by Jack Finney
“Tell me what to do, Nick,” she said again, walking home, but I shook my head.
“Nope. You have to decide that.”
A few more steps, and she said, “All right. But tell me what you’d do. You can tell me that much.”
It seemed to me I was thinking honestly. And I believed that if it were me, I would do it. So I nodded presently and said, “Yeah. I think I would.”
“Then I will. I’ll give her”she hesitated, then finished almost angrily“a couple of weeks, that’s all. To get started. Then we’ll see how long after that. Nick, is that fair?”
“It sure as hell is. Look, give her a full two weeks, and if nothing’s happened, that’s it; we’ll drive home then, during the third week of my vacation. Take our time.”
“Oh. You’re going, too?”
I felt my face flush; it hadn’t occurred to me that I wouldn’t. “Well, yeah. You don’t think I’d … leave you there alone? You’ll be there part of the time, you know. By yourself, if I’m not along.”
“All right. But you know, I can force her out sometimes; I’ve learned how, and I’ve done it. It’s like a little struggle, and sometimes I’ve been able to … just push her out. She knows it. So you tell her that I’m to be there every evening, from the moment she gets back to the hotel! And all night, every night. Or I just might show up in the middle of her comeback and cut it off at the knees.”
“Good idea, damn good.”
At home we fed Al, then went out to dinner; neither of us felt like dinner at home. I was depressed, I wasn’t sure why, and I thought maybe Jan was, too. We walked down toward Haight and a little restaurant I find charming because it’s so cheap; “our neighborhood Up-Chuck Wagon,” as I’ve been forbidden to call it. And as we walked, a true story I’d once read rose up in my mind.
A man was murdered, for no apparent reason, in his apartment. Left in it were money, jewelry, various valuables, including a stamp collection. But nothing seemed to be missing; a mystery. One of the detectives, it happened, was a stamp collector. He leafed through the murdered man’s albums and found a page of rare stamps, the early Hawaiian issues, every one except the two cent. He knew what the other cops didn’t; that stamp was the rarest of all the Hawaiians. He checked through the dead man’s friends till he found another stamp collector. Then he made the man’s acquaintance. Presently they became friends. And finally, one night, the man showed the detective his pride and joy, a collection of the early Hawaiian stamps, complete. Where had he found the two-cent stamp? He wouldn’t say. He was arrested, charged with murder, and still wouldn’t explain; couldn’t. He was tried, convicted, and then he confessed; his friend had refused to sell him that stamp, the one stamp he needed to make his collection complete. So he murdered him and stole it, murdered his friend for a canceled two-cent stamp.
Walking along with Jan toward Haight Street, I told myself that a jury of that man’s peerstwelve other collectorswould have acquitted him, but it didn’t help. Why hadn’t I told Jan about the man in Hollywood who just might have a stunning collection of incredibly rare old films? Why not? Had I really been honest in nudging her down the path of letting Marion have her chance … in order that I could go along? Was I selling my wifedown south!for the bare chance of somehow getting my hands on a mess of footage? “My God,” I thought, “I’m living the script of an old silent: the film I want … is Greed!”
So at dinner I told her about it; showed her how doubtful my motives really were. And Jan said, “I’m so relieved, Nick. I was afraid you wanted to go down there just to be with Marion!” And all of a sudden I felt great, and expansively ordered a carafe of the mysterious muddy red liquid that the Up-Chuck Wagon calls wine. Raising our glasses in salute, we drank, mouths shriveling, eyes wincing shut, and I found myself wondering if going down to Hollywood with Marion wasn’t my real reason, my real real reason. To hell with it, I said, and bravely refilled our glasses. Later, for the first time in my life, I worked up the nerve to ask for a “doggy bag” so that old Al could join the festivities.
In the morning, packing, Jan was a little grim, but if she felt like changing her mind, and I think she was tempted, she didn’t, and we were ready by eight. She wore a pink washable dress, her cloth coat, and a scarf for her hair in case we drove with the top down. I had on tan wash pants, loafers, sport shirt, and a sleeveless sweater.
