Three by Finney

by Jack Finney

  The camera set and buzzing, Harry ran toward them calling, “Ten seconds!” He dropped to a squat between the women, turning to grin at the camera. Flash—the car and their faces whitened, and Harry ran for the camera as Lew stood clicking Pearley’s handcuffs through the two trigger guards and the ring of keys. The women already hurrying back along the roof, Harry trotted forward with his tripod, and Lew hung guns and keys from the base of the aerial, and the blue uniform cap from its top. Then they ran.

  Four of them carrying the beams down the hill, stopping once for breath—listening, ready to drop them and run—they brought them back to the van: two minutes later they set them on the pile from which they had taken them.

  Driving sedately home in the very first early widely scattered beginnings of what would swell to heavy commute traffic in the next hours, they twice watched police cars fly past at high speed, one in each direction, dome lights flashing; and they laughed softly and sleepily.

  Five hours later at nine in the morning, Lew awakened, lying on Jo’s chesterfield, closed his eyes again, then could not resist: he got up, turned on the portable television and, the volume low as he could tune it, he watched the news, including a black-and-white still photo apparently taken at first dawn showing the car and two uniformed men silhouetted on the Civic Center roof. It was a mystery, the announcer’s almost inaudible voice murmured, the car first spotted at dawn from the freeway, and Lew smiled, turned it off, and returned to the chesterfield.

  At noon they had lunch, watching the news, and saw a color film: the camera panning over a crowd down on the asphalt before the Civic Center, then up to others scattered over the hill beside the long beige building, finally lifting to the roof as a uniformed deputy sheriff, leaning out his open door, slowly backed the car along the blue road in the sky to the careful beckoning of a deputy behind him. The film continued till the car stopped at the back roof edge, then briefly returned to the faces of the watching crowd as it cheered mockingly. Latest word, said the announcer at his news desk, is that the car still stood at the roof edge awaiting a ramp workmen were preparing.

  During the afternoon as the others desultorily played rummy, switching to casino later, Harry developed his films in the bathroom. Later, as he sat at the little white table mounting the pictures, the four of them watched the final descent of Pearley’s car down an amply wide and well-braced ramp; this followed by a brief filmed interview with the Mill Valley police chief. With the good sense to know humor was his best refuge, he stood smiling on the walk before his police station, then responded affably to the interviewer’s questions: Who put the car up there, and why? “That’s easy,” said the chief. “Officer Pearley was in hot pursuit. Of a stolen hang glider. Had him cornered up there on the roof. Unfortunately the thief managed to fly away in the darkness, and Officer Pearley didn’t want to shoot for fear of hitting innocent planes. He has been commended, and will be transferred to our air force.” The chief nodded pleasantly, and turned back toward the station, his smile fading quickly.

  At three o’clock Jo walked to the camper, and brought it back to the building parking area. There she packed the VW and the Alfa, carefully cramming both trunks, filling the back seats and floors with their belongings, skis on the roof racks. She packed her own things into two suitcases.

  At four-thirty, all dressed as they’d been the night before, the others stood waiting as Jo walked slowly through the apartment making sure it was empty of everything they were to take. For a moment or two then, she stood looking from Shirley to Harry, shaking her head. “I have the feeling that after tonight I’ll never see you two again.”

  They protested. “We’ll phone my folks the minute we find a place,” Shirley said. “You phone them when you’re settled, or we’ll phone your folks—”

  “Oh, sure, I know. And we will, of course. Then we’ll all talk to each other. On the phone. And write. For a while. Send Christmas cards a while longer. But . . . you’re going to Seattle. You think. And we’re going to Santa Fe. Maybe.” She shrugged, and no one replied.

  Harry left first, not certain the camper could make it over Waldo Grade, and Shirley followed in the Alfa. As Jo checked the balcony doors, making sure they were locked before leaving, Lew said, “I’ll miss those doors,” and she smiled.

  Down at the van Jo stood beside it looking up at the building. “Well, so long, 2E,” she said. “And 2D. So long, rented dishes, white table, and Scotch-guarded furniture: will you remember us? When someone else is using you? Think of us now and then? Lew and Jo?” She shrugged. “No answer: let’s go.” She climbed up into the van.

