Three by Finney

by Jack Finney

  “Shirley?” Harry said. “Report, please.”

  “Oh, sure,” she said, shrugging, “I’m feeling fine again: Why not? Pour enough of this into me, and I’ll go back to the shopping center, and dance with the cop.”

  “Right.” Harry returned to the chesterfield, and began peeling the foil from another bottle. “You know,” he said conversationally, “coming back tonight I was almost a little sorry that ducking the cops was quite that easy. Lew, the first few times, when you were out alone, you kind of liked a little excitement, didn’t you; that little feeling of risk?”

  “Well, yeah, except there really wasn’t any risk, Harry. I kind of instinctively ducked one night when a patrol car went by. It was sort of fun—memories of Halloween—sitting in the shadows watching him.” He grinned. “And I did sit on a guy’s porch swing one night. Deliberately. Creaking it a little. Courting a little trouble, I guess. The guy came out, and I had to duck behind a hedge.”

  “You never told me that.” Jo looked at him, startled.

  “I forgot.” He sipped at his drink.

  “Why’d you do that? What for?” She was frowning.

  “For the hell of it. Playing the fool, acting the kid, just out of boredom. For whatever risk, as Harry says, that it amounted to. Which wasn’t much.” He laughed, shaking his head. “I don’t know what I could have said or done if he’d come busting down to where I was, wanting to know what I thought I was doing. Plead insanity, I guess.”

  “Yeah.” Harry sat smiling, twisting the stem of the little wire basket enclosing the cork. “So here’s what I’d like to say, as self-appointed chairman of this little gathering here in the deep of the night under the great majestic wheel of the eternal stars. The young ladies say things are spoiled. But I’m not so sure. What I think would have spoiled things, actually, is if we’d kept on at the shopping center. No interruptions, I mean, no cops. Till we were ready to go home. Would have been a great outing. Best we’ve ever had; all hail to Jo!” He popped the green plastic cork, letting it fly, to bounce off the ceiling. “But it would probably have been the end of the Walks.” He stood, and began refilling glasses. “Because damned if I know what we could ever have done to top it. Or even compare. There isn’t anything much left to do, actually. In the old way,” he added. He sat down again, setting the half emptied bottle on the table, glancing down into the sack. “Only one more. Too bad; party’s going good again: right?”

  “Right,” said Jo; she sat well down in her chair, holding her glass in her lap, smiling lazily—and just a little drunkenly, it occurred to Lew, amused.

  “Beats sleeping,” said Shirley.

  They were companionably silent then, Lew conscious of how very comfortable he felt, slouched in the big upholstered chair. Was he drunk, too? No: they’d only had . . . how much? Over a quart of champagne apiece. But was that a lot, was champagne strong? He had never had enough to know but doubted that he was drunk. He felt only very content, smiling at Harry and Shirley across the room on the chesterfield, and at Jo opposite in her low, deep chair. Content, and conscious of an enormous good will toward these three people, so loving and complete that he knew it was exaggerated. But he was happy to be here, drinking champagne in the deep middle of the night and grinning at his friends, and he understood that he was drunk, a little, anyway. But in a completely clear-headed way, it seemed, strangely.

  He hadn’t seen him get up, but Harry was crossing the room toward him, palm extended. He stopped, and Lew saw two cigarettes, home-rolled, fat and puffy. “No, thanks, Harry.”

  “Come on!”

  “Harry, it’s work tomorrow. Work, work, work! I don’t want to get completely messed up.”

  Harry shrugged, and turned away. “Jo?” She shook her head, and Harry sat down on the chesterfield again. He and Shirley lit up. They inhaled, held it, then Harry let his breath whoosh out, and grinned at Lew. “Hey, man,” he said in a parody voice, “join the scene.” He hopped up, crossed to Lew, offered the cigarette, and Lew took it. He inhaled, and tried to return the cigarette to Harry, but Harry turned away. “Keep it. You and Jo. Shirley and I’ll have the other.” Lew nodded, and still holding the lungful of smoke, he reached forward, and handed the cigarette to Jo.

