by Jack Finney
Where to now? Eve asked. Ready for home?
Nope, it's early yet. And we haven't taken our trolley ride.
Trolley ride?
An old summer custom among New York's young folks.
Since when?
Right now. We're starting it, Tim explained. Nothing nicer than sitting at an open porthole on an old tramp trolley cruising slowly down my favorite New York Street.
Third Avenue?
Assuredly, said Tim. More character, individuality and honesty than any other street in the city. Every few blocks she reveals a different, unexpected, ever more fascinating side of her many-faceted nature. The inscrutable East Side, the —
All right, Eve said. It's a nice street.
The car wasn't full, and its leisurely stoppings and startings, its patient waitings at traffic lights, its unhurried progress deeper and deeper downtown, were peaceful and restful. Eve found herself thinking of the small Illinois town where she'd spent her childhood summers.
The shabby store fronts flowed past through the soft summer night. BOOKS — FURNITURE — BOUGHT & SOLD. WING YET — LAUNDRY — FREE DELIVERY … ANTIQUES — THE ART SHOP … Careful, hand-lettered signs. And beyond at the river, a glimpse of the solemn bulk of Bellevue. Faded electric bulbs: The Embassy — Double Feature — News Shorts Cartoon. Eve remembered the excitement of childhood Saturday matinees; there had been a Hoot Gibson serial she'd followed faithfully. She'd missed the very last episode because she was at home with the mumps, and even now she could feel a little of that old frustrated disappointment.
I don't suppose you saw episode fifteen of The Flame Riders, starring Hoot Gibson? I've always wondered how it came out, she said.
The gamblers captured Hoot and tied him up, in the room above the saloon, Tim said. And Ace Dawson, as I remember, soaked the place in kerosene and set it afire. The deed for Eileen's dad's ranch was hidden in the building too, and Ace was getting rid of them both. Hoot lay there on the floor, struggling helplessly, the flames eating their way across to him, licking hungrily up the walls. Tim's voice took on the phony drama of a sports announcer's. Across the street Ace watched from his office, laughing hideously, and holding the struggling Eileen tight in his arms. Flashback to Hoot. A close-up. His teeth are clenched, jaw firm. From his narrowed eyes sparks a steely flashing glimpse of indomitable courage. Eve saw that the woman in front was listening and she nudged Tim.
Suddenly, Tim continued, Hoot lifts his head, cocks his ears, and listens intently. A grin of triumph sweeps over his honest face. Flash to the door. A panel breaks through. The door shudders on its hinges. Another smashing blow, a third, and then it cracks back against the wall, revealing — Old Faithful, Hoot's sorrel-maned horse!
Horses don't have sorrel manes, Eve reminded him.
Hoot's did. Cheers from the small fry. Old Faithful walks to his master, nudges him gently with his velvet nose, and they gaze into each other's eyes. It's the work of a moment for Old Faithful to untie Hoot's bonds with his teeth. Hoot leaps into the saddle. Down the stairs they gallop, emerging through the swinging doors of the saloon below as the building crashes into smoking ruins behind them!
From his window across the street, Ace gasps in dismay, flings his lovely burden to the floor, and makes a dash for the stairs. But too late. Up they come, Hoot and Old Faithful. The desperate Ace, teeth bared in a revolting grimace of hate, backs slowly up the stairs again. They all go into the room where Hoot, sweeping the swooning Eileen from the floor with a stalwart arm, ropes the desperate Ace just as he tries to leap from the window. Flash to the street. The triumphant Hoot is astride his mincing, almost human companion, with Eileen in the saddle in front of him.
Sounds crowded.
And trotting behind at rope's end, arms pinioned to his sides, is the bedraggled Ace-on his way to the sheriff. The townspeople cheer. Dissolve to Eileen's father's ranch. A strong handclasp between these two silent men. Then Hoot, hat in hand, bids a shy farewell to the lovely, mournful Eileen. And finally, silhouetted against the sinking sun, the two companions, Hoot and Old Faithful, ride off into the vastness of the untamed West.
Thanks, said Eve.
You're welcome, Tim said. If you like I can brush you up on some of the more important details of The Sea Wolf, starring Milton Sills.
