by Jack Finney
In each of its four factorylike buildings, I saw dim lights burning as I moved quietly down the hill through the summer weeds, my pack in my hand. There were more lights suspended from the twenty-foot concrete walls, shining down into the area. But work was long since over for the day so most of the area below me was dark, except for the wall lights around its edges; and Arnie had told me the buildings would be empty except for an inmate fire guard in each. At the four corners of the walls, and at intervals between them, I saw the black silhouettes of the guard towers. With the area now cleared except for the four honor men in the buildings, the wall gate leading into the prison area locked, and all men accounted for, the industrial-area towers were unmanned. But what if they're manned tonight? — the words spoke themselves in my mind. What if there's a man with a gun in one of those wall posts? But I knew there wasn't, I told myself; high above the prison on its standard hung the green light; all was quiet, the prison in normal condition, the industrial area empty and silent. Picking my way down the hill, I thought, The light'll be red before long, and I tried to smile but I couldn't.
At the bottom of the hill, only a narrow strip of road and a half dozen yards of sloping bare ground lay between me and the black rising bulk of the industrial-area wall. I heard nothing; no sound of an approaching car or person, nothing from the wall or the other side of it. I untied the four knotted corners of the canvas bundle in the weeds beside me. On the very top of the things in the bundle lay a thick coil of the new quarter-inch rope I had bought. I took this coil in my left hand and in my other hand I took the large four-pronged hook I'd fastened to the rope's end by a plait. In shape this hook resembled a four-pronged anchor, but it was made of wood. These were the J-shaped hooks I'd sawed out of plywood. I'd bolted four of them together, carefully wrapped the shaft with copper wire to strengthen it, then padded every inch of the grapple's surface with absorbent cotton, and wrapped it tight with black friction tape. I'd made two such grappling hooks, and the other, with its identical coil of rope, still lay in my canvas bundle.
There was nothing to do now but use the rope and hook in my hand. But once again, I listened. Then, hearing nothing, I knotted the corners of my bundle together again. Once more I listened, and now there was no longer an acceptable reason for postponing what I had to do.
I walked across the narrow road, clambered down the embankment beyond it, then stood three or four yards from the base of the wall, the coiled rope hanging loose in my left hand, the grappling hook with the last few inches of rope in my right hand. I swung the hook back and forth twice, then drew my arm far back and heaved the hook underhanded and with all my strength up toward the top of the wall. There were three full seconds of utter silence as the rope coils flashed off the palm of my hand, then I heard the padded hook strike and fall. It made a dull clatter, a sound neither great nor small, and I stood for maybe eight or ten seconds, listening. Then I began pulling in the slack of the rope.
The top of this wall, I knew — I'd seen it in daylight — was flat concrete. On both sides of this flat walk, and running the lengths of all the walls, were waist-high metal hand rails, mounted on metal posts set into the concrete. Paralleling the top rail, and midway between it and the top of the wall, ran another supporting rail; it would be almost impossible to toss a four-pronged grappling hook up onto this wall without having one or more of its prongs engage some part of these guide rails. The rope tightened in my hands and I pulled harder. The rope held. I slid my hands high on the rope; and standing directly beside the wall, I slowly lifted my feet and hung suspended a yard above the ground. The rope strained and creaked but held fast. I let go, climbed the embankment, and crossed the road again to the weeds where my bundle lay. Kneeling beside it, I pulled my belt out of a few loops and slipped it under the big knot of the bundle. Then I threaded the belt through the loops again, cinched it tight, and stood up, the big bundle hanging awkwardly behind me, bumping the backs of my knees with each step.
At the wall again, I climbed the rope hand over hand — the first fifteen feet easily and rapidly, the last five or six in a desperate scrambling agony of rapidly draining strength. A yard from the top I hung for several long moments, afraid I might have to drop or slide back down, the rope burning through the palms of my hands. Then I managed to heave once more, sweat pouring, caught the top edge with one hand and then the other, and in the instant before my arms could collapse, I heaved my upper body up onto the top of the wall. I lay momentarily exhausted for a dozen seconds, the bulky bundle in the small of my back wedged between my body and the rail just above me.
I knew that if anyone had been in the guard towers here, they would have shot or shouted or been on me by now. But nothing happened. From far out on San Francisco Bay — I could see the Bay as I raised my head — a boat whistle sounded, low and mournful. There was no other sound so I dragged my bundle and body up onto the flat walk.
My hook had caught the top guide rail, and I removed it, and dragged up the rope. For the moment at least, I felt temporarily safe. Lying flat on my stomach on the wall top. looking down on the roofs and northern sides of the industrial-area buildings, I knew that I could not be seen from the road outside, nor from the area below me. I lay there a long time, twenty minutes or more, I suppose, regaining the strength of my arms, my eyes moving over all of the area below that I could see, and alert for any sound.
No one was down there; I knew that presently; so with the rope coiled in my hand and the big hook slung over my back, I began to crawl along the wall to the east on hands and knees, my chest and belly no more than two feet from the concrete surface, the canvas bundle lolling against the backs of my legs. When I was opposite the furniture factory, at the east end of the area, I lay flat on my stomach and carefully lowered the big hook to the ground, holding it out from the side of the wall, making no sound.
