by Jack Finney
Following its own long beams around the curve of the quiet street, a black-and-white police car appeared. Motionless in the deep shadow of the pine, Lew read the block letters through his eye slits, MILL VALLEY POLICE, as the white door panel slid past. The hatless driver, elbow on window ledge, never glanced his way. Rounding the curve, the car’s headlight beams sliced off, tail lights appearing, and Lew stood, pine cone in hand, pulled the pin with his teeth, and hurled the grenade after the car in stiff-armed World War I fashion, lofting it high. Flipping up his mask, he stepped down onto the street again, grinning.
A mile, walking, jogging, past the dark houses, then the road tipped sharply downhill, and Lew saw the great community-recreation field slide into view, lying spread out and level down on the flats—a great, grassy rectangle, city-block size, livid in the moonlight. At the near end: the big swimming pool, gable-roofed dressing rooms, a small parking lot. Most of the rest: two full-sized baseball diamonds back to back, the wire cages of their home plates in opposite corners black-etched by the moon.
Lew walked across the asphalt of the parking lot to the mesh fence surrounding the pool area, and stood looking in at the mirrorlike rectangle, thin patches of mist lying motionless on its surface. Squatting, he found a walnut-sized rock in the dirt beside the fence. He stood, and drew his arm back and far down to behind his right knee. Arcing the rock high, he threw as hard as he could, and stood waiting. A satisfying plunk, and he walked on.
He sat down in the stands facing the nearer, Little League field, looking around at the benches bleached white by the moon. Here on the flat he sat almost surrounded by hills, the blank windows of the many houses on their slopes staring down at him. Leaning back, elbows on the bench behind him, he looked out at the long length of the field, and in one of the distant houses high on the hills beyond it, a light came on. Watching, wondering at someone else awake now, Lew lifted an arm to wave slowly. “Hey, come on down,” he called softly. “And bring your mitt!”
On impulse he stood, walked down the steep aisle to the field, and onto it. For a moment he stood wondering what to do. Then, in the far-off house ahead, the light went out, and he was alone in the night again. He walked to home plate, stopped beside it, and looked around him. No light had come on anywhere else, nothing stirred, and he gripped an imaginary bat, and tapped it against imaginary spikes, each foot in turn. Stepping into batting position, he rapped the plate with the bat, his motion easy, confident, fluidly athletic. He pawed the dirt, shuffling and rearranging it with the sides of his shoes. Then he dug in, twisting hard on the balls of his feet. Bat raised high and slightly behind him, he held it motionless except for the slight menacing circling of its tip, and stood facing the pitcher who studied him, then began his windup.
A brushoff, which he’d expected, and he leaned back fast, glancing at the umpire. But the umpire, Lew’s lips nearly motionless, said only, “Ball one.” In a glassed-in booth high over the field an announcer, his voice reproduced by a dozen radios audible from the stands, said, “Bases full, one and oh.”
Lew stepped out of the box, lifted each foot once, stepped back, and dug in, bending lower this time, bat high and almost vertical. His head whirled to the catcher to stare down at the ball nested in his glove, awed at the impossibly fast pitch. “Strike!”
In batting position again, waiting for the pitch. As fast as he could hurl himself, he fell back, grimacing with fear and anger at the pitch to his ear that would have torn his head off. His mouth dropped open in astonishment at the umpire’s call, and he repeated it aloud: “Strike?” He sprang forward to protest, but instead clamped his mouth shut, and faced the pitcher again. “Three and two count,” said the announcer: Could that be right? “Five to two score, Giants behind, nineteen fifty-one—two?—World Series, deciding game.” Then he added, “Last of the ninth.”
Lew lowered his bat and stepped backward out of the box, turning to face the manager who was walking slowly toward him from the dugout. He wasn’t sure this was allowed, but the manager did it anyway. He stopped before Lew and, Lew’s lips hardly moving, said, “Son, you’re a brand-new rookie just up from the minors, and I know that. All the same, it’s up to you now.” Lew nodded, swallowing. “Do my best, sir.” The elderly manager stood considering him from under the famous shaggy brows, then nodded doubtfully, turning away. “All you can do, boy.”
