by Jack Finney
“Circus people, I suppose: they had to live somewhere. And that’s where these two lived. They were practicing.”
“In the middle of the night?”
“Probably didn’t want spectators.”
“What did your parents say?”
“I didn’t tell them. I was afraid they’d say I’d been dreaming. And would convince me I had been.”
Jo pulled the light blanket up over her bare shoulder. “It isn’t true, is it, Lew.”
“No.” He smiled at her. For a long time she’d recognized this trait: of occasionally spinning out a fantasy to her or others, making it as believable as he could. If it were accepted he’d let it stand, but would answer truthfully if questioned. She didn’t understand why he did this, and sometimes it amused her, sometimes worried her, but she had come to associate it with some uneasiness he was feeling, perhaps now at the prospect of running for city council.
• • •
CHAPTER FOUR
• • •
The night of his third walk Lew slept in his own apartment. When his eyes opened at two twenty, by the green hands of his alarm, he knew that this time he’d actually been waiting for it in his sleep. Flipping the coverings aside, knowing what he was about to do, an excitement shot through him sharp as a touch of flame. Dressing, staring at his face in the mirrorlike window pane, it occurred to him, troubling him a little, that the intensity of his pleasure at again going out into the compelling mystery that drew him there was greater than at anything else that had happened to him all that week.
This time, stepping out onto the asphalt from the driveway, he turned right. Tonight a small breeze pressed his face, the leaves rattling overhead, and as he walked he consciously inhaled, pulling the cool air, medicinally touched with eucalyptus, in through his flared nostrils, feeling it as clean. Possibly the air was very nearly pure just now, the air moving in from the ocean, with no traffic. Arms swinging, legs striding easily, Lew looked up into the unending blackness of the sky, the stars a hard, electric blue, and was happy again. Passing each of the other apartment buildings, he glanced at their blank dark windows, listening to the steady scuff of his rubber soles, and felt himself alive and alone in this silent new world.
Following the Bay shore, he walked to the freeway, hearing the occasional air-rush of a fast car as he approached, usually followed by silence, the traffic at low ebb. Then, crossing the empty frontage road, stepping up onto the curb, stopping at the seven-foot wire fence, he reached it, U.S. 101. In the faint starlight, fingers hooked onto the diamonds of the fence mesh, he stood staring out at the concrete slab. Far to the north the tail lights of a car moved up the Corte Madera hill, then winked out over its crest, and now the long road stood empty; he could see possibly two miles of it from the Corte Madera crest north to the Richardson Bay bridge south.
The freeway lay there enormously, just before him, in semi-darkness except for large brightly lighted patches under the great direction signs. In the pale even light from the stars he could see separate oil spots at the edges of the dark streaks down the centers of the lanes. In the utterly black no-man’s land between the two roadways, the wooden posts and metal scrape-rails stood up sharp against the paleness of the lanes beyond them.
Lew stood fascinated at the motionlessness of the great freeway. Seconds passed, yet these two miles of concrete emptiness continued to stand without motion or sound. It seemed impossible; like staring at a frozen Niagara. Or as though, coming from another world, he stood watching a motionless, mysteriously lighted expanse whose purpose was beyond understanding.
Something moved. He heard it, and his head swung to stare north. Silence, then again the stillness broken by a small sound, a gravelly scraping. Lew searched for and found the movement: a formless, solid-black small bulk crossing the slightly lesser blackness of the shoulder fifty yards to the north—an animal of some sort. Waddling, it moved onto the pale concrete, a skunk or small raccoon, too slow for a dog or cat. Lew jammed his toe into the fence mesh, and pulled himself up onto the fence to stare over its top.
Without hurry the swaying bulk moved across the three lanes of concrete, disappeared into the blackness of the median strip. A small sound, dull and metallic; the creature squeezing under the wide band of the scrape-rail. Silence; Lew felt his heart beat in his eardrums. Then the animal reappeared on the other roadway. Leisurely it crossed the lanes there, was absorbed into the darkness, and again the night-time world stood motionless and still.
