by Jack Finney
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 loo
ked 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.
Several moments passed. Cautiously, Annie turned her head slightly to peer out at the station floor; then her head shot up and she turned to stare openly at the handsome, young Ensign, who stood now, smiling, the crowd dividing and flowing around them, holding both hands of a willowy blonde who held a large green purse under her arm.
Charley stared, too. He watched the tall, handsome, young couple kiss — gaily, casually — watched them talk for a moment, then saw them turn and walk, her arm under his, into the crowd. He stood completely still, watching them disappear, his thin chest unmoving under his blouse. As they vanished, his chest heaved and he released his pent-up breath in an unhappy sigh of discouraged relief.
Some twenty feet away where Annie stood, this sound, though lost in the hollow roar of Pennsylvania Station, was duplicated.
Now these two, the small, thin sailor and the tiny, thin girl, began to stroll, slowly, wearily, looking up at the clocks frequently and glancing worriedly, frowning at the faces of approaching people. For several moments they walked, sauntering aimlessly, glancing at the clocks again, turning and coming back to the escalators.
Then, in the midst of a step, Charley stopped dead still and his face puckered into an expression very close to horror, while above his head there appeared what seemed to be a puff of steam, then several more. These thickened, grew larger, and then, rapidly, like a movie in reverse, joined and formed a neat cloud again. But the tail, this time, appeared in the shape of a lightning bolt, the sharp point of which seemed to stab down into Charley's skull. Within the cloud, almost filling it like a movie close-up, a face appeared.
It seemed to be a female face; at least the dank, tangled hair above it was long. The face itself was round, pudgy and doughlike, the nose a fat blob, the eyes tiny and piglike, and it smiled — leered, rather — two jagged teeth protruding over the lower lip at each corner of the wide foolish mouth. Charley? it seemed to say, in an ugly rasp, Charley Blaine? and it grinned in gleeful, bestial welcome. Charley winced and shuddered, squeezing his eyes tight shut in horror.
Next to this gibbering, drooling monster, in a sickly white mist over Annie's head, stood a sailor four feet high with a face like a demented horse. He was, like earlier occupants of Annie's cloud, three feet wide, but in the hips, not the shoulders; he had no shoulders. Yellow flecks of egg clung to his pasty face next to the liverlike lips; above his eyes, so close they nearly merged, there were no eyebrows. There was no room for eyebrows, for his hair began immediately over the eyes, a thick mass of jutelike hair that ran up the narrowing sides of his head to the point that formed its top. Below this eager, maniacal figure, Annie stood cringing, her eyes on the floor, as she battled with nausea.
Then the twin clouds faded and disappeared, and the two figures below them opened their eyes, white-faced and shaken. Once again they began to pace, looking up at the clocks, and glancing at the faces of passers-by, but this time with stark apprehension.
They walked and they stood, they waited and watched, and presently, again, their eyes met and moved apart; but this time they became aware of each other. Their eyes swung back again, their gazes met, and now they held momentarily, then separated again. Charley and Annie both turned away. But almost at once their heads swung back, their eyes met once more, and this time they held the gaze.
Now Charley looked at the neat girl in the green cloth coat. She did not resemble even the least of the wonderful creatures who had moved through the clouds over his head, but on the other hand … Some of the fear and apprehension left his face. She was a good three inches shorter than Charley, and for the first time since he'd seen the girl with the big green purse, Charley's shoulders began to straighten. This girl was no model, she would never be a showgirl, but she was neat, Charley saw, she was young and fresh, and as he continued to watch her, the last remnants of horror faded from his face and his wilted spirit began to revive. With practically no justification at all, Charley began to feel rather stalwart again. He straightened his spine, cocked his hat to a jaunty angle, and smiled, he was pleasantly aware, not up but down at her face.
Annie-the-Dreamer looked at this sailor, but there was no pink mist over her head any more. Her eyes, still a little anxious and worried, were practical, realistic now. He was, she saw, no Commander, and there were no gold wings on his chest. But, on the other hand, he was alive, three-dimensional and real. He was here now, in the present, and he was smiling at her. And when he smiled, Annie noticed, his face was — rather nice. Annie smiled back and stepped forward toward him.
