by Jack Finney
Twenty or thirty feet up on the side of a hill about a mile outside Mill Valley there's an outcropping of smooth-faced rock facing the road, and Cora glanced at it, exclaimed and pointed, and I jammed on the brakes and looked up where she was pointing. There on the rock facing the public road, painted in great four-foot letters, was MAX KI, the lines crude and uneven, driblets of paint running down past the bottoms of letters, the final stroke continuing on down the face of the rock until the paint or oil on the brush or stick had run thin and faded away. We knew Max had painted it — his name or as much of it as he could manage — and staring up at it now, I understood the loud jacket with MAX K on its back, and the carnival straw hat with the big red initials.
For who are the people who paint their names or initials in public places and on the rocks that face our highways? Driving from San Francisco to Reno over the Donner Pass you see them by the hundreds, some painted so high that the rocks must have been scaled, dangerously, to do it. I used to puzzle over them; to paint your name or initials up there in the mountains wasn't impulse. It took planning. You'd have to drive over a hundred miles with the can of paint on the floor of the car. Who would do that? And who would wear the caps stitched with initials and the jackets with names on their backs? It was plain to me now; they are the people, of course, who feel that they have no identity. And who are fighting for one.
They are unknown, nearly invisible, so they feel; and their names or initials held up to the uninterested eyes of the world are silent shouts of, Hey, look at me! Children shout it incessantly while acquiring their identities, and if they never acquire one maybe they never stop shouting. Because the things they do must always leave them with a feeling of emptiness. Initials on their caps, names on their jackets, or even painted high on a cliff visible for miles, they must always feel their failure to leave a real mark, and so they repeat it again and again. And Max who had to be someone, who had to be, did as they did, finally, from desperation. To have never been anyone and to be forgotten completely was not to be borne. At whatever cost he too had to try to leave his name behind him even if he were reduced to painting it on a rock.
I visited the cemetery once more, that spring, plodding up the hill, eyes on the ground. Nearing the crest I looked up, then stopped in my tracks, astounded. There at the head of Max's grave stood an enormous gray stone, the biggest by far of any in sight, and it was made not of concrete or pressed stone but of the finest granite. It would last a thousand years, and cut deeply into its face in big letters was MAXWELL KINGERY, AUTHOR.
Down in his shop outside the gates I talked to the middle-aged stonecutter in the little office at the front of the building; he was wearing a work apron and cap. He said, Yes, certainly I remember the man who ordered it — black hair and eyes, heavy glasses. He told me what it should say, and I wrote it down. Your name's Peter Marks, isn't it? I said it was, and he nodded as though he knew it. Yes, he told me you'd be here, and I knew you would. Hard for him to talk; had some speech impediment, but I understood him. He turned to a littered desk, leafed through a little stack of papers, then found the one he wanted, and slid it across the counter to me. He said you'd be in, and pay for it; here's the bill. It's expensive but worth it, a fine stone and the only one here I know of for an author.
For several moments I just stood there staring at the paper in my hand. Then I did the only thing left to do, and got out one of the checks I carry in my wallet. Waiting while I wrote, the stonecutter said politely, And what do you do, Mr. Marks; you an author, too?
No, I said, signing the check, then I looked up smiling. I'm just a critic.
Playboy, September 1962, 9(9):93, 144-146, 148-149
The Sunny Side of the Street
They were silent for a few moments, watching the tiny fire in the Franklin stove, which stood in lieu of a fireplace against an end wall of the living room. He sat in a low chair of polished wood and white rope, a thin young man in a gray suit holding a drink. She sat across the room on a lounge, wearing a dark-green dress, her sheer-nylon-stockinged legs tucked under her, and now he turned to look at her, then said, You look great in that pose.
Thanks.
You're welcome. You know, it occurs to me that I've known you for some little time now; yet here we sit, a picture of polite respectability. In most of the books I read, the man and girl are in bed soon after they meet. Within a week, at most, usually the same day, and often immediately after they're introduced.