Clinging to the fence, Lew stared after the vanished animal, astonished at the thought which had just occurred to him: that, incredibly, it was possible for him to go out there too. For a moment he hesitated, then heaved himself higher, arms straightening, elbows locking, to support his weight. Swinging a leg over, he straddled for an instant, then swung the other leg over and pushed off, landing crouched on the shoulder. There he hesitated—as though a whistle might blow or a voice shout. Then he stood erect, walked forward, and as his foot touched the concrete, he grinned.
Looking both ways, he walked cautiously to the center lane: except for road workers in fluorescent vests he had never seen anyone walk out onto a freeway, not a busy commute-route. Yet here he stood, grinning. He turned to face south, the direction of oncoming traffic if there had been any, pulled down his face mask, and thumped his chest: “Come on, you bastards, it’s Superman,” he said softly, the sound of his voice out here startling.
Still grinning, he walked in a great, irregular circle from edge to edge of the pavement, feeling the eerie experience of tramping this forbidden territory. He stopped, glanced around, then did it again, stamping his feet, making a loud, slapping sound. But in no matter what direction he walked, making the circle, his head slowly turned to keep his eyes to the direction of oncoming traffic: being out here was a little frightening.
Still no car appeared, the long lull continuing, and he sat down in the center lane, wrapped his arms around his knees, and sat staring down the freeway through the eyeholes of his mask; a foreshortened, strangely close view, the surface of the concrete rougher than he’d supposed. He sat back, arms behind him, palms on the pavement, supporting his weight. For what he thought must be a full minute he sat watching, ready to scramble to his feet: something had to come along. But nothing did. Slowly, working up his nerve, he lay back—watching ahead, straining for the first far-off intimation of an approaching car—till his shoulder blades touched the concrete behind him. But he couldn’t bring himself to lower his head. Chin pressing chest, head upright, he lay on his back staring at the darkness for the first flash of headlights. Then he forced himself to lie back completely, ears intent, till the back of his cap touched the pavement. For an instant he lay staring straight up at the immense scatter of stars, then his head jerked up again.
But he knew that in this utter silence he would hear a car long before it could reach this spot, and he made himself lie back once more, clasping his hands under the back of his cap, lifting ankle to knee top in a deliberate posture of relaxation. Ears hyperalert, he stared into the infinite distance searching for the Big Dipper, and in his mind he saw himself from above, a tiny figure lying on a great paved expanse. Aloud, imitating a cop’s voice, he said, “Hey, you! What the hell you think you’re doing!” In his own voice, slightly muffled by the cap, he replied in mild surprise at the obviousness of the question: “Why . . . I’m lying on the freeway, Officer.”
“What for! What’s amatter with you! You some kinda creep!?”
“Why . . . I’m doing it for fun. To break the awful monotony of life; surely you understand? Why the fuck don’t you climb down out of that pig van, and try it yourself?”
“You’re under arrest!”
“What for, pork chop, what’s the charge? Freeway-lying? Malicious freeway-lying? Crossing state lines with intent to lounge on the surface of an interstate free—” A sound cut his voice off, a scrape against the metal fencing beside the road, and Lew sat up fast.
A woman
stood watching him from the other side of the fence; she had a small dog on a leash, his front paws up on the meshing, staring at Lew. After a moment Lew said, “Hi.” She didn’t answer, just stood staring, and he knew she was frightened. And why not? he thought. He felt certain that if he stood up she’d turn and run screaming, and he slowly drew up his knees, and put his arms around them, one hand loosely clasping the other wrist in the most relaxed unthreatening posture he could find. Then he sat waiting for her to find her voice, and after another moment or two of motionless staring she did.
Voice tight with the strain of trying to sound calm, she said, “May I ask what you’re doing out there?” The dog had lost interest, dropping to the ground to sniff the dirt.
“Oh,” Lew said slowly, and shrugged, “I couldn’t sleep, I got bored.” Would this make any least sense? “And decided to take a w—”
“Lew? Lew, is that you?”
“Yes—Shirley?” He yanked up his face mask.
“Oh, for godsake. Yes, it’s me! What in the world are you doing?”
