Forever Finley

by Holly Schindler

  Norma slipped out from behind the counter, took a few large strides toward the blinking light.

  Gary’s old TV was on. She must not have flicked it off after she tried it out, curious to see if it would still turn on at all. It hadn’t worked earlier that afternoon when she’d fiddled with the dials—but then again, maybe the thing had just needed some time to warm up.

  A black and white show was playing; this scene followed an old Model T as it drove through town. The man behind the wheel was older—even in the fuzzy, imperfect footage, she could see some creases across his forehead. His full beard looked a bit overgrown. The arm he propped on the driver-side door seemed to be covered in thick, basic material—it wasn’t the sleeve of dress clothes, not a suit jacket or a button-up shirt. As the camera swiveled a bit, Norma got a glimpse at the man’s chest—which bore a patch, the kind with an employee’s name embroidered in the center. Norma couldn’t quite make out what it said. One thing was clear, though: those were work clothes. And the driver was refusing to head straight to a job site—instead, he meandered, driving up one street and down another.

  “I’ll look for a hundred Julys, if that’s what it takes,” he was muttering—but it had a rhythm to it, too, like a song or a chant, something Elaine would have once recited while she and her friends jumped rope: “A hundred Julys, a hundred Julys. Some dreams never die, never die…”

  Norma continued to watch, certain that the title of the old movie would come to her. Something about it nagged. It was familiar. Here in Finley, there seemed to be a ton of local-access channels that played old TV shows, vintage movies. She’d even caught an old silent movie the other night. So if she waited long enough, even if she didn’t come up with the title herself, they’d cut to commercial and when they returned, the title and the year of release would pop up in the lower left-hand corner of the screen.

  “A hundred Julys, a hundred Julys…” the man chanted, one last time, before the screen went black. Completely. No commercials, no title in the left-hand corner.

  Norma frowned. Oh, how she missed analog. And electronics that could be ready for use the second they were plugged into the wall. The world had gotten so flimsy. And unnecessarily complicated.

  She started toward the front of her store, ready to finally pull the long Venetians down for the night.

  And nearly tripped.

  A black electrical cord was draped across her ankle. She squatted to pull it away, chuckling at the sound of her knee popping. What was a little popping when her legs still worked just fine? Tracing the cord back to its source, though, her chuckle and accompanying smile faded completely. This cord led straight to the back of the old console TV.

  Norma trembled. Gary’s TV wasn’t plugged in.

  “It’s been adapted,” she muttered. “There’s a reasonable explanation here. It’s got a VCR or DVD inside it. It’s battery powered. Or it’s got a motion detector.” After all, she reminded herself, no old analog TV could pick up digital signals. They were useless. That was the reason her younger customers used them as fish tanks.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  The next day, that business with the TV finally gave her a reason to call Gary.

  “What do you mean, ‘converted’?” he asked. “That old thing hasn’t been used since the Carter Administration. It burned up. And we’d officially gotten to the point that you didn’t take a TV to the repairman—you just bought another. That thing was so big, though—I was always meaning to take it to some recycling place. Why would anybody convert an old thing like that?”

  There Norma went, feeling foolish all over again.

  “Say—about this car show of yours,” Gary said.

  “How do you know about the car show?”

  “About this car show,” he went on. “Do you have any spaces left?”

  “Do you have a vintage car?”

  “Do I—lady, get your blue ribbon ready.”

  Norma hung up the phone, smiling and feeling soothed. She hadn’t made a moron of herself. She hadn’t offended Gary. She would even see Gary again. An old feeling came back to her, slowly, sloshing up to the surface like a bottle with an ancient message inside. Covered with slime and a strange assortment of sea-crud, but still a hundred-percent recognizable: this was the feeling she’d once had before school, when she’d planned to walk by Charlie Johnson’s locker. It was anticipation and a twinge of should I even be thinking about this and it would be a whoosh of flattery when Charlie would smile at her, just as he was always smiling at her, and…

  But what about that TV? How had it come on all on its own?