Never mind, said Eve.
Or Daddy Long Legs.
Nope. The woman in front relaxed, and Tim grinned happily.
Now they passed a large, unlighted church. That's St. Patrick's Cathedral, Tim whispered loudly. The woman ahead stirred slightly, and Eve drew down a corner of her mouth and rolled her eyes upward at Tim. He grinned again, looking straight ahead. The car moved slowly onward. Tim leaned across Eve and pointed again.
See that narrow little street? That's Wall Street, center of the nation's finance. Eve jabbed him sharply in the ribs. According to the book, Tim continued, we're approaching the Flatiron Building, New York's tallest structure. The woman ahead squirmed in delight.
Rector's is along here somewhere, too, said Tim, and Tony Pastor's Music Hall. The car slowed and the woman ahead rose to get off, turning to glance happily back at the innocent smile of Mr. Timberlake Ryan.
Wise guy, Eve said, when the car started up.
Too bad she left. We were just coming to Diamond Jim Brady's. Let's walk for a while, do you want to?
0n the sidewalk Tim turned east and, holding Eve's hand, ducked out into the street against the light, guiding her through the traffic. Within a block they had reached one of the quiet, dead areas that exist along New York's East River. Deserted warehouses, ancient two-story tenements, and just ahead, an area of several leveled city blocks stretched before their eyes, like photographs of bombed-out Rotterdam. The area was being cleared for a great new housing development and was empty, now, of life and people. Their footsteps were loud on the sidewalk, and their breathing was audible over the suddenly distant murmur of the city behind them.
It was exciting — such complete desertion at the edge of Manhattan. The moon cast a silver yellowness on the scene, giving an illusion of sharp visibility yet somehow concealing the drabness and ugliness which, Eve felt, was all the place had in the daytime. Now the moonlight lay on the soft, crumbling brick sides of the buildings. Their empty windows were velvet black. It was a cemetery of tired exhausted old structures, free at last of swarming humans.
The only two people left in the world, said Eve.
Yes, Tim said, the last survivors. A mysterious malady swept every continent, but through some unexplainable miracle, spared only us. And we can't last for long.
We don't want to, Eve said. It's far too lonely. Before it happened we often tried to get away from the crowd — off by ourselves. But loneliness is pleasant only when it's a matter of choice.
That's right. You have to know there are others to go back to if you wish. You have to know there are people living their lives on every continent. You need them all, everywhere, even though you never see or know them. So we're willing to go too; there's nothing on this planet for us any more. We wouldn't survive if we could. They stopped now, at the edge of the vast, moonlit plain before them.
But before we go, too, Eve said, we're taking one last look at the ruined home of man. We're saying goodby for the human race.
Their fantasy seemed real: the crushed brick at her feet became unutterably desolate and sad for Eve. I'll cry if we don't stop this silliness, she said.
So long, world, said Tim. You were quite a place while you lasted. Noisy, dirty, and ugly most of the time. Mixed up and confused and afraid. Evil and vicious and callous. But pretty wonderful, too. There was a humanity in your people that could never quite be repressed no matter who tried it. There were mornings and evenings; there was snow at night, and sun that felt good — and unexpected moments of peace and happiness. People were alive and doing things — and we —
You dope, said Eve, you'd just love to get a tear out of me, wouldn't you? She smiled at him. Well, you won't.
Pretty close, though, wasn't I? I'll bet you cry at matinees.
Look who's talking, Eve said. Remember that movie when you —
You're crazy. That was a gag as you know very well.
Well — she said, and they both laughed.
I want to see the boats.
Okay, Tim answered, and they walked on toward the river. But they'll all be deserted. Silent, drifting hulks with skeletons tied to the wheels, white in the moonlight.
I'll tie you, said Eve.
The river always made her happy. It gave her a sense of the really important hard, dirty, honest labor that goes to make up a city and a world.