Last thing I did was carry a carton of dog food down to the Platts’ back porch; they’d said they’d take care of Al. And when Al came trotting up onto their porch to investigate, I explained what was going on. I’m not at all sure they don’t get something from an explanation, whether they understand every word or not.
Squatting beside him, I rubbed his ears, occasionally pulling up the great wad of loose skin around his shoulders and neck; bassets seem to come equipped with twice the skin they need. I said, “Listen. It’s not true that you’ve been fired from the position of Dog; you have tenure. And it’s not true that you’re adopted either; you’re our real son. Now, we are going away for a while, but we’ll be back. And the Platts will minister to your physical if not your spiritual needs. So don’t worry; okay?” He wagged his tail and, I’m inclined to think, nodded. I pulled up an enormous handful of skin from around his shoulders. “I don’t know where you got this crummy dog suit, by the way, but it’s sure a lousy fit.” He tried for my ear with his tongue, but I took evasive action. “And when I get back I’d like to see you in something newer and smarter; nobody wears long ears any more.” He looked interested. “Next time why not try a poodle suit? They’re pretty smart. The kind with rings around the ankles and tail? Have them shorten the legs, though.” I stood up. “Now, remember, we’ll be back, we’ll be back. Meanwhile, play your cards right and you can con the Platts out of all sorts of forbidden delicacies.” I leaned down and punched him on the shoulder, which is stronger and more massive than mine, and went up to take our bags to the car.
We didn’t know when Marion would show up, but she arrived when we were leaving. I was coming down the stairs with our bags, Jan behind me with her keys out to lock up after me, when I heard her turn and go back up as though she’d forgotten something. When I looked up from the canvas-covered trunk on the rear bumper where I was stowing the bags, she was coming down the steps, both arms raised, elbows winged out, adjusting the blond wig. And it suddenly struck me that I was actually about to drive down to Hollywood with the ghost of a 1926 movie actress. I must have stood staring at her then because she walked around the front of the car, opened her door, then stopped to look back at me. “Come on, Nickie; step on it! We’re forty-seven years late.”
Only a couple of things of any note happened on the drive down: it’s a long haul for one day, the old Packard isn’t actually the easiest car to drive for any distance, and I didn’t talk a lot. I asked Marion right away if she agreed to Jan’s terms and she said yes. Then I asked her the name of the man with the films, the astounding collection of old silent films if he still had it; if they still existed.
“Bollinghurst,” she said. “His name is Ted Bollinghurst.” It was just a name, but my stomach tensed; I could feel the excitement rising again, and I knew that name was etched in my mind forever. “He lives at 1101 Keever Street in Beverly Hills, according to your phone book. And that’s all I know, Nick. I don’t know whether he still has his films or anything else about him.”
Marion chattered a lot from then on, pointing out changes. There were plenty of them since 1926, and I mostly just nodded and listened. For lunch we pulled into a drive-in, and Marion loved it, insisting on leaning over to my side to give our order through the standing microphone: milk shakes for both of us, cheeseburger for me, hamburger for her, with everything. She sat back, then frowned, and leaned across me again. “Hold the onions on the hamburger!” she said into the microphone, then smiled at me wanly. “Hi, Nick,” she said, and I patted her knee quickly, while she was still there; Jan gets indigestion from onions.
The o
nly other thing that happened is that I found myself struggling with the big wooden steering wheel, the speedometer at 65, which is very, very fast for the Packard, the tires howling on a curve.
I was able to hold it to the road, decelerating cautiously, till we hit the straightaway again; Marion’s scarf was around my neck, streaming romantically back over the rear of the car. “What happened?”
“Rudy was driving,” she said apologetically. “Said he’d spell you for a while.”
“Well, he’s one lousy driver!”
“I know. He said it was handling a lot harder than his Isotta-Fraschini and that he’d better let you take over again.”
“On a curve!?”
“I know; he’s coo-coo.”
Around ten-forty that night Jan and I had dinner in the coffee shop of the Beverly Hills Hotel. Sitting in a booth waiting for it, we were so tired we just sat and stared at each other stupidly. “I get left with her headaches, hangovers, and now her exhaustion,” Jan said, massaging her forehead. Her hand brushed her hairline, and she reached up, felt the blond wig, and dragged it off, shrugging. We skipped the delicious-looking bread-pudding dessert and were in bed and asleep by eleven-ten, the blond wig on a bedpost.