She smiled. She was very pretty, her light-brown hair almost blonde in places. In most of the books I read, too, she said.
You like those books?
Love them.
Me, too. He stretched his legs out before him, wriggling his toes to make the polished tips of his dark-brown shoes gleam in the firelight. I admire and envy the heroes. They meet the girl, take one look at her, exchange a few brief words of dialogue, then pow! No wasting time just sitting staring at each other.
Is this so bad, then? Friday night, the weekend ahead of you, a cold drink in your hand in front of a fire? With me?
No, it's fine, it's great; couldn't he improved. My only complaint is that it's premature; it belongs in the paragraph that begins Later. Later, they sat before the fire, relaxed and content. He looked at her, and smiled. Lazily.
Or Later, she opened her eyes. Hello, she said softly. Hi, he said, and smiled, Lazily.
You've got the idea. Could I interest you in an indecent proposal?
Undoubtedly. But of course I couldn't accept.
Why do you say of course? You sound like my aunt. She was a young girl in the twenties, but they never sound like any twenties that I ever heard of. While the rest of the world, as we all know, was tearing through the night in an open touring car on the way to hear Bix Beiderbecke blow his heart out, or sitting around the Dôme café in Paris, or swimming fully dressed at three A.M. in the fountain in front of the Plaza, she was attending normal school in Dwight, Illinois.
Sounds pretty sensible to me.
It blighted her life. In time, when her children began asking questions — What was Scott Fitzgerald like, Mommy? Show us your hip flask! How do you make whoopee? — what could she answer? Nothing but I'm sorry, children. I let life slip through my fingers. Don't follow that hideous example, Fran. Take off your clothes; surrender.
My mother said to be sure I was married first. You want to marry me?
And spoil the romance? He shook his head. I'd never be able to look another novel in the big-bosomed dust jacket. In later years, I, too, would be humiliated before my children. They'd say, Daddy, was it really like the old books when you were young? And I'd have to say, I don't know. I got married before I found out. It would be like Daddy, what did you do in the Great War? And you have to say, Why, I was a draft dodger, son. No, Fran, marriage is the coward's way out. So be brave; win a medal; slip off those confining clothes.
She smiled and said, Are you trying to laugh me into bed with you?
No, but if I thought it would work, you'd hear some mighty hearty ho-ho-ho's.
She laughed and said, There are times when it almost works.
Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho!
Honestly! She shook her head. My mother was right. She used to tell me that that's all men think about.
I've often wondered how she knew. He set his drink on the floor beside his chair and clasped his hands behind his head, eyebrows raised questioningly. You know this began in idle jest, but I could easily get serious.
She shook her head. No. The children are just down the street, with the Seligmann kids. They might come home any moment.
What children are those? He lowered his hands and shoved them into his pants pockets.
I don't know, but they seem to live here and call you Daddy.
Impossible. I'm only twenty years old, you're just nineteen, and we're about to begin a big affair.
She didn't quite complete her smile, and after a moment, she said, You know, sometimes I think you aren't really joking — and tha
t you actually wish you were single again.
I sure as hell do.
She looked startled, but suppressed the look instantly, ducking her head to sip her drink. When she looked up again, her face seemed calm; but as she set her glass on the table, she could no longer hold back the question. What do you mean?
Just that. Again his hands rose to clasp the back of his head. There are times when I'd love to be single again. With you. The two of us at twenty and nineteen, say, just setting out for France. Tourist class on the Queen Mary. To spend the whole summer bicycling all over Europe. All by ourselves, happy and sinful as hell.
She was staring at the fire, a far-away smile on her face. It sounds wonderful.
There'd come a Sunday in London when it was raining. We're in a hotel room — small, cheap, and a little shabby. But clean, and very English. Lace curtains at the one window, a wooden wardrobe in a corner, instead of a closet. and an old-fashioned iron bed. And we're in it. We've pulled the bed right next to the window, and we're lying there on our stomachs, keeping warm under the blankets and looking out over London in a gray summer rain.