  In the slow lane, Lew hanging a few lengths behind in the VW, Jo’s worn-out van slowly climbed Waldo. Watching its big wooden bumper projecting a good foot to the rear, Lew urged it on with a slight rocking motion, then reached out nervously to snap on his radio. Louis Armstrong faded in hoarsely with “Mack, the Knife,” and as the van crept over the summit, and began picking up speed rolling down toward the tunnel, Lew burst into voice, singing along in fragmented snatches (“ ‘ . . . scarlet billows! . . . gleaming white! . . .’ ”). Coming out of the tunnel onto the long curving downgrade toward the bridge, he saw that Harry and Shirley were nowhere in sight, no sign of a stall up ahead on the bridge, and he grinned in relief. Behind his rolled-up windows he began to shout out the words he knew of the song.

  Rolling across Golden Gate Bridge a car length behind Jo, Lew studied the traffic. The forty-year-old bridge was only six lanes wide, the lanes narrow for today’s cars. Now, during the evening commute, they were separated into four northbound lanes toward Marin, nearly solid with cars; and two southbound lanes toward San Francisco, more lightly used. Separating these opposing traffic streams stood a row of yard-high sausagelike posts of spongy plastic dyed bright yellow and red.

  Lew heard the rackety clatter of helicopter blades, and saw the tiny KGO traffic helicopter a hundred yards overhead curving toward the bridge from the Bay like an insect. From his radio came the brief identifying musical theme, then the familiar voice over the beat of the blades in the background. “Northbound traffic on Golden Gate Bridge is heavy, moving slowly but normally for five o’clock on a weekday; no stalls, no congestion. Up ahead toward the Waldo tunnel, it’s moving freely.”

  To his right, in snatched glimpses through the bridge railings, Lew saw the enormous dull-orange disc of the sun edging into the horizon far out across the miniature whitecaps below. It was full daylight still but would begin fading within minutes, and at the thought of what was to be done when the sun had set, Lew felt the sweat pop at the roots of his hair. Traffic report finished, the little bug-shape hovering over the bridge suddenly curved gracefully away toward Oakland, beaters chopping the air. A commercial began, and in sudden anxious irritability Lew switched the radio off.

  He followed the van through the toll booths, then both edged to the right, out of the traffic stream onto a curving descending road. This led down into a narrow tunnel passing under the bridge approach. Van and VW came out on the other side into a large parking area facing the Bay, a view place for tourists, crowded in the summer. But now in the dusk of a late fall day, only Harry’s camper stood at one end, the Alfa a little distance away, two strange cars at the opposite end. Jo parked at the low stone wall facing the Bay, and Lew nearby.

  They walked to the camper: the Levys sat in the front seat, Harry rolling down his window. “Made it,” he said. “It didn’t want to, but I cursed it over the Grade.” The area they were in stood at the side of the bridge, well below the level of its roadway. From here they had a spectacular view of the bridge, a foreshortened profile of the entire arched span. They stared at it now. Before them, close and enormous, the south tower filled half the sky. From its top the long, beautiful curve of the twin cables swooped down to almost touch the road, it seemed. Then it rose again to dwindle to a thread where it finally reached the height of the distant north tower. “Can you believe it, Lew?” Harry said. “We walked up that so
n-of-a-bitch!”

  “Fair makes me stomach churn.”

  “I almost was sick,” Shirley murmured, looking out at them past Harry, “when I saw those little bumps moving along the cable. Right, Jo?”

  Jo nodded, then they all watched the sun visibly and rapidly sinking down into the water out beyond and under the bridge. First, half of it gone, then most of it, and finally the very edge of its upper rim flashed on the horizon line, and the great disc was gone. Its rays still filled the air, fanlike, at the horizon; and the daylight still seemed strong and clear, everything visible: the great rust-red bridge and its unending flow of cars high above them; the green-and-white Bay and its half dozen sails; the distant shorelines just beginning to speckle with light; the Bay islands.

