by Jack Finney
“They were going home to Pickfair; they’d been here for three days. They saw the play the second night, from the fifth row; I spotted them. And they were going back to Hollywood. On the Lark, of course. I got here in time to see them get out of a big dark-green touring car with a tan canvas top folded back; it was a nice night. It was right out there.” She nodded toward the street and began walking toward the open door. I walked along, still holding her elbow. “Doug was waving and grinning, you know that wonderful, wonderful grin, as he helped Mary out of the car. And she was smiling that beautiful smile.” We stopped on the walk, Marion staring out at the dark empty street. “She was carrying a tremendous armful of yellow roses. And their car was stopped just where yours is; they’d held the space open for it. I couldn’t get anywhere near it, though. There must have been a thousand people here on the walk and out in the street calling ‘Doug! Mary!,’ the people nearest trying to touch them. Doug was still grinning, and he had an arm around Mary, working their way across the walk. Right here, right where we’re standing! People who were arriving to take the Lark—there were hundreds every night, Nick!—had to get out of their cabs and cars in the middle of the street at the edge of the crowd. And people were standing on running boards, and jumping up in the air, trying to see Doug and Mary over the heads of the crowd. Then everyone followed them into the station, every doorway jammed, and we all went on through to see them off. When the Lark pulled out, right on time, Doug and Mary were on the observation platform standing just above the big, round lighted circle that said ‘Lark.’ Doug was waving back at the crowd, and Mary stood throwing her roses out to the people one at a time; some men ran along the platform beside the train for the last of them. Doug stood waving and Mary blew kisses for as long as we could see them down the track, and we waved back till there were only two red lights and the big round lighted Lark sign.” Marion turned to look up at the faded station front, then turned abruptly away, and we crossed the empty walk to the car.
I drove, watching Marion. She’d look out at the city moving past us, look away to stare down at the floor of the car, out at the city again, then back to the floor. Presently, eyes on the floor, she said, “Drive to O’Farrell Street, will you, Nick? Between Mason and Powell,” and I nodded.
We crossed Market Street, drove to O’Farrell, waited for a light at Mason, then drove slowly on toward Powell; near the middle of the block I slowed. “Here?”
“A little farther, I think . . . No, we’re too far now. Or are we? Wait.”
I pulled to the curb. The top was still down, and Marion looked back over the rear of the car, then turned to lean forward, staring through the windshield. She studied a building just ahead, on the other side. “Moatle? What’s that mean?” She was pointing at an enormous sign of yellow-red-and-white plastic hanging out from the front of the building.
“Motel,” I said. “It’s a . . . well, it’s something like a hotel. But without any lobby or anything. Just rooms and a place to park your car . . .” My voice trailed off; she was shaking her head to shut out my words, eyes squeezing closed as she turned from the motel.
Then they popped open, and she stared up at it again. “Look at that thing!” she said angrily. “Jesus, it’s ugly! Get us out of here, Nick. That’s where the Alcazar once stood.”
A block farther on I said, “Anything else?”
“Nothing.”
“Then maybe you ought to tell me what this is all about.”
Listlessly she said, “We were going to Hollywood.”
“To Hollywood.” I nodded. “What for?”
“What for? You saw Flaming Flappers! I was great,” she said simply. “I was already at work on another picture. And in that one I was greater still. We were going to Hollywood, Nickie—the way we should have once before! So that I could resume my career.”
I nodded several times, then said very gently, “Well, now you know. It’s a different world, Marion. The Alcazar’s gone. So is the Lark. So will the SP station before long. And the world is filling up with motels. Flaming Flappers was long, long ago. And I’m not my father.”
She nodded, then dropped her head to the back of the seat, and I glanced at her. Her eyes were closed; tears were sliding down her cheeks. “Goddamn it. I had a career coming to me!”
