The Eleventh Hour

by Sinclair Robert

The picture started, and he was able to examine the unexpected problem he had to face. He had thought that if he could placate Helen enough to go to the theatre at all, they would be on moderately amicable terms. He had not reckoned with her anger at being early, or a quarrel about the money. There was no truce now: far from concurring with any wish of his, whatever she did now she would do only if she thought it would hurt, humiliate, or discommode him. It was essential to his plan that they leave before the end of the picture. Knowing Helen’s distaste for Mary Hart, he had anticipated that, when the star started her final number, he could say, “You’re right, she’s terrible. I don’t want to see any more of this. Come on, let’s go.” But the events of the past twenty minutes had rendered that simple plan worthless. His only possible hope of success seemed to lie in taking the opposite tack.

So after Mary Hart’s second song, which ended in a large, luscious close-up, he leaned slightly toward Helen and whispered, “She’s the greatest thing in pictures.” Helen glared at him in answer.

He was careful not to overplay it. During one number he sat forward in the chair, watching raptly. He remembered the scene which cued in the next to the last number. He took out a package of gum and offered a piece to Helen, which she refused. It was timed so that he was just taking a piece himself when the music brought Mary Hart on to the screen, and he was, apparently, so overcome at the sight of her that he dropped the gum to the floor. Helen muttered something unintelligible, and he leaned down to recover the stick of gum. As he did, he took from his pocket one of the gloves he had taken from Helen’s drawer. Concealed in his palm, he brushed it along the floor for a moment, dirtying it, and then pushed it under the seat in front of him.

Then he rose and tried to devote his attention to the screen, because the zero hour, or moment, was approaching. And he did not know how to handle Helen. He had a sudden feeling of panic; a frightening realization that he must have been mad to think he could get away with this kind of scheme.

The final musical number he had clocked at five minutes, followed by a minute of dialogue leading into the embrace and fade-out. He had determined that they must leave the theatre no later than one minute after the start of the number, for Helen walked slowly; it would take them two minutes to get to the parking lot, and he needed three undisturbed minutes after they reached the car. The picture would just be over then. It was unlikely that anyone would walk out during the musical number, but highly probable that quite a few would leave in the course of that final minute. That was the danger: that some youthful member of the audience might leave at the end of the number, walk to the parking lot in a minute, and be there a moment too soon. It could be desperately close.

But he had to try. If he failed, he might be able to get her to stay for some of the cartoon or newsreel. That would be less safe, but at least it was a chance. The danger was that she would stay for two, three, four minutes of the number, and then want to go. Two minutes — perhaps he could take that gamble. Three minutes — could he? — dared he? Four minutes — that he couldn’t. But what then? Because it was certain that this was his last chance. He could imagine her reaction if he asked her to go to a movie again.

He had been staring at the picture, seeing nothing, for what seemed an interminable time. And then there was a chord of music; before his eyes could focus on the screen, he knew that this was the final number. He had to act — and quickly. He leaned toward Helen.

“I read about this number — this is really what I wanted to see. She made this song, you know — they say it’s the greatest thing she’s ever done.”

No reaction.

Mary Hart sang a verse of the song. He glanced at Helen out of the corner of his eye; she was leaning back in her seat, apparently quite content with what she was seeing and hearing, although it was obvious that this was Mary Hart’s number and there was no way for Tommy Miller to come into it.