  Then suddenly, goldenly, the bridge lights came on all at once, and instantly the daylight diminished. The bridge’s color vanished, and it stood stark and black against the luminous sky. Within seconds a few car lights flicked on, then very quickly all of them, the cars fading into darkness, and the commute traffic above became a stream of lights. “Jo, maybe you better start,” Lew said, and she nodded. “You don’t have to,” he added quickly. “Really. Just say you’ve changed your mind, and we’re all going to nod and agree, and feel damn relieved.”

  “That’s right,” said Harry.

  “You say it,” Jo answered. “Any of you. I’ve got the easiest job.” She handed her keys to Lew, he gave her his, and she nodded at them all. “Well—good luck. See you.” Abruptly she turned to walk swiftly to Lew’s car, and he checked his watch.

  The others watching, Jo drove up the narrow exit road to the bridge approach and stopped, the oncoming stream of traffic from the city flowing past her front bumper; it was nearly full dark now. At the first break, Jo wheeled swiftly into the lane, and they watched the VW’s tail lights till they were lost in the Marin-bound traffic.

  The two strange cars had left, and Lew walked to Jo’s van, bringing out pliers, and removed her last license plate. Kneeling in the dark at the Alfa Romeo, he took off both its plates, and pushed them down into the Levys’ heaped belongings on the rear floor.

  Back at the camper he stood at Harry’s door, and they waited: nervous now, wrapped in their thoughts, speaking very little. Harry sat frowning at the darkening Bay, his face set belligerently. Beside him, her face pale in the dark of the camper’s cab, Shirley fidgeted: glancing out her window, at Harry’s profile, and at Lew; yawning, checking her watch. Several times Lew turned away to pace slowly, returned, then walked away again. He looked up at the sky often, testing the quality of its deepening darkness.

  Across the bridge on the Marin County side, Jo curved off into the view area there, which faced the similar area across the Gate in which the others waited. Only one other car stood parked here now, a man and a woman standing before it at the low guard rail, staring across the water at the lighted city. Getting out of the VW, Jo glanced at it, too, and stood for a moment, hand on the door. More lights appeared as she watched, the city taking on its shimmering night-time look, which always excited her. But she couldn’t wait, slammed her door, and walked away toward the beginning of the sidewalk that led across the bridge.

  Just short of the walk she turned onto a flight of concrete stairs, walked down its three shallow steps, and turned onto a narrow screened foot bridge which passed under the big bridge itself. She didn’t like it here alone under the bridge, afraid of seeing someone turn onto it ahead and come walking toward her; and she hurried, half running. A few feet above her head the heavy bridge traffic rumbled steadily, and she didn’t like this either.

  No one else appeared, and Jo turned right on the other side to walk up a paved ramp to bridgeway level and turned right again onto the sidewalk leading across the ocean side of the bridge. Glancing brightly around, trying to appear as she imagined a tourist might look, she walked on, beside the double lane of traffic to the city. The sidewalk behind its low separating barrier stood several feet higher than the roadway beside it, and she could look over the roofs of passing cars. On the other side, the commute traffic toward Marin was a solid flow of headlights, the enameled bodies behind them winking yellowly under the bridge lights.

  She reached the ocean-side leg of the south tower, and turned onto the little bay behind it where she had stood last night with Shirley. Hidden from the passing stream of cars on the other side of the enormous steel wall of the tower leg, she stood, hands on the railing, staring out at the night-time blackness of the ocean.

  Across the bridge Lew looked at his watch. It had been fourteen minutes since Jo had left, time enough: she’d either be at her post or walking to it. But he waited the extra minute, then said, “Time.”

  “Okay”—Harry nodded from the open window of the camper. “What do you say, Lew?” he added quietly. “Still think this’ll work?”

  “Well, if somebody described it to me, I’d laugh. But it can work. Pretty easily. No reason it shouldn’t, in fact. So logically, I say yeah, it’ll work.” He shrugged. “But emotionally, I won’t even believe it when I see it.”

