They entered the theater.
The first showing was over, intermission was on, and the dim auditorium was sparsely populated. The three ladies sat halfway down front, in the smell of ancient brass polish, and watched the manager step through the worn red velvet curtains to make an announcement.
"The police have asked us to close early tonight so everyone can be out at a decent hour. Therefore we are cutting our short subjects and running our feature again immediately. The show will be over at eleven. Everyone is advised to go straight home. Don't linger on the streets."
"That means us, Lavinia!" whispered Francine.
The lights went out. The screen leaped to life.
"Lavinia," whispered Helen.
"What?"
"As we came in, a man in a dark suit, across the street, crossed over. He just walked down the aisle and is sitting in the row behind us."
"Oh, Helen!"
"Right behind us?"
One by one the three women turned to look.
They saw a white face there, flickering with unholy light from the silver screen. It seemed to be all men's faces hovering there in the dark.
"I'm going to get the manager!" Helen was gone up the aisle. "Stop the film! Lights!"
"Helen, come back!" cried Lavinia, rising.
They tapped their empty soda glasses down, each with a vanilla mustache on their upper lip, which they found with their tongues, laughing.
"You see how silly?" said Lavinia. "All that riot for nothing. How embarrassing."
"I'm sorry," said Helen faintly.
The clock said eleven-thirty now. They had come out of the dark theater, away from the fluttering rush of men and women hurrying everywhere, nowhere, on the street while laughing at Helen. Helen was trying to laugh at herself.
"Helen, when you ran up that aisle crying, 'Lights!' I thought I'd die! That poor man!"
"The theater manager's brother from Racine!"
"I apologized," said Helen, looking up at the great fan still whirling, whirling the warm late night air, stirring, restirring the smells of vanilla, raspberry, peppermint and Lysol.
"We shouldn't have stopped for these sodas. The police warned--"
"Oh, bosh the police," laughed Lavinia. "I'm not afraid of anything. The Lonely One is a million miles away now. He won't be back for weeks and the police'll get him then, just wait. Wasn't the film wonderful?"
"Closing up, ladies." The druggist switched off the lights in the cool white-tiled silence.
Outside, the streets were swept clean and empty of cars or trucks or people. Bright lights still burned in the small store windows where the warm wax dummies lifted pink wax hands fired with blue-white diamond rings, or flourished orange wax legs to reveal hosiery. The hot blue-glass eyes of the mannequins watched as the ladies drifted down the empty river bottom street, their images shimmering in the windows like blossoms seen under darkly moving waters.
"Do you suppose if we screamed they'd do anything?"
"Who?"
"The dummies, the window people."
"Oh, Francine."
"Well ..."