Three by Finney

by Jack Finney

  My own self immobilized then—helpless and dwindling—I was somehow put aside, pushed off into a remote corner of my own being. I still knew what impulses were coming through my senses. For a few moments longer I knew what messages my eyes and ears were receiving—but remotely and from a great and increasing distance, like a child drifting rapidly to sleep. Within two seconds, three at most, I was very nearly completely gone, huddled up somewhere far inside myself, as Rudolph Valentino took over almost completely.

  At intervals then—sensed like a very sleepy child, or a child in fever—the hold over my being would relax for a moment or half moment. Almost instantly the grip would tighten down again with fresh strength, but in that instant I’d have a fragmentary glimpse of what he was seeing, hearing, and feeling, and the memory of those moments can shake me yet.

  Because what he was seeing, not only in but beyond the shifting blacks, whites and grays of that square old screen up on the dusty stage of the Olympic—and what he felt—were more than anyone else ever could. Sitting bolt upright, far forward in the seat, hands clenched to chest, chin lifted, he saw not only the visible flickering screen. Beyond its edges in his memory a narrow-eyed director in cloth cap and holding a short megaphone stood watching. The eye of a camera on its wooden tripod followed his movement, the man behind it standing bent-kneed, eye pressed hard against the viewfinder; he wore knickers, a white shirt and tie, and his right fist revolved in a rigidly steady motion as he cranked the film the Olympic audience sat watching now. Behind the camera, a knot of bystanders and studio technicians, two of them in overalls, one holding a hammer. And at a piano, playing the tango to which they danced, a man in a vest and, oddly, a wide-brimmed felt hat. Sitting motionless staring up at the screen, he saw all these things in memory. And above all, he felt still another memory: the skyrocketing surge of triumph at the beautiful knowledge, even as he danced, that this scene was going to be great.

  Sudden nothingness then. Pure nothingness; not even emptiness. Then another drugged, half-glimpsed moment: the magnificent tango up on the screen was ending. Cut to another scene, other characters, and in the instant of that cut, a rush of feeling. It was a wave of despair so bleak that I would not convey it in all its strength if I could. It was total: an unbearable horror of longing, the very worst of all—the hopeless yearning for what might have been.

  In the eyes of the face still lifted to the screen, tears began to well. They brimmed, dashed down my cheeks, and Marion’s hand reached out to lie on my arm. “I’m sorry, Rudy,” she whispered, “so very sorry. But he had to know. Thanks.”

  My head nodded, my hand reached over to lie on hers for an instant, then Valentino was gone, and I sat staring blindly up at the screen knowing what I didn’t want to know: the enormity of the loss when a life, talent and career are cut short. Human ego is staggeringly immense, and with the exception, of course, of national politicians, greater self-love hath no man than an actor. For Rudolph Valentino, only thirty-one years old, decades of world-wide fame and adulation stretched far, far ahead. Suddenly and senselessly all of it is lost. Cut off! Gone! It simply wasn’t bearable.

  “Now do you understand?” Marion was watching me, and I blinked, managed to nod, then swiped the back of my hand across my eyes.

  “Yes. Oh, Jesus. Let’s get out.” I was standing, pushing out to the aisle past six knees, two beards, and a pair of metal-rimmed glasses reflecting the screen, Marion following.

  Driving home, I had the top down, letting the foggy late-afternoon San Francisco air cool my face. I didn’t say anything till we sat stopped for a light a couple of blocks from home. “That poor son of a bitch,” I said softly then. “The poor cheated bastard. All he yearned for was his lost career. I don’t think he gave even one thought to The Woman in Black.”

  “Who?”

  “The veiled mystery woman all dressed in black who visited his grave every year. Some years there were four or five of them.”

  She wasn’t listening. The light changed, I started up, and she murmured, “Sooner or later everyone loses his life, and it’s not too bad, really. Once it happens most people don’t seem to mind very much. But for the few of us who had something tremendous cut short . . .” She just shook her head. “I really had to show you, Nickie. And even now you don’t really know. Because Rudy doesn’t feel the way I do; he’s never had the will to do what I’m doing! He’s accepted it.”

