Three by Finney

by Jack Finney

  At the 7-Eleven half a mile back down the service road at the foot of Ricardo, Jo walked to the refrigerator to get her milk, irritated at herself for having to shop here and pay fifteen cents more than she’d have paid at Safeway for the same quart of milk. At the counter the clerk reluctantly put aside the TV Guide he’d been reading to punch out the price on the register while Jo stood finding her wallet in her purse. Beside her stood a cardboard display basket filled with green bottles, their necks wrapped in gold plastic foil. MISSION CHAMPAGNE, SPECIAL$2.29 QT., a printed sign read, and Jo picked up a bottle, and stood staring down at the label as though reading it. Actually, her eyes half closed in concentration, she was calculating in the only way she was able to without a pencil. On an imaginary blackboard she printed $2.30 in white chalk, rounding off the price. Under the zero she wrote 6, and drew a line under that. Compulsively she said it to herself as she’d been taught in grade school: Six times zero is zero; and drew a zero below the line. Six times three is eighteen, write the eight and carry the one. Six times two is twelve, and one are (not is) thirteen. She wrote the thirteen, drew the dollar sign, and read the result from the blackboard. Six bottles of even cheap California champagne, with sales tax, would cost more than fourteen dollars. But the idea that had come into her mind was too good to pass up. Accepting her change from the milk, she checked her wallet to be sure she had enough money, then began lifting bottles from display basket to counter. At home, the kitchen empty, Lew in his own apartment at the moment, Jo walked to the refrigerator, and laid the six tall green bottles on their sides in the vegetable compartment.

  Seven hours later, at two thirty in the morning, Lew and Jo walked toward the driveway, each carrying a Styrofoam cup of coffee steaming in the chill air: instant coffee because Jo had forgotten to prepare the percolator. She wore red plaid slacks, her Irish sweater and tasseled cap; Lew his usual dark blue nylon jacket, blue denims and sneakers, red cap. His other hand gripped the straps of a canvas shopping bag filled to the top with newspaper-wrapped packages which Jo had irritatingly refused to identify, the load heavy enough to pull his arm straight. At the driveway, seeing Harry and Shirley sitting out front on the curb, they turned down it.

  Huddled together just outside the light from a street lamp, they looked up as Lew and Jo stopped before them: Harry in his black baseball cap and green nylon jacket, Shirley in a denim suit, no hat or scarf. “Jesus, it’s early,” Harry said. “And cold. Is that coffee? Or cyanide? I would gratefully accept a sip of either.”

  “Take it all, I’ve had enough.” Jo handed him the cup. “Hi, Shirl.”

  Shirley made her voice and body shiver. “Hiii. What’s on tonight, Jo? If you still haven’t got an idea, I have.” She gestured with her chin at the dark buildings behind them. “Let’s all go in, get into one bed, and turn the blanket on high. Harry, save me a swallow.”

  Lew handed Shirley his cup. “Here, take mine. Two things you can always count on with instant coffee in Styrofoam cups: it’s always lousy and always too hot.”

  Sipping carefully, Harry slowly stood up. “This is good,” he said to Shirley. “It’s called coffee. We ought to get some.”

  Quickly, brightly, the anxious hostess, Jo said, “You’ll all feel better soon: that’s a promise! Come on, now.” She extended a hand to help Shirley up, who groaned and said, “Careful; I’ll break.”

  The winding road silent except for the scuff of their sneakers and shoes, dark except for the greenish patches under the widely spaced street lamps, they moved, straggling, along the shoreline. It had been warm during the day, but at sunset the thick white fog had rolled in, the temperature dropping swiftly, and now the air was sharp, and Lew wished he’d brought his sweater. He felt hollow, metabolism barely ticking over. It was one thing to be up because you’re restless and can’t sleep, he thought, but something very different to be yanked out of sleep by an alarm. The loaded sack was heavier now, and with each step it brushed his leg annoyingly. Yet, looking out across the dark still water beside them, and up at the black, star-flecked sky, he was content and happy.

  “What’s in the bag?” Harry said presently.

