by Jack Finney
“Nick, shut up and hurry up. Or I’ll die.”
Working fast, peeling the wallpaper down in yard-long, foot-high strips, I exposed a second line of script centered under the first: lived here, it said. The line below that was near the middle of the wall, within Jan’s reach, and as I moved the steamer she worked the scraper, eyes snapping with excitement. June, it said, followed by 14, and as my steamer grated against the projecting brick of the chimney Jan was working off the wet paper to reveal a 1, then a 9, then the entire date, 1926. The line below that, Jan’s hands following my steamer so closely its mist curled over her fingers, said, Read it. And the final line, just above the baseboard—we knelt side by side, fingers flying to uncover it—said, and weep!
Sitting back on our heels, we stared up. From ceiling to floor the immense red script covered half a wall nearly eleven feet high and some twelve feet horizontally, and now Jan read it aloud in entirety: “Marion Marsh lived here, June 14, 1926. Read it and weep!” She clutched my arm. “I will weep if we don’t find out who she was! Nick, I have to know, I absolutely have got to know.”
“Yeah.” I nodded, and stood, still staring at that enormous scrawl of writing. “I’d give something to know, all right. Maybe Dad knows; we’ll ask him tonight. Look at that. Must have taken a couple tubes of lipstick.”
“At least.” Jan stood. “It’s a very distinctive handwriting. You get the feeling of an interesting person.”
“I’ll bet she was that, all right. Well, what do we do about it before I peel it off? Take a picture, maybe? I’ve got film in the camera.”
“Oh, no, let’s leave it! For the housewarming, at least. It’ll make a marvelous conversation piece.”
“ ‘Conversation piece.’ ” I began dragging the ladder around the fireplace. “Sometimes I wonder what the conversation is really like when folks gather ’round the conversation pieces. ‘Hey, is that ice bucket really your mother-in-law’s skull?’ ‘Yep, made it myself. Just before she passed on.’ ‘Well, I’ll be damned.’ End of conversation. ‘Don’t tell me that life-size panorama of Lincoln’s War Cabinet is entirely made out of feathers?’ ‘Sure as hell is. Took three nuthatches for Stanton’s eyebrows alone.’ ‘You don’t say!’ End of conversation. And there’ll be even less talk about this, Kiddo. What’s there to say? The odds are that no one in the world knows who Marion Marsh was any more; that writing is probably all that’s left of her. And we’ll never find out any more than this.”
But we did. For the rest of the day except for a fifteen-minute sandwich lunch in the kitchen—Al, tidy soul that he is, kindly disposing of my crusts—we peeled wallpaper, watching for more writing to appear. None did, and by four-thirty the room was stripped to the rose-patterned paper on all four walls and in the window-seat bay. Once more, then, we stood looking at the wall to the left of the fireplace: Marion Marsh lived here, June 14, 1926. Read it and weep! we read again. Then I changed clothes to drive to the airport.
This was early March but it had been a warm sun-filled day after nearly a week of rain, and all I wore over an open-necked sport shirt was a light sleeveless sweater. The car was parked at the curb down in front of the house, wheels toed in; we’re on a hill. The car is the best thing I own: a forty-six-year-old Packard roadster I’d bought half restored before I was married, finishing the job myself; gray body and wheels with navy-blue striping. It ran beautifully, and we used it regularly, our only car. Today the black canvas top was down, the finish dirt-slashed after the rains, and I stepped up on the running board, slid over the door top, higher than the roofs of some of today’s so-called cars, and dropped onto the black-leather seat, glancing up at our windows.
Jan was at the window seat, and she lifted an arm to wave, a little limply, shoulders drooping. She was tired, of course, and had the living room to sweep, dinner to get, and—biggest job of all—get dressed for company. Jan is a shy girl, not so good at meetings with anyone but old and trusted friends. And while she’d met and liked my dad, it had been nearly four years. It helped her poise when she managed to feel she looked her best, so I knew she’d fuss and worry about what to wear.
