Twilight Zone The Movie (6 page)

2

Screenplay by
R
ICHARD
M
ATHESON

Based on a story by
R
ICHARD
M
ATHESON

The afternoon sun was just beginning to fade as Mr. Bloom walked through the doorway.

Miss Cox looked up from her seat behind the reception desk, then nodded briskly.

“Here we are!” She rose and moved forward with a smile of greeting that was as false as her teeth. “I’ve been expecting you all afternoon, Mr. Bloom.”

“Sorry to be so late,” Bloom said. “But how did you know who I am?”

Even as he spoke, he knew the answer. After all, he had given his name over the telephone when applying for admission and told her to expect him on Saturday afternoon. So when a man his age walked in carrying a suitcase, all she had to do was put two and two together. Or one and one. He wasn’t very good at numbers, and besides, it didn’t matter.

Neither did her reply, but he listened politely just the same.

“I formed a mental picture when we talked on the phone the other day,” she said. “I find my intuitions seldom fail me in that regard.” She stared at him quizzically, pale gray eyes narrowing behind the lenses of rimless spectacles. “You’re a Pisces, aren’t you?”

Bloom was definitely not a Pisces, but he shook his head in wonder. “Remarkable,” he murmured. “Absolutely remarkable!”

Miss Cox’s sallow cheeks flushed with pride. “Nothing to it,” she declared. “Just a matter of practice and observation. Working in a retirement home like this, you see so many people come and go—”

She broke off hastily now, abruptly aware of the unfortunate connotation of her remark, but Bloom pretended he hadn’t noticed.

“Enough of that,” Miss Cox was saying. “Welcome to Sunneyvale!”

Raising her left wrist, she glanced down quickly at the watch that rested atop it. “My goodness, it
is
getting late! We’d better get you squared away before it’s time for your din-din.”

Turning, she started down the hall and Mr. Bloom fell into step beside her. An observer might have found them a curious combination: the tall bony woman in the nurse’s uniform towering over the frail little old man at her side. The frail little old man was still carrying his suitcase; Miss Cox had not offered to relieve him of his burden.

As they moved down the hallway, Mr. Bloom glanced curiously through the open doorway on his left.

The room was large, large enough to contain half a dozen beds. Above each was a small shelf and against the opposite wall stood six identical plywood storage cabinets, apparently used to house wardrobes and personal belongings. Beside every bed was a single chair, only two of which were occupied.

“That’s our ladies’ dormitory,” Miss Cox told him. “As you can see, we don’t have a full house at the moment. There were four here until last week, when Mrs. Schanfarber passed away. And Mrs. Tomkins is in the infirmary now. Poor thing. Dr. Ryan looked in on her last night. Says she has viral pneumonia. Just between us, I’m afraid she isn’t going to make it.”

Bloom glanced at the two seated ladies, both of whom were eating dinner from trays set atop the small folding chairs before them.

One wore an elaborate housecoat trimmed with an overabundance of ribbons and lace. It was the sort of garment that might be chosen by a girl in her twenties who had just told a visiting boyfriend that she wanted to slip into something more comfortable. But this lady was at least fifty years removed from girlhood; although her white hair was curled tightly by the recent application of a home-permanent and her sunken cheeks had been heavily rouged, Bloom judged her to be well into her seventies.

“That’s Mrs. Dempsey,” the nurse told him. “She’s a widow.” Now her smile soured into disapproval as she gestured toward the long-haired white cat snuggling in Mrs. Dempsey’s lap. “And that’s Mickey,” she said. “I keep telling her not to feed him from the table, but she doesn’t pay any attention.”

Bloom nodded, staring at the other occupant of the dormitory. She was a plump, neatly dressed woman with dark hair and a jolly expression; the hair was obviously a wig, but her smile was genuine.

Miss Cox followed his gaze. “That’s Mrs. Weinstein. Would you believe it, she’s over eighty and still going strong. Her husband is with us, too. Of course, he’s in the men’s dormitory. They spend a lot of time together, but we don’t have a regular dining room here, so we prefer our residents to take their meals separately. You know how it is. If they all ate together, there’d be too much confusion. Besides, some of them are on special diets.” A slight frown creased her forehead. “For example, the Weinsteins only eat Kosher. You can’t imagine the trouble that makes in the kitchen.”

