The Jack Finney Reader

by Jack Finney

  I smiled. "Propinquity getting in its licks." I said. "I hope Arnie realizes what he's putting me through."

  "I imagine he's thought of it," Ruth said soberly.

  At eleven-twenty that night, the revolver I had bought in Reno was duplicated in pine, right down to the grooves and screw heads on the grip. Then I sealed the wood with wood filler, applied dark-blue liquid shoe polish to all the simulated metal parts, burnishing them with a soft rag; and now, gleaming softly when I turned the gun in my hands, they looked like blued gun metal. When the handle had been stained brown by the wood filler, Ruth couldn't tell which gun was which from even a few feet away.

  We got in the car and drove toward San Francisco, and on Golden Gate Bridge, in the middle of the span, no cars visible behind us. Ruth picked up the gun I'd bought in Reno. She held her arm outside the car for a moment. Then her arm moved outward in a sudden arc, and for an instant we saw the revolver turning in the air, glinting in the yellow lighting of the bridge, and then, curving over the rail, it was gone, to fall into the deepest, most turbulent part of the Bay, over two hundred feet below. On the way home. we heard a late news broadcast; the missing San Quentin inmate had not yet been found.

  All through the night, the ground under the canvas I lay on was hard and cold. I slept badly, waking often, and sometimes I heard the voices of the guards searching the prison for me; once I heard steps pass directly by my head. In the morning — I could see a little circle of blue sky through my pipe — I took a waxed-paper package and a carton of water from the things that had been in the canvas bundle. Then I brought out an empty tight-lidded coffee can. "No plumbing in here," I thought to myself, "but this is the next best thing."

  Presently, the sun warming the ground I lay in, I slept soundly. I'd learned that I need not lie breathing with my mouth at the pipe. Small though the pipe opening was, so was the space I lay in, and since my body movements and oxygen consumption were at a minimum, I got enough air. At times I felt stifled, as if the quality of the air were bad; but a few minutes of breathing the outside air directly, my mouth at the pipe, would overcome that. Drifting asleep now, I had a feeling of certainty that it would not occur to the prowling guards to look for me in the ground under their feet.

  I was nearly ready to give up by early afternoon, to heave open the lid above me, and come crawling and stumbling out no matter what the consequences — I had never been in or imagined such heat in my life before. Lying there with the rigid, inescapable heat of the sun pounding down on the earth just above me, I was gasping for each breath of air, and I lay most of the time with my mouth at the pipe, all my clothes off long since, feeling the sweat trickle steadily from my body, soaking the canvas underneath me.

  By midafternoon I was no longer entirely sane. Once, years ago, I'd worked at a desk for two hours in a room where the recorded temperature was a hundred and nineteen degrees. I knew vaguely that the motionless cocoon of air I lay in now was much hotter; and I lay in simple agony, mouth at the pipe, chest heaving, my heart laboring to stay alive. The deadly oppressiveness of the awful heat was an actual physical pressure I could feel on every fractional inch of my naked skin, clogging and blocking my pores, and I drifted often into unconsciousness. drifting out of it more and more sluggish each time, half-delirious and not wanting to awaken. But a little core of resistance and will to live inside me somewhere understood that my weakened dehydrated body would die in the carbon dioxide of its own making, if I simply lay here as I wanted to in motionless suffering. And I made myself rouse, over and again, to suck in the life-giving air from outside.

  I was buried alive, I could no longer endure it, and nothing else mattered; I had to burst out of here. Yet I waited, postponing it second after second, the fight not entirely gone from me. Men have been chained in steel boxes under the sun all day long, but no one, I believed, had ever endured this, and I felt a sleepy pride at the thought, and again postponed a little longer the simple act that would end this agony.

  I got through the afternoon that way, by minutes and seconds at a time, enduring on the endless promises I made to myself — and endlessly broke — of relief after only a little bit longer. After an incalculable time, only barely conscious, my mouth muscles slack and without strength at the pipe, I became aware of a minute decrease in the terrible temperature. A little more time passed, and now there was a definite slackening off of the heat; then steadily and perceptibly, minute by minute, the heat drained out of the air around me, and the air I was pulling into my lungs from outside was suddenly actually cool, wonderfully refreshing, and I came into full consciousness again, limp, terribly weak, but exultant.

