Twilight Zone The Movie (7 page)

The car glided down the driveway, turned left, then vanished from view. Mr. Conroy stood motionless for a moment, his eyes following its progress until he could see it no longer. The shadows gathering around the driveway were gray; second childhood has no golden years.

“Poor Leo!” Bloom started at the sound of the voice behind him. Turning, he saw Mr. Agee standing at his elbow, shaking his head.

“Every Saturday, Leo carries that suitcase out to his kid’s car and every Saturday he carries it back again and unpacks.”

“Don’t they ever let him come to visit?”

“Maybe once or twice a year, over the holidays. They do a lot of partying and entertaining—mostly for business, you know. His son’s in real estate.”

Mr. Bloom nodded. “I guessed as much when I saw him smile.”

Mr. Agee chuckled. “You’ve got quite a sense of humor, Mr. Bloom.”

Bloom didn’t reply; he was still staring out of the window, watching as the old man with a suitcase turned and started back up the driveway. As he did so, his shuffling feet encountered the tin can that the children were using in their game. For some reason it had been placed at the edge of the drive and now a small girl was running toward it hastily, ready to kick the can and be “safe” according to the rules of the game.

Either Mr. Conroy didn’t see her coming or else he didn’t give a damn. Noticing the can before him, he lashed out with his foot and sent it sailing across the lawn. Then he resumed his plodding progress up the drive.

Behind him the little girl grimaced in exasperation, then turned and ran toward the rolling can as a boy—obviously “it” in the game—emerged from the street to follow her in hot pursuit.

Reaching the rolling can, the girl kicked it with all her might, her mouth opening in a silent shout, which Bloom promptly mimicked.

“Alley-alley-oxen-free!”

All eyes turned from the television screen now and Bloom greeted their stares with a smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your program. I was just watching the kids outside—guess I must have let myself get carried away.”

“Don’t apologize,” said Mr. Weinstein. “The kind of programs they got on tonight we can do without, believe me. ‘Saturday Night Live,’ ‘Saturday Night Dead’—who needs it?”

Now there was another interruption in the form—two forms, really—of Mr. Conroy and Miss Cox, as they entered the room together, halting just inside the doorway.

Seeing the latest arrival standing at the window, Miss Cox called out to him. “Having fun, Mr. Bloom? Why don’t you come over here for a moment. I’d like to introduce you to one of your roommates.”

Bloom nodded and crossed toward her, wondering as he did so just how much fun Miss Cox imagined he might enjoy just by looking out the window. Perhaps she mistook him for a voyeur. And he hardly regarded the other male residents as roommates; the term would be more appropriate if applied to the youngsters in a boarding school. Unless, of course, Miss Cox was recycling it to do service in his second childhood.

Abruptly he put his thoughts aside to acknowledge her introduction.

“Mr. Conroy, this is Mr. Bloom, our new resident.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Mr. Conroy said. His attempt at a smile was not too successful, nor was his effort to shake hands, for as he raised his arm he realized that he was still clutching his suitcase by the handle.

“Here, let me take that.” Miss Cox snatched the suitcase from his grasp. “I’ll put it away for you. Why don’t you just stay here now and get acquainted with our new arrival?”

She nodded at Bloom. “Mr. Conroy’s first name is Leo,” she told him, then paused, frowning slightly. “I’m sorry, but I can’t seem to recall yours.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Bloom smiled at her. “I haven’t given you my first name.”

“But I must have—”

Miss Cox broke off as the ring of a phone echoed from the hall. With a frown she hurried out, carrying Mr. Conroy’s suitcase with her.

Bloom found himself surrounded by smiling faces.

“Good on you,” Mr. Weinstein said. “That’s telling her!”

The others nodded approvingly; only Mr. Conroy seemed upset and his scowl of irritation was directed at the picture window facing the street beyond. He moved toward it, peering out into the dusk.

“Darn kids,” he muttered. “They’ve been told not to play around here. Old people need their rest.”

Mrs. Dempsey spoke up. “But we can’t even
hear
them, Mr. Conroy! Let the youngsters have their fun. I only wish I could go out there and play with them myself.”

Bloom nodded. “Why don’t you, Mrs. Dempsey?” he said softly.

She started to laugh, then broke off as Leo Conroy answered for her. “Because she’s old, Mr. Bloom.”

Bloom shook his head. “I don’t think we’re ever too old to play. When you rest, you rust.”

A fluffy white pillow suddenly uncoiled on the arm of the chair where Mrs. Dempsey had been sitting. Bloom blinked, then recognized her cat.

Mrs. Dempsey went to pick it up. As she cradled it in her arms, the cat began to purr, and so did Mrs. Dempsey. “What’s the matter, Mickey? Don’t you like television?”

“What’s to like?” Mr. Weinstein cast a sour glance at the screen, as a grinning, hyperactive game-show host fired an inane question at an equally inane contestant. “Why don’t we turn it off? All this racket makes it so a fella can’t think. I’d like a chance to get acquainted with Mr. Bloom here.”

“Good idea.” Mrs. Weinstein nodded approvingly at her spouse. “It’s been a long time since I had a chance to
schmooz
with anybody new.”

“Excellent!” said Mr. Mute. “The trouble with all these game-shows is that nobody loses except the viewers.”

He moved to the set and switched it off.

As the tube went blank, the others took their seats again. Bloom followed Mr. Conroy to the far end of the semicircle of chairs and sat down between him and Mrs. Dempsey.

Mr. Conroy turned to him. “Is this your first time in an old-age home, Bloom?”

