by Ray Bradbury
He let her fill in the blanks.
“Hughes Aircraft?”
He shut his eyes and laid his brow against the window to let it cool. “Give the lady a five-cent seegar.”
“I’ll be damned,” she breathed with revelatory delight.
“You ain’t the only one.”
“When the Japs fly over or the subs surface out beyond Culver City, the people painting that building and re-lettering the signs hope that the Japs will think Clark Gable and Spencer Tracy are running around Hughes Aircraft two miles north of here, making pictures. And that MGM, here, has Rosie the Riveters and P-38s flying out of that hangar down there all day!”
Jerry Would opened his eyes and examined the evidence below. “I got to admit, a sound stage does look like a hangar. A hangar looks like a sound stage. Put the right labels on them and invite the Japs in. Banzai!”
“Brilliant,” his secretary exclaimed.
“You’re fired,” he said.
“What?”
“Take a letter,” said Jerry Would, his back turned.
“Another letter?”
“To Mr. Sid Goldfarb.”
“But he’s right upstairs.”
“Take a letter, dammit, to Goldfarb, Sidney. Dear Sid. Strike that. Just Sid. I am damned angry. What the hell is going on? I walk in the office at eight a.m. and it’s MGM. I walk out to the commissary at noon and Howard Hughes is pinching the waitresses’ behinds. Whose bright idea was this?”
“Just what 7 wondered,” his secretary said.
“You’re fired,” said Jerry Would.
“Go on,” she said.
“Dear Sid. Where was I? Oh, yeah. Sid, why weren’t we informed that this camouflage would happen? Remember the old joke? We were all hired to watch for icebergs sailing up Culver Boulevard? Relatives of the studio, uncles, cousins? And now the damned iceberg’s here. And it wears tennis shoes, a leather jacket, and a mustache over a dirty smile. I been here twelve years, Sidney, and I refuse—aw, hell, finish typing it. Sincerely. No, not sincerely. Angrily yours. Angrily. Where do I sign?”
He tore the letter from the machine and whipped out a pen.
“Now take this upstairs and throw it over the transom.”
“Messengers get killed for messages like this.”
“Killed is better than fired.”
She sat quietly.
“Well?” he said.
“I’m waiting for you to cool down. You may want to tear this letter up, half an hour from now.”
“I will not cool down and I will not tear up. Go.”
And still she sat, watching his face until the lines faded and the color paled. Then very quietly she folded the letter and tore it across once and tore it across twice and then a third and fourth time. She let the confetti drift into the trash basket as he watched.
“How many times have I fired you today?” he said.
“Just three.”
“Four times and you’re out. Call Hughes Aircraft.”
“I was wondering when you—”
“Don’t wonder. Get.”
She flipped through the phone book, underlined a number, and glanced up. “Who do you want to talk to?”
“Mr. Tennis Shoes, Mr. Flying Jacket, the billionaire butinsky.”
“You really think he ever answers the phone?”
“Try.”
She tried and talked while he gnawed his thumbnail and watched them finish putting up and spraying the AIRCRAFT stencil below.
“Hell and damn,” she said at last, in total surprise. She held out the phone. “He’s there! And answered the phone himself!”
“You’re putting me on!” cried Jerry Would.
She shoved the phone out in the air and shrugged.
He grabbed it. “Hello, who’s this? What? Well, say, Howard, I mean Mr. Hughes. Sure. This is MGM Studios. My name? Would. Jerry Would. You what? You heard me? You saw Back to Broadway? And Glory Years. But sure, you once owned RKO Studios, right? Sure, sure. Say, Mr. Hughes, I got a little problem here. I’ll make this short and sweet.”
He paused and winked at his secretary.
She winked back. The voice on the line spoke nice and soft.
“What?” said Jerry Would. “Something’s going on over at your place, too? So you know why I’m calling, sir. Well, they just put up the aircraft letters and spelled out hughes on Stage One. You like that, huh? Looks great. Well, I was wondering, Howard, Mr. Hughes, if you could do me a little favor.”