  A long time later, using my handkerchief, and water from a carton, I forced myself to take a kind of bath, sponging the drying sweat from every surface of my body. Then I ate; forcing myself at first, then suddenly ravenous. I drank steadily, sipping the tepid water from the cartons, chewing down salt from a little cardboard shaker Ben had brought in. Presently, well after I had heard the men leaving the industrial area at four, it was cool enough to work myself quietly into my clothes again. I heard the guard in the wall tower above me call to another down the wall, cursing because they had to man the walls again tonight, and I grinned; I had made it.

  Ruth and I rented a small furnished apartment in the city, on Sutter Street, Saturday morning, or rather Ruth did while I waited in the car; I hadn't shaved since the previous morning. She told the landlady it was for her brother who was moving up from Los Angeles, paid a deposit, got the key, and came down, and gave it to me.

  We had lunch in a drive-in, then went to a movie on Market Street. We saw half the picture, maybe, and then I couldn't stand it, and neither could Ruth; our nerves were jumpy, we couldn't watch it, and we got up and left. I headed back for Marin then, and we went to Muir Woods, and walked along by the little stream that runs through it under the giant redwoods, and that was a little better. It was cool and peaceful, and we stayed for a couple of hours, just wandering around. But still, a large part of the time, we walked holding each other's hand, clinging to each other for comfort against what lay ahead.

  Somehow we got through the evening. We talked; I don't know about what. We watched some television, or at least stared at the set. But apprehension lay in the air around us, and once when I made some inconsequential remark Ruth burst into tears. I walked over toward the davenport where she was sitting, and she stood up, and stepped toward me, and I took her in my arms to comfort her. "Don't worry," I said. "I mean it, I really do. It's almost over; it will be in a few hours," and I felt her relax a little, and she stopped crying. "Take it easy, and don't worry," I said. "Arnie's going to be all right"— and then she burst into tears all over again.

  We got through the evening till a little after ten, I guess. Then I changed into my blue denims and work shirt, and took the wooden gun from the dresser drawer, glancing into the mirror at the black stubble on my face. In the garage, I smeared some black car oil from the floor on my pants and shirt, and rubbed dust into the stains. Then with Ruth at the wheel, me sitting on the floor beside her, we drove out, heading for 101, and on the highway turned north once again toward the prison.

  But at the county road leading to San Quentin we turned west this time, away from the prison, and onto the Greenbrae road. A few hundred yards west of the highway, Ruth pulled off onto the wide shoulder, U-turned, and parked on the other side facing the highway again. When she turned to me, her face was angry. "You look terrible," she said.

  "No, I don't," I said, smiling at her, rubbing the bristles on my face. "I'm the Schweppes man; I look distinguished."

  But she wouldn't smile. "And now I can start waiting and worrying about you again," she said. I started to say something, smiling again, but she burst out at me. "I hate it!" she said. "I hate sitting alone wondering what's happening to you. Damn Arnie!" Then she put a hand to her forehead, and shaking her head slowly as though to clear it, she said, "Oh, I don't mean that, I didn't mean it."

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nbsp; I put a hand on her arm. "Nothing's going to happen."

  "Of course not!" she said angrily. "Before you might have ended up in prison; tonight you may only get shot."

  "I've got to go, Ruth."

  "All right," she said, and leaning across me, opened my door. "Go ahead!"

  There were no cars coming from either direction, and I got out, closed the door, and watched the car move on toward the highway ahead, stop at the intersection, and wait for the traffic light to change. Then it swung onto the highway, heading south. The lights of a car were approaching from far behind me, and I lay down in the dry drainage ditch beside the road, until it passed. Then I got up, and walked down the dark road. Twenty yards from the busy highway, I lay down in the drainage ditch again, pulled an envelope from my back pocket, and tore it open. From it I shook out a dozen scraps of torn paper coated with clear plastic onto the ground.