Lew gulped, and shook his head hard, clearing his vision. Again he faced the pitcher, tapped the plate. Suddenly he grinned, lifted his chin, all fear gone, and in the gesture that would be remembered forever, extended his bat to point far out toward right field and beyond, and the radios and stands went silent.
The pitch came, and in exaggerated slow-motion, Lew swung the bat in a shoulder-high curve, lining it straight out from the wrists and lifting it up and far past his left shoulder in a full follow-through, ankles crossing as his body revolved. He let the bat drop, grinning as he watched the obviously home-run ball rise in the remote distance. Nodding back at the stands as he began, he made the leisurely home-run trot of the bases, tipping his hat to the fans as he jogged.
Leaving third base, he began accepting the congratulatory handshakes of the entire team, coaching staff, Shirley, Jo, and several other vague, excited young women lined up beside the base path. Stepping squarely onto home plate, he lifted his arms in the prizefighter’s handshake. Then he stood, cap off, hand on heart, bowing humbly—stumbling backward in pleased astonishment as the fans overwhelmed him.
Lew turned suddenly and searched the houses around the field. Nothing moved; silence everywhere. Smiling then, hands in pockets, he began walking the length of the field toward its far end, the grass whispering against his canvas sneakers: something about the small risk he had taken of being seen playing the fool pleased him. He wondered if anyone in all the many houses looking down on this field stood watching him now from a darkened room, a small figure moving down the length of the great moonlit rectangle.
At the far end of the long field, and the sidewalk there, he turned left onto the street that wound along the base of the high ridge bisecting Strawberry. The street lay still as a photograph; just ahead the leaves of a small curbside tree hung motionless under a street lamp, and no least sound came from the distant freeway. Silent on rubber soles, Lew walked on, glancing curiously up at each of the dark houses he passed.
Just ahead he saw a ground-level concrete porch with a wrought-iron railing; a swing hung over its floor, the traditional porch swing of wooden slats suspended by chains from the ceiling. Lew stopped: the porch ran across the front of the house, a door and a large rectangular window facing onto it. Swing and door were at one end of the porch and, inset in the door, a small window overlooked the swing. Lew glanced across the street; looked back toward the rec field; looked ahead as far as he could see. Nothing moved anywhere.
He hesitated, suddenly wanting to walk cravenly on. Then he took a deep slow breath, hearing it sigh through his nostrils, his heart suddenly pounding, and turned to walk up the slight curve of concrete walk to the porch. Just short of the porch he stopped, eying the big window and drapes along its sides, then the square little window in the front door; no one stood in the darkness of the house watching him, and he stepped silently onto the porch.
The trespass made, Lew stood frozen. Then he walked to the swing, turned his back, and eased himself onto the seat, a slow squeak sounding as slats and chains accepted his weight. Silence as he listened, staring up at the small square eye of the door beside him. The pane was black; he could see no blur of white face. He sat conscious that he could still stand up and walk silently away. But that was no longer true; he’d taken the dare.
Feet tucked far back under the swing, his rubber soles pressed against the concrete floor of the porch, Lew tensed his thigh muscles, gripping the chains, and slowly and not quite silently pushed the swing back as far as it could go, feeling the slatted seat tilt almost vertical. For one last moment, heart thumping, he waited in silence; then he l
ifted his feet and swept forward, the chains groaning, ceiling hooks squealing like an animal. It was loud, loud; audible, he knew, even across the street. A fractional instant of silence at the top of the forward arc, then the swing shot back, groaning and squealing again.
It could easily be heard inside the house: Was it waking someone now, covers flying, feet swinging to the floor? If so—if the white globe on the porch ceiling flashed alight in the next second, lock bolt cracking on the door beside him—what could he do? Run? Or stay and say—what?