Name it, said the quiet voice a long way off.
“I was thinking if the Japs come with the next tide by air or by sea and no Paul Revere to say which, well, when they see those big letters right outside my window, they’re sure going to bomb the hell outta what they think is P-38 country and Hughes territory. A brilliant concept, sir, brilliant. Is what? Is everyone here at MGM happy with the ruse? They’re not dancing in the streets but they do congratulate you for coming up with such a world-shaking plan. Now here’s my point. I gotta lot of work to finish. Six films shooting, two films editing, three films starting. What I need is a nice safe place to work, you got the idea? That’s it. Yeah. That’s it. You got a nice small corner of one of your hangars that—sure! You’re way ahead of me. I should what? Yeah, I’ll send my secretary over right after lunch with some files. You got a typewriter? I’ll leave mine here. Boy, How—Mr. Hughes, you’re a peach. Now, tit for tat, if you should want to move into my office here? Just joking. Okay. Thanks. Thanks. Okay. She’ll be there, pronto.”
And he hung up.
His secretary sat stolidly, examining him. He looked away, refused to meet her stare. A slow blush moved up his face.
“You’re fired,” she said.
“Take it easy,” he said.
She rose, gathered a few papers, hunted for her purse, applied a perfect lipstick mouth, and stood at the door.
“Have Joey and Ralph bring all the stuff in that top file,” she said. “That’ll do for starters. You coming?”
“In a moment,” he said, standing by the window, still not looking at her.
“What if the Japs figure out this comedy, and bomb the real Hughes Aircraft instead of this fake one?”
“Some days,” sighed Jerry Would, “you can’t win for losing.”
“Shall I write a letter to Goldfarb to tell him where you’re going?”
“Don’t write, call. That way there’s no evidence.”
A shadow loomed. They both looked up at the sky over the studio.
“Hey,” he said, softly, “there’s another. A third balloon.”
“How come,” she said, “it looks like a producer I used to know?”
“You’re—” he said.
But she was gone. The door shut.
Hello, I Must Be Going
There was a quiet tapping at the door and when Steve Ralphs opened it there stood Henry Grossbock, five foot one inches tall, immaculately dressed, very pale and very perturbed.
“Henry!” Steve Ralphs cried.
“Why do you sound like that?” Henry Grossbock said. “What have I done? Why am I dressed like this? Where am I going?”
“Come in, come in, someone might see you!”
“Why does it matter if someone sees me?”
“Come in, for God’s sake, don’t stand there arguing.”
“All right, I’ll come in, I have things to talk about anyway. Stand aside. There. I’m in.”
Steve Ralphs backed off across the room and waved to a chair. “Sit.”
“I don’t feel welcome.” Henry sat. “You have any strong liquor around this place?”
“I was just thinking that.” Steve Ralphs jumped, ran into the kitchen, and a minute later returned with a tray, a bottle of whiskey, two glasses, and some ice. His hands were trembling as he poured the liquor.
“You look shaky,” said Henry Grossbock. “What’s wrong?”
“Don’t you know, can’t you guess? Here.”
Henry took the glass. “
You sure poured me a lot.”
“You’re going to need it. Drink.”
They drank and Henry examined his coat front and his sleeves.
“You still haven’t told me where I am going,” he said, “or have I been there already? I don’t usually dress this way except for concerts. When I stand up there before an audience, well, one desires respect. This is very good scotch. Thanks. Well?”
He stared at Steve Ralphs with a steady and penetrating stare.
Steve Ralphs gulped half of his drink and put it down and shut his eyes. “Henry, you’ve already been to a far place and just come back, for God’s sake. And now you’ll have to return to that place.”
“What place, what place, stop the riddles!”
Steve Ralphs opened his eyes and said, “How did you get here? Did you take a bus, hire a taxi, or … walk from the graveyard?”
“Bus, taxi, walk? And what’s that about a graveyard?”