  Over a dozen cars passed before one driven by a man alone and with its right-hand front window down stopped at the highway for the light, no car behind it. Then I got up, and walked toward it, keeping the rear corner of the car between me and the driver; passing the back end of the car, I saw the driver's face turned away from me, staring to the north watching the traffic signal. Pulling the wooden pistol from my pocket with one hand, I stepped to the right-hand door, pulled up the little plastic-capped door-locking device, and yanked open the door as the man's head swung toward me. My revolver pointing at his face, I got in beside him, pulling the door closed behind me without turning away from him. "Don't act crazy, and you won't get shot," I said quietly. I waited a moment, while he stared at me, eyes wide with astonishment. "Understand?" I said pleasantly. "Just don't get panicky; I don't want to have to shoot you."

  He nodded, swallowing; he was a man of perhaps fifty, stout but not fat. He had on a dark brown suit and hat. "Don't worry," he said then. "I got a family. I'm not trying anything."

  I told him what to do, and when the light changed he did it. He headed south on the highway and drove for two miles to a point where the road passed between two high embankments, slicing through a hill. There was a wide place here where bulldozers had removed a lot of earth fill, and I had him swing well off the road there, turn off his lights, and set the hand brake, leaving the motor on. I made him get out, then walk as far off the road as he could get, his back against the high dirt embankment, well away from the car. While he walked, I rubbed the gun hard, both sides of it, on my shirt, wiping off any fingerprints. Then, holding it between two knuckles, I leaned out the right-hand window. "Here," I called to him, as he turned to face me, and I switched on the car lights. "Here's a souvenir," and I tossed the gun out toward the man's feet. "Go ahead," I said, "pick it up. I'll trade you; the gun for the car," and I burst into laughter, glanced into the rear-view mirror, then released the clutch, gunning the car, gravel spurting under the wheels. He was a 2.2 mile walk from the nearest telephone; I'd clocked it on the way back from Muir Woods.

  I had my window open, and I had my change ready as I approached the toll gate on Golden Gate Bridge six minutes later; then I was moving past it on toward the cutoff just ahead that led to the old San Francisco Exposition building whose domed roof I could see ahead.

  Driving into the little tree-sheltered street that curves around the empty old building, I saw just the one car there, and I stopped mine right behind it. With my handkerchief I wiped every surface I'd touched, then got out, walked ahead to my own car, and got in the driver's seat beside Ruth. The motor was running, and I started right up, heading out of the deserted little street, and I glanced at Ruth, smiling. "Everything's fine," I said.

  She nodded, drew a sudden deep involuntary breath, then exhaled in a long sigh. She smiled, and said, "I want to hear about it; right away. Stop somewhere, Ben."

  I drove to the Marina, a couple blocks away, and stopped at the edge of the Bay along with other cars in the parking space there. We stayed an hour, perhaps; talking and watching the Bay and the beautiful yellow-lighted expanse of the Bridge. I was tired, it was nice sitting there, and I enjoyed it.

  Ruth drove back with me on the floor in the rear as we passed the toll gate. In the garage, the big metal door closed, I opened the kitchen door, waited for Ruth to step past me, then followed her into the house. Entering the lighted living room, she stopped so suddenly I bumped into her; then I, too, saw Nova, sitting in the big easy chair near the window. "Evenin'," he said. "I been waitin' for you."

  We just stood there, stunned and motionless, and Nova said, "All alike, these houses," nodding at the back door. "All got one more door'n you can ever remember to lock. So I come in, even though I ain't been invited. Got some news for you."

  I walked on, then, toward the davenport, dead furious and terribly frightened at this malicious fat man who'd walked into my house. "Yeah?" I said.

  "I was s'posed to be on tonight," he said, "out to the prison. Extra man on the first watch. Lot of extra duty lately, you know"— he grinned as though this were funny. "Most hideouts don't last long, though," he said complacently, "so I phoned the prison maybe ten minutes ago, just before time to leave. And sure enough, the sergeant says, 'We don't need you; Jarvis made it out tonight.' "

  I nodded slowly. "How?"

  Nova threw back his head, laughing silently. "How?" he said. "You don't know how? Well, I'll tell you somethin'. They don't either, out to the prison." He sat forward in his chair, glancing from one to the other of us, grinning. "Seems some guy got his car clouted tonight. At the Greenbrae intersection; just where you'd expect a con might come out on the highway from the prison. And when he tells the state cops how — guy took it with a wooden pistol; young guy in blue denims all dirtied up, needs a shave — the cops take the man right to the prison. And he picks out your brother's photograph from a batch of them. That's him all right, the guy says: I can tell from the eyes and the hair. Put a two, three day black beard on the picture, and that's the man."