Bloom nodded again, but listening to Miss Cox’s remarks about the residents made him just a trifle uncomfortable; he felt like a visitor being taken on a guided tour of the zoo by the head keeper.

Now they moved along the hall to another open doorway at the right. He followed Miss Cox over the threshold and found himself in a room almost identical to the one that the women occupied.

“This is the men’s dormitory,” Miss Cox announced. “I’ve given you the first bed here, nearest the door. Weinstein likes the one next to the window—he’s had it for years. Seniority rights, you know.” She glanced along the row of empty beds. “Agee is next to Weinstein and then comes Conroy. And Mute in the one next to you.”

Bloom stared down the row of empty beds. “Don’t the men eat here?”

“Usually they do,” Miss Cox said. “But seeing as this is Saturday, Weinstein and Agee are having dinner with Mute in the recreation room. They like to watch the game on television there. And Conroy is in the visitors’ room with his son and daughter-in-law.”

Bloom noticed that she referred to none of the men as “Mr.” Obviously Miss Cox was an ardent champion of Women’s Lib.

“Put your suitcase on the bed,” she told him. “You’ll find a place for your things in the wardrobe over there. As soon as you’ve unpacked, I’ll have José bring in a tray with your dinner.”

Bloom shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. I had a very late lunch. If you don’t mind, I’d just like to rest for a little while.”

“Suit yourself.” Miss Cox turned, moving toward the doorway. She halted there and glanced back. “I do hope you’ll be comfortable here. If you want to wash up, there’s a towel and a washcloth on the shelf in your wardrobe locker. The men’s bathroom is at the end of the hall. Now I’d better be getting back to my desk. If there’s anything else you need, let me know.”

Before he could reply, she exited quickly, leaving him alone in the room.

Mr. Bloom surveyed it with a rueful smile.
Welcome to Sunneyvale.

His glance traveled across the narrow beds, each covered by a drab gray blanket; the exposed borders of the sheets and the single pillow were white, but they too had a grayish tinge, the product of too many washings and too little bleach. The late afternoon sun shown dimly through windows at the far end of the room, but its rays were not strong enough to dispel the shadows blurring the outline of the shelves above each bed, the woodened-back chair beside it, or the wardrobe cabinets on the opposite wall.

Everything seemed gray here, including the inmates.

Guests,
Mr. Bloom corrected himself. All the residents were paying guests, courtesy of Social Security, Medicare, pensions, and savings. And as long as they paid, they stayed; stayed in their gray dormitory until a deeper darkness descended—the darkness of death. Sunneyvale was no different from the other retirement homes he’d seen; just another warehouse for senior citizens awaiting graduation into oblivion.

Bloom shrugged, then picked up his suitcase and carried it, unopened, to the wardrobe locker. Stooping, he set it down inside, then straightened and squared his shoulders. It was time to go.

The sun was already starting to disappear over the horizon beyond the wide picture windows as Bloom entered the recreation room.

Apparently both the football game and the dinner hour were over, because Mrs. Dempsey and Mrs. Weinstein were seated with the three men on the chairs and settee grouped before the television set. On-screen, an elderly gentleman with a shock of curly hair the color of cotton candy was grinning out at his unseen audience.

“Let me run through that again,” his vibrant voice resounded through the room. “Vitamin A for your scalp, vision, and teeth. Vitamin B for hair and healthy mucous membranes. Vitamin C for the teeth and circulatory system. Remember, C will help keep those lips from shrinking.”

Bloom glanced at the men. One was tall and thin, wearing scholarly horn-rims and a most unscholarly bathrobe; Bloom took a quick guess, deciding that he would be Mr. Mute, perhaps because his mouth was so tightly closed as he stared in stoic skepticism at the screen.

The one seated on the settee beside Mrs. Weinstein must be her husband, so the gentleman in the chair next to Mrs. Dempsey had to be Mr. Agee. At first glance he appeared to be quite handsome and well-preserved for his age; evidently he must have taken a good share of every vitamin in alphabetical order.

But Mr. Weinstein seemed to have neglected his ABCs. He was a bald-headed little man in his early eighties, his face shriveled, thin lips pursed in permanent disapproval of everything his long nose sniffed or his melancholy eyes surveyed.

Now those eyes glanced up at the newcomer, and the lips parted as Mr. Weinstein rose, nodding. “You must be Mr. Bloom, right?”

