Twilight Zone Page 7

  Clothes flying, little Mr. Mute somersaulted across the lawn and came to a stop at Bloom’s feet. At the same moment Mr. Agee leaped to a halt beside him.

  “Look,” he said.“I don’t wish to appear ungrateful, but why don’t you join us?”

  Bloom shrugged. “I find I prefer to be my true age and try to keep my mind young.” His nod included the others as they approached. “But your wish has come true. You’re children again. You have your whole lives before you.”

  A most unboyish frown creased Mr. Mute’s forehead. “My life was so hard,” he murmured.

  “I had a swell life,” Mr. Agee said. “I can do sixty years more standing on my head.”

  “So who wants to live upside down?” Mr. Weinstein smiled. “Me, I was just beginning to look forward to senility.”

  His wife shivered in the breeze rising from beyond the hedge. “I’m cold. Where are we going to spend the night? Where can we go? Who’ll take care of us?”

  Mr. Weinstein put his arms around her. “No problem,” he said. “We’ll just knock on our son’s door and say, ‘Let us in, Murray, we’re your parents.’ Don’t worry—you know how he loves kids.”

  Mrs. Weinstein sighed. “I love you, Harry, but I don’t want to go back and do it all over again.”

  “Now wait a minute,” Mr. Agee said. “Let’s think this over. There’s a lot to look forward to.”

  Mrs. Dempsey was dismayed. “Jack Dempsey isn’t here. I’ll never meet him—” As she spoke, she glanced down at her hand. Then cried out, “My ring! My wedding ring. It fell off!”

  Dropping to her knees, she began to search the lawn. The others came to her aid.

  Hands scrabbling desperately through the grass, Mrs. Dempsey shook her head. “I didn’t really ask to be young again, all I wanted to do was dance! I can be old and dance.”

  Beside her Mr. Mute nodded. “I’m not going to school again,” he declared.

  “School is easy,” Mr. Weinstein said. “But work another forty years? Forget it!” Now he noticed that his wife was barefooted again. Pointing at oversized shoes lying discarded near the bench, he issued his orders. “Put ’em on. Nobody died here!”

  Mrs. Weinstein obeyed, but the mention of death brought a look of sadness to her girlish face. “I don’t want to lose the people I love again, one by one. I remember the night my father passed away. They laid him out and then they sent all us children outside. We saw Halley’s Comet.”

  “I was too young to see Halley’s Comet,” Mrs. Dempsey told her. “I was going to see it when I was eighty years old.”

  Bloom spoke gently. “That’s only two more birthdays, Mrs. Dempsey. Would you like to see it at eight, or at eighty?”

  Mrs. Dempsey reached down and lifted her kitten from the lawn. “Eighty,” she murmured.

  Bloom nodded, then extended his hand. “Look—I seem to have found your ring.”

  Smiling gratefully, Mrs. Dempsey slid the large loop onto a small finger. “I’ll still have this,” she said, “and all the memories that go with it.”

  “Me too,” said Mrs. Weinstein. “In spite of everything, I’m satisfied with my life the way it was. We should take one day at a time.”

  “I agree,” her husband said. “What we got to do is try to make those days a little better.”

  Bloom smiled. “In that case, let’s all go back to bed. Maybe you could wake up in your old bodies again, but with fresh young minds.”

  Picking up the tin can, he moved to the back door and the group trailed after him—children following the Pied Piper.

  Only Mr. Agee seemed reluctant. “Can’t we discuss it? I’m not tired yet!”

  “You can’t go on like this forever,” said Mr. Weinstein. “It’s fun for a while, but who wants to spend the rest of their lives playing kick-the-can?”

  Bloom opened the door and gestured. “In you go,” he whispered. “And remember—no noise.”

  They stepped past him into the hall one by one, tiptoeing quietly. Mr. Mute brought up the rear and as he reached the doorway he paused and glanced up at the tin can Bloom was holding in his hand. “One question,” he murmured. “I still don’t see how you did it. Is there some kind of magical property in that can?”

  “Not really.” Bloom tossed the can away, sailing it through the moonlight to land in the shadows beyond. He smiled.

  “The magic is in yourselves.”