  Nova shook his head. "Warden's a slow man to give up a search, though. Anybody can clout a car wearin' blue denims and needin' a shave"— he stared at my clothes and face, then winked. "And the guy coulda made a mistake about the picture, though the wood pistol looks suspicious, like maybe a con carved it out. But the Warden kept the red light on just the same. Only now they had a state cop, radio-car man, pokin' around where this car was clouted, and this cop brings in your brother's ID card, all tore up. The pieces fit together like a jig-saw, and it didn't fly over the walls by itself. So looks like your brother made it out; they don't know how, but he sure as hell must have. Green light's on again now, and I can go home and get some sleep."

  "That's good," I said.

  "Yeah," said Nova, "only I wouldn't be able to sleep." He leaned toward me. "I lie in bed and worry, Mr. Jarvis."

  I knew he wanted me to say it, so I did. "About what?"

  "Money. Money, Mr. Jarvis. They'll retire me soon, and I ain't saved much. If I had few thousand dollars — I could go home and sleep, 'steada worryin' about some escaped con. I tell you I met your brother the other day?" I didn't bother answering, and he said, "Yep; looked just like you. Exactly like you, now I see you in a good light. Especially wearin' those clothes you got on." He slapped his knee, as though at a sudden hilarious notion. "Say!" he said. "If you was to've clouted some guy's car tonight in that get-up — 'stead of your brother, I mean — wouldn't that've been funny! They'd figure it was your brother, figure he was out. And all the time he'd still be in the prison somewhere! And where would that be?" he said thoughtfully. Then he shrugged. "Only one place I'd want to be. Green light goes on, they come down off the walls in the industrial area; that's where I'd want to be. Place quiets down for the night, over you go, and nothin' to stop you." He smiled. "Almost makes a man wish it did happen that way. Go out there, wait by the wall, and when he comes over, grab him. Chance for promotion and more money." Again he laughed silently, shaking his head in amusement. "Just shows you the notions a man can get, sittin' around thinkin' and wor
ryin' about money, instead of just goin' home and sleepin'."

  "I haven't any money, Mr. Nova," I said quietly. "Couple hundred dollars."

  "Well," he said, and put his hands on his knees, "money isn't everything."

  "All right, Nova," I said. "What is?"

  "Friendship," he said softly. "You know, I had the idea you folks was settin' yourself above people. Had to force myself in here"— he smiled as though he'd made a joke — " 'fore I even got to sit down in your livin' room. 'Spect I was wrong about you, though. Hope so, anyway, 'cause I'm a friendly man. Nothin' I like better than people droppin' in on me, any time at all. Even now, for example; old lady's asleep, and a house fallin' down wouldn't wake her. Yes, sir, if I had company drop in on me tonight, I wouldn't even think of goin' out."

  I was staring at him, trying to fathom what he could be talking about.

  "Nothin'll happen out at Quentin for an hour," Nova said. "Leastways, I'm willin' to gamble on that. So I'm goin' home, and stay there — for thirty minutes. Company drops in on me, I'll stay home. Her, I'm talkin' about. You." He pointed at Ruth. "Just a half hour's company"— his eyes were shiny, and his tongue touched his lips —"while we get better acquainted. And I stay home, and glad to."

  I was at him, right arm swinging as hard as I could throw it, and it stopped in mid-air, my fist smacking his meaty palm like a .22 rifle shot. Then he grabbed me, his immense arms wrapped around me, holding mine tight to his sides, and he lifted me off my feet without effort, squeezing me harder and harder, his mean little eyes grinning into mine, Ruth flailing at him. The pressure tightened, the pain flashing till I knew another fractional increase of pressure would crack my ribs. Then he simply arched his great chest and belly, stepping forward as he let go of me. I'm not a small man, and I'm strong, but I landed hard on the floor, and rolled twice from the force of that powerful beer-barrel of a body. "Thirty minutes," Nova said, "to make up your mind." Then he opened the door, stepped out, and was gone.