Twilight Zone Page 6

  Frowning, Mr. Mute attempted a diversion. He leaned forward quickly, addressing Mr. Weinstein. “What were the clay marbles called, Harry?”

  For a moment Mr. Weinstein sat silent. So did the others, as the impact of Mr. Conroy’s words hit home.

  Mr. Agee tried again. “Well, Harry?”

  Mr. Weinstein shrugged his shoulders and expelled a sigh of misery. “I don’t know. I can’t remember anymore.”

  Bloom leaned forward. “Sure you can,” he said. “The clays ones were emis.”

  “That’s right.” Mr. Weinstein looked up, nodding gratefully. “Emis. Now I remember!” He smiled. “Thank you, Bloom, you’re a real mensch.”

  Bloom glanced thoughtfully at the semicircle of faces, capturing their attention as he spoke. “The day we stopped playing is the day we started getting old. We started watching clocks, watching for the days to hurry up and end, counting weeks and months and years as if they would last forever. We never realized our time would run out, and that’s where we made our mistake.”

  He nodded slowly. “We never should have started counting, never been in such a hurry to grow up, because once the counting begins, it never stops. The clock keeps right on going, ticking your life away. But when we played, we weren’t worried about time. We always had something else to look forward to—another chance to hide, another turn at bat, another game of kick-the-can—”

  He halted, eyes searching their faces in the silence. “So who’s playing?”

  Mr. Weinstein blinked at him, startled. “What?”

  Bloom smiled. “I’m starting up a game of kick-the-can! Who’s playing?”

  Mr. Conroy shook his head. “When’s the last time you fell down and couldn’t get up by yourself, pal? How dare you ask anybody to go out there and risk the little bit of life they have left in them!”

  “All life is a risk, Mr. Conroy. I’m not asking anybody to do what I’m not willing to do. But maybe if we played, we might get a hold on that thing we’re all missing—a little hold on youth.”

  Mr. Conroy gestured contemptuously toward his companions. “Look at them,” he muttered. “Their bones will break if they try to run. Their hearts are old. Their lungs are old.”

  Mrs. Dempsey glanced up timidly. “Miss Cox would never allow us to go outside and play, Mr. Bloom. It’s against the rules.”

  “Rules!” Mr. Bloom shook his head. “Did you ever try to stop a child? Are you going to let rules stop you from the chance of being young again?”

  Now Bloom reached into his jacket pocket. When it emerged he was holding an object that brought startled gasps from the semicircle.

  Resting against the palm of his hand was a tin can. Ignoring their stares, ignoring their exclamations of surprise, he reached into his pocket again. Pulling out a handkerchief he began to polish the surface of the empty can.

  It was only then that he glanced up, nodding. “This old man still has a little magic left in him. If you believe, I think I can promise to make you feel like children again.”

  Mr. Conroy snickered. “You’re making promises that they can’t keep, Bloom.”

  Bloom didn’t reply; he was already turning to the others. “I want to see you dance, Mrs. Dempsey. And you, Mr. Weinstein—how would you like to be able to climb again?”

  Mr. Weinstein nodded. “Like a cat I could climb.”

  Bloom rose. “Let’s break the rules. What can they take away from us that we haven’t already lost?”

  As his challenge echoed, it was greeted with a quick exchange of glances, followed by a hushed, expectant silence.

  “Well, what do you say?” Mr. Bloom nodded. “Don’t waste time, or time will waste you.”

  Mr. Agee cleared his throat. “When were you thinking of playing?” he asked.

  Bloom held up the tin can, its polished surface gleaming beneath the light.

  “Tonight,” he said.

  Again the exchange of glances—again the hush of anticipation.

  Mr. Weinstein glanced toward the window; the street beyond was almost invisible in the darkness. “You mean right now?” He shook his head sadly. “If Miss Cox should see us, she’ll lock us up and throw the key away.”

  “That’s not the game plan,” Bloom told him. “What I suggest is that we all go to bed until midnight. Then, after we make sure Miss Cox is sound asleep, we can tiptoe out—”

  “Marvelous!” Mrs. Weinstein clapped her hands.

