Three by Finney

by Jack Finney

  We left, Marion and I, slipping into the aisle and hurrying up it just before the lights came on. Outside we walked along the narrow asphalt street, badly lighted by widely separated old-style lampposts, possibly left over, I thought, from a forgotten picture. There was a high moon, almost full, the street bright and luminous in the soft wash of light. The old wood and brick buildings we passed stood unlighted and silent, their windows ink-black or shiny yellow from the light of the moon. At the corner we turned toward a studio gate and the lighted hut of the guard inside it reading a newspaper. There Marion put a hand on my arm and we stopped.

  She looked back down the length of that empty moon-bright street, motionless as a ghost town. She stared up at the dark still building beside us. Then she turned to me. “Put your arms around me, Nickie.” I did, and she leaned back to study my face. “You look just like him, almost. Almost exactly, but . . . you’re not. You’re not. Kiss me, though, Nickie, kiss me good-bye! Because I’ll never be back.”

  I drew her close and kissed her gently and lovingly. I touched her face then, my fingers brushing her cheek, smoothing her hair back from her temples, and, pale in the moonlight, she smiled at me. Then I kissed her again, and after a moment or so she stepped back. “Well. Was that for me or for Marion?”

  “For Marion. That was for Marion. I wanted her to know that someone gave a damn. And would remember.” I reached for Jan. “But this is for you.”

  We found a cab to head back to the hotel for an early start home in the morning. I was never going to see whatever lay inside 1101 Keever Street, I understood, but I had to see it, and I asked the cabby to drive past it on the way.

  When we turned onto Keever Street and I read the street sign, I glanced around, not sure whether this was Beverly Hills or not: it didn’t look like my idea of Beverly Hills. There were small businesses on both sides of the street: an enormous brilliantly lighted drugstore, the people in it actually pushing shopping carts; a discount record place; a dry cleaner; gas stations; three take-out food places in a row, all busy—it was only nine o’clock. And scattered among them, alone and in twos and threes, were the asbestos-shingle-covered remains of the residential area this had once been. They were no longer one-family residences—you could see eight or ten mail slots on every porch—but rooming houses, with no future now but demolition. The area wasn’t shabby, I don’t think that’s allowed, but it was the Los Angeles equivalent.

  We drove slowly through the seven-hundred block, the eight-, the nine-, the ten-, and they were all alike. And so was the eleven-hundred block, on our side of the street. But not on the other.

  Motor idling, our cab stood at the curb across from what had to be 1101 because there was no other house, and we stared. Behind us the sidewalk was bright from the lights and signs of a bicycle shop and a liquor store, both open; and a quarter block away on a corner, the brighter-than-day white lighting of a giant Standard station lit up the walks to beyond the curbs. But across the street a vast dark area lighted only by the moon stood silent and motionless in another time.

  Under the high white moon lay a great city block surrounded by a chest-high stone wall that was the base for a ten-foot fence of closely spaced pointed iron pickets. The wall was interrupted in only one place, directly across from us, by a pair of twenty-foot magnificent wrought-iron gates across the entrance to a graveled driveway. Behind those gates and the wall extending far down the street in both directions lay acres—black masses washed with pale light—of huge trees, their tips outlined against the luminous sky; great clumps of high shrubbery; silvered stretches of sloping lawn; white paths and glimpses of statuary; and the wide driveway leading back through the black masses of trees and bushes to the house itself, an enormous, four-story Spanish-style mansion.

  Not a window of the part we could see was lighted. The great house stood, far off and more hidden than visible, looking as though it had never been lighted and would never be. I had to get out and cross the street to those gates. And there at the curb I looked up at them. In the center of each, suspended in the wrought-iron tracery, hung a great convex metal oval framed in a wreath. On the one at the left stood a raised, ornate art-nouveau V and on the other a B. I gripped the bars and stared in at blackness. All I could hear was the sound of branches in the small nighttime wind, and the fragile sound of a leaf scraping along the graveled driveway. On impulse I tried to shake the bars in my fists but they were as immovable as though set in concrete. I stared in through them for a moment or so longer, then turned away.