  They smoked, sipping champagne, talking and laughing steadily now; presently Harry brought out two more cigarettes. Things got funnier. When Shirley merely shook her head at a remark of Harry’s, everyone else laughed in delight at the funny way she did it. Lew felt too warm and unzipped his jacket, but that didn’t help, and he sat forward to pull it off. He had trouble doing it, and when he got it off both sleeves were inside out. He wadded up the jacket, tossed it toward the bookshelves, but the lightweight nylon fluttered to the floor, falling short; he made a kicking motion at it, and the others laughed happily. They, too, peeled off jackets and sweaters, and Harry wadded his up, and threw it at Lew. Both were still wearing caps, and when Lew snatched his off to throw at Harry, Harry yanked off his, they threw at the same time, the caps struck each other in midair, dropping to the rug, and the men roared.

  Harry pulled off his sneakers without untying them, pretended to throw one at Lew, then tossed it, twirling, high into the air. It thumped the ceiling, leaving a smudge, and they all laughed. Shirley was pulling her sneakers off, and Harry stood up, yanked open his belt, unsnapped the top of his pants, and pulled them open, forcing the zipper down. He let them drop, and began kicking them loose from his ankles.

  Grinning, watching Harry, Lew’s eyes were caught by a movement: he turned his head and his heart jumped: Shirley was standing, body turned at the waist, fingers flickering at her side. Was she . . . ? Yes: she shot the zipper, and swiftly, one knee rising, then the other, stepped out of her denims.

  Lew sat hypnotized, staring at the long length of her bare legs. Lovely, lovely, he kept saying to himself, and didn’t know till it hit him in the face that she’d pulled off her blouse and thrown it at him. It dropped to his lap, and he looked up to see her grinning at him from across the room, in snug white pants and brassiere, and he grinned back lazily. “Take it all off,” he said.

  “Yeah. You, too, Jo,” said Harry, voice muffled, and Lew turned. Face hidden, Harry stood pulling off his underwear T-shirt, exposing the mattress of black hair that covered his stomach, chest, and shoulders.

  Lew knew Jo would not take off her clothes, and looked at her, curious to hear how she’d refuse. But without losing a flicker of her contented smile, she stood and began unbuttoning her blouse. Harry dropped his T-shirt to the floor, stooped, and picked up his baseball cap, slapped it across his thigh, put it on, then yanked his elastic-banded shorts down, and kicked them off. “Ahhh, that’s better,” he said, smiling around at the others. Naked except for his cap, he sat down on the chesterfield, and picked up his glass.

  Jo’s blouse was off, hung across the back of the rocking chair, and she sat bent forward to the floor unlacing her shoes. Shirley stood, chin ducked to chest, elbows winged out, hands busy behind her back, and—Jesus! Lew cried out to himself—the brassiere sagged loosely forward. Then she did it: plucked off the brassiere, and Lew saw her breasts, so beautiful, so actual, that he heard his teeth grind.

  Then, realizing, he shouted silently, No, I’m too skinny, I won’t do it! He picked up his glass from the floor, and held it at his chest as though it were a defense. Then he drained it angrily, thinking, What’s the sense of this, what’s the point! But he knew he was angry because he had to do it, and he set his empty glass on the rug, forcing his face to smile, and sat slowly unbuttoning his shirt. Damn Jo: if she’d refused, as she should have, he’d have been able to say no too. He got up, and stood watching his fingers slowly unbuttoning his cuffs, afraid of what his face would show if he looked up at Shirley. But he couldn’t help it: he lifted his head, their eyes met, and she grinned mischievously, standing there in her snug white pants, her breasts full, solid, round as bowls, incredibly exposed to his eyes. With both hands she pushed her pants down off her
hips, lifted one leg and ankle to step out of them, let them fall to the floor around the other ankle, and stepped gracefully sideways out of them, and Lew stood stunned.

  Harry shouted, a single bark of laughter, his arm rising to point across the room at the front of Lew’s pants, and Lew blushed, and quickly sat down again, glancing at Jo. She stood watching him, still smiling as though in a dream, unfastening the side buttons of her plaid slacks: he didn’t know what she was thinking or what she understood. She stepped forward out of her unlaced shoes, daintily drew down her slacks, and Lew looked away, his mind a roar of confusion. For a moment he sat staring at his knees, then looked up: Shirley smiled at him, shrugged a shoulder, and then it was all right. To hell with it, hell with it all: he could stand now, and did, and quickly took off his clothes.