I woke up once and knew Jan was awake, too.
“Nick?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not so sure I want to go through with this. What do you think?”
“Decide in the morning.” I was asleep again.
It was daylight the next time I woke, and Marion, in wig and Jan’s orange dress, sat on the edge of the bed, an open phone book beside her, eyes on the little traveling clock. “Is six-forty-five too early to phone, Nickie?”
“Yeah.” I went back to sleep.
I woke up again to the sound of dialing and looked at the clock; it was 8:01. “It’s not too early!” Marion said defensively, and then into the phone, “Hello? Mr. Dahl, please. Mr. Hugo Dahl?” She listened. “I see. I wonder if I could reach him there?” She listened, then nodded. “On North Gower Street; thank you very much.” She put the phone aside slowly and looked over at me, her face suddenly frightened. “He’s on his way to the studiohe’s still in pictures. Oh, Nickie, I’m scared! He’s my only hope, really; I’ve been hunting through the phone books, and of all the people I knew there’s no one else could possibly still be in pictures. What if he doesn’t remember me?” I didn’t see how he could, but didn’t say anything, and she jumped up to run over and sit on the edge of my bed. “Nickie, you’re coming with me today, aren’t you? I can’t go to the studios alone! I’m scared, I really am!”
“All right.”
She looked relieved and glanced over at the clock. “It’s too early to go now; he’s not there yet. Why don’t we just”
“Nope.”
“We could at least neck a little. For luck.”
“Bad luck.” I rolled to the other side of the bed, sat up, dragged the phone book across the bed, found the B’s, and found “Bollinghurst, Theo N, 1101 Keever Street.” I looked up at Marion and grinned. “HOO-ray for HOLLywood!” I began singing, and jumped up and took a shower, still singing.
Downstairs in the cab, I sat back to look out the window as we headed east on Wilshire Boulevard. I didn’t know much about this town and was curious. But every block we drove through, stopping often for lights, seemed just about like the last onethe buildings generally white, new or looking new, and of a general height, so that they merged into sameness. Yet I noticed that their individual designs were often striking, sometimes unique or even bizarre. Any one of a lot of the buildings we were passing would have been memorable anywhere else, a town monument. But here there were so many of them trying for distinctiveness that the total effect was blandness. They were of stone, but it was hard to believe anyone really meant them to last. And in the queer washed-out Los Angeles sunlight that comes filtering down through the haze of perpetual smog, these featureless blocks after block seemed insubstantial, ownerless, and without significance. There are nonbooks and noncelebrities; people whose only fame is that somehow their names are known. It seemed to me that we were in a nonplace, and I said so to Marion.
“It used to be, though. It was a wonderful place once; a town, and a real one.” She looked out the window, then shook her head and sat back as though withdrawing from the scene around us. “But I don’t like this, I could never like it. I don’t see how anyone could.” Suddenly she leaned forward to speak to the driver. “Take us back to the hotel!”
“Okay.” The cabby shrugged, and checking his rear-view mirror for cops, he slowed, waiting for a break in the approaching traffic. Then he swung his wheel in a quick, illegal U-turn.
I sat waiting for an explanation, and after a moment or so she reached up with both hands and lifted off her wig.
“Jan?”
She nodded defiantly. “I don’t know that I want to go through with this, Nick, now that we’re here. I don’t like this place! What are we doing here!” She blinked suddenly, jumping slightly, then leaned forward. “Take us to Gower Street!” she said, and pulled the wig back on.
“Oh, God.” I slumped far down in my seat, turning to the window, disassociating myself from whoever the hell was beside me now.
“Lady, I don’t mind.” The driver turned to smile with forced calm. “Do this all day if you want, round and round, long as you pay the meter. But if I get grabbed for this turn, you pay the fine!” Directly in front of the hotel again, he swung in a tight U-turn and we headed back east on Wilshire.