Driving down the Divisadero hill I felt pretty good: still excited about the writing on the wall; pleased with the day’s work; looking forward to seeing my dad. Things were looking up in general, I thought. Jan and I had been married six years, and while we were happy, we had our problems sometimes; what couple doesn’t after a while? But we had our new apartment now, the best we’d ever had. There was plenty of work to be done on it yet, including installing some new bathroom fixtures, which the landlord would pay for if I’d put them in. But I liked doing things like that, even removing wallpaper, and so did Jan. We felt busy and full of plans these days, a good feeling. Sometimes I think most everyone needs a new start every once in a while.
The airport is always crowded but it wasn’t bad this time of day and year, and the plane was on time. We were home by six-thirty, talking all the way back to the city catching up on the news. There wasn’t much: we keep in fairly close touch with a letter every couple of weeks or so and an evening phone call once in a while. We get along pretty well, my dad and I; my mother is dead.
When we turned into our block it was dusk at ground level but still plenty of daylight in the sky. We could see the white-and-pastel city spread out below our hill, every building sharp in the rain-washed air. A beginning fog was moving onto the Bay and the orange lights of the Bay Bridge were on. It was a nice time to arrive.
My dad got out, hatless, his tie still over one shoulder from the top-down drive, and stood in the street staring up at the house, as I got his bag from the trunk. Our living-room windows were dark but I thought I could see the blur of Jan’s face. It always interested her how much alike my father and I were, and she’d be comparing us again: same height, and he just as skinny as I am. He’s bald, and his face is thirty-odd years older than mine, but it’s the same face, and I’m Nick junior. He’s intelligent, and has the look in the eye of a humorous man. When I glanced at him now, closing the car trunk, picking up his bag, he nodded at the house. “Good to see it again.” Then he shook his head. “And strange.”
The house, like all the others on that side of the street, sits high on a ridge with a long flight of concrete stairs before you even reach the wooden stairs to the porch. Halfway up them, our middle window rattled, Jan leaned out to call down to us, and Dad grinned and waved. On the porch I was glad to set his bag down for a moment, and we stood looking out over the city at the Bay, fogging over very fast now. “Last time I stood here,” my dad said, “you could still see a few sailing ships anchored out there.” He turned to look at the lower-apartment windows beside us, but they were curtained, people living there, and he couldn’t peek in at his old apartment.
Looking good in an orange dress, Jan stood waiting at the top of the inside stairs with Al, who began barking as soon as the lower door opened. I shushed him, threatening to hand him over to the vivisectionists, and he looked down at me alertly, ears coming up, wondering whether “vivisection” was something to eat. Dad spoke to him, and Al recognized a friend, and said so with his tail; all he’d wanted was to show whose house this was in case the arriving stranger had any doubts. When we were halfway up, Jan came hurrying impulsively down to meet Dad, feeling shy—I saw her face flush—but her eyes were excited. Dad puts people at ease; I’ve seen it all my life. He slid an arm around Jan’s waist, kissing her, greeted her, and walked her on up the stairs; I reached up and pinched her. He likes Jan, genuinely, and I was sure she felt fine, now. “I simply can’t wait to ask you!” I heard her saying. “Do you know—” She turned on the landing to see me waggling a hand—Don’t say it!—and cut herself short.
“Know what?” He stood smiling at her, then reached down to pat Al.
“Whether the building looks the same. How does it seem to be back in it?”
“Looks as though I’d just left it last month. It may seem foolish to fly out here for only
one evening just to see it again. But it’s worth it, believe me. Especially with you two in it now. Amazing that you should be here.”
I’d set my father’s bag down under the hall hatrack, and now I sidled past them and into the living room. Jan was saying, “Well, we looked it up and fell in love with it on sight. And when we learned the top apartment was empty . . .” She shrugged, smiling.
“Come on in here,” I called. “Get the view before I turn on the lights.” They came in and walked to the bay windows. The street lamps had come on, faintly illuminating the room, and we could see the city, lighted too now, spread out before us from the uneven mountaintop horizon far ahead down to the shores of the Bay. Nick senior and Jan stood at the windows; I was just behind them. “Furniture’s stored in the basement till we finish the room,” I said conversationally, and Jan flicked a glance at me, detecting the false casualness of a planned-in-advance remark. “We’re still peeling the old wallpaper off; hell of a job.” Staring out at the enormous view, comparing it, I suppose, with the way it had been once, my dad didn’t answer, and I walked back to the wall switch beside the hall doorway. For a moment I hesitated, looking at his back, wondering if I should do this. Then I flipped on the overhead chandelier, and Dad and Jan turned, squinting in the new glare. “And look what we uncovered this morning,” I said casually, and his head turned to follow my gesture.