  I turned onto Divisadero, then slowed at the curb before my house, stopped, turned off the ignition, pulled the hand brake up tight, and Marion put a hand on my arm. “Help me, Nickie. You’ve got to.”

  “But how, Marion, how?”

  “Make Jan see that she ought to! Just for a year. Or six months. Even for just one more picture! It’s a better use of a little part of her life than she’s making of it: make her see that, Nickie. Please. Please.”

  I leaned forward and sat with my arms crossed on the big old steering wheel, staring through the windshield at the motionless street. It seemed true; it did seem true that Marion actually needed a small part of Jan’s life more than Jan did. But . . . I looked at Marion and shook my head. “It’s not right, Marion. To talk Jan or anyone into giving up a part of her life.”

  “Just talk to her! Just tell her what happened today. Tell her how you felt. And let her decide. You can talk to her, at least!”

  After a moment or so I nodded and shrugged. “Yeah, I can do that. But then it’s up to her.”

  “All right. You talk to her.” Marion leaned back to rest her head on the leather seat back, staring up at the wispy fog moving across the darkening sky. “By the way,” she said lazily, “I remembered that name.”

  My head jerked around and I stared at her, but she didn’t move. Still staring dreamily up at the sky, she said absently, “Hours ago, in fact. Up in the apartment. I looked it up in the L.A. phone book while you were in the bathroom.” She rolled her head to look sideways at me, face and eyes innocent. “It’s there, Nickie, darling. The man with the films is still alive. And I’m absolutely certain he’d still have them.” She looked up at the sky again. “So come on down to Hollywood with me and you and I can go see him. I’ll tell you his name”—she turned to smile at me again, sweetly, lovingly—“after we’re down there. After you’ve talked to Jan.”

  She closed her eyes, took a slow deep breath, then another, and her eyes opened. “Oh, God—again.” Jan sat looking around at where she was, and I spoke fast.

  “Listen, all we did was go to the movies!”

  She nodded and pressed a finger to her forehead. “I know; I always get this little pressure headache from movies in the daytime. Besides, that’s so ridiculous I know it’s true.” She frowned; her hand on her forehead had felt something. The hand moved up, touched, then gripped the blond wig. She yanked it off and sat staring at it. “What the hell is this?”

  “Come on upstairs”—I leaned over to open her door—“I’ve got a lot to tell you.”

  • •

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  • •

  We took Al for a walk, Jan changing clothes first; she didn’t like the black slacks and sweater outfit. Walking into the bedroom, she stopped short, looked around at the torn fragments of black cloth lying all over the floor, and surprised me. “Maybe she’s right,” she murmured, and changed to her orange dress, the brightest she owned.

  We walked Al to the schoolyard three blocks away; he likes that because there are usually kids who flatter him, play with him, and occasionally feed him candy. Not a soul there today, though, so Al made the best of it, counting the swings, teeter-totters, and the one lone tree. Sitting on the wide edge of the big kindergarten sandbox while Al roamed around, I talked to Jan.

  Very factually, I told her what Marion wanted and what had happened to me at the Olympic. She sat listening so intently she hardly moved. Then for a good half minute she was silent. “Would you do it?” she burst out suddenly, almost angrily. “Would you give up part of your life for—say, Vale
ntino?”

  “Well . . . I don’t know about Valentino. Maybe for Cary Grant.”

  “He doesn’t need it, for heaven sakes! Nick, I know how Marion feels; in the same way you found out, little glimpses now and then. I never dreamed anyone could want something so badly, and yet—you know something? I almost envy her sometimes: I wish I wanted something that much. You know what I mean?”

  “Yeah. When my father was a young guy just out of school, he wanted a job. You know why? So he could ‘make good.’ He got one here in San Francisco with a wholesale food distributor. Working long hours in a warehouse loading delivery trucks. Really hard work, and for damn little money. But it suited him. Because it gave him a chance to ‘show what he was made of.’ Well, I know better than that. Who believes such stuff today? Nobody, and we’re right; they were only exploiting him. But the thing is that I almost envy the way people once felt about things, falsely or not. Because I don’t have anything to take its place. And neither do you. So yeah, I know what you mean.”