  “I wish we could stay and watch,” Shirley said, climbing down to the pavement; she sounded eager, the waiting over. She walked to the Alfa, Lew walked to the van, and doors slammed. Lew started his engine, and waited, watching Shirley back out, brake lights brightening the pavement as she stopped to shift. Then, wheels turned hard, she drove forward, and up the short narrow roadway Jo had taken. Lew turned to watch Harry bring the camper up behind her, then he backed out the van, and joined the waiting line.

  Shirley waited, her front bumper at the edge of the traffic stream moving sluggishly past it. Harry waited half a yard behind, Lew almost as close behind Harry. A break appeared only two car-lengths long but Shirley edged her bumper into it, the approaching car slowing to let her in. She swung into the lane, Harry riding her bumper, Lew following equally close, all crowding in together. Allowing no more than a few feet of space between them, the three passed between the empty toll booths, no toll being collected in this direction, and onto the bridge itself, staying in the slow lane directly beside the walk.

  Careful never to allow another car between him and Harry, Lew watched the lane beside them in his outside rear-view. Here in the slow lane they moved at under forty, often having to brake, the line beside them moving a little faster.

  He saw an empty space approaching in the rear-view, and flipped on his turn signal. A brown Mustang moved past him, the empty space behind it, and Lew slid smoothly over into it, his extended front bumper passing only inches from the slanted rear end of the Mustang. He touched his brakes, allowing the Mustang to move on, creating an empty space before him, and Harry slid over into it.

  In the curbside lane where she would remain, Shirley moved along with the traffic. Harry, with Lew on his bumper, pulled abreast of Shirley, then held even. Maintaining his close distance directly behind Harry, Lew again began watching his rear-view, waiting now for an empty space in the third lane. Seconds passed as they rolled on, moving under the tower at the San Francisco end. Beside him, the slightly faster third-lane traffic flowed past, but no empty space appeared. Lew felt his heartbeat increase, and reminded himself that they had plenty of time, most of the length of the bridge yet.

  Seconds passed as they rolled on under the orange lights, the commute traffic at its peak now. Then Lew saw an empty space coming up but before it reached him cars moved together, eliminating it, and again he felt the sweat start at the roots of his hair. He was worried now, and as they rolled on his eyes moved steadily between Harry’s big wooden bumper and the miniaturized string of cars moving toward him in the rectangle of the van’s mirror.

  A break appeared in the mirrored lineup behind him, and Lew flipped on his turn signal. But as the empty space approached it began to contract. He could wait no longer, they were near the middle of the bridge, he had to move over now. Lew quickly rolled down his window, and shoved his arm straight out and pumping, pointing finger jabbing at
the empty space as it came abreast. Now it was too short, obviously so, but Lew edged slowly toward it, his wheels crossing the lane-line, bumping along the warning nodules, the horn of the car behind blasting suddenly. Lew kept on, forcing, the rear of the van and the car’s right front fender nearly touching; the man had to brake now or be hit. Lew pressed, edging fractionally closer, the horn stopped, the car slowing, and Lew slid into the line with no inch to spare. He waited for the renewed horn blast, but none came. A commuter, he thought, grinning, trained to resignation.

  In the third lane now, Lew drew abreast with Harry and Shirley and they all held in a line. Then, passing the middle of the bridge where the cables dipped lowest, Harry began gradually slowing, dropping down through thirty-seven . . . thirty-four . . . thirty-two. Watching him intently, Shirley and Lew slowed with him, maintaining their lineup, and the cars in the three lanes ahead moved on, creating an empty space before them. The empty space grew to a car-length, then two, then three. At Lew’s left the fourth lane moved steadily past him, drivers glancing curiously at the lineup of van, camper, and Alfa holding abreast and still slowing.

  Again Lew watched his rear-view. Breaks in the fast fourth lane were more frequent, he saw one immediately, and as it came abreast he drifted left, wheels crossing the line, rumbling the markers. Simultaneously, Harry drifted over the line to edge into Lew’s lane, and Shirley’s left wheels slid over the line into Harry’s. Each of them now straddling a lane-line, the three cars moving abreast blocked all four lanes behind them.