I felt the rope slacken as the hook touched the earth, then I passed the free end of the rope around the base of the nearest guide-rail post and let it drop to the ground, too. Then I looked everywhere I could see in the whole industrial area; a lieutenant or sergeant of one of the two night watches, Arnie had told me, was likely to come through this area at least once during the night, and at no set time. But no one, he said, moved through the prison at night without a lighted flashlight in his hand, or he might be shot. So I knew I'd see anyone moving through the area. The fire guards in the buildings of this area never came out of the buildings, Arnie told me; it was a violation of rules, in fact. They were there to spot fires that might somehow start, and they spent the nights reading and dozing. I wasn't worried about them, and there was no flashlight beam bobbing along the grounds of the area, so I climbed over the guard rail, and lowered myself hand over hand on both lengths of rope to the ground. Then I pulled the free length of rope down after me.
I gathered the rope up and crossed the uneven ten-foot strip of dirt separating the northern wall of the furniture factory from the prison wall. This place, empty and silent, was well lighted and I walked rapidly to the western corner of the building and cautiously looked around it. There, against the side of the building — an uneven silhouette in the darkness beyond the range of the wall lights — lay the great stack of wooden crates Arnie had described. Empty now, they would be used as needed to crate prison-made office desks for shipment to various bureaus and departments of the State of California. I saw nothing else, heard or saw no movement, and after another moment or two, I stepped around the building's corner, and walked toward the crates, a moving shadow in the darkness.
As Arnie had promised, the big crates weren't carefully stacked. The ends and edges of some of them projected beyond others, and between them were gaps of from one or two inches to as much as a foot. Near the center of the great stack of crates, I found — by sight and by feel — a foot-wide gap, and turning sideways, pushed myself into it, dragging and forcing my bundle after me. A yard or more within this narrow aisle, I began feeling for the upper open edges of the stacked crates, and
presently found one projecting some inches beyond the bottom of the crate on top of it. Finding a foothold, I climbed — rapping my head sharply against a corner of a crate above me — into this crate, pulling my bundle, rope, and hook in after me. Made to hold an office desk, the crate was roomy enough. Sitting down, my head just brushed the bottom of the crate above my head! After a moment I found I could lie almost flat, my knees bent slightly.
I jammed the hook and rope into a corner of the crate, took off my shoes, and then, head pillowed on my bundle and hands clasped under my neck, settled down to wait. I felt tired, but did not expect to sleep. I could feel my heart beating, not rapidly, but more rapidly than normal, and I expected this to continue for a long time to come. I was more afraid than I remembered ever having been in my life before, and I was certain that never had I felt fear so steadily and without cessation as I did tonight; and from this, too, I knew I could not expect relief for a long, long, time. I lay there and hated the quality of this persistent fright, for it was the depressing fear of helplessness. I could take no action against it. Lying silently in the center of a stack of empty crates in the walled industrial area of San Quentin prison, I knew that only chance and luck, good or bad, could affect what happened to me. It was out of my hands.
I neither slept nor remained awake for the rest of the night. At times I dreamed — vague, jumbled, indescribable dreams — I was cold and always close to waking, but I always knew I was dreaming and where I was. I shifted position often, always careful to make no sound, and lay there waiting for morning.
8
I was awake when the first light diluted the darkness, then I lay semiconscious until the whitening light was complete and all darkness gone. After a while, though it didn't penetrate to where I lay, I knew the first sun was out. After another time, I heard voices, close and overhead. "Hi, Mac," said the nearest voice, and the other — farther away — answered, "Vince; how's the new car?" Then the first man replied, the voice lading as he walked away, and I knew that the guards were manning the industrial-area walls for the day.
Moving very carefully, I took one of the waxed-paper-wrapped packages Ruth had made out .of my canvas bundle, and opened it. It was a cheese sandwich and a banana, and though I felt no appetite, I ate them both. When I'd finished, I drank from a cardboard cream container which Ruth had washed out, filled, with water, and taped shut. I very much wanted to get out of this crate and stretch — I knew I should have done it earlier — but I was afraid to now. As well as I could, I stretched my back, neck, shoulder and arm muscles; then, sitting pressed back in a corner of the crate, I stretched out my legs, revolving my feet at the ankles, and felt a little better. I poured water into my palm, and rubbed the water on my closed eyes.
Men began going past the crates; at first two of them, talking quietly, then almost immediately a great many more were streaming by, a few feet from my head. I heard only isolated words and fragments of sentences; none of them lingered near the crates. I smiled a little; the talk I heard reminded me of the Army, nearly every adjective an obscenity. I was surprised at the amount of laughter.
Within a comparatively few minutes — I didn't notice how long — the stream of passing men thinned. Only an occasional man, or pair of men, passed the crates now. Then a low voice, only a yard or two from my ear, said quietly and rapidly, "Are you in there? Ben, are you there? Just say 'yes' if you are; don't keep talking."
"Yes," I answered.