  Mr. Conroy was still asleep when his fellow residents moved into the dormitory. It was only the whispering in the hall outside that awakened him.

  “But I’m not ready to go back. I want to stay like this!”

  Conroy didn’t identify Mr. Agee’s childish treble, but he recognized Bloom as he replied. “That’s up to you. Are you quite sure—?”

  “Positive.”

  “So be it, then,” said Bloom. “But you’d better get back into bed anyway, before somebody sees you here in the hall.”

  It was then that Mr. Conroy opened his eyes, just in time to see Bloom enter, followed by little Mr. Agee. The sight of the child in his oversized garments was enough to bring Mr. Conroy bolt-upright against the back of his bed. Turning, he glanced along the row at the diminutive heads of Mr. Mute and Mr. Weinstein already nestling on their pillows.

  “I don’t believe it!” said Mr. Conroy.

  Ignoring the restraining wave of Bloom’s hand, he jumped out of bed and raced out into the hall.

  The door to the men’s dormitory was closed when Mr. Conroy returned. Miss Cox, clad in a frilly negligee, stumbled behind him.

  “It wasn’t a dream—I saw them!” Mr. Conroy’s voice echoed through the corridor. “Kids! Kids in the beds!”

  Miss Cox shook her head in disbelief until her curlers rattled. Sighing, she opened the door and peered inside.

  Mr. Mute, Mr. Weinstein, and Bloom lay sound asleep, their lined, familiar faces pressed against the pillows. Mr. Agee’s bed was also occupied, although he’d pulled the covers up over his head.

  Now Mr. Conroy quailed before Miss Cox’s accusing stare.

  “But they were kids!” he faltered.

  “You had a nightmare.” Miss Cox’s voice softened into weary resignation as she took the old man by his arm. “Come on, back to bed with you.” She led Mr. Conroy into the room, and it was then that Mr. Agee’s bed erupted.

  With a whirl of scattering blankets, young Mr. Agee bounded upward. Using the bed as a trampoline, he bounced up and down upon it, then jumped to the windowsill in a leap that would have made Douglas Fairbanks proud of him.

  Raising the window, he turned and nodded at Miss Cox.

  “Welcome to Sherwood Forest, m’lady!” He grinned at Mr. Conroy. “How now, Sir Guy, no greetings from you?”

  Mr. Conroy stared in shock, but Miss Cox’s anger found a voice. “What are you doing in here, you little ragamuffin? How dare you—”

  “Rest assured that Robin Hood has nothing but the most peaceable intentions,” Mr. Agee cried.

  Now the others were sitting up in bed, watching as Mr. Conroy staggered toward the child poised on the windowsill. There was no hint of shock or skepticism in his face, only a bitter yearning. “Me too,” he whispered hoarsely. “Take me with you.”

  Mr. Agee’s helpless glance fastened on Bloom, who smiled sadly, then shook his head.

  Mr. Agee stared down at the old man. “It’s too late, Leo. You’ll have to stay with yourself.”

  Miss Cox marched toward the windowsill, fury in her face. As she reached out to the small figure crouching there, Mr. Agee turned and grabbed at a tree branch bobbing just beyond the opening. “Up and away!” he shouted.

  Then, with a swoop, he disappeared into the night.

  Bloom smiled. So did all the others, even Mr. Conroy.

  All the others, that is, except Miss Cox.

  She had fainted.

  The sun was shining on Sunneyvale once again, shining on the front lawn where its residents had gathered.

  From a truck in the driveway,
several young men unloaded plants and rose bushes, planting them in place along the spaded borders on either sides.

  Mr. Mute nodded approvingly to his companions. “We’ll have the garden out in back,” he said. “Let’s put tomatoes along the fence and maybe some squash and those red poppies, the ones that open in the mornings.”

  He turned as Mrs. Dempsey crossed the lawn to the group, carrying a picnic basket. “I packed a lunch for us,” she announced. “We can take a taxi to the lake.” She glanced down toward the white cat prowling at her feet. “I’ve promised Mickey a look at that lake for years now.”

  Mrs. Weinstein smiled. “Let’s ask Mr. Conroy. He can bring his grandchild. Kids love water.”