  Across the street, standing at the cab for a moment before getting in again, I looked back. Somewhere in there—But I shook my head irritably, trying not to think of what might be somewhere inside that distant house far back in that moon-touched blackness, and got into the cab.

  Back at the hotel, I told Jan about the day and about Rodolpho Guglielmi, and she listened, shaking her head, looking at me to smile incredulously and shake her head again. And we talked about Marion, saying what little there was to say. On our way through the lobby I’d bought a Los Angeles Times, and we sat in bed looking through it, but it seemed hard to follow and without any real news, the way an out-of-town paper generally does. I got up and standing at the desk turned through the pages of the little magazine telling what there was to do in town, almost none of it outside this hotel, apparently. There were some postcards in a drawer, already stamped by the management, I discovered, a thoughtful “touch.” And since I knew I was paying for it, I picked one—a view of the pool—and sat down and wrote a card. “Dear Al: Well, here we are in glamorous, exciting Hollywood, ‘seeing the stars’! Tomorrow, Forest Lawn, to visit the world-famed mausoleum of Felix the Cat. Love, yr. friend, Nick.” There was no one in the hall, and leaving the room door open, I darted out in pajamas, dropped the card in the chute next to the elevator, and got back safe and sound. Around eleven, or a couple minutes past, we turned out the lights, and almost instantly the phone rang.

  Jan was nearest, found the phone, and picked it up. “Hello?” I fumbled for and found the bedside-lamp switch and turned it on. Jan sat wincing at the loudness of the voice in her ear, then moved the phone away from her head, and I slid over to listen. “What the hell happened to you!” a man’s voice was yelling. “Where were you? I had to—”

  “Who is this?”

  “Hugo Dahl, goddamn it! I been phoning all night every half hour! Now, listen: you saw the guy with me in the projection room? Young; bald; brown suit? Well, that’s Jerry Houk! A producer here. Movies, not television; he’s a big man here, and he likes you. They’re making a picture, finishing it up. But there’s a part in it. Very small. One quick scene. Which they’ve already filmed. But they’re still on the same set; tomorrow’s the last day. Be there at one and they’ll try to get in a couple of takes of you in the part before they wrap up. If they like it, they’ll use it. Okay? Jesus, I been trying to reach you for an hour and a half!”

  Jan sat staring at the phone. She looked up at me, and actually made a motion to give me the phone, then drew it back.

  “Well!?” said the voice in the phone. “What about it? Do you—Listen, is this Marion Marsh?”

  For an instant longer Jan hesitated. Then, voice firm, she replied. “Yes. Yes, this is Marion Marsh. And I’ll be there. Tomorrow at one. I was stunned for a moment, Mr. Dahl, and couldn’t talk. But I’ll be there. And I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

  “Don’t mention it, I always was a pushover for Marion Marsh. Good luck, kid, and say hello for me to—my God!—your grandmother.”

  Jan put the phone on its cradle and sat holding it, staring across the foot of the bed. I said, “How—”

  But Jan just shook her head.

  “She’ll know,” she said. “She’ll know. And she’ll be there.”

  • •

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  • •

  The same reception cop—after the same exchange of mutually admiring smiles and glances—found Marion’s name on a li
st of expected visitors. Mine wasn’t on it, but Marion just told him that that was all right, and he explained how to find Stage 2. Then we walked back down the same little studio street, bright with sunlight and busy with people now, that we’d walked up last night in silence and moonlight.

  Through a pair of gray-painted steel doors onto Stage 2, another enormous barnlike building; far across the gloom of the vast concrete floor we saw a brilliantly lighted set filled with people. The sound of a hammer on wood echoed—actually did echo—through the great enclosed space, and a man in white carpenter’s overalls walked in after us and hurried by carrying a two-by-four.