In front of the house I set the hand brake, and Marion opened her eyes and lifted her head to look up at the house. For some seconds she sat staring up at it, then she turned to me. “Good-bye, Nickie.” She shook her head slowly. “I’m tired, so tired.” Then she smiled and reached out to put a hand on my arm. “But it was nice, wasn’t it.” I didn’t answer; to say yes seemed disloyal to Jan, and I felt guilty enough as it was. “Come on, Nickie,” she said reproachfully, disappointed in me, “say it was nice. That won’t hurt you!”
I sat looking at her for a moment or so. “You’re really going? Forever?”
She nodded, and swallowed. “Yes.”
“All right,” I said. “Why not, then? I’ll admit it was nice because it was; I can’t help that.” I thought about it, then smiled at her. “So, yeah; it was very nice, Marion. In fact, it was wonderful, and I’ll never forget it.”
“I’ll say.” She smiled and laid her head back.
I was feeling enormously better just being able to say these things out loud, to speak the truth. “You’re a terrific girl, Marion. Different than any other I ever knew. In more ways than one.”
“You tell ’em,” she murmured, eyes closed, “I stutter.”
“Don’t ask me to make comparisons between you and Jan, because I won’t do that.” I sat staring through the windshield at the deserted street. “But hell, yes, I’ll admit it was nice. It was wonderful, Marion. Absolutely marvelous.”
“What in the world are you talking about?” She sat up.
“Jan . . . ?”
“Jan? Well of course it’s Jan.” She glanced around her, then said, “Oh, my God,” and put her hand to her forehead, squeezing her eyes shut. “Nickie . . . I don’t feel so good. Again!” she added, and her eyes popped open. “Nickie, we’ve been drinking again, haven’t we? I have those same . . . fragmentary memories. Little glimpses now and then. What’s happening to us! Drinking this way two nights in a row like . . . a throwback to the Twenties or something!”
“Champagne for a hangover; that was our big mistake.” I reached over and opened her door, trying to end this conversation, and she slid out.
But upstairs every light in the house was on, the living-room furniture was shoved out of place, there were spilled potato chips all over the rug, an empty champagne bottle lying on a chair, and—final triumph of anarchy—Al lay asleep on the chesterfield. Jan looked, then just shook her head, and we walked on down the hall toward the bedroom. In the doorway she stopped short. “What in the world is the bed doing clear out there in the middle of the room?”
“Well. You. Said. You. Wanted to rearrange the furniture.”
She wasn’t listening. Walking on into the room she pointed at the floor. “And what are your pajama pants doing over there?”
“Well.” I tried to grin lewdly. “You threw them.”
“I don’t remember doing that.” She frowned. “Why would I throw your pajama pants. In fact, I don’t even remember when we . . . Or do I? I remember starting . . .” It seemed to me that the thing to do was get us to bed and the lights out, and I began unbuttoning my shirt. But Jan was pointing upward now, to the top of the open closet door, her mouth open in astonishment. “What are your ski pants doing up there!”
“Well. You. Wanted to mend them. That was to remind you. One of the cuffs is torn. See?”
“Mend them? Your ski pants? Why should I be worrying about them at a time like . . .” She had turned, unbuttoning her street coat, and stared at me. “You’ve got your pajama tops on!”
“Oh, Christ.” I had run out of things to answer, but Jan didn’t notice. She stood thinking, then walked slowly to her closet, taking off her coat, hung it up, turn
ed, then noticed the dress she was wearing, very short, its pattern looking as though it had been designed by throwing globs of thick paint in primary colors. “I said I’d never wear this again . . . I hate this dress!”
She walked to the bed and sat down, staring thoughtfully across the room. I walked slowly and unobtrusively over to my pajama pants, making as little sound as possible, hooked them up with my foot, slipped out of my slacks, and got them on. I was hanging up the slacks when I heard Jan murmur, “Now I remember us,” and I turned quickly to look at her. But she was smiling, nodding slowly. “Sort of,” she added. “It was wild; my God . . .” She looked over at me, suddenly happy. “And you said it was wonderful. You said it was absolutely marvelous. Oh, Nickie, it’s been a long time since you’ve said anything like that.” I tried to smile, holding my breath.
