The Jack Finney Reader

by Jack Finney

  But there were no decisions to make. Reaching the head of the steadily moving line, I took a compartmented tray from a stack, duplicating the actions of the men before me, stepped to the long serving counter, and a bundle of paper-napkin-wrapped silverware was slapped onto my tray by a white-sleeved arm, and an instant later four slices of bread.

  The men behind the counter never once glanced at me, their arms and bodies moving in endless repetition of their individual rhythms. Two slices of meat loaf appeared on my tray, and were instantly covered by a ladleful of brown gravy. Then creamed boiled potatoes, green beans, a dish of rice pudding, a mug of coffee; with each step I took the tray grew heavier. At the end of the counters, I turned away, into a wide aisle, following the blue shirt ahead of me.

  There was no choice about where to sit. The vast room was filled with rows of square wooden-topped tables, each with four attached stool-like seats. The rows of tables were filled one at a time, the prisoners' movements wordlessly supervised by guards in the main aisles.

  When the man ahead of me turned and sat down at a table already occupied by one man, I followed, and an instant later, the fourth seat was taken by the man behind me. Did you say Hello, or Good evening? What was dinner etiquette at San Quentin Prison? The man opposite me, unrolling his silverware, lifted his chin in a brief gesture of greeting as his eye caught mine, and I responded in the same way. The other two simply stared at nothing, chewing.

  I was eating, and enjoying it. The food smelled good, it was simple, clean, and well-prepared, and like the others around me, I ate methodically and rapidly, enjoying it ravenously, and I finished everything on my tray including the four slices of bread. Then I began sipping my coffee, feeling suddenly good, knowing I was in a temporary oasis of safety, and wondering when the time would come — years from now, probably — when I could tell people of the incredible thing I had done. This was actually a pleasant room — there were murals on the walls, I noticed now, in burnt umber against a green background, and the place was immaculately clean. I took another sip of coffee, and out of the habit of years my thumb and forefinger dipped into my shirt pocket, found the end of a cigarette in the open package there, and withdrew it. I sat staring at the murals — I saw Albert Einstein's sad, intelligent face — and my hands opened a match pack, struck a match, and lighted the cigarette in my mouth. Luxuriously, and almost contentedly, I exhaled a jet of smoke, and a hand smacked down on my shoulder, and I swung around to stare up at the angry face of a man.

  "What the hell's the matter with you!" said the guard, glaring, impatient for an answer before I could possibly give it, and I was frantic, astounded; then suddenly I understood. The air above the heads of these hundreds of men would have been heavy with smoke if smoking had been allowed; instead it was clear. I was the only man in this whole vast room with a lighted cigarette in his hand, and I hastily ducked it in my coffee, and heard the hiss as it was extinguished. "Boo!" I heard from the other side of the room, "Boo!" and saw the guard's jaw muscles tighten. "Sorry," I managed to say, feeling my neck and ears redden, and the guard cut me off. "What's your name?"

  "Jarvis."

  "Boo!" the scattered yells came from every part of the great room, and the guard said, "Let's see your I.D. card," and I pulled it from my shirt pocket, and handed it to him. That was Arnie's picture, not mine, on the little plastic-sealed card, but there was a brotherly resemblance, and the guard only glanced at it, then handed it back. "You're not a fish," he said, and I understood that the date of Arnie's admission to the prison must be on the card. "What's wrong with you?"

  "Boo! BOO!" the inmates shouted, and from a corner of my eye now, I saw another guard standing near this one, just beside and behind me. "Just dreaming," I mumbled. "I forgot."

  For a moment longer the man stared down at me; then he turned away. "Quiet down," he called out, keeping his voice relaxed, but I detected his tenseness and understood that a handful of guards among hundreds of prisoners were men in a powder keg, and that I had struck a spark. Not able even to look up at the other three men at my table, I sat wondering when and where I'd be called up for punishment. The moment I was — the moment I was taken out of the blue-clothed anonymous mass around me — my bluff would collapse. I sat staring at the soggy length of cigarette in my coffee cup; it wasn't easy to understand that a single puff on a cigarette might send me to prison for years, but I knew it was true.

  The men were standing at some signal I hadn't seen or heard, each picking up his silverware, and I gathered up mine, and stood, too. The guard I'd noticed from the corner of my eye, standing just beside and behind me, was still there, and when I turned to look at him, it was Nova, the San Quentin guard who lived next door to me in Mill Valley.