“Oh, my God,” he said softly, staring at the enormous red script on the wall.
When I spoke my voice was suddenly tight; for an instant I was a boy again, afraid he’d gone too far with his father. “Did you know her, Dad?”
A second or so passed, then he turned abruptly to the window, standing with his back to us. “Did I know her,” he repeated flatly. “Did I know Marion Marsh. Oh, yes. Oh, yes, indeed.” He turned back into the room to stare at the writing on the wall again. Then he walked toward it, his hand coming up as though he were going to touch it, but he didn’t. He stopped before it, stood for a moment, then without turning to look at us he said, “When she wrote that I was here in the room with her.” His head shook wonderingly. “I was twenty years old.” For a moment longer he stood staring. “You know how she reached the top lines?” He turned to look at us, smiling now. “Walking along the back of the davenport. In high heels. She knew I was afraid she’d fall. I stood ready to catch her if she did, and she all but turned somersaults up there. Three-quarters drunk probably, though maybe not; it was never easy to tell. You’d think she was, and she wasn’t. Then you’d think she was sober, and she’d be blind.” He turned to look at the wall again, his head slowly shaking in awe and astonishment. “And it’s still there. Still there: I can’t believe it.”
Jan said, “I have to go out to the kitchen; there are things cooking. Come on along, will you? Both of you. I don’t want to miss a word.”
The kitchen was large enough to hold a big round wooden table, covered now with a linen cloth checked in a pastel-blue-and-white pattern, and set for three with the good china and blue tumblers. Around it stood four old-style wooden chairs, each of which Jan had enameled in a different color, the four slats in the back being all four colors. There was an old black gas stove with a white-enamel oven door labeled WEDGEWOOD in blue letters. The sink was old, with a splintering wooden drainboard; I’d have to do something about that. The refrigerator was new, and so were two Formica-covered work counters with cupboards underneath, and there was a big walk-in pantry. Jan stood at the stove, a large wooden spoon in one hand, an old-fashioned in the other, her apron longer than her skirt—she has good, good legs, which still interest me enormously. I’d put Al out in the back yard with his dinner, and Dad and I were at the table lounging back in our tipped-up chairs, sipping our drinks.
“Why did she write it?” he was saying to Jan. “I don’t know; impulse. The way she did everything. She’d suddenly decided to move to Hollywood; she’d been in two, three pictures down there. The first as part of a crowd scene that didn’t even survive the cutting room. But after the second and third she thought she had a career in pictures.” He shrugged. “As she damn well may have; she was an actress. This was a good theater town then, and I saw her a number of times. At the old Alcazar.” He nodded once or twice. “She was good all right.” He took a swallow of his drink.
“Maybe I shouldn’t ask this,” Jan said, and stopped, her face flushing.
He smiled. “And maybe I shouldn’t answer it.” He lifted his glass to the light. “But what with two stiff drinks, the pleasure of being here, and the shock of seeing Marion’s writing still on that wall—I will. The answer is that I thought I was. In love with her. That’s what you meant, isn’t it?” Jan nodded, her face flushing a little more, and she pushed her hair nervously back off one shoulder. “Well, I thought I was, and she thought she was. We’d been talking about getting married, in fact.” He turned to grin at me. “If we had, you wouldn’t be here, would you? Serve you right, too, for springing that stunt in the living room.”
“Oh, I’d still be here,” I said. “You couldn’t have kept me out. But I suppose I’d look a little more like Jean Harlow than I do now; that’s how I picture Marion Marsh, anyway.” Like a lot of people, I’m interested in old movies; I collect films, in a small way. So this fascinated me.