Her hands folded in her lap, Jan’s face went thoughtful. “But it’s as though . . . it wasn’t me. It was, of course, but . . .” She shook her head. “But it wasn’t. I don’t even know what I mean by that, but . . .” She shook her head again. “I remember us. Sort of. In little bits.” She sat staring, then repeated firmly, stubbornly, “But it wasn’t me.” I just stood there across the room in my pajamas, waiting. Jan suddenly swung around to look at me, her eyes widening. “And it wasn’t me last night! Dancing! Singing! Up there on the platform making a fool of myself! I’d never do that!” I thought about yelling, slumping to the floor, hopping around on one leg as though the other had a cramp, but I just stood hypnotized. Jan turned to face the wall again. Very slowly she said, “It wasn’t me the night before that, either. Here. In bed. After Marion’s movie.” Moving as though in a trance, Jan stood up. Barely breathing the word, she whispered, “Marion . . . What you said downstairs in the car was, ‘It was absolutely marvelous . . . Marion.’ ” She yelled it. “You said ‘MARION’! My God . . .” Abruptly she sat down. “She’s been . . . taking me over. Hasn’t she! And you knew it. You knew it! Oh, Nickie,” she wailed, “I never dreamed you’d be unfaithful to me!”
I lied. I ran to the bed, sat down beside her, an arm around her shaking shoulders, and listening to myself I sounded convincing because I began with the truth. “I didn’t know, Jan! I came to bed after Marion’s movie. You woke up, and . . . I thought it was you! My God, why wouldn’t I!” Under my arm the trembling stopped, she looked up, and I saw in her face the realization that that had to be true. Then the lie began. “Same thing the next night. After the party with the Hursts. I thought it was—”
“Out in the open!? Parked in a car!? You thought that was me!?”
“Well, it sure as hell looked like you! And don’t forget—we were drunk.”
She thought, then shook her head, shrugging her shoulders out from under my arm. “But this morning you knew. Because downstairs in the car tonight you said, ‘It was wonderful, Marion’! You’re having an affair with her!”
“Oh, for cr—”
“Do you want a divorce?”
“Jan, for crysake! What for? To marry Marion?” Soothingly I said, “Baby, Baby, listen to me. Today I knew; yeah. But I didn’t find out until . . . during.”
“Well!?”
“Well, what?”
“When you knew it wasn’t me, why didn’t you stop!”
“STOP!? My God . . . what an inspiration. That idea is typical, absolutely typical of a hell of a lot that’s wrong around here!”
She jumped to her feet, gripped the hem of Marion’s dress with both fists, yanked, ripped it straight up the front, slipped it off, and—bursting into tears—began ripping it to shreds, and the lurking headache I’d had since morning roared up like a skyrocket.
• •
CHAPTER FIVE
• •
Sunday morning when I came out to the kitchen, breakfast was cooking, and I smiled and said, “Morning,” to Jan. But she only nodded, and didn’t speak, didn’t smile. During breakfast I let Al in to liven things up a bit, tossing him the occasional toast crust. As always with anything thrown to him, they fell to the floor or bounced off his nose, and he had to track them down, sniffing the floor like a bloodhound. Jan sat absolutely engrossed in the front page of the Sunday paper, and I began talking to her through Al: “Would you tell Jan to pass the sugar, Al? Thank you. . . . Ask Jan if she’d like some more of this absolutely delicious coffee; and help yourself, too, of course.”
Pretty soon she smiled a little, and said to Al, “Tell him he can just help me clean the house today; it needs it!”
We got through the day then, with great politeness toward each other, a thorough reading of every last section of the Sunday paper, and in the afternoon, after the house was cleaned, Jan took a nap while I took a walk with Al.
But Monday night when I got home, she had drinks and a bowl of potato chips waiting on the living-room coffee table, and we sat down to them, on the chesterfield, our backs to Marion’s wall. Jan said she’d been thinking things over, she understood that I’d been tricked, and that it wasn’t fair to blame me. That’s what she said, but her eyes didn’t; not quite; not yet.