David, I want to go. Right now.
Then, in Venice, we're sitting at a table in the sun in one of the open cafes on the square. It's about two o'clock, not many people around. It's siesta time, everything closed or just about to, and we know that as soon as we finish our drinks, we're going back to the hotel, up to our room. And we want to go right now; we want to run. And instead, we take our time, sipping our drinks and looking around us, just to prolong that special anticipation.
Shut up, David. I'm a happy, contented young matron, with two lovely children, and I'm eagerly looking forward to the P.T.A. meeting next Tuesday night.
Sure you are. I know just how you feel. Monday morning at nine sharp, there's a Plans Board meeting I'll have to attend, and believe me, I can hardly wait. I'm charged with ideas, couldn't sleep, because I think I've found the way to change the label on one of the client's tomato cans. It's a mighty problem that we've chewed over for weeks. We've looked at dozens of layouts, some of them very nearly finished art. Well, I'm going to suggest a cartoon tomato with eyes, ears, and a big grin, instead of the usual seed-catalogue illustration. I think it's what you could call a significant breakthrough, and my cup runneth over. Oh, well, he said, and stood up, stretching his back muscles. The Langleys be over for bridge tonight?
No. Meg phoned today. Carl has a cold. But I called Mrs. Narwell. She's free tonight, and she'll sit with the children if we want to see a movie or something.
He shrugged. Whatever you want. He turned to the big living-room window and stared at the suburban street.
Fran looked at his back for several moments; then she said quietly, You wish you were free. Maybe not of me, but you wish you weren't all tied down with children.
No, that's not true, he said impatiently, turning. Then he began to walk the room, his hands shoved into his back pants pockets. Once you have them, it's impossible to wish anything like that, and I don't. But I will say to any young guy living in Paris right now, shacked up in a garret learning French from a charming young friend: 'Don't be in too big a rush to come home and settle down. Learn it thoroughly; get the accent right.' You know what I mean?
Of course. One minute you're young, absolutely free, and beholden to no one, and then, all of a sudden, you're not. All of a sudden, there are whole days with not a single hour that's absolutely your own. And you find yourself obligated forever, body and soul, to first one, then two, then three other people. And it happens so fast and with hardly any warning. Sure, I know. But what can you do about it?
He didn't answer for a moment. Then he said, Well, we sure as hell can't go to Paris, London, or Venice, and we can't be twenty and nineteen again. You might manage, but I couldn't. He smiled at her. But there's something we can do. Stay where you are till I make a phone call? She nodded. Brownie's honor? She nodded again, and he walked out quickly, down the hall to the bedroom.
Three times, from the telephone extension in the kitchen, she heard the tiny ghost of a ring that meant a phone call had just been finished in the bedroom. Several minutes passed; then she heard the back door open and close, the garage door roll up, and the car drive off. Within six or seven minutes, it was in the driveway again, car doors slamming. Then the back door opened, and David shouted, Balto is here with the serum! The cavalry's pouring over the hill!
Behind him, Fran saw the short, energetic figure of the middle-aged widow who was their baby-sitter. Hello, Mrs. Narwell, Fran said.
Stop this incessant chattering, and let's go! David said.
But what about the children?
I phoned and told them what was up. They're sitting on the floor with the Seligmann kids, pickling their brains with television. They didn't much care for my interruption. They said they'd walk home when the program's over. Clap them in irons if they misbehave, Mrs. Narwell! Come on, Fran. Grab your coat and grab your hat! Leave your troubles on the doorstep! And we'll direct our feet to the sunny side of the street!
In the car, moving down the highway toward the Golden Gate Bridge, Fran said, This is fun. I love surprises. Where are we going? What're we going to do?
We're escaping. The children's minds and senses drugged by television, we are fleeing nonstop for the Canadian border. Once across, we'll change our names and, with the aid of clever disguises, begin life anew. Leaving poor Mrs. Narwell stuck with them for the next fifteen years or—
Stop that! What a terrible thing to say.