  It was okay. It felt strange, the air cool on his skin, all his skin everywhere, but he assured himself that it felt good and—glancing down at his naked body—that while he was skinny, you couldn’t say scrawny.

  Lew sat down, able to look casually around the room, careful to look at Shirley no longer than at the others. She sat on the chesterfield now, leaning across Harry to take her glass from the table, her back momentarily turned. Facing front again, raising her glass, she drank, chin and breasts lifting, and Lew looked away to watch Harry who had stood and was walking out of the room into the short hall. Too heavy, Lew thought smugly—the roll of fat at Harry’s waist extended around to his back—I’d rather be skinny.

  He turned to Jo beside him, but she wasn’t watching. Frowning in concentration, eyes intent on what she was doing, she stooped to the red-plaid wad of her slacks on the floor; picked up and shook them, then laid them across the chair seat. Then she hung her brassiere across the back of the chair on top of her blouse. This was the way, he suddenly realized, and felt a rush of tenderness, that she got undressed at home in her own bedroom. As he continued to watch, Jo’s face and thoughts focused on her own actions, she stepped carefully out of her pants, white with a flowered pattern, laid them on her slacks, turned, and stood there in the room naked with the rest of them.

  As though only in this moment realizing what she had done, she quickly sat down on the floor, drawing her legs to her chest, hugging her knees, trying to smile. She flicked a glance up at Lew, he saw her eyes, and saw that she was hiding herself from him. She glanced away, then immediately back, and the look in her eyes had become an appeal. Lew smiled uncertainly, thinking that maybe he’d sensed something of what she was feeling, he wasn’t sure. Then he made his smile confident and reassuring, nodding at her, and she smiled back at him, eyes relieved. What they had communicated he didn’t know, possibly nothing, but his smile and nod seemed to have made what was happening all right for Jo.

  What the hell are we doing! he thought in sudden irritation. We’re not a bunch of suburban wife-swappers! Then Harry came walking out of the little hall back into the room so ludicrously naked in his baseball cap that Lew had to smile. Harry had a tan leather and chrome camera in his hands and, still walking toward them, he aimed it at Shirley, it flashed, he stopped to open the back of the camera, and Lew understood that it was a Polaroid.

  Harry peeled off the picture, looked at it, nodded approvingly, then walked on to hand it to Jo. “Free souvenirs for the ladies.” Jo reached up for it, and Harry gripped her wrist and drew her to her feet. “Okay! Everyone up for the class photograph!” He gestured toward the hearth, and Lew watched himself and the others obey, wondering why. He didn’t know how to object, that was why: On what grounds? Their clothes actually off, the possibility of refusing anything lesser didn’t seem to exist. He knew—the champagne, the marijuana—that he wasn’t thinking well, that his thoughts and reactions were sluggish, trailing events by too long to affect them. On the brick hearth they stood accepting Harry’s positioning; he pushed the women apart, indicating that Lew was to stand between them, and Lew obeyed, feeling the fixed quality of his smile. “Okay . . .” Camera at his eye, Harry retreated, bringing them all into frame, then he lowered it. “Let’s see a little life, for crysake! You look like a stand-up morgue. Put your arms around them, Lew! Like you were actually pleased you’re standing between a couple naked ladies. Just keep your hands off my wife’s tits, is all.” Lew carefully put an arm across their shoulders, smiling rigidly. He made his mind blank, simply refusing to think about Shirley’s naked shoulder unfamiliarly in his cupped hand; he drew Jo close, for comfort and to get through the moment. “Okay”—Harry demonstrated a little sideways step-and-kick—“dance step!” Obediently the women began it, a step and kick to each side alternately; Lew had to join or be shoved off balance. Flash! The flare struck his eyeballs and, still trying to dance, bumping into Jo, Lew watched the great blind circles float up and to one side. He was interested: they dimmed, turned maroon, strengthened again, then Harry was pushing the camera into his hands, showing him where to press to take a picture. Lew walked to where Harry had stood, raised the camera, and for a moment watched the three of them, small in the viewfinder like a tiny television, the smiling women graceful, Harry heavy-legged and leering out from under the peak of his cap. Lew pressed the stud, the unreal little scene whitened, then he handed the camera to Harry and in that instant felt the focus of his attention move out of the room, and knew the party was over.