  “Tell me what to do, Nick! And I’ll do it. If you say I ought to, I will! Maybe my dumb little life isn’t important, doesn’t matt—”

  “Hey, don’t say that!” I put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed her knee. “What do you mean, a ‘dumb little life’? It’s no such—”

  “Oh, yes, it is,” she said quietly. “It’s a little nothing life. I think I’ve really done something if I try a new recipe and you like it. Or decorate a room the way some magazine tells me. Or even read all the way through a hard book.”

  I talked and argued, trying to comfort her, and she nodded and pretended that she was. We called Al then, snapped on his leash, and started home. It was still day, but the late-afternoon fog had whitened the sky, and it was suddenly chilly.

  “Tell me what to do, Nick,” she said again, walking home, but I shook my head.

  “Nope. You have to decide that.”

  A few more steps, and she said, “All right. But tell me what you’d do. You can tell me that much.”

  It seemed to me I was thinking honestly. And I believed that if it were me, I would do it. So I nodded presently and said, “Yeah. I think I would.”

  “Then I will. I’ll give her”—she hesitated, then finished almost angrily—“a couple of weeks, that’s all. To get started. Then we’ll see how long after that. Nick, is that fair?”

  “It sure as hell is. Look, give her a full two weeks, and if nothing’s happened, that’s it; we’ll drive home then, during the third week of my vacation. Take our time.”

  “Oh. You’re going, too?”

  I felt my face flush; it hadn’t occurred to me that I wouldn’t. “Well, yeah. You don’t think I’d . . . leave you there alone? You’ll be there part of the time, you know. By yourself, if I’m not along.”

  “All right. But you know, I can force her out sometimes; I’ve learned how, and I’ve done it. It’s like a little struggle, and sometimes I’ve been able to . . . just push her out. She knows it. So you tell her that I’m to be there every evening, from the moment she gets back to the hotel! And all night, every night. Or I just might show up in the middle of her comeback and cut it off at the knees.”

  “Good idea, damn good.”

  At home we fed Al, then went out to dinner; neither of us felt like dinner at home. I was depressed, I wasn’t sure why, and I thought maybe Jan was, too. We walked down toward Haight and a little restaurant I find charming because it’s so cheap; “our neighborhood Up-Chuck Wagon,” as I’ve been forbidden to call it. And as we walked, a true story I’d once read rose up in my mind.

  A man was murdered, for no apparent reason, in his apartment. Left in it were money, jewelry, various valuables, including a stamp collection. But nothing seemed to be missing; a mystery. One of the detectives, it happened, was a stamp collector. He leafed through the murdered man’s albums and found a page of rare stamps, the early Hawaiian issues, every one except the two cent. He knew what the other cops didn’t; that stamp was the rarest of all the Hawaiians. He checked through the dead man’s friends till he found another stamp collector. Then he made the man’s acquaintance. Presently they became friends. And finally, one night, the man showed the detective his pride and joy, a collection of the early Hawaiian stamps, complete. Where had he found the two-cent stamp? He wouldn’t say. He was arrested, charged with murder, and still wouldn’t explain; couldn’t. He was tried, convicted, and then he confessed; his friend had refused to sell him that stamp, the one stamp he needed to make his collection complete. So he murdered him and stole it, murdered his friend for a canceled two-cent stamp.

  Walking along with Jan toward Haight Street, I told myself that a jury of that man’s peers—twelve other collectors—would have acquitted him, but it didn’t help. Why hadn’t I told Jan about the man in Hollywood who just might have a stunning collection of incredibly rare old films? Why not? Had I really been honest in nudging her down the path of letting Marion have her chance . . . in order that I could go along? Was I selling my wife—down south!—for the bare chance of somehow getting my hands on a mess of footage? “My God,” I thought, “I’m living the script of an old silent: the film I want . . . is Greed!”