He stood up quickly, and walked toward her. “Well, as any fool can see, I’m freeway-lying. Malicious freeway-lying with intent to amaze and astound.” Grinning, he stopped at the fence: Shirley smiling at him through the mesh, her head slowly shaking in disbelief. She wore a red scarf tied under her chin, a belted raincoat faded almost white, and plaid wool pants. “Lew, what in heaven’s name are you doing?”
“I don’t know, Shirl.” He stood, still grinning at her, pleased with the encounter. “Looking the world over, I guess, in the one time when it’s a little different. Look at that.” He flung out his arm, gesturing at the freeway.
“I know: welcome to the club. Every once in a while I’ve come wandering down here on a white night. But it never occurred to me to wear a mask or lie on the freeway. Do you do it often?”
“First time. I’ve been out a couple other times, but this is my first on the freeway. Come on and try it.” He grinned. “It’s fun; tie Rafe to the fence.”
“You serious?”
“Sure.”
“All right.” Stooping, she thrust the leash end through a bottom loop of the fencing, tied it, and the dog lay down, muzzle on forepaws. Shirley seized the fence, pushing a toe into the mesh, and sprang up, arms straightening, as agilely as Lew had. But she hadn’t scaled fences like this as a child and didn’t know how to get over. Cautiously, she tried to lie along the fence top, an arm and a leg on each side. Lew reached up quickly, got one hand on her shoulder, the other on her hip, and held her in place. She switched both hands to the mesh on his side, and tried to lower herself with Lew’s help, but a button and her belt buckle snagged on top.
Lew said, “I’ve got you good; you won’t fall. Let go with your hands, and untangle yourself.” She did; then slowly rolled off the fence top into Lew’s arms. He liked it; there was a moment when she lay smiling up at him which he wanted to prolong, but he set her on her feet, and as they touched the ground the electric dots of a pair of headlights appeared on Richardson Bay bridge to the south. Her ankle twisted on a small rock and, Lew trying to support her, they both half fell, half sat down, tangled together and laughing. “Stay down.” Lew nodded at the approaching car. It was coming fast, its lights now touching the roadway before them, strangely close at this level. Lew yanked down his mask, then turned up the collar of Shirley’s coat. “Sit close; make one silhouette.” They huddled together quickly, the car no more than a hundred yards away. “Don’t move.” Their eyes following the car, they sat motionless, and it flashed past in the inner fast lane, the driver never glancing their way. An instant later the wind of its passing touched their faces, and as Lew turned to grin at Shirley, yanking his face mask up, she swung to face him, eyes gleeful.
“Yow!” She jumped up, ran out to the inner lane, put a fist on one hip and, raising the other high, wrist bent, did a nimble, defiant little jig behind the diminishing red lights of the car. “I don’t believe it,” she yelled. “This is wild!” She sat down on the inner lane, facing south.
Lew walking out to her, she started to lie back as he had done. Instead, scrambling on the pavement, she changed her position to lie, not lengthwise, but across the width of the lane, head toward the center of the road, feet near the dirt of the median strip. She lay back on the concrete then, but her face was turned south: “I’ve simply got to see if a car’s coming.”
“Right.” He lay down across the center lane, feet toward the mesh fence, in upside-down relation to Shirley, only their heads side by side. She turned to look back at him over her shoulder, saw his inverted face, and giggled. Lew said, “Hey, you’re on watch! They come fast this time of night,” and she turned quickly to face south again.
Lew rolled to his back, clasping his hands under his head, and stared up at the stars. “Well?” Shirley said. “How’s your lane? Comfy?”
“Great. Yours?”
“Just dandy.” She planted an elbow on the concrete, propped her head on her palm, and lay on her side, watching. Lew turned to look through the triangle formed by her bent arm, head, and neck: nothing was coming, the smudged white of the road fading into darkness far ahead to the south. Again he lay back to stare straight up, and at the movement Shirley glanced over her shoulder at him, then turned swiftly onto her stomach, smiling down at him. On impulse, glancing first to the south, she bent down and kissed him, then lifted her head again. “First time I ever kissed anyone upside down—it’s weird. But nice.”