  From the open doorway of the entrance behind them a wailing voice arose: “Mr. Agee? Mr. Agee? Has anyone seen Mr. Agee?”

  Mr. Weinstein shrugged. “I’ll bet he’s at the ball game!”

  “Or the movies,” Mrs. Weinstein said.

  Mrs. Dempsey nodded. “Definitely at the movies. Probably one of those Kung-Fu pictures.”

  The old people laughed, their voices rising and clear in the afternoon sunlight.

  Hearing them, Bloom nodded. Standing inside the men’s dormitory he finished packing his tattered suitcase, then picked it up and carried it down the hall to the back exit. Moving into the yard, he saw Mr. Conroy playfully kicking the old tin can across the grass, too absorbed to notice as Bloom hurried past him into the alleyway beyond.

  Only when Miss Cox’s voice rose from within the residence did Mr. Conroy look up.

  “Mr. Agee, Mr. Agee—where are you?”

  Mr. Conroy smiled to himself. “Wherever he is, you won’t find him.”

  Bloom turned and started down the alleyway unnoticed. The last thing he heard was the sound of Mr. Conroy at play, happily kicking the can.

  Bloom walked down the street, suitcase in hand.

  He’d been walking a long time, for the sun was already setting, but now he reached his destination. Pausing beside an iron gate in a high stone wall, he peered through the bars at a wooden sign set before the sprawling structure beyond, reading the lettering—Driftwood Convalescent Home.

  He opened the gate; it creaked behind him as he walked down the driveway to where a woman with a nurse’s uniform stood waiting in the front doorway.

  “Mr. Bloom?” she said.

  He nodded.

  “Good, we’ve been expecting you.” She turned and entered, leading Bloom down the hall and into a large room at one side. Halting near the doorway, she nodded at Bloom, her voice rising through the somber silence. “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. Our new guest has arrived.”

  Bloom stared at a dreary roomful of old people seated in the shadows. As they looked up, he glanced past them, staring through the picture window beyond. Then he smiled and stepped forward.

  Outside, twilight was falling . . .

  S E G M E N T

  3

  Screenplay by

  RICHARD MATHESON

  Based on a story by

  JEROME BIXBY

  The lights in the room were just a little too dim for proper vision, but Mama didn’t care. The music was a trifle soft for anyone who might be a bit hard of hearing, but Mama didn’t care about that either. Most people disliked being stared at by strangers, but this didn’t bother Mama at all.

  Because Mama was dead.

  Mama was dead, and nothing in the world would ever bother her again. She wasn’t concerned about the clumsy fashion in which the mortician had arranged her hair or about his overzealous application of makeup to her sunken cheeks. As a matter of fact, her cheeks weren’t sunken anymore; they had been carefully filled out with cotton stuffed inside her mouth, and two little wires were placed just inside the corners of her lips, fixing them in a permanently peaceful smile.

  Mama was not disturbed by the sickly scent of floral bouquets already wilting in the heat of the stuffy Slumber Room. She wasn’t worried about the cost of the overpriced casket in which she rested, nor was she wondering just how it would be paid for.

  Mama’s troubles were over, and for a moment Helen almost envied her.

  No more problems, no more tears; these were for the living. Standing beside the open casket, Helen Foley glanced up at her sister Vivian.

  It was Vivian who shed the tears. And as usual, Helen was left to confront the problems.

  It had always been that way, ever since Helen could remember. Vivian was the beauty of the family, the little charmer, and when her pretty face was marred by teardrops, Mama did everything in her power to comfort the poor darling and make her happy again. Helen wasn’t really homely, but she lacked her sister’s charisma.

  “Looks aren’t everything,” Mama used to say. “Maybe you’re not exactly beautiful, but you’ve got a good brain. Just use it and everything will be all right. You’ll see.”

  So Vivian smiled and pouted her way through life, short on skills but relying on long eyelashes and girlish ways to win her permanent security—a loyal and loving husband, two adorable children, a good home, and a circle of admiring friends.

  Helen took Mama’s advice to heart. She used her brains, studied hard. Vivian had been the Prom Queen but it was Helen who graduated at the head of the class and went on to a teaching career.