“Back to the hotel!” She snatched off the wig.
“No!” Braking hard, he swung in to the curb and stopped. “I won’t do it! Nothing could make me! Get another ca”
“Hold it,” I said placatingly. “Wait a second; we’ll make up for it with the tip.” Murmuring quietly, I talked to Jan, reminding her that she’d promised, urging her to hold off and see what happened, and finally she agreed. “Go ahead,” I said to the cabby. “North Gower Street, and this time we won’t change our mind.”
I was disappointed, really let down, by the outside of the studio. I don’t know what I’d expected, except that I thought it would be at least a little glamorous. But this was just a high, block-long, almost blank stucco wall directly beside the public sidewalk across from a mangy, broken-asphalted public parking lot with a broken-down white fence, and strewn with papers no one was ever going to pick up. Mounted on the studio walls were a few billboards advertising motion pictures, otherwise this could have been a warehouse. And the door, apparently the main entrance to a world-famous studio, was an ordinary street-level door, the varnish worn off around the handles, the glass a little dirty. If I’d found a cut-rate dentist’s office inside I wouldn’t have been surprised.
What we did find was a cubicle just about large enough for us and the small desk we stood facing, which looked as though a Goodwill Thrift Shop had thrown it out. On the plywood walls hung a few large tinted photographs of two or three movie actors and television stars, and behind the desk a pleasant-faced, middle-aged man in a vaguely coplike uniform looked up from a copy of The Hollywood Reporter. “Can I help you?”
If I’d been worried about Marion’s reception here, I stopped when her smile came on; I saw from the man’s eyes that he appreciated it. “If you would, please,” she said, looking at him with what seemed to be genuine interest, and clearly wishing she could spend an hour or so talking with him. “I’d like to see Mr. Hugo Dahl.”
“Do you have an appointment?” He began nodding unconsciously, trying to will an appointment into being for her.
“No, but I’m an old friend. If you could let him know Marion Marsh is here, I think he might see me.”
The man consulted a printed, much marked over phone list taped to his desk top with yellowing Scotch tape, then he dialed. “Reception: Miss Marion Marsh to see Mr. Dahl.” He listened, then waited, smiling up at Marion. “Just a second,” he said into the phone, then to Marion, “You did say Marion Marsh?”
She nodded, giving him another great smile, and he returned it. “Yep,” he said firmly into the phone, then hung up. “He’ll be right down.”
I didn’t say anything. Had Marion actually forgotten that Hugo Dahl was going to see Jan’s face? We waited, taking the few paces the little room allowed, looking at the big grainy photographic enlargements. Pretty soon I heard elevator doors open somewhere down the hall to the left of the entrance, footsteps approaching, then a tall, still thin but now paunchy man of maybe seventy wearing a dark-blue suit and turtleneck sweater walked in. He was bald, his longish hair fringe and sideburns gray, his face lined and sagging, permanently tired. But his eyes were alert and wary. “You’reMarion Marsh?”
Staring at the late-middle-aged or early-elderly man, she didn’t answer for a moment. Then, dazzlingly, she smiled, and his mouth opened in incredulous surprise. “I’m the granddaughter of the Marion Marsh you knew. But maybe you don’t remember her?”
He was smiling back at her, the lines of his face momentarily lifted, and now you could see what he’d looked like when he was younger. “Nobody ever forgot Marion Marsh. I remember her ten times better than the people I had lunch with yesterday. You’re her granddaughter?” he said incredulously, and Marion nodded, still smiling. “You don’t look like her, except for your smile; the smile is hers, exactly. How come your name’s Marsh?”
“I was named Marion after her. And I admired her so muchshe was so talentedthat I took Marsh as my stage name.” Shyly she added, “Movie name, I should say. Or at least I hope so.”
He smiled, knowingly but nicely. “And that’s why you’re here. She mentioned me, did she? Is she … still alive? Seems to me I heard”
“Oh, yes! Very much! She was badly hurt. Years ago. But she recovered. And she’s mentioned you often.” She hesitated convincingly. “Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but … I’ve always had the feeling she liked you. Something in her voice whenever she mentioned your name.”