Bloom shook his head, conscious that everyone was waiting for an answer. “No. Actually, Mr. Conroy, I’ve been in six or eight of them.”

“Six or eight homes?” Mr. Conroy raised his bushy eyebrows. “That’s quite a record, Bloom. What’s your problem—can’t make any friends?”

Mrs. Dempsey produced a sniff of indignation. “I think Mr. Bloom is a
very
friendly person! Which is more than I can say for some people around here.”

Bloom smiled at her. “Tell me, Mrs. Dempsey. If you could go out there with those children tonight, what would you want to play?”

Mrs. Dempsey stroked her cat. “I used to love all kinds of games. Especially jacks. I was the jacks champion in elementary school,” she announced proudly.

“Those were the good old days,” said Mr. Mute. “Kids don’t play jacks anymore. Now they’re only interested in jocks.”

Mrs. Dempsey uttered a surprisingly girlish giggle. “But you know, if I could still tell my body what to do, I would dance.”

Mr. Agee rose and crossed to her, extending his hand. “I would be honored to have this dance, Mrs. Dempsey.”

Mrs. Dempsey giggled again and started to rise, then winced in sudden pain and slumped back again.

“What’s the matter?” Mr. Agee bent over her solicitously.

“Just a shooting pain.” Mrs. Dempsey shook her head, embarrassed. “I think it’s my arthuritis.”

“Arthritis,” Mr. Weinstein corrected. “Since when do you go around calling diseases by their first name?”

Everyone laughed—everyone except Mr. Conroy. “Speak for yourself,” he said. “When you’ve got as many aches and pains as I have, you get to know them personally.”

“Don’t remind me.” Mrs. Weinstein glanced at Bloom. “I would like to run again. What I wouldn’t give to play jump rope once more.”

Mr. Agee nodded. “What I wouldn’t give to just be hitting puberty again!”

“Sex!” Mr. Conroy muttered. “Is that all you ever think about?”

“So what’s wrong with thinking?” Mrs. Weinstein reached out and took her husband’s hand. “Maybe that’s one game I can’t play anymore, but believe me, I’ve got some beautiful memories.”

“Stop already.” Mr. Weinstein squeezed her hand. “You’ve had a full life, sweetheart. Don’t get sloppy on me now.” Glancing down, he noticed his wife’s shoes resting beside the settee and pointed at them. “Put those back on. A good Jew only goes barefoot when someone has died.”

Mrs. Weinstein shrugged. “I’m not that orthodox.”

“I am,” Mr. Weinstein said firmly. “Put ’em on before you catch cold.”

Bloom leaned forward to address him. “What were you like as a boy, Mr. Weinstein?”

“Me?” Mr. Weinstein smiled. “I loved to climb—anything you can name, I climbed it. Like a cat I could climb.”

Mr. Agee chimed in, nodding. “I always wanted to be Douglas Fairbanks.”

“You still do, Mr. Agee.” Mrs. Dempsey giggled again.

“Did you know Douglas Fairbanks was half Jewish?” Mr. Weinstein said. “His real name was Ullman.”

Mr. Agee ignored him, lost in the depth of fond recollection. “I broke more bedsprings by leaping from my dresser to the bed and out the window.”

Again there was laughter from the group and again Mr. Conroy abstained. It was obvious he had no intention of joining them in this stroll down Memory Lane.

“Have it your way,” he said. “Me, I
like
being old.” He stared at the group defiantly. “And when I go, my son promised to have me frozen.”

“You already are frozen, popsicle-head!” Mr. Weinstein declared. He started to laugh at his own joke, then began to cough. Mrs. Weinstein slapped him on the back.

“Watch it, Harry,” she chided. “Remember your emphysema.”

“She’s right.” Mr. Conroy nodded grimly. “Face the facts. We’d all be better off if we remember what we are today, instead of what happened sixty—seventy years ago.”

But Mrs. Dempsey ignored him. As the coughing spell ended, she glanced at Bloom. “What about you?” she asked. “What did you play?”

Bloom smiled. “Kick-the-can was my game.”

“That was mostly for boys,” Mrs. Dempsey said. “My late husband, Jack Dempsey—not the fighter, Mr. Bloom—Jack Dempsey was the most gentle man who ever walked this earth—he loved that game.”

Mr. Conroy fidgeted in his chair. “What’s the point of all this talk? Why are you dredging up the past, Bloom? This isn’t healthy.”

But Mrs. Dempsey ignored him. “Like I was saying, Mr. Bloom, he just loved that game. His mother would bean him if she caught him playing. Ruined his shoes, she said.”

“Marbles.” Mr. Weinstein nodded, taking a ride on his own train of recollections. “There was a game for you!”

“Do you still remember what those marbles were called?” Mr. Agee asked.

Mr. Weinstein gestured quickly. “Don’t say it—I’m thinking. Agates. Purees. And laggars—”

Mrs. Dempsey sighed. “It was so nice, being a child. There was nothing to worry about because people always took care of me.”

“They take care of you here.” Mr. Conroy offered a smile dipped in vinegar. “Miss Cox takes great care of you, doesn’t let you do a thing.”

Mrs. Dempsey wasn’t listening. “I had lots of friends and ever so many toys—”

“Toys?” Mr. Conroy’s voice rose, insistent upon her attention. “They’ve got toys here that will last you for the rest of your life. Oxygen tanks, respirators, bedpans, the whole works.” There was vinegar in his voice now. “You want friends? Mr. Bloom here is trying to make friends—trying to stir them all up, aren’t you, Bloom?”

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.