  Mr. Mute was nodding. “I agree! Just thinking about it is enough to make my skin tingle!”

  Mr. Weinstein shook his head. “Remember what it says in the Talmud,” he murmured. “Nobody loves a smart-guy.”

  Now he turned, joining his wife, Mrs. Dempsey, and Mr. Agee as they stood clustered before Bloom.

  There was an almost palpable excitement radiating through the room. Mr. Mute stepped up behind him, reaching out to touch the tin can with tingling fingers.

  “You’re not putting us on, Mr. Bloom?” he said. “Do you really think we can get away with it without being caught?”

  “Not a chance!”

  Mr. Conroy’s voice was scornful. He sat stubbornly in his chair, shaking his head as they turned to stare at him. “I’ve got five bucks that says none of you old crocks can still keep your eyes open after ten o’clock!”

  Bloom smiled. “Don’t worry about that—I’m a regular night owl.” He turned his attention to the group before him. “Why don’t you all try to sleep for a few hours? When the time comes, I’ll drop around and let you know.”

  Mr. Conroy grunted. “Don’t bother to wake me up,” he said. “I may be old, but I’m not senile enough to crawl out of bed in the middle of the night just to play some fool kid’s game.”

  For a moment the group’s decision wavered in the balance. Then Mr. Mute nodded at Bloom. “See you later,” he said. Turning, he gestured to his fellow resident.

  “Let’s go,” he murmured. “It’s time for all of us fools to get some rest before the game.”

  Mr. Conroy sat alone in the recreation room, watching the ten o’clock news. He always watched the news before going to bed and he wasn’t going to miss it now just because of this nonsense tonight.

  He still didn’t understand how the others could fall for such foolishness. They ought to act their age. If those idiots thought that playing some kid’s game at midnight would make them feel young again, then maybe they’d have to learn the hard way. Nobody can turn the clock back. It was just wishful thinking. They wanted youth, but all they would get out of this was a broken hip, a stroke, maybe a heart attack.

  The whole idea was crazy. They must be crazy, too—listening to somebody like Bloom—because he was the craziest of them all.

  For a moment he wondered if he ought to inform Miss Cox that she was harboring a lunatic under her roof. Then he dismissed the notion with a shrug. Why should he do her any favors? Let her find out the hard way, too. What anyone else did was their business.

  His business was to watch the news so that he could be sure of getting a good night’s sleep. Other people counted sheep, but Mr. Conroy had found a method of his own. He watched the news and kept count of the day’s events.

  Listening to the commentator, he made a tally on his mental score-card: three murders . . . two rapes . . . six muggings . . . one armed robbery . . . one tornado, one explosion, several floods and famines . . . three fires, two of which were obviously arson . . . plus, as a final bonus, four wars and a revolutionary uprising.

  Not bad for one evening; just thinking about what went on in the outside world was enough to make you welcome sleep.

  Satisfied, Mr. Conroy rose, switched off the television, and shuffled down the hall.

  When he reached the dormitory, he was greeted by the snores of his fellow residents. Quietly, he undressed in darkness so as not to disturb them. The only sound rising above the even snores was a faint plop as he dropped his teeth into a glass of water on the shelf above his bed. Then he scrunched down beneath the covers an
d in a matter of moments his own snore joined the chorus.

  It had not been easy for Mr. Weinstein to fall asleep. Usually he went out like a light the moment his head touched the pillow, but tonight was different. So much had happened and there was so much to think about.

  Of course, this fella Bloom was a meshuganah, but it didn’t matter. Not for one minute could Mr. Weinstein believe that climbing out of his nice warm bed to play kick-the-can in the middle of the night was going to make anyone feel young again; for people his age the Fountain of Youth had been turned off long ago. But at least he was willing to go along with the idea, if only to break the monotony. Maybe Bloom was a genuine eighteen-carat nutzo, but at least he was bringing them a little action, giving them something new to think about, opening the windows and letting in a little fresh air.

  So what if Bloom couldn’t really make them young again? Maybe just doing something different would make them feel younger for a little while, help take away the boredom.

