by Jack Finney
Thursday evening, with Jo’s help, he worked on devising a bumper strip for when it should be time to begin campaigning: JOLIFFE FOR CITY COUNCIL, they decided it should read, and in smaller letters underneath, TO KEEP MILL VALLEY MILL VALLEY. On Friday they bowled with the Levys. On Saturday evening, in Lew’s apartment, they watched “The Mary Tyler Moore Show,” lying on the chesterfield together; presently, the television still on, they made love, then watched it some more till they fell asleep. It rained Sunday, the Levys were away visiting Shirley’s parents on the Peninsula, and they spent the day in one apartment or the other with the Sunday paper, books, magazines, television, and Jo’s worry because she’d thought of nothing interesting to do for tomorrow’s Night People Walk. “Don’t worry about it,” Lew said. “Just improvise as you go; I’ll help you.” But Jo said, “That’s your nature, not mine. Oh, I hope it rains tomorrow!”
It did. When the alarm rang at two fifteen, Lew shut it off, snapped on the little bedside lamp, then swung his feet to the floor to sit on the edge of the bed, holding his eyes open. Jo had gotten up instantly, and now the kitchen light came on, then the small sounds of Jo starting the coffee maker, which she’d left filled and ready to plug in. The phone rang, he picked it up from the little table, and as he put it to his ear he heard Jo’s voice on the kitchen extension: “Hello . . . ?”
“Jo!” Shirley’s voice wailed. “It’s raining!” Lew lay the phone on his pillow, walked to the windows, and parted the drapes: the glass was streaked and, stooping to look up at the white mist of the sky, he could see the slant of a soundless fine rain.
“Lew!” He heard Jo’s actual voice from the kitchen duplicated in the phone on his pillow. “Shirley says it’s raining, and we’re to come over! To their place. For coffee, a drink, anything, she says.”
“No!” He was going back to bed and to sleep, but he tried to temper the blunt refusal. “Tell them to come over here! And don’t take yes for an answer!” He sat down on the bed, yawned enormously, then got under the covers again. From the kitchen Jo called, “Harry’s on the extension: wants to know why we won’t come over!”
Lew got comfortable, lying on his back, then picked up the phone, and spoke into it quietly. “Because it is raining. And I not only know enough to come in out of it, I know better than to go out into it in the first place. But apparently Harry doesn’t. So cut out the argument, Harry, and get your ass over here. Shirley’s, too. Shirley’s especially.”
“Love to, Lew, love to,” Harry’s voice in the phone said. “Except that it would not only mean getting out of this comfy bed and getting dressed. It would also mean getting soaked to the skin on the way over: we don’t own umbrellas or raincoats.”
“Teddibly unfortunate; hard cheese,” Lew said. “I believe you, of course. And we’d be on our way over there this very moment, me trudging through the torrential downpour on my crutches, with Jo’s kindly assistance. My old wound, you know; acts up whenever it rains.”
In the phone Shirley’s voice said, “Listen. I am not just going back to bed; I’d never get to sleep. My alarm rang, I woke up all set for the Walk, and I am now stark wide awake and ready to do something. I don’t mean all night, for heaven sakes. Just a drink, a cup of coffee, tea, or a tall glass of water. It would actually help us to get back to sleep that much faster. So let’s! Here or at your place, I don’t care.”
Lew said, “Damn it, Harry, I was just sinking back into the blessed Nirvana of sleep, when your crack-brained wife brings up this fantastic notion of venturing out into a typhoon. So the only honorable thing for you to do—”
“Listen, it was Jo, panicked by the thought that you might seize this moment of idle wakefulness to wreak your sordid will upon her, who instantly accepted that fantastic notion instead of squelching it. So if you have an ounce of decency—”
“I agree with Shirley,” Jo said firmly. “To just go right back to bed would be—”
“Anticlimactic,” said Shirley.
“Right. So one of you is going to have to make the supreme sacrifice of getting a few clothes on, and walking twenty yards. It’ll only be for half an hour!”
Lew said, “Listen, ladies.” Under the covers he crossed an ankle over his upraised knee. “As I understand the problem, you two, feeling an understandable sense of letdown, would like a brief get-together. At which Harry and I dispel your ennui with swift repartee and inimitable antics. Right?”
