only time in my life I've ever heard the sound. I believe she would have fallen except for my grip on her arm.
Courage was useless, and I don't claim I had any, but it seemed to me that to save Cora from some unspeakable consequence of fear beyond ability to bear it that I had to speak and that I had to do it casually. I can't say why I thought that but as Max approached—his regular steadily advancing steps the only sound left in the world now, his white face in the moonlight not ten feet away—I said, "Hello, Max."
At first I thought he wasn't going to answer or respond in any way. He walked on, eyes straight ahead, for at least two more steps, then his head turned very slowly as though the effort were enormous, and he looked at us as he passed with a terrible sadness lying motionless in his eyes. Then, just as slowly, he turned away again, eyes forward, and he was actually a pace or two beyond us when his voice—a dead monotone, the effort tremendous—said, "Hello," and it was the voice of despair, absolute and hopeless.
The street curves just ahead—he would disappear around its bend in a moment—and, as I stared after him, in spite of the fear and sorrow for Max I was astounded at what I saw now. There is a kind of jacket which rightly or wrongly I associate with a certain kind of slouching, thumbs-hooked-in-the-belt juvenile exhibitionist. They are made of some sort of shiny sateenlike cloth, always in two bright and violently contrasting colors—the sleeves yellow, the body a chemical green, for example—and usually a name of some sort is lettered across its back. Teen-age gangs wear them, or used to.
Max wore one now. It was hard to tell colors in the moonlight but I think it was orange with red sleeves, and stitched on the back in a great flowing script that nearly covered it was Max K. Then he was gone, around the corner, his fading footsteps continuing two, three, four, or five more times as they dwindled into silence.
I had to support Cora and her feet stumbled as we walked to the car. In the car she began to cry, rocking back and forth, her hands over her face. She told me later that she'd cried from grief at feeling such fear of Max. But it helped her, and I drove us to lights and people, to a crowded bar away from Mill Valley in Sausalito a few miles off. We sat and drank then, several brandies each, and talked and wondered and asked each other the same questions but had no answers.
I think other people saw Max in Mill Valley during those days. One of the local cab drivers who park by the bus station walked up to me one day; actually he strolled, hands in pockets, making a point of seeming very casual. He said, "Say, that friend of yours, that young guy used to be around town that died?" There was caution in his voice, and he stood watching me closely as I answered. I nodded and said yeah to show that I understood who he meant. "Well, did he have a brother or something?" the driver said, and I shook my head and said not that I knew of. He nodded but was unsatisfied, still watching my face and waiting for me to offer something more but I didn't. And I knew he'd seen Max. I'm sure others saw him and knew who it was, as Cora and I did; it isn't something you mention casually. And I suppose there were those who saw him and merely recognized him vaguely as someone they'd seen around town before.
I walked over to Max's old house a day or so after we'd seen him; by that time, of course, I knew why he'd come back. The real-estate office that had it listed for rental again would have let me have the key if I'd asked; they knew me. But I didn't know what I could tell them as a reason for going in. It was an old house, run down, too small for most people, not the kind that rents quickly or that anyone bothers guarding too diligently. I felt sure I could get in somewhere, and on the tiny back porch, shielded from view, I tried the kitchen window and it opened and I climbed in.
The few scraps of furniture that had come with the place were still there, in the silence: a wooden table and two chairs in the tiny kitchen which Max had hardly used; the iron single bed in the bedroom; the wornout musty-smelling davenport and matching chair in the living room, and the rickety card table beside the front windows where Max had worked. What little I found, I found lying on the floor beside the table: two crumpled-up wads of the yellow copy paper Max had used.
I opened them up but it's hard to describe what was written on them. There were single words and what seemed to be parts of words and frag
ments of sentences and completely unreadable scribblings, all written in pencil. There was a word that might have been "forest" or "foreign"; the final letters degenerated into a scrawl as though the hand holding the pencil had begun to fall away from the paper before it could finish. There was an unfinished sentence beginning, "She ran to," and the stroke crossing the t wavered on part way across and then down the sheet till it ran off the bottom. There is no use describing in detail what is on those two crumpled sheets; there's no sense to be made of it, though I've often tried. It looks, I imagine, like the scrawlings of a man weak from fever and in delirium, as though every squig-gle and wobbly line were made with almost-impossible effort. And I'm sure they were. It is true that they might be notes jotted down months earlier when Max was alive and which no one bothered to pick up and remove; but I know they aren't. They're the reason Max came back. They're what he tried to do, and failed.