  And here she was, ten years later; with any luck she could continue teaching right up until the day when she would join Mama forever in the family plot at Rose Hill Cemetery. So much for brains and Mama’s counsel.

  For a moment Helen gazed down at her mother’s face, feeling the old anger rise within her. Then she sighed softly.

  No sense resenting Mama’s advice; it was she herself who was to be blamed for taking it, and it was too late to change matters now. Vivian would continue to cry to be comforted, poor little thing; Helen would go on coping, facing each problem as it arose and solving all of them except her own.

  Last week, when Mama died after the operation, Vivian had hysterics and took to her bed, surrounded by her family and comforted by their concern. It was Helen who had to come running to the rescue, go through the grim business of filling out the forms, making the funeral arrangements, handling details and down payments. After all, isn’t that what brains are for?

  Helen sighed again. Mama couldn’t help her now, but neither could self-pity. No sense dwelling on the past; it was time to think of the future and she had already made up her mind.

  Vivian glanced up, her sobs subsiding. “I suppose you’ll be leaving,” she said.

  Helen nodded. “Right after the funeral. No reason to stay, now that Mama’s gone.”

  “You really mean that, don’t you?” Vivian seemed perplexed, rather than concerned. “What about your job?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I don’t even feel like a teacher anymore. I’ve got nothing left to give those kids that means anything.”

  Helen answered without premeditation, but as she spoke she realized the truth of her words. “I’m running on empty, Viv. I’ve got to make the break now. I stayed in town as long as Mama needed me, but I can’t go on here in the same old rut forever. I feel all used up inside.”

  “I know what you mean,” Vivian said. But from the way her mouth tightened, Helen knew she didn’t understand. “It’s just that you don’t seem to realize you’ll be leaving your whole life behind you.”

  Helen nodded. “I do realize it.” She paused. “That’s exactly the reason I’m going.”

  Vivian stared at her in concern. Self-concern, of course; it was the only kind she knew. “But if you go, what about me?”

  “You have your own life—Jim and the kids. That’s not what I thought I wanted, remember?”

  “I remember.” Vivian dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “So what is it you think you want now?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  Helen hesitated for a moment, listening to the soft strings of the piped-in organ music, the familiar melody that seemed to haunt the halls of every funeral parlor. Sh
e and Vivian had probably heard it a hundred times before and the way each of them identified it probably defined the difference between them. Vivian knew the melody simply as a song “Going Home.” Helen recognized it as the Largo from Dvorak’s New World. To be more precise, his Ninth Symphony in E, Opus Ninety-Five. Yes, that was the real difference between the two of them. All those years of learning left her a single legacy—a brain full of trivia, which nobody, including grubby students, cared about, while empty-headed Vivian ended up with everything she’d always wanted, everything she needed for the good life as it was lived in suburbia.

  “Sorry, Viv,” she said. “I guess I’m not sure myself about what I really want. But I know it’s not here, not in Homewood. Not for me.”

  “Well, if you’ve made up your mind—” Vivian shrugged, her voice softening. “I just thought maybe I could talk you out of it.”

  Helen shook her head. “Not this time.”

  “I only hope you know where you’re going.” Vivian sighed again, then brightened. “Listen to what they’re playing,” she said. “I always liked that piece. What did they call it?” She smiled. “Oh, I remember now—it’s ‘Going Home.’ ”

  So that was that.

  Once the funeral ended, everybody was going home; Vivian to her family, Mama to heaven, granted there was such a place to go. And now Helen was alone. Only she and Thomas Wolfe seemed to realize that you can’t go home again.

  She drove along in the afternoon sunlight, music blaring from her car radio. Punk rock, of course; Dvorak was strictly for funeral parlors nowadays. “Slumber Room”—how she hated the hypocritical euphemism! But maybe that was the correct designation for one of the few places left in the world where one could take refuge in the soothing solace of sleep, undisturbed by the ceaseless clamor of savage sound. What kind of sacred music would they be playing when today’s children were laid to rest?

  Helen leaned forward, switching off the music. Hearing it only evoked an unpleasant recollection of the life she fled from; memories of classrooms filled with rebellious youngsters moving to the beat of a different drum, the twang of guitars, the screech of voices raised in dissonant defiance.