They watched a big tug moving silently along with the current, electric bulbs shining from the guy wires leading to its stacks. A man walked leisurely along the side toward the stern, and it seemed strange to see him walking so calmly in one direction, while the boat carried him in the other. But he didn't seem to mind,
They sat on the heavy bolted beam that formed the top of the breakwater, with their feet dangling over the river. Tim handed Eve a cigarette and took one himself. They smoked, listening to the water as it lapped at the pilings below. Another tug approached towing a string of open barges. It sounded its whistle and the deep growling sound moved across the water. Down the river a way, the Williamsburg bridge hung high above. I'm happy, Eve thought; I'm married to my husband; I'm in love with him, and I'm happy.
For a time they sat looking their fill. Then Tim rose, held his hand out to Eve, and helped her up. Time to go, l guess, he said. They walked contentedly over to Avenue A. Tim hailed a cab. and they rode home with Tim slouched down in the seat, his head on Eve's shoulder. He spoke only once and then just to say, Left at the next corner, driver, and presently they drew up at the apartment. Tim paid the fare, and the cab drew away; and Tim tucked Eve's arm under his as they walked into the lobby.
Nice evening, old lady, he said as they approached the elevator.
Yes, it was. She paused for a moment. Tim. You know, Tim, it was a very wonderful evening. I sort of think it was — a very special evening.
What do you mean? he asked. But the elevator boy was here now, and Eve didn't answer. And upstairs at their door, she knew he'd forgotten his question.
But Eve answered it for herself. She felt she had to put into words silently and for her own benefit, the thought that had come into her mind downstairs. This evening, she thought, had a happiness, a kind of special perfect happiness. It comes from Tim and me in love and together. It wasn't planned; you couldn't plan it. A casual evening that somehow — was just right. And then she said it aloud. Tim, I believe I'm always going to remember this evening as one of those special, very happiest times of my life.
Yes, Tim said, somehow it had that quality, didn't it? He kissed her. Come on, old lady — time for bed. I've got to get up in the morning.
Collier's, April 5 1947, 119(14):20, 34-36
The Widow's Walk
I'm so mad I could spit.
I walked into her room that morning as always; quietly, though not on tiptoe. The loose board creaked, but she didn't move, of course: she sleeps like a pig. At the side of her bed I stood looking down. She lay flat on her back, her skin, even her eyelids, yellow and wrinkled, her skull showing behind the sagging old flesh, and her mouth, without her teeth, puckered to a slit. How I hate it when I have to kiss her. It takes a day for the feeling to leave my lips.
Her pillow was on the floor. It always is, though I've often spoken about it. I wore gloves and my suede jacket and skirt. I picked up her pillow and held it tightly at each end, stretched between my hands. I edged closer to her bed, almost touching it. The rest I went through only in imagination, for I was rehearsing: I had to be certain, first, that I could really do it. But I saw it in my mind as though it were happening. I could even feel tentative little muscle movements.
Down with the pillow, flat across her face, a knee on the bed, shoulders hunched over my arms, the knuckles of each fist pressed deep in the mattress. A moment of utter silence, then her bony hands shoot out, clawing rapidly, senselessly, at my arms and hands, scratching at the leather. Then they tug purposefully at my wrists. A silent, almost motionless struggle … and now her old hands begin to relax.
Suddenly a new picture flashed through my mind, and up to that moment this possibility had never occurred to me. Suddenly, and I could hear it in my brain, her feet began to drum on the mattress. Fast! Fast as a two-year-old's in a tantrum, and loud.
I couldn't stand that. Not even in imagination. I could feel the blood drop from my face. Perhaps I made a sound, I don't know. And I don't like to think how my face must have looked. But when I turned it to hers — I'd been staring straight ahead — those mean, blue eyes were boring into mine.
What are you doing? she said, in her flat, cold voice. The panic remained for a moment. Then I could speak.
Nothing, Mother, and my voice was easy. I decided to shop early. That explained my jacket and gloves. And I thought I'd tidy up your room first.
Can't do much tidying while I'm still here.
No, I guess not. It was foolish of me. I'm sorry I disturbed you. Try to sleep some more.
Can't sleep once I've been waked up; you know that. She was trying to prolong the conversation, alert for a clue.
I'm sorry, Mother. I'll be back in a few minutes and get you some breakfast. Then I went out to the stores, though there was really no shopping to do. I bought a few staples.
