by Jack Finney
What the hell was wrong with him? He liked his job—liked it all right, that is, but could give it up. Liked where they lived, but could leave. Could give up anything, it seemed. Really? Jo too?
It had to stop, he’d be awake for hours; and he got up very quietly, almost stealthily. For a moment he stood looking down at Jo, her quiet breathing still undisturbed. Then he turned away to walk to the balcony and along it, the wooden floor chill and slightly damp to his bare feet, to his own apartment. Just before he reached his doors, he glanced over the railing out at the silent lamplighted mystery of the night beyond it, and excitement rushed through his body with an intensity—relief and release—that surprised him. Quickly he got dressed, as before; found his note, stuck it onto the balcony door, and was free.
Conscious of the silence of the world asleep all around him, he walked down the driveway. For several seconds he stood at the curb of the motionless, green-lighted street, looking around him at the night, savoring the moment. Then once again he stepped out.
This time, after a mile past the blank-windowed houses he climbed up to, and walked the spine of, the great two-hundred-foot-high ridge dividing Strawberry—looking down at the motionless, miniaturized street paralleling it, half-dollar-size circles of green light lying on the pavement under tiny street lamps. Then, at the highest point of the long ridge, he stopped on impulse, and turned to look back at the freeway, far behind and below him.
He could see a two-mile, almost straight stretch of it; distant pale ribbons visible in the lights from the huge green-and-white direction signs cantilevered over them. Behind the long beams of their headlights two finger-length cars moved swiftly to the north, no sound of their motion reaching him here. A slower cluster of several cars followed, then the long twin stretches of concrete stood empty for a moment. A second cluster appeared and moved across the long length; then, incredibly, for perhaps three or even four minutes the great freeway stood utterly empty from high up the winding of Waldo Grade clear on to the crest of Corte Madera hill. Lew stood staring in astonishment. “Empty,” he murmured aloud to himself after a few moments. “My god, look at it. The freeway—absolutely empty.”
Twice each weekday, from behind his own or Harry Levy’s windshield, Lew saw this road filled with commuter traffic, every lane solid with cars. And he had never seen it less than busy. Now it was a delight and a wonder to see the great lighted roadway standing as motionless as though the world had been abandoned. A final half minute passed, Lew grinning with pleasure at the strange, incredible sight. Then tiny headlights appeared up on Waldo, and an instant later two more pairs, one right behind the other on the nearly empty road, popped up over the Corte Madera crest, and Lew turned to walk on, glancing at the familiar shape of Tamalpais Mountain filling the night-time sky to the north and west.
He stopped to look down onto the rooftops of the shopping center, its huge parking lot deserted, its hash-mark parking lines like game-board markings of some sort, under the stars and a high half-moon. Here a tiny breeze pressed his face, and he could just detect the faint sound of the quiet music that flowed all day from speakers up under the roofs of the covered walkways. “Hey,” he said, “who forgot to turn off the tape? You’re fired! I’m sorry, I know you only had twenty minutes to go before your pension began, but rules are rules. Thank you: I knew you’d understand.” Turning an ear toward the wavering distant sound, he tried to make out the tune—“As Time Goes By,” he thought but wasn’t sure.
Walking on, conscious of the pleasurable bite of the cool night-time air in his lungs, he enjoyed the feeling of superiority of the person awake when all others are asleep. At this thought he stopped and, turning in place, made the full circle, looking out across miles of rooftops, dim in the faint light; out at the lighted freeway and beyond it to lesser lamplit roads; at the dark, empty Marin hills and at huge Mount Tarn; across the shining black surface of the Bay to the great new San Francisco towers glittering electrically beyond it. Was it possible that in all this vast area no one but he was awake? No, of course not; the police were awake, and there had to be others—yet it seemed like it. They seemed so helpless, all these thousands unconscious under the pale moonlit rooftops, and Lew stepped to the edge of the slope, facing south, and pulled down his mask-flap.