  That was the worst part of getting old, Mr. Weinstein decided. You got used to being bored, used to just sitting all day while the world changed. After a while you didn’t even notice the changes anymore; then all of a sudden you looked around and everything was different. Now all the boys were named David and all the girls were Jennifers.

  But one thing didn’t change: kids still had their youth, their strength, their health; and Mr. Weinstein envied them for that. As for him, all he had was a bad heart—and poor Sadie, complaining about her back pains. Funny; everybody seems to complain about back pains and nobody even mentions front pains. Go figure that one out. Mr. Weinstein was still figuring as he fell asleep.

  In the women’s dormitory, Mrs. Dempsey was already sleeping with Mickey curled up beside her pillow. In her dream the white cat suddenly turned into her husband Jack, and Mrs. Dempsey snuggled up with him. Somewhere along the line Jack Dempsey turned into Clark Gable, but Mrs. Dempsey didn’t mind.

  Mr. Agee wasn’t dreaming about a movie star in his dream. He was the star himself. A handsome, dashing Douglas Fairbanks, he slashed a villain’s face with the Z of Zorro, crossed swords with the Three Musketeers, rode the magic carpet over Baghdad, and swung through the trees of Sherwood Forest with all the ease and grace of Robin Hood. . . .

  Mrs. Weinstein stirred restlessly. If Miss Cox would only give her a room of her own where she and Harry could sleep in the same bed, maybe things would be different. Not that there would be any fooling around—nobody fools around at her age, no matter how many vitamins they take. But at least the two of them could be together, just like they had been for all those years before.

  No, suppose Harry were here—what difference would it make? They probably wouldn’t even talk; the way she felt now, all she wanted to do was sleep. Face wooden, limbs stiff, Mrs. Weinstein slept like a log.

  Mr. Mute fell asleep thinking about mole rats. Somewhere recently he’d run across a reference to these curious creatures, either in his reading or else while watching one of those nature documentaries on television. And now, strangely enough, they came scampering through his thoughts, burrowing into his brain the way they burrowed through the sun-baked earth below the savanna grasslands of East Africa. There, in the warm darkness, they nestled in a tangled drove, venturing forth only to bring food into the pitch-black confines where they lived out their entire existence in half-blind hunger.

  Miserable creatures, leading a miserable life. But just how different was it from his own existence here at Sunneyvale? Crowded together in the confines of the so-called recreation room, sitting and staring half-blindly at the television tube, redigesting memories of the past, shut away from the world beyond?

  Mr. Mute was still pondering the question as, like a mole rat, he burrowed down into the darkness of slumber.

  Miss Cox was asleep, too. Bloom looked in on her for a moment, gently easing open the door of the bedroom at the far end of the hall. The bedside lamp was still burning; she must have dozed off while reading, for a paperback romance rested beside her, its gaudy cover-art displaying the standard frightened heroine fleeing from the conventional Gothic mansion with the inevitable dark-haired and mustachioed hero staring after her.

  Such stuff as dreams are made of. Bloom smiled and closed the door. Then he turned and walked softly down the hall.

  It was exactly midnight when he entered the men’s dormitory and moved in semidarkness to Mr. Mute’s bedside. Bending down, he shook him gently by the shoulder.

  “It’s time, Mr. Mute,” he whispered.

  Mr. Mute opened his eyes and sat up, throwing back his covers. He was fully clothed; the discarded bathrobe rested on the chair beside him.

  Bloom stared at him approvingly. “I see you’re dressed for the occasion,” he murmured. “What about the others?”

  Mr. Mute nodded. “They all went to bed with their clothes on, at my suggestion.” He glanced toward the sleeping forms in the beds beside him. “All but Conroy. He must have come in later, but I see he’s wearing his pajamas.”

  “Try not to disturb him,” Bloom said. “Now, if you’ll just wake the others, I’ll go down the hall and see if the ladies are ready. We’ll meet outside on the back lawn. I’ve been scouting around for a good place and that seems to be the safest.”

  “Excellent.” Mr. Mute reached for his glasses on the shelf above the bed. “See you in a few minutes.”

  When Bloom stepped out onto the back lawn, he found the others already waiting. Carrying the tin can, he moved to the center of the greensward, beckoning the others to follow him.