It's infuriating, though. So perfect, so simple — and I just can't do it. She wouldn't be smothered, you see. Her creaky old heart would give out! Her doctor has warned us, and he'd be the doctor I'd call. Then I'd phone Al: I tiptoed into her room to see if she wanted breakfast, and she looked sort of funny, and — oh, Al, she's dead!
Almost true, and it would have been true, really, by the time they arrived. I'd have run it over and over in my mind, like a film, till I believed it myself, almost. I know how to lie. But I'm just not a murderer, that's all. I'm simply a housewife.
I'm thirty-two years old, five feet five inches tall, wavy hair, dark-blue eyes, reasonably pretty, and I'm in love with my husband. I'm a homemaker, much as I dislike that word, and I want my home the way it was before she came.
We didn't do much, then, Al and I. Evenings mostly at home, reading in the living room. In the spring and summer, the garden till dark. Bridge with the Dykes fairly often: we hardly see them now. And occasionally a movie. Daytimes I cleaned, I shopped, I cooked. That's all. But I liked it. I made a home — for my husband and me. And I want it back.
But now it's like this. The other morning I was doing the dishes. She sat on the back porch, “taking the air” — unpleasant phrase. I couldn't see her, actually, but I could see her in my mind, staring out at the pile of new lumber in the yard, hands folded in her lap. And thinking of me. As I was thinking of her. For a long time she made no sound, and then she cleared her throat. That doesn't mean anything to you, does it? But it did to me. And she knew it. It was a nasty, deliberate, spiteful reminder that she was present and existing, sharing my house and my husband. Do you see now, what I mean? I can feel her, actually feel her in every room of the house at all times, day and night! Even in our bedroom which she never enters.
Oh, I'm going to kill her, all right. Al will get over it. He must hate it as much as I do. We've had four years of it. And it started as soon as she came.
We'd had a date with the Crowleys, made just before she arrived — a weekend at their cottage on the lake. And we kept it: she insisted. You children go ahead. I'll be glad to get rid of you!
Sure, now, Mother? Al asked. You know, a weekend's not important, and if —
Of course I am! Now, I won't hear another word — you're going!
The doctor was there when we returned Sunday evening. An ambulance in front of the house, a nurse inside with an oxygen tent. A heart attack. I know she did it deliberately; not faked, exactly, but somehow self-induced. She'd phoned
a neighbor in the late afternoon, hardly able to talk. Our neighbor hurried over, called the hospital — and that's what we came home to. She's never had another attack, and we've never had another weekend.
I mentioned it again a few days ago. Yes, I'd have got over it, Al said. You can't foresee and guard against everything. But you have to try. I have to see that she has as long and happy a life as she can. And then he startled me by adding this, But I know it's hard on you sometimes, Annie.
I'd thought he didn't realize, wasn't aware. Of course he must have been, a little, at least. But he'll never know how I really feel, that I'm sure of.
My new plan is so perfect, you see. It's going to be a push, a sudden push from a high place. So simple, but it took me a long time to think of it. I was afraid I couldn't trust myself to go through with any of the plans I was able to think of. And then it came to me. There's nothing, really, to go through with in a push! It's over before you can think, over the moment it's started! And then … well, I heard her gasp, turned around, and there she was, disappearing over the edge! Her heart, I suppose.
But what high place? She never leaves the house. The stairs, from our second floor to the first, turn at a landing; not much of a fall. It wouldn't be certain. I wish I could plan ahead and think more logically. Al says I'd be out of house and home in a month if he weren't here to plan for me. Maybe he's right, but I've always found, it seems to me, that things work themselves out in the long run.
And sure enough. One night Al and I were reading in the living room; his mother had gone to bed. One of my magazines had come that day. I was leafing through it and I came to an article on “Widow's Walks” — photographs of the originals in New England, sketches of modern adaptations. So cute. Perfect little porches, the article said, for sunbathing and for sitting of an evening. Perfect: a “Widow's Walk” with a knee-high railing.
Al's set in his ways, though, and I could just hear what he'd say if I suggested a Widow's Walk on our house!
I did, though. Look, dear, I said, and he glanced up from his book. Aren't these darling? I held up my article.