“Well, I’d never have thought of putting it quite that way: would you, Jo? But, sure.”
“Well, fine,” Lew said reasonably. “Because that happens to be exactly what Harry and I would like, too: we just think pneumonia is a little too high a price to pay. But the problem is already solved: through the miracle of science, if we will but realize it, we are already gathered together. What are we doing right now but happily chattering, gaily laughing, each with his own phone in hand, in the blessed comfort of our own homes? And beds. No one has to stick a foot out in the goddamned rain, and I can talk to Harry without seeing his face, a definite plus.”
“Wonderful!” Harry yelled into his phone. “Lying in bed seems to have immeasurably sharpened your wits. That’s as brilliant—”
“No,” said Shirley. “You two aren’t going to talk us—”
“Get into the mood, Shirl!” Lew said. “The party’s already started! Yippee! You dressed for a party, Harry?”
“Yep. Something told me to put on dinner clothes when I went to bed tonight.”
“I’m in mufti myself: white gloves and matching tennis shoes. But I’m sorry to report that Jo is still in her Dr. Dentons. What’re you wearing, Shirl?”
“My old drum majorette’s outfit. The one I wore to the State Finals. Listen, we can’t tie up the phones like this.”
“Why not?” said Harry. “Who’s going to call at 2:30 A.M. with a better idea? Yippee, to quote Lew, we’re having a party! What’re we serving, Lew?”
“Beer, I guess. Haven’t got any wine, have we, Jo?”
“Just for cooking.”
“Okay,” Harry said, “I’ll put away this pre-Restoration chartreuse, and switch to beer for the sake of the party. Lew, take that lampshade off your head!”
Smiling, Lew put down the phone, got up, and walked to the kitchen. Jo stood in her nightgown, phone at her ear, leaning back against the little sink, nodding as she listened. She said, “I know; but at least you can reason with children.” Lew opened the refrigerator, brought out two cans of Schlitz, yanked off the tabs, handed Jo a can, and started out the door. Then he turned back. Just below the formica-covered work space beside the sink was a drawer filled with old string, a broken flashlight, nails, screws, a souvenir ash tray: junk of all sorts. Stooped before it, Lew poked through this mass for something he remembered seeing, and found it, a small cellophane package imprinted with ringing bells and HAPPY NEW YEAR. From it he pulled two folded paper hats. Opening a blue one, he walked over to Jo, and pulled it onto her head. Working a red one onto his own head with one hand, he walked to the door, then turned on the threshold to look back at Jo. “Yippee,” he said, saluting her with his beer, and walked on back to the bedroom.
He took a swallow of beer, sitting on the edge of the bed, then got under the covers, and picked up the phone. “—ever remember drinking beer this time of night before,” Shirley’s voice was saying.
Lew said, “Harry, you got your beer?”
“Yeah. All set.”
“Shirley?”
“Yes. It tastes pretty good; I was surprised.”
Jo said, “Shirley, is Harry in bed?”
“Of course. While I have the living-room phone. Sitting in that straight-backed chair at the desk. With the heat off.”
“No suggestion that you take the more comfortable place? For this alleged party?”
“Certainly not. And I gather that you—”
“Well, here’s to the party!” Lew said quickly, and clicked his beer can on the mouthpiece of his phone. He heard the ot
hers do the same, and he took a swallow of beer. It was good, very cold, just what he’d wanted.
A silence of several seconds, then Shirley said, “Some party. Beats having fun, doesn’t it, Jo?”
“Well, wait a second,” Lew said. “This is the early quiet stage that all parties go through at first: later on we get wild. But now it’s just quiet, sophisticated conversation. Harry, toss off an epigram.”
“What is an epigram, exactly?” Shirley said.
“One of those things that begins, ‘A woman is like . . .” You tell her, Harry.”
“Well, let’s see: A woman is like . . .” They heard him take a swallow of beer, then silence.
After a moment Lew said, “Wrong pose, Harry: you can’t think of epigrams lying down. Stand up by your dresser. Can you reach it?”
A pause, then Harry said, “Yeah.”
Shirley said, “Incredible: you made him stand.”
“Now drape one arm negligently along the top of the dresser as though it were a fireplace mantel. Lucky you’re wearing evening clothes.”
“There’s no top to this dresser; it’s built-in flush to the wall.”