  Harry insisted on one more of the four of them, and using the camera’s built-in timer, took it: the four dancing, and this time thumbing their noses at the camera. Now he could get dressed, Lew thought, and turned to cross the room toward his clothes. But at the join of the heavy drapes across the front windows he stopped, and drew them apart an inch. The street and the sky had turned gray, and a light showed in an apartment up at a bend of the road. The others looked, too, murmuring in surprise. Then Lew and Jo dressed, Shirley bringing out robes for Harry and herself. For a few further moments they talked quietly, looking at Harry’s photographs to smile again, but the strange, glossily colored little scenes seemed already to have receded into the past.

  Outside as Lew and Jo walked through the parking area, two more lights had come on, in the next building, and a Toyota sedan passed the end of the driveway, the driver young, wearing suit and tie. “A stockbroker, I’ll bet,” Lew said. “I think the New York Exchange opens in half an hour.”

  Jo nodded without interest, turning in at their place. “How do you feel?” she said.

  “All right. Kind of fuzzy. Muzzy. Buzzy. But not as bad as I thought.”

  “Me too.” They stopped at her door, and as she found her key in her sweater pocket, Jo said, not looking at him, “I didn’t really like that, Lew.”

  “No. I didn’t either, especially. No real point to it.”

  She opened the door, they stepped in, and now she looked at him. “Then why didn’t you stop me?”

  His mouth opened for the quick, angry retort, but before he could phrase it, he changed his mind: she was right. “I should have, god damn it. Why didn’t I?”

  Instantly she put her hand on his arm. “I could have said something myself; I wasn’t gagged.” Then: “I’m glad I didn’t. I’m too prim, it’s incredible. I’m actually prudish.”

  “No, you aren’t. Not when it counts.”

  She smiled. “Shirley’s lovely, isn’t she?”

  He studied her face for an instant, but her expression was serene. “I guess so. So are you.”

  “You, too.”

  “Of course. But not Harry.”

  “No.”

  Lew walked on to the balcony doors, and as he rolled one open, they heard from far off, across the distance between them and the invisible freeway, the faint diesel whine of a truck. Jo walked forward, and both stepped out onto the balcony, their eyes moving across the graying landscape. She said, “When you think about it, it was an adventure tonight. The cops. Sneaking home over the hills. Even just now at the Levys’.”

  “Yeah.” Lew nodded, wondering which would make him feel worse, to stay up now or sleep for only an hou
r and a half.

  “It’ll be fun thinking about it tomorrow—today. After I’ve had some sleep. Till like noon. Lew, I hope the Walks don’t stop!”

  “Well, we’ll see.” He yawned suddenly, blinking. “Maybe Harry’ll come up with something.”

  • • •

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  • • •

  They didn’t see the Levys for several days. Harry began a trial on Tuesday, going directly to court each morning, so the men drove separately. Shirley and Jo spoke on the phone during Shirley’s lunch hour: the Levys would be gone next weekend, visiting Shirley’s parents down the Peninsula. In the early evening, Lew and Jo drove in to the Mill Valley library for a new supply of books; and each in his own apartment were reading in bed by eight-thirty, asleep before nine-thirty. At Lew’s office on Wednesday a typist unaccountably lost the last two pages of the memorandum she was typing for him; it had to be finished next morning, and Lew worked Wednesday evening at the office reconstructing them from his notes.

  On Thursday afternoon the two couples played tennis, in the way they sometimes arranged. Mostly young people occupied these apartments, no children allowed, and in good weather there was often a late-afternoon scramble for courts as people came home from work. Lew and Harry left the office early enough to beat the worst of the commute traffic, quickly changed clothes, then trotted across the street, rackets in hand, to join the women, who were already occupying a court.

  Lew and Jo against Harry and Shirley, the most evenly matched foursome, they’d learned, they played one long set, the Levys finally winning. Then, still in tennis outfits—the women in white singlets, the men in T-shirts and shorts—they sat on Lew’s and Jo’s balcony sipping cold white wine: behind them Jo had her big recorder playing, the volume way down. She’d prepared a casserole that morning, and put it into the oven just before leaving for the courts. Presently they’d have dinner out here, staying out as long as the fog didn’t come in.