They greeted each other a little shyly, began to talk a little too rapidly, and each of them continued to study the other. Annie's voice was her own, now, with no trace of Hepburn, Novak, or Garbo. When they had confirmed their tentative recognition, she looked up at him, tossing her head a little defiantly, and said, I bet you thought I'd look like Grace Kelly or somebody like that in the movies.
Of course not, said Charley chivalrously, and his voice, too, now belonged to him. I mean — of course not. You look fine. You look swell. He hesitated a moment, then added, You prob'ly thought I'd be Marlon Brando or something.
No, said Annie scornfully. You look like I thought, and in a way she believed this now. You look — cute, she said, and she smiled.
They talked for a time, chattering anxiously, laughing a good deal, and presently decided on a place for dinner, near Broadway and the movies, and turned to walk out of the station. As they did, the two clouds, for the last time, formed once more over their heads. The figure in Annie's cloud resembled Charley almost exactly, almost but not quite. As she looked up at Charley, the figure in her cloud grew a little; as she watched his face, smiling and laughing, the figure over her head, though still very like Charley, gradually became just a little more handsome. And it seemed a bit taller, more debonair.
While as Charley looked down at the smiling, animated face at his shoulder, he began to perceive its best features; the rather nice curve of her brows, the firm, young line of her chin. The figure in the mist over his head, though wearing Annie's green coat, became rather prettier, and presently, somehow, considerably more voluptuous. Charley was pleased with what he saw.
Arm in arm they walked toward the station exit, their faces turned to each other; overhead, the two clouds, trailing like captive balloons, bumped together, recoiling gently like colliding soap bubbles, then bumped once more, joining and merging into one. In this single, large cloud, the two figures, arm in arm now like the couple below, walked along, too, still resembling Annie and Charley in a way, but growing taller and more handsome, lovelier and more curvaceous, with every step. Presently the trailing cloud entered a puff of drifting smoke above a big, fat man smoking a cigar, and it did not emerge again.
On the sidewalk outside the station, they passed the young Ensign and the girl with the green purse stepping into a cab. Charley and Annie glanced at them briefly, but it was a look of mild interest only, a look of complete and friendly equality.
Good Housekeeping, March 1949, 128(3):44-45, 258-259, 261-262, 264-267
You Haven't Changed a Bit
Standing at the bathroom mirror, Charley Knowles tightened the knot of his knit tie, then leaned forward to make a face at himself in the mirror, a habit which both amused and worried his wife. He hunched his shoulders, his arms hanging loose and bent out at the elbows, and by raising his upper lip, protruding his teeth over his lower lip and squinting his eyes idiotically at the same time, he managed to resemble an ape.
He regarded his reflection pleasurably for a moment, then resumed his normal appearance and turned to walk soberly down the short hall to the apartment door and pick up the morning paper and mail. He was neither tall nor short, thin nor heavy; his face was amiable and pleasant, his hair brushed smooth.
He was in his mid-thirties; a man on his way to breakfast and the office on a weekday morning.
The Chicago Tribune and a half-dozen envelopes lay at the front door, and he gathered them up, closed the door and, walked around through the living room to the tiny room just off the kitchen, “the nook,” where the table was set for breakfast. As he walked he sorted through the mail; one of the envelopes was unusually large and nearly square; it was postmarked, Oak Park, Illinois, and stood out from the others because of its size.
His wife, Ann, appeared in the kitchen doorway holding a glass coffee maker — a slim dark-haired woman, wearing a green robe. What came? she said looking at the mail in his hand. Anything interesting?
A notice from some law firm, Charley said in a puzzled voice. They're trying to locate the heirs to several hundred thousand dollars. Did your father have a brother named 'Toots'?
What's that big envelope?
I don't know — he sat down at the table and began to open the large envelope, the heavy paper crackling richly. Wedding invitation, it looks like.
Who from? Ann's voice was eager and pleased, her brows lifted with interest.
Looks like we'll never find out. He removed a second envelope from the first. Why do they always do that; two envelopes? A perfect example of conspicuous waste.
They always do, said Ann. We did; remember?
And tissue paper. He removed a square of flimsy from the fold of black-engraved paper. They'll never be able to afford a honeymoon.
Who's it from?
Well, I'll be darned! he said slowly. He looked up at Ann for a moment, smiling, then ducked his head to study the invitation, his thumb running absently over the engraving.