  "Hello, Jarvis," he said softly, and smiled, the same, nasty, mean smile, slowly nodding his head in a pleased malicious satisfaction. I didn't even bother trying to answer; I just stood waiting, lost in apathy. Nova jerked his head toward the main aisle. "Get moving," he said, and I walked toward it, Nova right behind me. At the door I had come in stood a big metal bucket, and as the inmates ahead of me passed it, they dropped their silverware into it, and automatically I did the same.

  In the cell block I turned to look at Nova, and again with a jerk of his head he indicated that I was to walk on, and I turned onto the first stairway. Nova right behind me. I didn't know what he meant to do, but it didn't matter; I knew it wasn't good, and climbing those stairs, I realized what I would do. A part of my brain was able to stand off and consider in absolute horror and astonishment what the rest of my mind had decided to do, but I knew I would do it. I was simply not going to be confined for years in San Quentin Prison; I couldn't take it, and whatever the consequences I was going to do what I had to do to prevent it. Maybe any man can kill if circumstances demand it; certainly millions come to it in every war. But to know you're going to — to cross the line you've never crossed before, and know you are capable of killing a man — must always be an unbelievable moment.

  There was no alternative; Nova dead was the only possible hope for me now, and with a terrible clarity of mind I saw how I was going to do it. There were very few men in the cell block now. After supper, I knew, most of them were off to classes, the athletic fields, movies, band practice; the guards were lounging around their hut on the cell block floor. Climbing the stairs to the third tier now. and leaning over the stair railway looking up, I saw only three or four men on it, walking toward their cells.

  When I reached the third tier, I'd walk along toward my cell and once the walkway was clear, the cells directly behind me empty, I'd stop, lean on the railing on my forearms, hands clasped, staring down at the cell block floor three stories below. It was the kind of posture that invites duplication; whatever Nova had in mind, he could hardly talk to me without leaning on the railing beside me. I'd listen, watching the runway from the corners of my eyes, making certain it remained clear of witnesses. Then I'd pull out my handkerchief, drop it, stoop to pick it up, and instead, crouched there on the walkway, I'd grab Nova tight around the legs like a tackling football player, and lift him right over the railing. He'd be leaning half over the rail to begin with, I'd lift him over, and he couldn't hang on — not upside down — and a fall of three stories onto the concrete floor far below would kill him. The instant he dropped, I'd simply turn into the empty cell behind me, and when he hit, I'd come rushing out with the others on the tier to see what had happened. Then I'd return to my own cell. In the two or three seconds it took me to heave Nova over the railing, I could be seen by anyone rounding a corner of this walkway, or stepping out of a cell anywhere down the line, but … I was simply not going to he an inmate here. I would rather be dead.

  On the third tier, two men far ahead strolled along the walkway as I did, Nova just behind me. Then they turned into a cell, and I stopped, leaned on the railing, and when Nova stopped beside me, I looked tip and said, "Well? What's it's all about?"

  He answered something or other and I pull
ed out my handkerchief, my heart throbbing full strength. I let it slip from my fingers, stooped to pick it up, and in that instant, my mind repeated the words Nova had spoken just a moment before.

  "I know your brother," he had said, while I nodded unhearingly, but now suddenly, my fingers reaching for the handkerchief, they took on meaning. What did he mean? He didn't know Arnie; he'd said so last night. Has he looked Arnie up since, or … And then in the split second before my arms could move to lock around Nova's legs, I understood, and squatting there on the runway, I simply stared up at his face instead. Then I snatched my handkerchief as Nova stared down at me, and stood up.

  Nova thought I was Arnie! He thought he was talking to my brother! I couldn't believe it. He had seen my face last night; how could he fail to recognize …? But then I understood. Sitting there in the San Quentin mess hall, in the standard dress of the prison I couldn't be anyone but Arnold Jarvis, the man he already knew was an inmate here. Naturally Arnold Jarvis would resemble his brother! But still, I thought doubtfully, resemble him exactly? Then I remembered that Nova had seen me, after all, only momentarily, and in semi-darkness. Here in the prison, in prison clothes, I could only be the brother he knew was confined here.