  It didn’t, Norma reasoned. The son did something to that TV. Gary just doesn’t know it.

  As she worked the front desk, she pushed the TV out of her mind and found herself looking forward to that silly car show. What would she wear? What would she say? This called for a dinner with her best friend Jo—where they could chew on the juicy could-be-something tidbits of this Gary person. After all, he had lived in the area for quite some time—if the decades’ worth of stuff in his back garage was any indication. Jo might know a thing or two about him. They’d drink some wine. And laugh. And dream.

  “Some dreams never die,” she caught herself chanting. “Not for a hundred Julys.”

  She wasn’t the only person chanting it. Gary’s TV had just popped to life again. The same man was back on the screen, puttering down the streets of his town in his Model T. And reciting that chorus over and over.

  Norma stomped across the floor. “What in the world—” she started.

  The screen went dark. Instantly. But not before she recognized one of the buildings the man had just passed by.

  She shuddered. She hadn’t seen that building before in a movie. It wasn’t a scene like the one in A Wonderful Life when George went running down the street screaming Christmas well-wishes at Bedford Falls. She knew that building because she walked by it every single day.

  That was the Finley city hall, with its stone walls. On that TV, the setting sun had glowed on the windows in the exact same way it did when Norma walked from the Corner Diner back home at night. She was sure of it.

  She attacked the TV, swiveling it so that she could get a good look at the back. The cardboard, soft with age, was held on with screws—which looked rusted and frozen in place, the tail of the cord spilling out of a hole toward the bottom. The back of that TV looked as though it had been completely untouched since the day Gary had pointed to it on the showroom floor of an electronics store.

  Heart smacking around inside of her, Norma grabbed a screwdriver. And she removed every single screw from the back, only to find the guts every bit as vintage as the outside. No DVD player. No updates.

  No electricity, either, she reminded herself, staring at the metal prongs at the end of the cord.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Denise and Rob turned Cuppa’s “Closed” sign to face the street a good hour early, and Jo and Mark (Jo’s latest love interest) locked the bookstore up before Jo’s usual closing time, too—all in order to help Norma string up the decorations for the car show. They purchased red, white, and blue crepe paper streamers and giant plastic bows from the square’s Five and Dime, all marked “90% Off!” now that Independence Day had come and gone.

  As they tied and taped and twisted, Norma practiced her brief speech for Mark, and she nodded, half-listening to Rob when he gave her the rundown on previous shows: The regulars. The wives who would flood her antique store for something to do while their husbands further immersed themselves in car-land. The slow pace of sitting the entire day away in lawn chairs beside a car with the hood up, exposing the engine to onlookers while drinking lemonade and eating hot dogs and listening to classic rock on a radio someone inevitably brought.

  “You are showing the ’Stang, aren’t you?” he asked hopefully.

  Norma muttered something close to an agreement, her eyes still glued to city hall.

  “As long as you don’t fill slot thirteen,” Rob said.


  “Right,” Norma muttered. “Right. Slot thirteen left empty.”

  By the next morning, though, she’d forgotten all the rules. Why wouldn’t she? Gary’s TV had kept her up all night.

  It sounded unbelievable, even to Norma, but it was true: that TV had kept coming on downstairs. Norma’d heard nothing more than the “shush” of static at first. But it had been so loud, she’d hurried down from her apartment. And she’d found the entirety of her store lit up with the glow from that black and white snow on the TV screen.

  She’d raced across the floor and slammed her fist on top of the TV, demanding it turn off. It complied. And she’d hurried back upstairs.

  She’d no more than drift off again when she would be shocked back awake by the words “…a hundred Julys. Some dreams never die…”

  Each time Norma went downstairs, each time she heard static, saw the glow, listened to the chant, she grew a little more frightened. Each time, she struck the TV or kicked one of the dials, getting the TV to turn off, and hoped that it would be the last she’d hear from it. At one point, at her wits’ end, she finally just sat in front of the screen to watch the man drive his Model T. She would comply—she would find out what he was doing. Learn what dream he was talking about.