“Well, just hold your arm out, then.”
A momentary silence, and Shirley said, “Jo, no fooling; I think he’s doing it.”
“You bet I am. All set, Lew. My eyes are heavy-lidded with Weltschmerz.”
“Good. Your drink in hand?”
“No, how would I hold the phone? A yard from my ear at the end of this negligently draped arm?”
“Wedge the phone between your shoulder and ear. Like a senior partner in a big-time law firm. And hold your drink sort of high up against your chest. Too bad it’s not a martini. Or chilled white chablis. I believe they’re the natural drink of the sophisticate; beer and epigrams seem a little unlikely. But try. All set?”
“Yeah, but my neck hurts.”
“Honestly,” Jo murmured.
“Pitiful, isn’t it?” said Shirley.
“A woman is like the winning horse of a race,” said Harry. “Impossible to ever predict with certainty . . . forever just beyond the reach of logic and reason . . .”
“He’s not just a male chauvinist pig, he’s a whole herd,” said Shirley. “Is it herd?”
“ . . . and yet,” Harry continued, “with a seeming inevitableness of result once it has occurred.”
“Splendid!” Lew yelled. “Capital!”
“It doesn’t even make sense,” said Jo.
“Naturally,” Lew said. “That’s the test of your true epigram. The best ones, anyway: they sound as though they mean something, only you’re just not quite clever enough to figure out what. And you’re afraid to ask for fear of revealing your total lack of sophistication.”
“I’m not afraid. Are you, Shirley?”
“Not in this league.”
“A woman,” Lew began, then interrupted himself. “I am standing with one elbow on a portable mantel I had in the closet, staring moodily down into my glass, absently swirling its contents. Now, then: A woman is like a pretzel, smooth and glossy on the outside . . . brittle underneath . . . creating and sustaining an unquenchable thirst for ever more . . . and holding within her preordained form the eternal symbols of Yang and Ying.”
“Hot dog!” Harry shouted. “Man, that’s cool!”
“Thank you, Noel.” Lew clicked his beer can against the mouthpiece.
“Women’s Lib, wait for me,” said Jo.
“A man is like a bad television comic and straight man combined,” said Shirley. “Roaring at his own jokes. Grinning like an ape. And puffed up . . .” She stopped.
“Like a popover,” said Jo, “and just as full of hot air.”
“That’s right, and hollow underneath!” Shirley said, and snickered.
“That’s not an epigram,” said Harry.
“More like minestrone soup.”
“Shirley, can’t you just see them? Lying flat on their backs grinning like happy idiots. Alternate straight men and comics just like you said.”
“Right. Their own best friends and kindest critics.”
“Noel,” said Lew, “we seem to have blundered into the wrong drawing room.”
“Afraid so, George Bernard.”
“All right, wise guys,” Shirley said. “You’re so good, what’re you going to do to entertain us, this is supposed to be a party?”
“Entertain you?” said Harry.
“That’s right, Noel. This scintillating company has us tingling with anticipation. Right, Jo?”
“Tingling or numb.”
“Lew, now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party.”
“What about a little bridge? I’ll phone Mr. Loeffler in the next building, get him to shuffle a deck, and deal out four hands. Each of us phones him, one by one, and he reads off your hand. Write it down, then get a deck, and pick out your hand. All get back on the phone, and we call out our cards as we play them. Finish a hand, wake up Mr. Loeffler—”
“Come on now, George Bernard,” Jo said.
Harry said, “Lew: time out for a conference. Jo and Shirley off the phone for a minute.” They heard the sounds of Shirley’s phone placed on the desk top, and Jo’s on the kitchen counter. Harry said, “Lew?”
“Yeah.”
“Listen.” He lowered his voice, and spoke quietly.
“Okay, fine,” Lew said. “Jo! You can pick up.”
Shirley picked up her phone and Harry said, “Ready?”
“Yeah,” said Lew.
Harry tapped three times on the mouthpiece of his phone, then to the tune of “On, Wisconsin,” Harry and Lew sang:
“On Proviso, on Proviso,
Fling your colors high!
Our whole school is backing you,
Let’s pass all others by!”
“Their high school song,” Shirley murmured. “Can you tie that?”
“On Proviso, on Proviso,
Ever loyal beee . . . !”
“God help us,” said Jo.