  "— snooty sort of bastard," Nova was saying, smiling at me nastily, "thinks he's above people. Wouldn't ask me in; kept me standin' there at his door. So I just thought I'd see if I was good enough to talk to his San Quentin brother."

  I managed a smile, and stood erect, too, facing him. "Any time." I said.

  "Well, that's just fine," he answered sarcastically. "Glad to know I made the grade with one branch of the family. Even if it's only the San Quentin branch."

  I shrugged, as though I couldn't explain it either.

  "Well"— he paused, stared at me thoughtfully for a moment, then continued —"see you around, Jarvis. And keep your nose clean. Wouldn't want to bring back any bad news to your brother, would I? Or that hot-lookin' sister-in-law of yours."

  I shrugged again, smiling. "Hope not."

  "You better hope." He turned abruptly, and walked back toward the stairway.

  I made it to the cell, dropped on the bunk. and closed my eyes; Arnie's cellmate wasn't there. Then, face on the pillow, arms around my head, I let it flood over me. I had nearly murdered a man; had nearly lost my freedom, and probably my life, out of panic — all started by a puff on a cigarette. I was walking a tightrope through the most dangerous moments of my life.

  I got through the time that followed just lying on my bunk, like a child finding some kind of false security in his bed. I found earphones on the bunk, and put them on, and heard Frank Sinatra singing "Birth of the Blues." Dozed, was awakened by a gong, and a moment later, from the tier above, heard a guitar being tuned, then from somewhere in the block, a trumpeter warming up. Another stringed instrument began to plink, and I heard a mouth organ. It was the music hour. I remembered — Arnie had described it in a letter once.

  A string of men passed my cell door, some naked except for shoes, some wearing shorts, each with a towel. This was bath night for a section of the block; once a week, Arnie had said, each man in the block had five minutes under one of the open showers down on the main floor, and clean clothes.

  I got undressed presently, and crawled under the blankets before Arnie's cellmate arrived; I wasn't up to talking to him. Hours later I was awakened by a sound, and the cell was dark, the only light a weak illumination from the ceiling lights of the block far overhead. I heard the sound again, and recognized it, astounded; a cat had meowed. I turned to the cell door, and there, incredibly, it was; a big tortoise-shell cat, in the dim light of the walkway, sitting on its haunches staring in at the cell.

  "Psst!" The sound came from the bunk just above me. Then I saw bare legs swing into view, Arnie's cellmate sliding down from his bunk. Dropping to the floor, and squatting at the door, he extended a hand, and the cat's neck stretched forward, nose working. Then its hind legs rose, and it jumped neatly through the bars into the cell, teeth opening daintily to accept the fragment of food in the man's hand. Watching, I saw Arnie's cellmate smile — his wooden face breaking into a gentle smile of pleasure — and he reached up to his bunk for another scrap of whatever he had carried in from the mess hall. Again he fed the cat, squatting before it, scratching its skull behind the ears. For a moment or so the cat accepted this, moving its head pleasurably; then it stepped forward out from under the man's caressing, and its pink mouth opened in a meow for more food. Again the man stroked the cat, but the animal, knowing that there was no more to eat here, turned and hopped out between the bars, and trotted down the walkway. I heard it again, several cells away, meowing at another barred door, and Arnie's cellmate put his palms on the upper bunk, heaved with his arms, and drew himself up out of sight. Then I heard him sigh, as he settled down above me. Presently I was asleep.

  Standing inside the pile of stacked crates next to the furniture factory, a cigarette cupped in my palm, I stood in the darkness waiting, wondering how Ben was getting along. It was just before midnight, and I could picture San Quentin right now; the great Yard lighted by electric bulbs, silent and empty; the classrooms, offices, most of the other buildings, and the athletic fields all deserted; the four main blocks and the old Spanish block, dimly lit, and quiet. Inside the lighted Yard office, just before the Yard gates, two or three screws would be sitting around doing nothing — the best thing they do. The control room, always awake, would be lighted, an inmate clerk at his typewriter; maybe the lieutenant of this watch would be shooting the bull with his sergeant. The third watch was nearly over, and they'd be hoping, as always, that nothing out of the ordinary would happen during the rest of the watch to prevent their going home; I hoped so, too. The next few hours were the quiet time at Quentin, all activities ended, the men all in, locked up, or accounted for, the next count more than two hours off. Up in the towers, the wall bulls would be staring out over the prison, or smoking, or occasionally walking outside, rifles under their arms, to patrol the walls.