Arnie was silent for a moment, and I heard footsteps pass. Then Arnie spoke again. "How you doing? You okay? Talk till I cough, then shut up right away."
"I'm okay, Arnie," I said quietly. "I'm fine; don't worry about me." I couldn't think of anything else to say, and after a moment Arnie replied.
"Swell," he said. "Just hold out till four. You bring anything to read?" He coughed twice, rather loudly, and I didn't answer.
Again steps passed by and a voice said, "Hi, Arnie."
"Charley," Arnie answered. "How's it?"
"Okay." The voice was well past the crates now.
"Okay, Ben; talk till I cough."
"No," I said, "I didn't bring anything to read" — the notion astounded me.
"Too bad," Arnie said. "Look, I've got to go now. You wearing a watch?" I replied that I was, and Arnie said, "Well, watch the time; be sure you get yourself out of there before four, or you'll fall down when you try walking. See you later, and — thanks, Benny," he added softly.
"Okay, Arnie. See you later." I heard Arnie's departing steps.
All morning I dozed and awakened, dozed and awakened over again, and after a time I was very hot, and I knew the sun was overhead now, beating down on the crates.
Then again men streamed past me, and I brought out a paper-wrapped package of food — a ham sandwich and some cookies — and ate. I was still not hungry, but the discomfort of lying in this box had become more than discomfort; it was close to pain, and eating helped take my mind off that. The boards on which I lay and sat had become intolerably hard, and no matter what I tried I could not stretch what was becoming a cramped agony out of my muscles. The sun was beating silently on every exposed surface of the stack of crates I lay in, and I was intensely conscious of the oppressive quality of each breath I drew. I didn't — I couldn't — think of anything but my physical discomfort; Arnie, Ruth, home, and what was to happen after four o'clock, had no power to interest me. I was wet with sweat, and every surface of my body which had come into contact with the boards of my crate was actually painful. When once again the stream of prisoners, returning from lunch, flowed past me, I waited in agony until the last of them had gone. Then, very slowly, my muscles cramped, I got to my knees, bent at the waist, and moved to the end of the box. With infinite care, I got my head and shoulders out of the crate at the open end, and over a period of perhaps five full minutes — afraid my cramped muscles might fail me and I would fall with a crash — I got out of the box and stood upright, finally, in the narrow foot-wide aisle. Anyone passing, I knew, who took the trouble to stop and peer in would see me standing here; and then I'd spend the next few years in San Quentin prison. Still I stood there, methodically exercising each part of my body, concentrating on a leg, then an arm, then the other leg, moving in absolute silence, feeling the prickling return of circulation until I was again in control of my body, and I knew that when I had to, I could walk.
Though I had a long wait until four o'clock, I didn't try to get back in the box; the air was cooler out here; there was some circulation, and occasionally a warm breeze would move through the stacked crates. From time to time an inmate would pass my hiding place; I'd see a flash of blue denim, and if the man weren't too tall, the lower part of his face. Twice the tan-uniformed figures of guards walked past me, and each time anyone passed, I held my breath and stood utterly motionless.
Once more the stream of blue-denimed men was flowing past, moving south now, toward the wall gate and main prison area. Almost immediately, one of these figures approached the narrow space in which I stood, and for a moment of wild panic I felt a nearly irresistible urge to try to hide in my crate. Then the blue figure leaned against the stacked crates, his back to me, completely blocking the narrow space in which I stood, and I knew who it was. The prisoners streamed on past and sometimes one or more of them would speak to Arnie, and he'd answer, his voice calm, pleasant, and unconcerned; I could see that he was holding a lighted cigarette.
Arnie changed his position, leaning negligently with a shoulder against the side of a crate, still blocking my aisle. Then very quietly, his arm bringing the cigarette to his mouth as he spoke, he said, "You okay? Just answer yes or no."
"Yes."
"You out of the crate?"
"Yes."
"All right; we move any second now. This is the bad moment; the guard on the wall could see us now. I'm watching him; he's paying no attention to me. Far as he knows, I'm just waiting for a friend from the factory. Move — " Arnie coughed. Several men, talking, approached and pa
ssed the pile of crates. Then Arnie resumed. "Move out, now, Ben. Come forward till you're standing right behind me." Again Arnie changed position, standing now as he had before, his back squarely against the little space in which I stood, blocking it off completely.
I stepped forward until I stood directly behind him, and I put both hands on his back for a moment to let him know I was there.
Arnie said, "Take my ID card out of my back pocket." I reached into his back pocket, and my fingers touched the little plastic-sealed card, and I took it out. "Put it in your shirt pocket," Arnie said. "Be sure you don't lose it."
We waited. Then Arnie turned his head, bringing his cigarette to his mouth, and said, "When I say now, just step out, and stand here talking to me."
Again a group passed, talking, and the moment they passed, Arnie said, "Now," and I stepped out into the open.
I couldn't help it; I had to glance up at the wall post, and I saw the guard inside, his back to us, doing something, I couldn't tell what. Then the man turned, partially facing us, but looking off to the west. Arnie was smiling at me, ignoring the guard, but standing so that he could see him.