  Approaching, we saw that the set represented three sides of a great room almost fantastically modern in its furnishings. Huge unframed paintings—smears and swirls of color—hung on the walls; statuaries on pedestals and in wall niches were intricate assemblages of metal, plastic, wood; the rugs and furniture were white; but everything else, including the actors’ clothes, was aggressively colorful.

  They weren’t working, we saw as we walked—more and more slowly and timidly—toward the set. They stood or sat talking, drinking coffee from plastic-foam cups, as three workmen in white overalls worked to shift the angle of a small metal track spiked onto plywood sheets. The track led to the set, projecting a yard or so onto it. And at the track’s far end stood a wheeled camera, low to the ground and so big there was a seat mounted behind it on which a thin nervous-faced man peering through a viewfinder sat as though mounted on a small tractor.

  We stopped at the edge of the set, a few people glancing at us. Across the set from us two men, not in party clothes, stood talking earnestly; they looked to be in their middle twenties, both with sideburns and fairly long hair. They wore sweaters and wash pants; working clothes. Glancing at us, they continued talking, then one of them, a clipboard under his arm, walked across the set toward us. As he approached he lifted his brows questioningly, and Marion smiled at him. “I’m Marion Marsh.”

  He consulted his clipboard. “Right.” He smiled back then, pleasantly enough. “Well. Mr. Hiller hopes to get to you, Miss March.”

  “Marsh, Marion Marsh.”

  “Marsh; sorry. He hopes to get to you; meanwhile . . .” He glanced around, then pointed to a big gray wooden box stenciled with the studio name. It stood beside the set a yard from where the white-carpeted floor began. “Would you sit there, please? At all times. Don’t move.” He smiled again and walked back to the man he’d been talking with; Mr. Hiller, I assumed.

  The overalled men got their track shifted. A pair of men in dark-green work shirts and pants pulled the camera slowly along it and just onto the set, then dragged it back again, testing the track and angle as the operator sat behind the rolling camera watching through his viewer. Then the operator nodded at Hiller, who yelled, “Okay, places everyone!” and the actors began handing their coffee cups to one of the green-uniformed men who walked around with a tray collecting them. They positioned themselves on the set in pairs and groups, a few sitting down, most of them standing. A woman with a tray of partly filled liquor glasses began moving among them; some took glasses and stood or sat holding them; some lighted cigarettes. A girl with what looked to be a tray of make-up walked around inspecting the actors, dabbing powder onto some of their faces.

  For three hours then, we sat on the gray box, the camera track being shifted once more, and the scene was filmed three times, with long, long waits in between; I never knew why. After two hours one of the men in green work uniform brought us two Cokes in paper cups. “From Mr. Hiller.”

  The actors, men and women, were young or youngish and very modishly dressed, their costumes extreme and exaggeratedly colorful. Marion sat eying them. And in each take they stood or sat, holding their drinks and cigarettes, talking, laughing. And that was all for maybe twenty seconds. Then one of the guests, a chunky bearded man talking to a girl, burst into very loud laughter, everyone turning to look at him, and the scene cut.

  At a little after four o’clock the scene ended for the third time, and the director called, “All right, that’ll do it.” He sighed, blinked a few times, took a clipboard from the other man, and looked at it. Then he looked over at us, handing back the clipboard, and came over.

  “We’ll do you now, Miss Marsh,” he said, stopping before us. “Sorry to be so late. You’ll have to be dressed and made up, and we’ll save time if I talk to you while they’re doing it.” Gesturing for her to come along, he walked around a corner of the set toward the wall of the building and a large trailer-like structure mounted on wooden sawhorses. There were half a dozen doors in its side, unpainted wooden steps leading up to a platform before them; dressing rooms, I guessed. A middle-aged woman joined them, and they all walked in through one of the doors and pulled it closed behind them.

  The young guy with the clipboard yelled “Quiet! Quiet, please!” and when the talk simmered down, he said, “All right, we’ve got a retake now. Of . . .” he looked at his clipboard—“eighty-one. Check scripts if you have to; this is the one with the girl in the robe.” Nothing happened. The chatter and coffee and Coke drinking continued, and the man with the clipboard dropped into a chair and sat staring absently at the floor.