  “A big surprise, Jo won’t say what. But it’s heavy; heft this damn thing.” He held the bag out to Harry beside him, who took it, hefted it, then nodded and offered it to Lew again. But Lew’s fists were shoved into the side pockets of his jacket now, and he was grinning. “Your turn, sport.”

  “Anyone can dupe me at two forty-five on a raw, bitter morning. What are we doing out here? Jo,” he called to the women ahead, “this better be good.”

  At the foot of Ricardo Road they passed the 7-Eleven, dark now except for the night light, and turned onto the service road, heading north. Beside them the great lighted freeway stood virtually empty again, only an occasional car flashing past as they walked beside it. Half a mile ahead the large, unlighted, shell-shaped sign of a gas station stood outlined against the lavender-tinged lighting of the shopping-center parking lot.

  They reached the lot, empty now except for a huddle, near the center, of four or five cars and the delivery van of the TV-repair shop. Jo turned in, and, their faces strange in the violet mist of light from the parking-lot lights high overhead, they straggled across the white-lined asphalt, their multishadows branching out from their feet, wheeling as they walked.

  The shopping center was three huge, low buildings of varied shapes, covering acres; under its low red-tiled roofs some eighty-odd store fronts faced a maze of concrete walkways. The roofs continued on down across these walks, covering them; and at intervals along the outer edges of the walks, great square pillars of aged wood supported the roof at the eaves. These massive pillars were entwined with ivy, and Jo thought, approaching it, that this was actually a handsome place, the low roofs and covered walkways reminiscent of early California missions. As they walked across the wide lot toward it, the daytime blatancy of the shop windows now lost in darkness, the place seemed mysterious, inviting, and she felt a surge of hope that her impulsive plan for this night had been a good one. But to Lew, this place, before always busy with movement but shadowed and still now, the low roofline ahead black against a dark sky, seemed forbidding and almost menacing as though aware of their approach.

  Then the silence was gently broken, their heads tilting as the first hint of sound touched their ears. Each step across the asphalt brought it clearer though it remained subdued: a quiet orchestral background to a softly tinkling piano. Her voice pleased with the coincidence, Jo said, “ ‘Tea for Two.’ It was playing when I came down for milk tonight, and now the tape’s come around again.”

  Harry said, “Music. Playing here all by itself. In the god-forsaken middle of the night. Some sort of symbolism here, Lew, if I was awake enough to figure it out.”

  “It’s the way the world will end, Harry. Recorded cocktail music nuclear-powered to play on for centuries after all life has been destroyed. Selections from No, No, Nanette, throughout eternity. That do you for 2:55 A.M.?”

  “I want to go home.” Shirley said, but smiling.

  They stepped up onto the covered walkway, Jo stopping beside a backless wooden bench, turning for her shopping bag as Harry set it down before her. The others stood waiting beside her, facing the bench and parking lot, faces ghastly in the lavender light. They saw a brown-paper sack lying on top of whatever else the canvas bag contained, and Jo opened it and brought out a newspaper-wrapped something, which she handed to Shirley. As Shirley unwrapped hers, Jo handed out others to Harry and Lew, taking the last one herself, crumpling the paper sack, thrusting it down into the side of the shopping bag. Her hand trembled slightly; this whole idea suddenly seemed to her embarrassingly absurd.

  “A glass?” Shirley said wonderingly: she raised it to her face, holding it to the light from the parking lot, twirling it by the stem.

  Jo nodded shortly. She stood unrolling a foot-long newspaper-wrapped cylinder she’d taken from the canvas sack; then they saw it was a bottle. “Open i
t.” She thrust it abruptly at Lew.

  “Champagne,” Harry murmured. “It is. It really is.”

  Lew peeled off the imitation foil, then squeaked out the plastic cork with his thumbs: a soft pop, and a sliver of lavender smoke curled from the bottle-neck.

  “Marvelous,” Shirley said. “Champagne right now may kill me, but I don’t care: I think it’s marvelous. Gimmee.” She held out her glass.