I know. Great idea, though, isn't it? he said, and Fran grinned.
Within twenty minutes, they were across the bridge and into the city and were drawing to a stop before the black-awninged main entrance to the Saint Francis Hotel.
Goody. Cocktails at the Saint Francis, Fran said. It's been ages. Can you park here?
With a small annuity to the smiling doorman who approaches, he'll park it for me. Step out regally when he opens your door.
Fran walked up the wide stone steps of the hotel. At the top, waiting while David spoke to the doorman, she turned to look at the greenery of Union Square, to listen to the bells of the Powell Street cable cars, to watch the people and the automobiles in the gathering dusk. The streets were busy, the sidewalks crowded, the hotel doors opened and closed unceasingly; there was a Friday-night excitement in the air, and she was glad to be here.
David ran up the steps, took her arm, and they walked into the red-carpeted, pillared lobby and turned left toward the short flight of stairs leading to the cocktail room. They were led to a table in the semidarkness. Then a tiny, good-looking Japanese girl, wearing a kimono, brought them drinks. They tasted them and smiled at each other.
Fran said, What time is it? I wonder if the children—
It is six-twenty-one, and since you are a young, nineteen-year-old, unmarried, and delightfully nubile spinster, you couldn't possibly have any children. And therefore you couldn't possibly have been about to wonder whether they're home yet or not — now, could you?
I guess not.
This is chapter one, in fact, of the kind of novel we've both learned to love. A few pages ago, I met you for the first time, in a smart country home in Marin County. Naturally, within half an hour, or roughly mid-chapter, we're having cocktails in the smart and exclusive Saint Francis Hotel, playground of the rich. And by the end of the chapter, or approximately one more drink, we'll be upstairs, shacked up in a smart and luxurious suite, playground of—
No, we won't. I hate that phrase.
What phrase? Playground of?
No. Shacked up.
We'll rewrite it, then. Change it to anything you want. What about 'romantically entwined'?
That's almost worse.
Well, select your own, miss — just so the chapter ends as scheduled.
They had another drink. David paid the check. Then they walked down the carpeted steps to the lobby and turned toward the street doors.
Oh, this is fun!
Fran said. Where to now? She was nearly at the doors before she realized that David, who had been half a pace behind her, was no longer with her. She turned. He was standing at the hotel desk across the lobby, and by the time she crossed it and stopped beside him, he had taken a pen from a holder and, unmistakably, was signing a registration card. David! she said, but he ignored her. David! What are you doing?
He looked up, replacing the pen and pushing the card in its leather holder toward the clerk. Why, I'm registering, honey. I've got to. He nodded at the smiling clerk. Else he won't give us our luxurious suite.
As they turned from the desk, the clerk said, Thank you, Mr. Smith.
Fran gripped David's arm, pulling him close. What did you write on that card? she whispered urgently.
Why, Mr. and Mrs. John Smith, of course. We've got to throw your mother off our trail.
Beside them, the doorman said, Here's your car keys and claim check, sir. Car's in the Union Square garage. And I brought your bag in.
As David thanked and tipped him. Fran stared at one of the tan suitcases they'd last used when they'd visited her parents with the children, two years before. Then a bellboy had picked it up, and — David grinning beside her — they were following him toward the elevator.
David, what is this? Fran asked.
I told you. Chapter one. Next-to-the-last page.
Then they were in the elevator with the politely smiling bellboy.
It was a suite — a great, handsomely furnished living room adjoining a large bedroom and bath. Tilting the slats of a Venetian blind, Fran saw that it faced Union Square, three stories below, and the instant the bellboy closed the hall door behind him, she swung around. David—
I know. It's expensive. Too expensive. A room at the Y is more our speed. When I phoned to reserve it and they told me the rate, I nearly called it off. But I didn't.
Well, it's wonderful, Fran said, glancing around. But what's the idea? Why, if we had the binoculars, we could almost see our own house!