Arm straight out before him, swinging it back and forth in a slow, wide arc he said, “I . . . am the Avenger! Each night from among you I select one for sacrifice to the ancient gods of Tamalpais! Eeney, meeney, miney”—pointing here and there at random—“mo!” His arm stopped, finger pointing. “Tough luck, Harry.” He pulled up his mask and, smiling at himself, walked on, descending now, toward the road and home.
Again, waking in the morning, he felt good, felt rested. Looking over at the inch-wide vertical strip of daylight between Jo’s drapes—a core-sample of the day, its lower half the sunwashed green of a pine, its upper half a strong blue California sky—he felt suddenly elated, felt lucky. Beside him Jo moved, and he turned; she lay facing him, blinking, just awakened. He smiled, she smiled back, and—there wasn’t time, but—he slipped an arm under her shoulders and, Jo still drowsy, they moved wordlessly together, a good start for a lucky day.
Lew believed, as everyone does, in lucky streaks, and he watched this one continue at the toll plaza. Harry braked, slowing toward the end of a long line, then glanced quickly at the adjoining line, inexplicably only three cars long. Harry owned a used ’67 Alfa Romeo, the best and fastest sport car he could afford, and he yanked the wheel, accelerating, and shot over to the shorter line. Each of the three cars ahead had exact change ready, rolling on past the booth without quite stopping, as did Harry—in the clear within seconds. Harry yelled, “That’s the way to screw the common people!” and both smiled at the small triumph.
As always, they left the car at the cheapest parking lot they knew, down at the Embarcadero, a long walk from the office. But today Lew liked it, the sun-warmed air full of promise. Which was kept: an approaching young woman looked boldly and arrogantly from one to the other of their faces; then, in passing, she smiled at Lew alone. He grinned maliciously at Harry, who said, “Near-sighted bitch. Not entirely sane.”
Lew began watching the sidewalk with what he felt was the certain knowledge of finding money. Half a block later a car pulled from a parking space beside them, and he stepped down from the curb to pick up a quarter that had been lying under it. “Jesus, you can’t lose,” Harry said. “Take the day off, and go out to the track; I’ll give you my paycheck.”
Lew knew these were omens pointing toward some more solid piece of good fortune ahead, which came at ten-thirty. Walking along the wide, green-carpeted corridor hung with Rowaldson prints which led past Partners’ Row, he heard, “Oh, Lew, got a second?” It was Willard Briggs, smiling out at him from his desk, and Lew replied silently, I do indeed have a second, and turned in. Approaching the small, delicate desk, a valuable antique inlaid at front and sides with porcelain ovals depicting eighteenth-century hunting scenes, he understood that Briggs had been waiting for him inevitably to pass: ordinarily this office door was kept closed. He said, “Morning, Will”—the firm was carefully informal—and sat down at Brigg’s gesture.
“Friday I had lunch with Frank Teller,” Briggs said immediately. “He told me you worked out a compromise for their problems with the FDA, and that he’s had reliable word the FDA is going to accept it after a little noodling around about details. So he’s happy, and thinks maybe you earn your money around here.”
“That’s good to hear.” Teller was one of the important vice-presidents of the large pharmaceutical company which was among the firm’s best clients, and praise from him was valuable.
Briggs slouched down in his chair, hands clasping behind his neck, the posture flattering, suggesting plenty of time for Lew Joliffe. He was tall and thin, hair parted at the side, graying in front, and he had it all. He wore gray or blue suits and generally, as today, a bow tie. He looked like an eastern-law-school graduate of th
e forties, although he had always lived in California, and his degree was from Stanford. He was about fifteen years older than Lew. They liked each other, a little tentatively and warily yet, mostly because each occasionally made a small, wry joke the other appreciated. He said, “What about councilman, Lew? You had time to think about it?”
“Well, I checked with City Hall, Will. Found out how you get on the ballot. Nothing to it; you get a few signatures, and pay a twenty-five-buck fee; anyone can run. So I did it.” He raised a palm, warding off premature congratulations. “But only because I can always withdraw, Will, by just forfeiting the fee.” He frowned, reaching forward to move a finger across the smoothness of one of the porcelain panels. “I’m still not sure. I . . .” He paused, shrugging. “It’s just that I’d want to be sure before I began kissing all those germ-laden little babies.”