Bloom nodded. “And you are—?”

“Weinstein.” The bald-headed man gestured toward his seated companion. “This is my wife, Mrs. Winston.”

“Winston?” Bloom cast a puzzled glance as the plump woman in the dark wig rose and extended her hand in greeting.

“Weinstein,” she said. “Sadie Weinstein.” She smiled. “Don’t pay any attention to that husband of mine, Mr. Bloom. Our son Murray, he changed his name to Winston and my husband doesn’t approve.”

“What’s to approve?” Mr. Weinstein shook his head. “Just because he goes into politics he thinks he has to change his name to get ahead.”

“And why not?” his wife challenged. “You think maybe people in England would vote for somebody named Weinstein Churchill?”

“Don’t pay any attention to her.” Mr. Weinstein reached out and patted the plump arm of his spouse. “My wife is a closet
goy.”

The other members of the group had risen; stepping forward, they introduced themselves in turn.

“Welcome aboard,” Mr. Agee said, his handclasp firm.

“So nice to have you with us.” Mrs. Dempsey fanned his face with a flutter of false eyelashes. “I hope you’ll like it here.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bloom.” A look of inquiry flashed from behind Mr. Mute’s horn-rims. “Your first name doesn’t happen to be Leopold, by any chance?”

Bloom smiled. “I’m afraid I can’t lay claim to such distinction,” he said. “I never had the privilege of meeting James Joyce, and I’m not a native of Dublin.”

“You’re from Minneapolis, aren’t you?” Mrs. Weinstein said. “I heard Miss Cox talking with you on the phone the other day—”

“You got big ears.” Her husband frowned his disapproval. “And Miss Cox has a big mouth.” He turned to Bloom and nodded. “Sit down, make yourself comfortable.”

“Thank you.” Bloom smiled, glancing toward the picture windows. “I’ll join you in a moment. If you don’t mind, right now I’d rather watch the sunset instead of television.”

“Feel free,” Mr. Mute told him. “Personally, I’d prefer to curl up with a good book—or a bad woman. Unfortunately, both seem to be in short supply around here.”

As he settled back down into his seat, the others followed suit, their eyes automatically returning to focus on the tube. The man with the cotton-candy hair was offering more words of wisdom to the world.

“And let’s not forget E, the miracle vitamin. If you’ve enjoyed a healthy sex life, there’s no reason why you can’t keep on well into your golden years, thanks to a daily intake of Vitamin E . . .”

Golden years.
Bloom moved to the nearest window, staring out into the sunset. It too was golden, but now its luster faded into gray gloom.

In the street beyond, a group of children were playing a game of kick-the-can, laughing and shouting in the gathering twilight. Bloom smiled appreciatively at the sight. The childhood years—these were truly golden.

Now his attention shifted to the driveway before the rest home’s entrance. Here another group stood before a parked car—a stout, bearded man in his middle thirties, a blond woman around the same age, and an elderly gentleman who clutched a cardboard suitcase in one hand. Remembering what Miss Cox had told him, Bloom guessed the identities of the trio—Mr. Conroy, his son, and his daughter-in-law. He couldn’t hear their conversation through the window but pantomime and body language offered an eloquence of their own.
One picture is worth a thousand words—

The bulk of those words issued from Mr. Conroy’s contorted mouth; words that pleaded, words that begged; and the suitcase told its own story.

“Take me home with you,” the mouth implored. “Let me come just for the weekend” was the message of the small suitcase. “I promise I won’t be in your way—”

The frown on the bearded face and the repeated shaking of the head adorned with brassy blond curls also translated easily into words: “Sorry, Pop. Not this time. We’re all tied up for tonight and tomorrow we promised to take the kids to the beach.”

The daughter-in-law glanced at her watch, then looked up with a frown. It didn’t require any talent in lip-reading to know what she was saying. “Look at the time, Joe! We really have to leave now.”

Mr. Conroy stepped back, shoulders sagging in surrender as his son and daughter-in-law settled themselves comfortably in the bucket seats of the shiny new Cadillac and closed the door with a big-car bang. His son started the engine, then pressed a button to roll down the automatic window and flash a smile of surpassing warmth and phoniness at his father. Again Bloom put words into the moving mouth: “Maybe next week, Pop. Okay?”