  She watched as he steered around the square. Past the very building Norma currently owned—working downstairs and living upstairs. His Model T puttered down toward the park—over the bridge that stretched across the river. No doubt about it, the star of the show filling Gary’s screen was using Finley as his backdrop; it was the setting of his tale. But who was he? Was he showing himself to Norma for a reason? What?

  What did any of it mean?

  Who could Norma ask about any of it? How could she describe what was happening without sounding like a complete nut?

  She thought about waking Jo. But that would also mean leaving the store—or turning away from the TV to grab her phone. And in either one of those scenarios, she’d have to take her eyes off of whatever it was that was playing out on the screen.

  The man on her TV drove on and off throughout the rest of the night. The footage disappeared with the moon.

  Norma shook as she finally went back upstairs. No time to even think about getting back in bed. The day of the car show had arrived. She dressed in the outfit she’d chosen two weeks before: a bright blue blouse and denim capris. Red and blue plaid sneakers. But her thoughts were tumbling. What was it that Justin and Annie had been after—ghost stories? Was she living in a haunted house-slash-store? Did she even believe in haunted houses? Hadn’t she thought that was juvenile?

  Some dreams never die, not for a hundred Julys.

  She needed to eat, but she was too nervous. She wanted to see Gary, but not like this. She wasn’t herself.

  Rob had warned her that the entrants would show up early. “They start the race the night before!” he’d exclaimed while they’d decorated. “Most of those guys don’t have A/C, you know. So they start when it’s cool…”

  Yes, she’d expected early—but this was ridiculous. The first showed up just as the sun finished staining the sky orange. Pulling up to the front of Norma’s Relics and honking. The driver introduced himself to Norma in a too-loud voice, obviously annoyed (or perhaps just disappointed) that his fame had not preceded him, and she didn’t recognize him. Of course! It’s Freddy with the Camaro! I’ve heard all about you. The next couple who trickled in were just anxious to get their spot.

  By mid-morning, the entrants were arriving in regular droves. She smiled as she handed out numbers, which corresponded to parking spaces in front of Relics. The entire square filled quickly with cars—it was almost like a landslide, a sea of metal burying the sides of the square. Her Mustang remained proudly displayed in front of her own shop. Just for looks. There was no way Norma was going to let anyone pass judgment on Jim’s car—not Rob or anyone else.

  Norma was still in the midst of her first walk-around (with Rob leading the way, pointing out combobulators and what’s-its and letting her know exactly what she should praise each owner for) when a “Norma!” pounded its way into her ears. A voice that needed no introduction whatsoever, that made her instantly happy. She had the strange desire to turn it up, like her favorite singer had just come on the radio.

  Shading her eyes with a hand, she found him behind the wheel of the last vehicle to arrive: Gary.

  “What do you think?” he asked proudly, making a Vanna White motion with his arms.

  Norma took a step back to get a decent look at his car. “I think it looks like a 1994 Civic.”

  “That it is.”

  “At a classic car show?”

  “Listen, gal, ’94 is yesterday to you and me, but to the rest of the world, it’s dinosaur times.”

  Norma laughed, handing the last of her numbers through his window.

  “It’s an excuse,” Jo whispered. She’d obviously overheard the conversation from her spot on the sidewalk, where she’d just been handing out bookmarks bearing her store’s logo. “An excuse to come see you.”

  Norma nodded as Gary waved, giving her a thumbs up as he pulled into what appeared to be the show’s prime spot—about as close to the center of the town square as he could get. Norma needed to redirect her thoughts—away from the way her heart had begun to pound with joy at seeing Gary—and back to preliminary judging. In the background, one of the vintage entries had started its engine. It puttered like the car on Gary’s TV. Was she supposed to look at running engines? She knew nothing about distributors and fuel pumps.

  Someone was yelling at her.

  “Norma!” It was Rob. He looked angry. Why was he angry?

  “I told you. Not number thirteen.”