“No, she wasn’t even particularly good-looking. Pretty enough, I suppose; I don’t know really. You just didn’t think about that when she was around. She was a year older than I was, you know.” Jan had begun to spoon things into serving dishes, and he and I got up to help her bring them to the table.
We began dinner. Jan told me to plug in the coffee maker, which stood at one edge of the table, and I did. Then I poured wine; Dad sipped it and smiled at me, nodding appreciatively, then tasted his food and complimented Jan on her cooking. And when these things had been done, Jan leaned across the table edge toward him and with the bluntness of a shy person who’s momentarily overcome it, said, “Why? Why didn’t you? Marry her, I mean.”
“I wouldn’t just throw up everything, pack, and move down to Hollywood with her.” His face flushed suddenly, the old quarrel momentarily alive again. “What would I have done there? The movies weren’t after me, and I didn’t expect them to be! It made no sense. Then or now.” He was frowning, and he glanced uneasily at me, picked up his wine-glass, and drank. “And of course I’m glad. Very glad,” he said to me sternly, as though I might be thinking of denying it, “or I’d never have met your mother.” He began cutting his meat, eyes on his plate. “We argued about it. I could see her point, though I didn’t want her to go. She had a small part in her second picture that brought her some attention. Before the picture was even released, it got her a pretty good part in still a third. She’d kept working up here, see; it’s where the money was, and her real career. She’d go to Hollywood for a couple days’ work, maybe, then home again. But this was a bigger, longer part, she had to stay down there, and she suddenly decided that pictures was her career, and came up one weekend to get me. But I wouldn’t go. After a while she cried. Then she began cursing me, and you can believe she knew how to do that. Then she jumped up suddenly, ran to the front windows”—he looked up, grinning—“and yanked the middle one up. I was supposed to be scared she was going to jump out. But I knew better. She was the last person in the world to do that. I just sat there, grinning at her. So she knelt on the window seat, leaned out, and looked over the city as though that’s what she’d meant to do all the time. It was a fine, cool, sunny San Francisco day, I remember; the kind we ought to import to Chicago. And she said she loved the view. Loved San Francisco. Loved this apartment. And loved me. But she was blankety-blank well going to Hollywood! I didn’t say anything, and she pulled her head in, turned around, and looked at me for a minute. ‘Some day you’ll brag that you knew me, you bastard,’ she said. And she was right about that, wasn’t she? Then she yelled, ‘And this’ll be known as the house I lived in!’—all excited in a fraction of a second, the way she could be. She jumped up off
the window seat, ran across the room, and climbed right up on the back of the davenport. Still trying to punish me by threatening herself, you see. And demonstrating to herself, I suppose, that I still cared for her. Well, I did. And this time I jumped up and ran over to the davenport, because she could easily have fallen. Then she walked along the back, writing on the wall with her lipstick. Wearing a short skirt, knowing I was standing there watching her.” Dad was smiling, looking past us off across the kitchen, fork motionless in his hand. “ ‘Marion Marsh lived here,’ she wrote, and looked back over her shoulder at me. Then—she was a crazy girl, all right—she said, just murmuring it, really, ‘Catch, Nick,’ and without any other warning she let herself fall straight back.”
He looked at Jan, then at me, still smiling. “Well, I caught her. Damn near broke my back, but you can be sure I caught her. I’m sixty-seven years old now, and this may sound strange to your young ears, but I can still remember exactly and precisely how that nutty girl felt, there in my arms. Meaning no disrespect whatever, son, to the memory of your mother. She smiled at me, all sweetness and light, lifted her head to kiss me, then hopped down to the floor, saying, ‘Pull that blanking davenport out from the wall, you blank,’ only she didn’t say ‘blank’ and she didn’t say ‘blanking.’ Then she wrote the rest of what you saw in there.”
I was staring across the table at him wonderingly. This was a new look at a father ten years younger than I was now. “If she’d stayed in San Francisco,” I said, “you’d have married her, wouldn’t you.” It was hardly a question.
“I don’t know. How can I say. I hadn’t met your mother then. I don’t want to discuss it.” He was silent for a moment, then he added, “But I will say that most women would have had mighty tough competition against Marion Marsh.”