But at least we’d made up, officially, anyway, and Jan sat back with her drink, and in a parody voice and smile to match said, “Well, dear? And how was your day at the office?”
“Break a leg,” I said amiably, then Al came wandering in to greet me and accept a few potato chips. “And how was your day, Al?” I said.
Jan said, “Busy; both the garbage man and gas man to bark at, all in one full rich day.”
“Well, that’s his job. Isn’t it?” I said to Al. “Goes with the position of ‘Dog.’ He takes care of all the barking. Singlehanded. No one else ever helps or even offers, but he never complains.” I’d leaned forward toward him, and though I’m pretty skilled at ducking, this time he got me right on the cheek with his tongue. Wiping my face with one of the little paper napkins Jan had set out, I said, “I hesitate to mention this, but where did you dogs ever get the idea that it’s some kind of treat to be swiped over the face by a wet dog tongue? Five thousand years of domestication and you still haven’t learned that it’s no big deal. You don’t see the cats doing that.” His ears went up at “cats.” “They’re smart.” I picked up a chip, and he sat staring at it. I gave it to him and said, “You know what I’m going to do with you, Buddy-boy? I’m shipping you to Denmark.” He wiped his mouth daintily with his tongue and sat watching the potato-chip bowl. “They have an operation that will turn you into a cat.” The ears rose, head cocking. “Yep. They’ll trim those big, long, dingly-dangly, dopey-looking ears into the kind of nice, pointy, beautiful little ears that cats have.” I tossed him another chip. “Teach you to walk fences—they use training wheels, at first, then it’s up to you. And there’s a crash course in meowing. Oh, you’ll love being a cat!” I took one of his ears and slapped him softly in the face with it. “A duel, m’sieu?” and he exposed his teeth in a lazy token threat, tail going. I picked up a last potato chip and pointed to some crumbs he’d left on the floor. “Any more of that and I’m putting out a contract on you for a hit; understand?” I tossed the chip, it bounced off his nose, and he walked around sniffing, tracking it down—it was about a yard away—and Jan and I smiled at each other.
We talked. My vacation began next week, and for lack of anything special to do we’d decided to stay home; visit the museums, see a play that was supposed to be pretty good, try a couple restaurants we’d been told about. And there was still the spare bedroom to be painted. We had another drink, and Jan told me what Myrtle Platt had had to say that morning when they met at the mailboxes on the porch.
All in all we were pretty relaxed, yet at the same time we were tense and on guard, and we stayed that way all evening. Was Marion really gone? It looked like it, but still—in bed we didn’t make up in the way that counts. Jan was afraid, she said, and I couldn’t blame her. Talking in the darkness, we decided that on my vacation I’d also peel off Marion’s wall.
Tuesday I got home a little late—some sole
mn foolishness at the office that could just as well have waited till morning or 2001. Jan was in the kitchen fixing dinner; I heard the sounds and walked straight back. First thing I said, passing through the doorway, was “Well?” and she knew what I meant. She shook her head, smiling, and held up a hand, fingers crossed: Marion hadn’t returned. I kissed her hello, hugging her, working a free hand up under her skirt till I found something elastic to snap. Then I changed clothes, fixed drinks on the wooden drainboard, and we had them, Jan at the stove mostly, me leaning back against the sink.
I said, “Jan, how did you feel? About being . . . taken over?” I thought we could talk about it now.
“Horrible.” She had the oven door open and was poking with a fork at something that sizzled. “It was terrible, Nick,” she said, still poking, then closed the door and stood up. “I was appalled.” I nodded. Jan stood absently sipping her drink, staring down at Al, who sat fascinated by her stoveside activities. Then she shook her head and set her glass on the work counter next to the stove. “No,” she said. “That isn’t how I feel. It’s how it seems to me I ought to feel, but I don’t. It was sort of frightening.” She stood thinking. “Sort of . . . ghostly.” She smiled at the word. “I only had glimpses of what she was doing, you know. Very dim, mostly. Like looking through a dozen layers of glass. And for only a moment now and then—when she got tired, I think, and had to let go for an instant.”