Lew reached up, drew her face down, and they kissed again, this time longer, a strange and suddenly exciting experience to Lew. She drew away, and turned to her side once more, propping her head on her hand to watch the road again, her back to him. “Me, too,” Lew said. “I know you won’t believe this, but it’s the very first time I ever kissed a girl upside down while lying on a freeway.”
“You’ve led a sheltered life. There are all sorts of firsts we could establish if we could be sure a car wouldn’t come. Imagine: right here on the freeway!”
“Be marvelous. On the freeway or anywhere else with you.” In a parody voice he said, “There! I’ve said it at last.”
“Oh, you’ve said it before; this is just the first time out loud.” She glanced back at him, smiling. “Think of the accident report if we were run over!”
“I don’t think my Blue Cross covers it.” He sat up, swinging around to sit beside her, forearms lying on his upraised knees, hands dangling. Shirley pulled herself up, and they sat side by side, staring down the road.
She said, “I used to sit on the floor like this with my brother watching television when we were kids. ‘The Mickey Mouse Club.’ ”
“So did I. M-i-c . . .”
“K-e-y . . .”
Then, both joining in the familiar slow, sad tune, they sang, “M-o-u-s-e, Mickey Mouse . . . Mickey Mouse . . .” Faces solemn, staring ahead, they let the last note die, then Lew yelled, “Hey, kids! It’s ‘Howdy Doody’ time!” Shouting, they sang, “It’s Howdy DOO-dy time! It’s Howdy DOO-dy time! It’s time to watch the show! Come on, let’s—” Lew gripped Shirley’s forearm; a far-off, high, mechanical whine had touched the air, and they turned toward the other side of the freeway to look north. Just over the crest of the Corte Madera hill far behind them, they saw the slow-moving headlights and yellow toplight pattern of a trailer truck, and Lew stood, reaching a hand down to help Shirley up. “Road’s getting busy as hell. We better get off while we can.”
The truck whine slowly growing, they walked hand in hand to the shoulder, and Lew glanced south: a pair of headlights had appeared there, too. Facing the road, they stood watching them grow, the car moving fast in the inner lane. When it was two hundred yards off, Lew stepped out into the slow lane, and Shirley followed.
He pulled down his mask, and Shirley turned up her coat collar, yanked her scarf off, and with clawed fingers combed her hair down over her face. Hunching her shoulders, she drew her neck and chin down below the buttoned-up top of
her coat. The approaching car was less than the length of a football field away, the pavement before them brightening. Suddenly it slowed as the driver spotted them, brakes squealing slightly.
The car still slowing, the driver leaning across the seat to stare, Lew and Shirley stood utterly motionless. Then Lew swung to face the oncoming car, rising high on his toes, arms shooting straight up, hands dangling, in classical Dracula pose. Only a hair-covered knob rising above Shirley’s coat collar, she extended both arms out at her sides, elbows loose, forearms and hands hanging limp, and began stumping about in a small circle, bent-kneed, as though blind. A dozen yards off now, the face of the staring driver a white blur behind his windshield, the car accelerated, its front end rising, and shot past them.
Shirley screamed, a wild, cackling, banshee laugh, and Lew slowly revolved on the balls of his feet to continue facing the car, arms high. He held the pose, Shirley continuing her mindless stumping—and safely up ahead now the car’s brake lights glowed, the car slowing, then it stopped. Through its rear window they saw the white shape of the driver’s face looking back at them. Lew ran down the freeway toward the car as hard as he could go, arms still raised, angling over to the fast lane, rubber soles slapping the pavement. The brake lights went out, the car bucked forward, and sped on, and Lew turned to walk back to Shirley, laughing, pulling his face mask up.
He helped Shirley up onto the fence, her foot in his linked hands. When she got part way up, a toe in the mesh, his hands gripped her waist to lift her higher. Directly across the freeway behind him he heard the truck’s diesel, and as he shifted one hand from Shirley’s waist to her rump, boosting her to the top, he glanced over his shoulder. Leaning far out of his cab, the driver was watching them, and he reached forward, grabbed his air-horn rope, and blasted it twice. Balanced on top of the fence, Shirley turned her head, saw him, and waved. The driver waved back wildly, then reached forward again to give them a final toot.