  “All set?” he asked.

  “Ready to go.” Mr. Agee winked at Mrs. Dempsey.

  She nodded, cradling the cat against her shoulder.

  Mr. Weinstein shrugged. “I feel like a schlemiel,” he murmured. “But what have I got to lose?”

  “Right,” said Bloom. “Here we go.” He tossed the can into the air.

  As it whirled down in a shimmering spiral the old people ran for cover, finding hiding-places in the hedge and shrubbery that bordered the lawn on three sides.

  Bloom stared down at the can; then, in a loud voice, he slowly counted to ten.

  Turning, he moved over the bordering hedge at his right and began to search for the other players.

  Behind his back they were already sneaking forward one by one, emerging from their various hiding places to kick the can.

  When Bloom looked toward the center of the lawn again, he was greeted with giggles and laughter.

  “Fooled you this time!” Mrs. Dempsey cried.

  “So you did.” Bloom nodded. “Looks like I’m it again.”

  He tossed the can. The old folks ran. Bloom counted, and above him the full moon turned the night to silver.

  In the dormitory, Mr. Conroy tossed and turned restlessly. Through his slumber the voices of the old people on the lawn filtered faintly. But as their play continued, the sound of their shouts and laughters began to change. Now the shrill tones echoed like the voices of children. “Alley-alley-oxen-free!” someone shouted.

  “Darn kids—” Mumbling in his sleep, Mr. Conroy buried his head beneath the pillow.

  On the lawn under the full moon, a small red-haired boy pranced joyfully, flapping the sleeves and trouser bottoms of Mr. Mute’s suit.

  “Kids!” he cried.

  And kids they were—each and every one of them. Laughing children, clad in the outsized outfits of Harry and Sadie Weinstein, Mr. Agee, and Mrs. Dempsey. Mrs. Dempsey was still holding her cat, but it was a kitten now.

  Mr. Weinstein glanced at the cute little girl beside him. “Sadie?”

  She nodded in delight. “Is that you, Harry?” Reaching out, she gave his cheek a pinch. “Such a little maeskite!”

  Young Mr. Mute clapped his hands exuberantly. “Kids!” he shouted again. “Look at us—it’s really happened!”

  Rolling up his trouser bottoms, a boyish Mr. Agee glanced toward Bloom, who had seated himself on a bench near the back door.


  “Mr. Bloom—are you all right?”

  Bloom nodded. “Certainly.”

  Little Mrs. Dempsey turned and stared. “But you’re still old!”

  “Am I? I never thought of it that way.” He gestured. “Don’t worry about me—just enjoy yourselves.”

  Mr. Weinstein glanced down and shook his head. “Oy gevalt, look how short I am!”

  “Never mind,” Bloom told him. “You want to play, you have to keep playing.”

  And play they did, fulfilling the fantasies of youth under the full moon.

  Mrs. Weinstein and Mrs. Dempsey danced together, two doll-like figures twirling in the moonlight.

  Mr. Agee began a fencing match with an imaginary opponent. Forcing his invincible foe back, he leaped onto the bench on which Bloom was sitting, giving him just enough time to rise before the bench tipped over. Landing on his feet with Fairbanksian grace, he continued his sword fight until he reached the dancing girls. Halting his duel, he winked at Mrs. Dempsey. “Dance with me!” he cried.

  Mrs. Dempsey moved into his arms immediately. He grabbed her close and tried to kiss her.

  She struggled free shaking her head. “Oh, no, Mr. Agee—stay away from me!”

  “Okay.” Mr. Agee grinned, then turned and reached out to embrace Mrs. Weinstein.

  “No!” She shook her head. “Dirty old man!”

  “Not anymore!” Mr. Agee lunged for her again. Still resisting, she turned and called over her shoulder. “Harry! Where are you?”

  Mr. Weinstein swung into view from the overhanging limb of a tall tree, dangling by one arm. He shouted, “Agee, get away from my wife!”

  As Agee released her, Mrs. Weinstein turned and glanced anxiously at her husband. “Harry—your heart—”

  Mr. Weinstein laughed. “My heart? Are you kidding?” Swinging from the limb, he let out a Tarzan yell.