  Norma’s head spun. She glanced in the direction he was pointing, at the Civic. She hadn’t realized she’d given Gary the off-limits number thirteen. “I didn’t have any left,” she justified. “What’s the big deal, anyway?”

  “It’s Amos’s. It’s always been his.”

  “Amos who?”

  “Hargrove. Founder of Finley.”

  Norma paused. “A—Amos?”

  “Oh, it’s just a silly notion,” Jo murmured, still at Norma’s side. “There’s a story that he shows up during the car show. In his Model T. That he drives around looking for her. For Finley.”

  Norma shivered in the July humidity. A Model T? Was that the man she had seen? Had he spent the night on Gary’s TV?

  “Amos was sure when Finley died so young that they would see each other again,” Jo went on. “They’d be together. You know, sometimes, the power of our youthful romances fades over time. But that one…as Amos grew into an old man, he was still in love with her. As much as he ever was. He was certain that when his life was over, he’d find his beloved, and she would be exactly the same as before. They’d be reunited.”

  “No, no,” Norma muttered. That wasn’t what he meant at all. She felt sure of it. He wasn’t looking for Finley in heaven, but here on earth. Actually—here in town.

  She tried to say something to Jo, but the growling engines all around her were chewing up her words. “Earthly—” she shouted, and Jo nodded.

  “Yes,” Jo said, breathing a relieved agreement. “There’s absolutely an earthly explanation for every single silly Amos so-called sighting.”

  Norma glanced across the square. That wasn’t what she’d meant. Jo didn’t understand. For the first time since her arrival in Finley, Norma wanted to cross that fifty-line, go talk to people who were ridiculously younger than she was. Where were Annie and Justin? She needed them, those two silly little kids. There’d been Finley sightings? There had been an Amos sighting, too. In her store.

  But why the TV? Amos surely died long before TV came into being. And if he was still looking for Finley, why wouldn’t he try to contact her using one of the candlestick phones on Norma’s shelves? Or make himself visible in an oil-powered lamp? Maybe use the ancient megaphone Norma had recently placed in the front window displ
ay. Why a TV?

  Why was he looking for Finley at all? Why hadn’t they met up the moment Amos had died? They’d both passed, those Civil War-era sweethearts. So why were they both sitting in the bleachers just outside the pearly gates? Did they not know the other had shown up? Why wait through eternity for someone who was already there?

  Because, Norma reminded herself, they weren’t in the bleachers at all. They were both here, in Finley. But why hadn’t they found each other yet? In all this time? Why was Amos still driving through the streets looking for her?

  Did Annie know where Finley was? Had she seen her? She’d implied that she had—hadn’t she?

  Norma got the urge to dig again—just as she did before an antique buying trip. Only, she wanted to dig even deeper than the items in her store. She wanted to get into the guts of everything—wanted to expose the inner workings of this Amos business. Wished getting to the heart of it was as easy as popping the hood, exposing all the hoses and cylinders and pistons inside. Watching the gears turn. The machine at work.

  “In truth, we’re all Amos,” Jo shouted into Norma’s ear. “That’s the thing, right? Leaving space for him here—it’s like reminding us all that we should leave a space inside ourselves for him. Or—for kindness. For hope. For dreaming. And more—for endurance. For hanging on, through it all. I mean, that’s kind of like that crazy-long car race that leads up to the show, right? Keep going, even when it looks impossible. That makes finally crossing the finish line even sweeter.”

  But that was wrong, all wrong. Jo, the bookstore owner, the big reader—she had misinterpreted it all. Sometimes, the things that happened weren’t a metaphor—they were literal. Amos was literally on Norma’s TV. That much was undeniable.

  The puttering sound intensified. Gary was in the wrong space—Amos’s space. She shouldn’t have given it to him, not if Amos had been seen in that spot. There had to be a reason Amos had shown himself to her. Was he telling her he’d need his parking space?

  She was tired. She hadn’t had any sleep. She wasn’t making any sense. It was already too hot. Sunlight on the chrome bumpers was too glaring.