I don't know what ghosts are or why, in rare instances, they appear. Maybe all human beings have the power, if they have the will, to reappear as Max and a few others have done occasionally down through the centuries. But I believe that to do so takes some kind of terrible and unimaginable expenditure of psychic energy. I think it takes such a fearful effort of will that it is beyond our imagining, and that only very rarely is such an incredible effort made.
I think a Shakespeare killed before Hamlet, Othello, or Macbeth were written might have put forth such effort and returned. And I know that Max Kingery did. But there was almost nothing left over to do what he came back for. Those meaningless fragments were the utmost he could accomplish. His appearances were at the cost of tremendous effort, and I think that to even turn his head and look at us in addition, as he did the night we saw him, and then to actually pronounce an audible word besides, were efforts no one alive can understand.
It was beyond him; he could not return and then write the books that were to have made the name of Max Kingery what he'd been certain it was destined to be. And so he had to give up; we never saw Max again, though we saw one more place he'd been.
Cora and I were driving to San Rafael over the county road. You can get there on a six-lane highway now, 101, that slices straight through the hills, but this was once part of the only road between the two towns and it winds a lot around and between the Marin County hills, under the trees. It's a pleasant narrow little two-lane road, and we like to take it once in a while; I believe it's still the shortest route to San Rafael, winding though it is. This was the end of January or early in February, I don't remember. It was early in the week, I'd taken the day off, and Cora wanted something at Penney's, so we drove over.
Twenty or thirty feet up on the side of a hill about a mile outside Mill Valley there's an outcropping of smooth-faced rock facing the road, and Cora glanced at it, exclaimed and pointed, and I jammed on the brakes and looked up where she was pointing. There on the rock facing the public road, painted in great four-foot letters, was MAX KI, the lines crude and uneven, driblets of paint running down past the bottoms of letters, the final stroke continuing on down the face of the rock until the paint or oil on the brush or stick had run thin and faded away. We knew Max had painted it—his name or as much of it as he could manage—and staring up at it now, I understood the loud jacket with MAX K on its back, and the carnival straw hat with the big red initials.
For who are the people who paint their names or initials in public places and on the rocks that face our highways? Driving from San Francisco to Reno over the Donner Pass you see them by the hundreds, some painted so high that the rocks must have been scaled, dangerously, to do it. I used to puzzle over them; to paint your name or initials up there in the mountains wasn't impulse. It took planning. You'd have to drive over a hundred miles with the can of paint on the floor of the car. Who would do that? And who would wear the caps stitched with initials and the jackets with names on their backs? It was plain to me now; they are the people, of course, who feel that they have no identity. And who are fighting for one.
They are unknown, nearly invisible, so they feel; and their names or initials held up to the uninterested eyes of the world are silent shouts of, "Hey, look at me!" Children shout it incessantly while acquiring their identities, and if they never acquire one maybe they never stop shouting. Because the things they do must always leave them with a feeling of emptiness. Initials on their caps, names on their jackets, or even painted high on a cliff visible for miles, they must always feel their failure to leave a real mark, and so they repeat it again and again. And Max who had to be someone, who had to be, did as they did, finally, from desperation. To have never been anyone and to be forgotten completely was not to be borne. At whatever cost he too had to try to leave his name behind him even if he were reduced to painting it on a rock.
I visited the cemetery once more, that spring, plodding up the hill, eyes on the ground. Nearing the crest I looked up, then stopped in my tracks, astounded. There at the head of Max's grave stood an enormous gray stone, the biggest by far of any in sight, and it was made not of concrete or pressed stone but of the finest granite. It would last a thousand years, and cut deeply into its face in big letters was MAXWELL KINGERY, AUTHOR.