Will nodded. “Well, you’ve got time to think. How many vacancies coming up on the council?”
“Three.”
“Okay”—he sat up decisively. “I’ve lived in Mill Valley all my life. So has my family, since the town was called Eastland. And between me and some friends we can give you some pretty good help. I think you might just pick up one of those seats your first time out.” Hands folded on his desk top, he sat staring at Lew, apparently appraising him. Lew had seen him do this in a courtroom with a witness for as long as a minute; it could be intimidating. “I was a Mill Valley councilman myself,” he said then. “As I’ve told you. Sixteen years ago. Two terms, and they led directly to my running for and being elected to the state assembly. Also for two terms. I didn’t do a hell of a lot there, frankly, but . . .” He paused, spreading his hands, palms up. “It got me known. To some of the people who run things, to put it plainly. I hope that wasn’t the only reason I got my partnership, but it sure helped. I might not have got it otherwise; I just might have missed out.”
He sat forward, letting the weight of his arms sprawl loosely on the desk top, shoulders slumping so that his coat collar rose a little in back. This posture said that while there was still no hurry, that he still had plenty of time yet for Lew if Lew had something to say, the meeting was otherwise ending. “You know what I’m telling you, Lew. If it’s what you want, and you work it right, I think eventually you can be something around here. You’re twenty-nine, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.” It was time for a sir now.
“Well, that’s young. If you’re on the move. Not so young if you aren’t. So think by all means. But think hard, and think soon.”
• • •
Sitting on the balcony over drinks before dinner, Lew told Jo about the conversation, watching her eyes begin to blink with excitement, seeing her smile with pleasure. Lew had to run for councilman, she said then, had to, and when he didn’t reply but just smiled, she said, “Well, don’t you?”
“I guess so; looks like it. I was just trying to think what campaigning would mean. My god!—I’d have to have bumper strips, wouldn’t I.”
“Of course!” She clapped her hands in excitement, and stood up to lean back against the rail, facing him. She wore an old denim skirt and a worn white blouse spotted with india ink. “Saying what? ‘Jolly Lew Joliffe . . .’ ”
“ ‘Jolly Lew Joliffe, Your Jolly New Pol’?”
“Too long.”
“Use two cars.” He stood, taking her empty glass from the rail. “How about, ‘Jolly Lew Joliffe: He serves the People Right.’ ” He walked in with the two glasses.
After dinner Jo worked, and Lew, changed into Levi’s and sport shirt, walked over to the Levys’ to see what Harry was doing. Their apartment was identical with his and with Jo’s; the furniture rented, like theirs; chosen in minutes from a glossy printed catalog supplied by the apartments’ rental office. This was page after page of color photographs of modern furniture to be ordered by groups with names such as Studio, Design Contemporary, Nob Hill, Domani, Capri, Budget. Lew’s and Jo’s had arrived by truck the next day, new or seeming to be, and had been set up in both apartments in under thirty minutes. Its rental they paid monthly, part of the same check as the rents. Jo had picked Budget, also renting dishes and cooking equipment; Lew took Design Contemporary and a television set; the Levys’ was Heritage.
Lew and Harry sat out on the balcony talking desultorily. Behind them, at the all-purpose card table, Shirley sat writing a letter to Harry’s parents. Rafe had come out to lie between Lew’s and Harry’s chairs and, his arm dangling, Lew scratched his ears.
Again Harry spoke of the four of them buying a sailboat, and Lew nodded and said yeah, it might be fun. “If I could just sell the stupid camper,” Harry said. “Worst buy I ever made; half worn out, and underpowered to begin with. Useless for the mountains, and where else would I use it. Two hundred bucks and it’s yours, Lew.”
“Well, I might trade you some skin-diving equipment. Or camping stuff. Or a pair of cross-country skis or some climbing equipment. Harry, we buy this stuff, we buy the stupid equipment, get all buzzed up about it, then our interest fades. You’re stuck with a no-good camper. The skin-diving’s through; we know it. We still talk about climbing some more, but don’t seem to get around to it. And now it’s a sailboat. What are we doing?”