  But not here. The industrial area all around me was silent, the south-wall gate locked ever since the four-thirty count came all-clear. The shops and factories were emptied of men, except for a single fire-guard in each, dozing, reading a magazine, or listening to some disk jockey. So there was no need to guard this area, and now the industrial-area walls were unmanned. Twenty-five minutes ago the big third-watch sergeant had patrolled the area, flashlight bobbing as he walked. I didn't think anyone would be back here again tonight.

  Now, the first watch should be on; it was time to move, and I stepped out from the crates. In my hand as I walked along beside the crates was the yard-long miniature spade, the Army trenching tool Ben had brought in his pack.

  I began digging in the narrow rectangle of bare ground between the end of the furniture factory and the great wall which paralleled it a dozen feet to the north, the wall Ben had climbed over. I worked in the corner formed by the north and east walls of the area, directly below the underside of the floor of the corner wall tower. The tower was wider by some feet than the narrow wall it sat on, and projected out over me by a yard or more. The little corner I worked in was well lighted by wall lights; anyone coming around a corner of the factory could see me, and I could only hope no one would. I didn't think anyone would; there was no reason to.

  I dug steadily, fast, and quietly, and the spade, new and sharp, bit easily into the brown, clayey soil. Still, it took over three hours; I had to carry each spadeful away from the trench I was digging, and scatter it wide. But I never stopped, and my hands, calloused from the wood and tools I worked with each day in the factory, accepted the work easily. By three o'clock in the morning I had dug a neat rectangle over six feet long, nearly a yard wide, and maybe a yard deep. The last few inches of earth I stacked along the back edge of the trench. Now I walked along the east side of the factory to a small side door I'd unlocked myself just before work ended that afternoon. Then, holding the door open a few inches, I wa
tched and listened. But the inmate fire guard was clear up front in the office; I could see the back of his head over the top of an upholstered office chair. Beside the door, just inside the building, I silently lifted a sheet of three-quarter-inch, yard-wide plywood I'd placed there this afternoon, and set it outside the door. Then I returned for a two-and-a-half-foot length of the same wood I'd sawed off, working quite openly, this morning. Near the upper end of this shorter length, I'd bored a half-dollar-sized hole.

  Setting the door latch on locking position this time, I closed it behind me, then carried my two boards to the trench. There, the two boards butted together end to end, I forced them into the slightly smaller dimensions of the trench, walking around their edges, jouncing my weight on them. When they covered the trench, forced below ground level for a few inches, I took from my pocket the length of pipe Ben had brought in his pack, and looked at it. He'd done a good job; fastened over one end of the pipe, and held on with tightly wrapped wire, was a circle of fine screening painted a dull brown. I forced the other end of the pipe into the half-dollar-sized hole I'd bored in the short length of plywood, and left it there. Then I pulled the dirt stacked along the back edge of the trench onto the boards with my shovel, heaping it up a little. I trampled the dirt flat, level with and matching the ground around it—also packed hard by the feet that trampled it every day. Now I forced the rest of the pipe length down into its hole till the circlet of screening seemed to lie on the ground. Crumbling a little clot of earth with my fingers I let it sift down onto the screening until it was covered, and now there was absolutely no visible hint of the six foot by three, yard-deep space that I'd made under the ground.

  Kneeling at one end of it, I forced my fingers down into the earth, found the board edge, and lifted. It was heavy under its layer of earth, but I lifted the front edge some inches, watching the dirt on its top. A few loose nuggets of earth rolled off, but most of it, tramped solid, stayed; and when I dropped the board it fell into place again, and again the earth over my trench seemed undisturbed. I walked back to my crates, got my canvas bundle, returned to the trench, and again lifted the shorter of the two boards buried under their layers of dirt, this time wedging it open with the little spade. I shoved the bundle far into the trench, and to one side of it; then, holding the board open, I kicked the shovel in after it, and let the board drop into place once again. Dusting my hands, I stood staring down at the barren ground before me; it looked just as it had before I'd begun digging, and I glanced at my watch. It was three-forty-six in the morning, and I walked back to the stack of crates, crawled into mine, and lay down, quite certain I could sleep.