  The director and Marion came out, Marion wearing make-up and a long pale-blue gown belted with a darker-blue tasseled cord. As they walked toward the set I saw that her feet were bare. “Places, everyone,” the director called, and again the actors positioned themselves. Their places were different now; same party but another scene. Again glasses were passed out, make-up retouched.

  The director walked Marion through the scene, the actors in position but silent, watching them. Murmuring instructions, he walked her onto the set and positioned her. An actor walked over to her, smiled, and said, “Blah, blah, blah, blah,” and Marion smiled and said something. She was walked to a second position, the young man going with her, and now two men turned from a painting they were discussing and walked toward Marion.

  They went through the motions of the entire scene, the director pointing finally to a place on the floor with his toe, and I watched Marion nod. He glanced at his watch, then called, “Okay, we’ll do it now, and we’re going to film.”

  The actors took their original positions, lights brightened, then music burst from somewhere, hard and raucous but not overly loud. Someone called, “Quiet on the set!”; lights brightened still more; another voice yelled, “Roll ’em!” A man with a slate was on the set walking toward the camera, which had come down its track to the edge of the set. He held up the slate, and I read 81; Marion Marsh; Take One. He clapped the striped sticks, stepping quickly out of camera range, the party chatter began, and I sat fascinated, excited, and tense with anxiety for Marion.

  She stood just off the set, beside the director, and the people on the set talked, laughed, moved casually apart, came together in new groupings. The pair of men stood looking at the canvas on the wall, seeming to discuss it. Then the director nodded at Marion, and she walked onto the set and stopped in the place he had positioned her first. She stood looking the party over with a faintly amused, faintly bored air—and I felt a sudden little thrill of anticipation. She seemed so at ease and in charge; in a way I didn’t and never will comprehend, she had made me understand from the manner in which she walked, looked, and now stood that a person of importance to it had arrived at this party.

  The actor who had come over to her in the brief rehearsal to say, “Blah, blah, blah,” came over again now and said something that was inaudible over the music. And when Marion replied, and smiled, I saw his chin rise a little, and his smile of response wasn’t acted but genuinely interested. The two men at the painting stood looking at it, one shrugged and said something, and the other laughed, turning from the wall. He noticed Marion then, and he and the other man walked over to her. She saw them, smiled with pleasure, holding out a hand in welcome, and the one nearer took a little skip step to hurry to her and take it, greeting her by name, which was Essie. The
four of them stood talking, smiling, and then the room—by ones, pairs, and by groups—became aware almost at the same time that Essie was here. People would turn, see her, stare silently, then begin talking eagerly to whoever was nearest. So that there was a ragged moment of growing silence, reaching almost silence, the room staring, then an excited rise in the conversational hum. And although conversations resumed, people sneaked little glances at Essie, not really listening to one another. But what was also happening was—that it had all become real.

  I don’t know that anyone has ever actually explained it but there are an occasional few people born into the world who are different from the rest of us. They are able to turn on something that is as real, invisible, and as actual in effect as electricity. And Marion was doing it. Standing in the center of that party, she held it in her hand. They were intensely aware, not just acting it. They were interested and were held by Marion’s each word, gesture, and smile. The party was real now—I forgot it was being filmed—because a magnetism was at work. There must have been a moment like this, I realized, when Garbo first stood before a turning camera.

  Marion turned from the people she was talking to and walked on: to her final position, the place on the floor the director had touched with his shoe. For a moment she stood lazily smiling, aware of but ignoring the attention she was drawing. Then as though she hardly realized she was doing it, her shoulders, arms and hips moved slightly, idly, and a little insolently in a suggestion—she couldn’t possibly have learned this, she’d intuited it—of modern dancing. She was about to dance; the room knew it now, all conversation dying, everyone staring in a fascination that was real. For an instant Marion stood motionless, hesitating, and the director—calling “Cut! Cut!”—was walking onto the set toward her.