  Lew poured, filling their glasses and his own. Then, standing at the little bench in the strange light just under the eaves of this great dark place, they waited, glasses in hand, looking to Jo for a cue. “Well, drink it,” she said, embarrassed, and lifted her glass in an awkward little toasting motion. She tasted hers, then they all sipped: tentatively, glancing at each other to smile, conscious of the oddity of what they were doing. Then Lew drank again: it was very good, very cold, and he realized he’d been thirsty. “Good,” he murmured, and grinned at Jo. “Damned good after that walk.”

  Harry stood sipping thoughtfully, testing both the taste and the idea of champagne out here at three in the morning. Then he nodded abruptly, and drained his glass. Holding it out to Lew for more, he said, “First prize, Jo. Permanent possession of the silver trophy for leadership,” and Jo looked suddenly relieved and pleased. Lew filled Harry’s glass, he tasted it, nodded again, then glanced up and down the long length of the covered walkway stretching off into darkness at either end. “But . . . is this the idea for tonight, Jo? Drinking champagne at the shopping center?”

  “No, of course not,” she said firmly, sure of herself now. “You’ll see. Lew”—she was hostess—“Shirley’s ready for more.”

  All had second glasses, emptying the bottle, which Lew shoved into the shopping bag, neck down. He unwrapped another, the others watching, grinning. This time he pushed the cork loose quickly, deliberately making it pop. It struck the ceiling, bouncing out of sight, the champagne frothing from the neck, and he poured quickly, topping off their glasses.

  Pleased with the novelty, they stood glancing around them; down the long walkway into the darkness; up at the invisible loudspeaker now softly playing, “Willow Weep for Me” in a guitar arrangement; smiling at each other because they were sipping champagne here at this place at this moment in the deep of the night.

  Once again Lew refilled their glasses, then Shirley and Jo sat down on the bench, two lavender-edged silhouettes against the parking lot. Lew lifted a foot to an end of the bench, and Harry turned to sit down on the walk, leaning back against the store front of The Record Shop. “Well?” Jo said. “How’s everyone feel?”

  “Idiotic,” said Shirley. “Wonderfully idiotic. I’ll never be able to walk by here in the daytime again without giggling.”

  They couldn’t see Harry’s face, but the glass in his hand held a wavering glint as he spoke. “Twenty-odd minutes ago sitting out on the curb I felt like a burned-out dry cell. But sitting here with my third snort of this stuff”—the glass lifted, saluting Jo—“well, here’s to the Night People!”

  They all drank, and Lew said, “Amazing. The first glass was obviously dollar-seventy-nine-cent imitation champagne. Number two was fair; about like Korbell’s.” He raised his glass to twirl it by its stem. “But this is Piper-Heidsieck.”

  “And a vintage year,” said Harry. “It’s a”—he tried to give it a French pronunciation—“formidable little wine.”

  “A charmant, laughing little wine,” Lew said.

  “A snickering, giggling, grab-ass little wine.”

  “Well, then,” Jo said, the hostess still, and she nodded at Shirley beside her, “I think Shirley wants to dance, Lew. Because that’s what this is: a dance. We’re having a party! Complete with music.”

  “My god, of course.” Lew was delighted. “That’s what it is—a party!” He bowed at Shirley. “Ma’am?” Grinning, she stood up; they both set their glasses on the bench and began to dance. This was shopping-center, doctor’s-office music, “classics” from the forties and fifties and earlier, and they danced appropriately, old style, cheek-to-cheek.

  For a dozen seconds, moving within a space of only a square yard or so, they danced slowly. Then as “Willow Weep for Me” gave way to a big-orchestra “Begin the Beguine,” they moved faster, and after a moment or so began to twirl, feet shuffling swiftly, and Harry had to draw in his legs. Down the walkway they whirled for a dozen yards; here a transverse passageway between two store fronts led to the other side of the building and the shops there. Now it was a black tunnel, its other end a lighted square of roadway. They danced to the opening, glancing in, then Lew led them back toward the others. Jo sat watching, smiling, one leg crossed over the other, a foot keeping time. Lew began to feel dizzy, and he stopped the twirling, dancing them back toward the tunnel again, and this time, slightly pressuring Shirley’s back, he led them into it; he’d wanted to the first time, and now he did. Shirley felt good in his arms, he was acutely aware of the light pressure of her cheek against his, and he wanted to kiss her; to move through the dance holding her close, his lips hard on hers. Then, deep into the darkness, well out of sight, and the opportunity at hand, he felt that to do this just here and now would be a small betrayal of why the four of them were all here together. Leading them out to the walkway again, he felt his face flush; he was certain Shirley knew why he’d brought them in.