Down in his shop outside the gates I talked to the middle-aged stonecutter in the little office at the front of the building; he was wearing a work apron and cap. He said, "Yes, certainly I remember the man who ordered it—black hair and eyes, heavy glasses. He told me what it should say, and I wrote it down. Your name's Peter Marks, isn't it?" I said it was, and he nodded as though he knew it. "Yes, he told me you'd be here, and I knew you would. Hard for him to talk; had some speech impediment, but I understood him." He turned to a littered desk, leafed through a little stack of papers, then found the one he wanted, and slid it across the counter to me. "He said you'd be in, and pay for it; here's the bill. It's expensive but worth it, a fine stone and the only one here I know of for an author."
For several moments I just stood there staring at the paper in my hand. Then I did the only thing left to do, and got out one of the checks I carry in my wallet. Waiting while I wrote, the stonecutter said politely, "And what do you do, Mr. Marks; you an author, too?"
"No," I said, signing the check, then I looked up smiling. "I'm just a critic."
A POSSIBLE CANDIDATE
FOR THE PRESIDENCY
A POSSIBLE CANDIDATE FOR THE PRESIDENCY
I expect Kennedy will be re-elected, or maybe it'll be Rockefeller or Nixon, next time. But it might, it just might, be Charley. There's a one-in-ten chance, I'd say, and we could probably do worse. Oh, they say he's a charlatan, a confidence man—and, off the record, they're right. For hard-bitten practicality and gouging in the clinches, he could give odds to a loan shark. But—and I'm not making a speech—he's a dreamer, too, an artist warmed by the fires of genius, a shrewd and shifty poet at heart, and when it comes to pulling rabbits out of the hat I promise you he'll produce them by litters.
If Charley gets in the running at all you'll certainly read about his boyhood and see his early photographs till you're sick of them—that thin, composed, alert little face behind tortoise-shell glasses. And you'll see the old newspaper clippings reproduced once more: the stories and several dozen photographs that ran for a week, thirty-odd years ago, in the Galesburg, Illinois, Register-Mail; the follow-up interviews in the big Chicago papers next day; and the page-three wire story from the files of the New York Times. You might, if you can remember Calvin Coolidge, even recall the story yourself. Charley was the boy who hypnotized the tiger.
Yes, he did; don't think I'm remembering through a golden haze. In the things that counted with boys Charley was unquestionably a genius. One summer vacation Charley bought for two dollars—every cent he had—an immense dusty carton of unsold Easter-egg dyes from the grocery store at eight o'clock one Tuesday morning. By eight thirty, using the upstairs telephone at his house, he had instructed five of us to meet in his basement and to bring along the big metal clothes boilers our mothers all used o
n washdays. By nine, when we met, Charley's mother had gone to the Tuesday morning sewing group at the church. Ten minutes later the five of us dispersed at Charley's direction, each to an assigned territory. Within forty minutes we were back, each with at least one and some with two and three white or semiwhite neighborhood dogs of all sizes and breeds, two white Angoras, and one mottled-white alley cat.
Charley was ready. The two stationary laundry tubs were filled with warm, sudsy water for the preliminary baths; the clothes boilers were each half full of dye; a section of the basement—the drying area—was neatly paved with newspapers; and Charley, seated above us on the basement stairs, was ready to direct and oversee the fast, efficient, assembly-line operation he had planned.
We were finished on schedule by noon when the neighborhood was briefly busy with husbands coming home for lunch. Then Charley gave the signal and—dry and combed now— fourteen excited red, green, violet, vivid yellow, sky-blue, and purple dogs, two sullen scarlet cats, and a final experimental red-white-and-blue one were simultaneously released on a flabbergasted neighborhood.
This accomplishment had the clean-cut touch of genius, and we knew it. It was a conception so far above the routine traditional mischief of the rest of us that it was beyond envy and only to be admired and accepted with gratitude. Even then, as you can see—call it pump-priming, if you like— Charley never hesitated to spend what was necessary to the largeness of his purposes; he was broke for a week after the episode of the dogs but it was obviously necessary and worth it. Then, as today, he understood that accomplishment carries its price.