No explanation could make sense, and he deliberately refused to think: he had to stay here for six full swings, six screeching swoops forward and back, and he sat, feet tucked up under the bench as he swung forward the second time, scared now. What the hell would happen if he were caught? An angry man who was big enough might beat him up, an excitable man could shoot him, a frightened man might already have phoned the cops; and if a cruising patrol car were nearby, radio crackling into life right now with a prowler call. . . . Back he swung, then an instant of almost motionlessness at the top of the arc, Lew staring up at the blank square of glass waiting for the sudden white movement of face; the sweat sprang out under his cap. Forward again, the piglike squeal unbelievably loud.
Three more long squealing swoops forward and back. Then he was free—to jam his feet down, dragging across the porch floor, stopping. Just short of a run he hurried down the walk, turning on the sidewalk to look over his shoulder, and in that instant the white globe flashed on, the porch suddenly bright as a stage, the gliding black shadow of the still-moving swing suddenly appearing on the painted floor.
A small hedge separated this front lawn from the next, and without having thought what to do, Lew instantly did it. He took one giant step to the far side of this hedge, and threw himself like a man under gunfire lengthwise beside it.
Flat on the grass, cheek pressing into its night-time dampness, Lew lay looking through the lower branches of the hedge, eyes almost at ground level. His heart pounded, so hard and fast it piled blood behind his eyes; he had to blink to see. A door bolt had clunked, the door swung inward, and now a man stepped cautiously out onto the porch. He was in pajamas, about forty; not taller but wider, heavier, bigger than Lew. Directly under the white globe his scalp showed through mussed brown hair. He stood motionless, arms hanging, fingers open and ready, looking wary, angry, mean. Only his head moving, he searched slowly through a half circle for whoever had been on his porch, knowing he was out there somewhere.
Suddenly bolder, the man stepped to the edge of his porch, and looked straight toward Lew, staring either directly at the hedge or off across it, Lew couldn’t tell. Breathing shallowly through his mouth, Lew lay motionless. Could the man make out the telltale thickening along the base of the hedge?
Seconds passed, and still he stood staring. In quick panic Lew realized that he didn’t know what he would do if in the next instant the man came striding down off his porch across the lawn toward him, and he began to laugh, feeling his shoulders shake, listening to whether any sound of it escaped. No: his stomach muscles tensing, he was laughing helplessly, but in silence. Another moment, then the man’s head turned slowly away to search the darkness across the street.
Abruptly he turned, and walked back inside, pulling the door closed. A chunk as the bolt shot, then the porch light went dark. Lew didn’t move: if he were the man on the other side of that door, what would he be doing now? He would be standing at the window back out of sight waiting for whoever was out there—making himself thin behind a tree or crouched beside a neighbor’s porch or lying beside this hedge—to step out or stand up. Unmoving, Lew lay trying to watch the street through the eyes of the man in the house, to think his thoughts.
Half a minute passed, perhaps longer . . . then Lew felt the moment pass beyond which the man inside the house could no longer hope to see anything move out here. In his mind Lew saw him turn away into the darkness of his living room murmuring a single obscenity, and walk back through the house. He’d explain to his wife, if she’d awakened, then lie listening, ready to move fast if the porch swing sounded again.
It popped up in Lew’s mind, the idea of going back to the swing again, and he laughed aloud. But he didn’t dare; this time he wouldn’t get away with it, and there’d be trouble. A quick pushup, feet gathering, and he stood, turning swiftly to walk on, ready to run. What if the man had phoned the cops!—Lew’s head swung around for the fast-moving car coming up from behind, but there was nothing.
He walked home through the quiet streets; and, back in his living room, peeled the note from the glass door, started to crumple it, then stopped. In the light from the desk lamp he stood looking down at it; after a moment he folded the note carefully across, aligning the edges, and tucked it away among the books on his shelves.
• • •
CHAPTER TWO
• • •
Jo said, “What’d you do last night? Watch the movie?” In a pink robe over yellow pajamas, her hair brushed back and tied, she stood waiting at the stove as Lew lifted hot, dripping bacon from pan to absorbent paper towels spread on the stove top.