“FIGHT! For Proviso High,
and Vic! Tor! Reeee!”
“I’ve reconsidered that offer of cards,” said Jo. “Right now a round of old maid would sound pretty good.”
“Or slapjack,” said Shirley. “Jo, I’ll phone you in the morning during my coffee break.”
“Wait!” Lew yelled. “The fun’s just starting! Jo: Shirley and Harry will hang up for a minute. Then you dial the all-night drugstore in the St. Francis Hotel. When they answer, you say, ‘Have you got Prince Albert in a can?’ ”
“I don’t believe this,” said Shirley.
“And when they say yes, you say, ‘Well, let him out!’ ” Both men howled with laughter.
“Fifth grade,” Jo murmured. “That was the peak of wit in the fifth grade: remember?”
“You must be wrong; it couldn’t have been higher than third.”
Harry said, “Lew, is your father a mailman?”
“Nope.”
“What is he then”—Harry could hardly finish for laughing—“a female man?” The men roared, vibrating the ear pieces of the women’s phones.
“Okay, phone me in the morning, Shirl. When the fun’s died down.”
“Well, too bad,” Harry said. “Always a shame to end a great party.”
“Best party I’ve ever been to,” Lew said. “Lying flat on my back in bed.”
“Well, that’s life, G.B.: at every party there’s a party killer. And in this case two. See you in the morning.” Harry hung up.
The women talked for a minute or so longer, then Jo turned off the kitchen light, and returned to the bedroom. In the light from the little bedside lamp Lew lay nearly asleep, but he smiled slightly and made a small gesture without opening his eyes. His paper hat lay on his pillow, and Jo removed it. She reached up to find her own still on, and took it off. The light out, she lay for half a minute listening to the rain, heavier now, then slipped into sleep.
• • •
&nbs
p; As often in this particular Bay Area fall, the slight rain soon subsided, and seemed to go away forever. For the rest of the week summer returned as though for good. On Monday after dinner, Lew at the sink washing dishes, Jo still at the long paste-up table finishing her coffee, she said, “Tonight’s the Night People, and I’m still leader. I don’t like this just waiting to see what’ll happen. Maybe nothing will, maybe I won’t be able to think of anything.”
“Jo, so what? Maybe in that case we’ve had the Night People Walks. There’s only so much you can do, wandering around at night, and maybe we’ve done it.”
“Wouldn’t you miss them?”
He nodded, smiling, and began rinsing dishes under the faucet. “Yeah. I count on them now. It’s weird.”
“We all do: we’re hooked; Shirley and I have talked about it.” She stood up with her empty cup, gave it to Lew, then stood looking around the tiny kitchen area, her thumb and forefinger rising to her chin, and Lew smiled inwardly, knowing what was coming. Jo liked to organize her next day aloud, and now he heard her murmur. “Eggs yesterday. And bacon Friday.” She kept track of the cholesterol in their diet. “Should have cereal tomorrow. With fruit.” She glanced at the aluminum bowl on top of the refrigerator, and Lew looked, too: it was like being able to read someone’s mind. There were two bananas in it, and he watched her open a cupboard, take out a box of Special-K, and rattle it. There seemed to be plenty, and she put it back. “Milk,” she said, and turned back to the refrigerator. She opened it, peered in, then stooped and began shoving things aside. “Damn.” She turned to Lew: “I have to go down to the shopping center. For milk.”
“Want me to?”
“No, you’re busy.” To herself she murmured, “Better go now or they’ll be closed.”
• • •
An angled parking space stood empty directly before the Safeway, and Jo turned the VW into it, feeling pleased; there was seldom an empty space this close. She walked briskly toward the big store to the beat of “Tea for Two” tinkling from the little overhead speakers spaced along the underside of the walkway roof: as always the store just ahead was whitely and shadowlessly lighted. She stepped onto the green rubber mat with the big Safeway emblem, heard the clunk of the automatic door-opening mechanism and barely stopped herself from walking into the glass of the locked door which had moved only a fraction of an inch. Angrily she stood looking into the vast interior, aisle after aisle in an area as big as two basketball courts, all of it now empty of people except for a man in green uniform shirt and pants shoving an enormous dry mop. She glanced up at the clock on the back wall, and saw that the store had been closed for six minutes.