“Looking for a little excitement, I suppose. It’s a pretty tame life all in all, and there’s a little risk, not a lot but some, in diving, climbing, even skiing. And we’d probably find some in sailing; get outside the Gate in a small boat and it can get a little lively, I’ve heard. Trouble is, Lew, you have to expand. Dive, and pretty soon you want to start going deeper. Maybe get into treasure hunting. Climb, and at first it’s fun just learning. Then fun getting pretty good. But after you’ve gone up the local cliffs and rappelled down a few times, and then the High Sierras and maybe Yosemite Valley, why, I guess it’s the Himalayas next or forget it. That’s how it works with me anyway. You were in on the protest stuff at Berkeley, weren’t you?” Lew nodded. “Well, I was still at Illinois, and there wasn’t too much doing. How’d you like it?”
“I liked it. Might have kept on, if there’d been anywhere to go with it.”
“Well, some did go on; the so-called revolutionaries. But do you think they really believe the country is on the edge of revolt? Just waiting for them to push it over? With a few well-timed explosions? They know better—Lew, they’re playing, too! They hide out, sneak around in disguises, plant bombs, send tapes to radio stations, have safe houses—because it’s fun. A way to hold off the god-damn boredom of just slogging away at a job. And what we do is acquire a closet full of sports equipment. But don’t let it get you; so do plenty of other people. It’s why sports are so big. Everywhere in the world. Anyway, it’s only money, and what good will that be in another ten years or so? So think about the boat, Lew; we’ll watch the ads, and maybe pick one up cheap this winter.”
Lew stayed with Jo again that night, and as he lay back against the headboard, wearing the gray pajamas in which he’d walked along the balcony from his apartment, she moved about the room in a yellow nightgown, tidying. In all she did Jo was neat: working, her tools lay arranged in order in a wide semicircle, her board kept clear of scraps. Now she folded those of her clothes which were to be washed; set her shoes onto the built-in closet rack; closed the closet door till the latch clicked; crossed to the built-in dressing table and screwed the lid onto a jar of cream. Lew sat staring ahead, and presently Jo glanced at him, and said, “What are you thinking?”
“Oh”—he turned to look at her. “Nothing. Just remembering a trip I took when I was a kid. With my folks. On a train.”
After a moment she said, “Where to?”
“I don’t know; I don’t remember. But we spent a night in a Pullman. In a compartment or whatever it’s called; three berths, and they gave me the lower so I could look out the window. In the middle of the night, maybe two or three in the morning, I woke up, and of course I raised the blind. I couldn’t see much, just blackness. Then we tore through a little town—fast, racin
g through, the train making time at night. I had a quick flash of a little street, a row of wooden houses and big trees in the light from street lamps; and just a glimpse down a little empty main street. And heard the crossing bell: you know the sound: DING, ding, ding, ding, ding, fading away fast.
“Then suddenly I saw something. We zipped into and out of that little town; I don’t even know what state it was in: Illinois, Iowa. And right away the houses became more and more scattered, the street lights gone, just a bare bulb hanging high over the cross roads, the corn fields beginning again. And at the very edge of town or maybe just past it, we suddenly passed the back of a house and a little yard right beside the tracks. And there up on a wire was an impossible sight. Two spotlights were angled up from the ground to the wire, and they made a little blaze of light up there in the sky, everything around it solid black night. And in that circle of light a man in white tights sat riding a bicycle across the wire. He had a long pole balanced across the handlebars, and a woman in white tights with long blond hair stood on his shoulders, balancing with a parasol.
“They saw me: watching the train flash by below them, they caught a glimpse of me staring up at them from my berth, lying on my stomach, face at the window, and they smiled, and were gone in the blink of an eye. Vanished; nothing but blackness outside my window, and I could hardly believe I’d seen what I had.”
Lew turned to look at her. Jo lay in bed now, facing him, listening. “Who were they?”