“No movie,” he murmured, eyes intent on the fork; he wore a kitchen towel tied under his arms to protect his shirt and tie from spattering grease. “It was too late, nothing on.” As Jo took over to serve, he untied the towel, tossed it to the counter, and walked out of the little kitchen area to sit down at Jo’s paste-up table. “How’d you know I was up?” He realized he’d added this to forestall more inquiry; he didn’t want to say what he’d done last night.
“I woke up, and you were out on the balcony; I heard you clear your throat.”
Lew nodded, pulling the news section of the Chronicle toward him. He felt good; a little short of sleep but not tired. Jo set their plates on the table, poured coffee, and sat down across from Lew, pulling out the third section of the paper. Lew sat eating, turning pages often. Jo read Herb Caen’s column, an elbow on each side of the page, cup in hands; she liked half a cup of coffee before eating breakfast. Lew turned a page, glancing up, and saw that Jo’s wide sleeves had dropped, lying in pink puddles of cloth at her elbows, exposing her forearms. Good-looking forearms, he thought; then: What is a good-looking forearm? He smiled at this, Jo looked up, saw him, and said, “What?”
He shook his head. “Too embarrassing to say. Something obscene. Involving your forearms.”
“What?” She looked down at her arms.
He nodded. “You’d be shocked. I know you see the books and magazine articles, you watch the TV discussions. You try to be liberated, and on a written exam you’d get A. But you’ve never really made it, actually, and you’d be horrified. Too bad; it might have been fun.”
“I’ll bet. So what did you do last night? Read?”
“No. Stood out on the balcony. Clearing my throat.”
“Lew, why are you waking up like this? What’s bothering you?”
“Nothing. Nothing that isn’t bothering everybody. The national debt. Corruption in high and low places. Decline in moral values. Blatant sexuality. In high and low places.”
“You’re pretty blatant yourself today.”
“So watch out.”
“You watch out; I don’t have to punch a time clock.”
He looked at his watch, then shook his head. “It’s Friday; meeting day. I can’t be late.”
“Pity,” she said in pseudo-British accent, and Lew smiled, and got up to walk to his apartment for his suit coat.
He backed his VW, a maroon squareback, from its space in the asphalted parking area behind the row of nearly identical low frame buildings and swung around into the driveway between his and the building next door. He tapped his horn, and almost immediately the door of the lower apartment there opened, and Harry Levy stepped out: hatless, carrying a zippered briefcase. Lew watched, but today there was no sign of Shirley in the doorway behind him. On some mornings when Lew tapped his horn, she would appear in her robe, standing in the do
orway to smile and wave good-by as they drove off; cupping her elbows on chilly mornings and shivering her shoulders dramatically. Watching Harry walk over to the car, it occurred to Lew that he was seldom late. Harry said, “Unhh,” as he opened the door, and Lew replied, “Yeah,” in ritualized morning exchange.
Lew waited, hand on the shift lever, as Harry fitted his big body into the little car, knees wedging high, black hair almost touching the ceiling. He must be twenty pounds overweight, Lew thought, obviously well over two hundred. But he didn’t seem fat, Lew acknowledged, and was probably in good shape. Waiting for Harry to pull the door closed, Lew watched the big head, jaw, and cheek in profile: thick hair cut somewhat shorter than the norm, heavy black beard shaved close, sideburns sliced unmodishly short. As Harry slammed the door his eyes narrowed slightly in a concentration that resembled belligerence: when he wasn’t smiling, Harry was a formidable-looking man, and as Lew drove on down the driveway, he was remembering the temperance cards.
Walking in the sun one noon hour last spring, he and Harry had gone into an antique shop, a junk shop, just outside the financial district. Harry found and bought for a dollar a packet of unused nineteenth-century temperance pledges: postcard-size with a printed pledge, blanks for date and signature, a tiny, forktailed white ribbon glued beside the pledge. For several weeks he carried these in his inside suit-coat pocket, and he got eleven signatures: twice Lew had been with him. One of the men was a salesman for a law-book publisher, sitting in Harry’s small office when Lew had walked in with some papers he wanted Harry to see. The other man was a junior partner of another law firm, meeting with Harry and Lew in the firm’s conference room to discuss a case in which both firms had an interest.