  They emerged, Harry’s face toward them, and Harry turned to set his glass on the narrow window ledge of the store front behind him. He stood, and made the suggestion of an invitational bow to Jo. “Lovely party,” he said formally.

  “So glad you could come.” Jo stood up from the bench, lifting her arms, and they began to dance sedately. Then Harry stepped back, and began a slow jitterbug. Surprised, Lew saw that he was very very good, his movements slightly exaggerated, parodying it. Dancing in place, Lew and Shirley watched. Jo began jitterbugging too, a little cautiously but doing pretty well, Lew thought. Harry began singing fragments of the verse, pausing during forgotten phrases or for breath. “Begin the Beguine, . . . tropical splendor! . . . Begin the Beguine, terrific mind-bender . . . Oh, let them beginnnn . . . the Beguine!” Then in normal speaking voice, “Yeah, quit horsing around, you guys, and let ’em begin!” Feet shuff-shuffling, jitterbugging in slow, expert rhythm, he sang words and phrases when he knew them, invented others, murmured to and amused Jo whenever he approached her. Shirley and Lew began to jitterbug, but neither really could, and Lew moved them to the bench, and stopped to pick up their glasses, handing hers to Shirley. They drained them, then resumed their old-style dancing.

  The music stopped, and in the short pause they stood grinning at each other, Harry’s and Jo’s breathing audible. Then softly, softly, in the very gentlest of transitions from silence to sound, the music resumed with a slow, orchestral “All the Way.” In the moment before they could resume, Jo said, “Change partners,” turning to Lew, her arms lifting, and Shirley turned away toward Harry.

  To this all danced old style, feet hardly moving. Drifting past the bench, Harry stooped to fill three glasses, swaying in place, and handed them around. Bottle in hand, he danced on with Shirley to the storefront ledge, and filled his own. Then, each couple moving in hardly more than a square foot of space, they swayed to the soft, sweet music, glasses held at partners’ backs, occasionally lifting them to sip over the other’s shoulder.

  Quietly Shirley began to sing the words: “ ‘When somebody loves you, it’s no good unless he loves you, all-l . . . the way!’ ” Jo and Lew began to hum, and Harry whistled softly. “ ‘Happy to be near you,’ ” Shirley continued, her voice true and slightly husky, “ ‘when you need someone to cheer you . . . all the way.’ ” Her voice, the humming, and Harry’s soft whistle joined, they moved to the quiet music in what seemed like a single moment held and prolonged. “ ‘Taller . . . than the tallest tree is,’ ” Shirley sang, “ ‘that’s how it’s got to be. Deeper . . . than the deep blue sea is, that’s how deep it goes if it’s real.’ �
�� And now at the chorus—glasses in hand, bodies swaying, violet-tinged faces bemused, the prolonged moment magical—they joined in the words. “ ‘when somebody needs you, it’s no good unless she needs you, all-l . . . the w—’ ”

  The moment was shockingly destroyed, ripped apart like an explosion by a voice: “What the hell you think you’re doin’!”—it was harsh with ill-will. An achingly bright layer of new white light clung to Shirley’s face like another skin: blinking, squinting, backing away, she tried to swing her astonished, frightened face out of it, but it followed maliciously. As Harry swung around to face the voice behind the glare, the beam swept off Shirley’s face onto his, but he didn’t move to step out of it. Staring into it without blinking, his voice suddenly gone hoarse and deep, Harry said, “Take that god-damned light out of my face or I’ll knock it out,” but it continued to hang waveringly to his face and shoulders, and Harry turned to set his glass on the store-front ledge. As he swung back, his face set, the light dropped to his chest, the voice behind it simultaneous: “All right, I said what’d you think you’re doin’ here!”

  Harry’s hands moved to his hips, fingers splaying, elbows belligerently out-thrust. “I know what I’m doing. What do you think we’re doing!?”