  So at dinner I told her about it; showed her how doubtful my motives really were. And Jan said, “I’m so relieved, Nick. I was afraid you wanted to go down there just to be with Marion!” And all of a sudden I felt great, and expansively ordered a carafe of the mysterious muddy red liquid that the Up-Chuck Wagon calls wine. Raising our glasses in salute, we drank, mouths shriveling, eyes wincing shut, and I found myself wondering if going down to Hollywood with Marion wasn’t my real reason, my real real reason. To hell with it, I said, and bravely refilled our glasses. Later, for the first time in my life, I worked up the nerve to ask for a “doggy bag” so that old Al could join the festivities.

  In the morning, packing, Jan was a little grim, but if she felt like changing her mind, and I think she was tempted, she didn’t, and we were ready by eight. She wore a pink washable dress, her cloth coat, and a scarf for her hair in case we drove with the top down. I had on tan wash pants, loafers, sport shirt, and a sleeveless sweater.

  Last thing I did was carry a carton of dog food down to the Platts’ back porch; they’d said they’d take care of Al. And when Al came trotting up onto their porch to investigate, I explained what was going on. I’m not at all sure they don’t get something from an explanation, whether they understand every word or not.

  Squatting beside him, I rubbed his ears, occasionally pulling up the great wad of loose skin around his shoulders and neck; bassets seem to come equipped with twice the skin they need. I said, “Listen. It’s not true that you’ve been fired from the position of Dog; you have tenure. And it’s not true that you’re adopted either; you’re our real son. Now, we are going away for a while, but we’ll be back. And the Platts will minister to your physical if not your spiritual needs. So don’t worry; okay?” He wagged his tail and, I’m inclined to think, nodded. I pulled up an enormous handful of skin from around his shoulders. “I don’t know where you got this crummy dog suit, by the way, but it’s sure a lousy fit.” He tried for my ear with his tongue, but I took evasive action. “And when I get back I’d like to see you in something newer and smarter; nobody wears long ears any more.” He looked interested. “Next time why not try a poodle suit? They’re pretty smart. The kind with rings around the ankles and tail? Have them shorten the legs, though.” I stood up. “Now, remember, we’ll be back, we’ll be back. Meanwhile, play your cards right and you can con the Platts out of all sorts of forbidden delicacies.” I leaned down and punched him on the shoulder, which is stronger and more massive than mine, and went up to take our bags to the car.

  We didn’t know when Marion would show up, but she arrived when we were leaving. I was coming down the stairs with our bags, Jan behind me with her keys out to lock up after me, when I heard her turn and go back up as though she’d forgotten something. When I looked up from t
he canvas-covered trunk on the rear bumper where I was stowing the bags, she was coming down the steps, both arms raised, elbows winged out, adjusting the blond wig. And it suddenly struck me that I was actually about to drive down to Hollywood with the ghost of a 1926 movie actress. I must have stood staring at her then because she walked around the front of the car, opened her door, then stopped to look back at me. “Come on, Nickie; step on it! We’re forty-seven years late.”

  Only a couple of things of any note happened on the drive down: it’s a long haul for one day, the old Packard isn’t actually the easiest car to drive for any distance, and I didn’t talk a lot. I asked Marion right away if she agreed to Jan’s terms and she said yes. Then I asked her the name of the man with the films, the astounding collection of old silent films—if he still had it; if they still existed.

  “Bollinghurst,” she said. “His name is Ted Bollinghurst.” It was just a name, but my stomach tensed; I could feel the excitement rising again, and I knew that name was etched in my mind forever. “He lives at 1101 Keever Street in Beverly Hills, according to your phone book. And that’s all I know, Nick. I don’t know whether he still has his films or anything else about him.”

  Marion chattered a lot from then on, pointing out changes. There were plenty of them since 1926, and I mostly just nodded and listened. For lunch we pulled into a drive-in, and Marion loved it, insisting on leaning over to my side to give our order through the standing microphone: milk shakes for both of us, cheeseburger for me, hamburger for her, with everything. She sat back, then frowned, and leaned across me again. “Hold the onions on the hamburger!” she said into the microphone, then smiled at me wanly. “Hi, Nick,” she said, and I patted her knee quickly, while she was still there; Jan gets indigestion from onions.