“Henry, drink the rest of your drink. Henry, you’ve been in that graveyard for years.”
“Don’t be silly. What would I be doing there? I never applied for any—” Henry stopped and slowly sank back in his chair. “You mean—?”
Steve Ralphs nodded. “Yes, Henry.”
“Dead? And in the graveyard? Dead and in the graveyard four years? Why didn’t someone tell me?”
“It’s hard to tell someone who’s dead that he is.”
“I see, I see.” Henry finished his drink and held the glass out for more. Steve Ralphs refilled.
“Dear, dear,” said Henry Grossbock, slowly. “My, my. So that’s why I haven’t felt up to snuff lately.”
“That’s why, Henry. Let me catch up.” Steve Ralphs poured more whiskey in his own glass and drank.
“So that’s why you looked so peculiar when you opened the door just now—”
“That’s why, Henry.”
“Sorry. I really didn’t mean—”
“Don’t get up, Henry. You’re here now.”
“But under the circumstances—”
“It’s all right. I’m under control. And even given the circumstances, you were always my best friend and it’s nice, in a way, to see you again.”
“Strange. I wasn’t shocked to see you.”
“There’s a difference, Henry. I mean, well—”
“You’re alive, and I’m not, eh? Yes, I can see that. Hello, I must be going.”
“What?”
“Groucho Marx sang a song with that title.”
“Oh, yeah. Sure.”
“Marvelous man. Funny. Is he still around? Did he die, too?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Don’t be afraid. I’m not. Don’t know why. Just now.” Henry Grossbock sat up straight. “To business.”
“What business?”
“Told you at the front door. Important. Must tell. I am very upset.”
“So was I, but this liquor does wonders. Okay, Henry, shoot.”
“The thing is—” Henry Grossbock said, finishing his second drink quickly, “my wife is neglecting me.”
“But Henry, it’s perfectly natural—”
“Let me finish. She used to come visit constantly. Brought me flowers, put a book nearby once, cried a lot. Every day. Then every other day. Now, never. How do you explain that? Refill, please.”
Steve Ralphs tipped the bottle.
“Henry, four years is a long time—”
“You can say that again. How about Eternity, there’s a real vaudeville show.”
“You didn’t really expect to be entertained, did you?”
“Why not? Evelyn always spoiled me. She changed dresses two or three times a day because she knew I loved it. Haunted bookshops, brought me the latest, read me the oldest, picked my ties, shined my shoes, her women’s-lib friends joshed her for that. Spoiled. Yes, I expected to have someone fill the time for me.”
“That’s not how it works, Henry.”
Henry Grossbock thought and nodded, solemnly, and sipped his whiskey. “Yes, I guess you’re right. But let me name the biggest problem.”
“What’s that?”
“She’s stopped crying. She used to cry every night, every day at breakfast, twice in the afternoon, just before supper. Then, lights out, crying.”
“She missed you, Henry.”
“And now she doesn’t?”
“Time heals all wounds, they say.”
“I don’t want this wound healed. I liked things just the way they were. A good cry at dawn, a half decent cry before tea, a final one at midnight. But it’s over. Now I don’t feel wanted or needed.”
“Think about it the way you had to think about your honeymoon with Evelyn. It had to end sometime.”
“Not entirely. There were stray bits of it for the rest of forty years.”
“Yes, but you do see the resemblance?”
“Honeymoon ended. Life over. I certainly don’t much care for the residue.” A thought struck Henry Grossbock. He set his glass down, sharply. “Is there someone else?”
“Someone …”
“Else! Has she taken up with—?”
“And what if she has?”
“How dare she!”
“Four years, Henry, four years. And no, she hasn’t taken up with anyone. She’ll remain a widow for the rest of her life.”
“That’s more like it. I’m glad I came to see you first. Set me straight. So she’s still single and—hold on. How come no more tears at midnight, crying at breakfast?”
“You didn’t really expect that, did you?”
“But damn, I miss it. A man’s got to have something!”
“Don’t you have any friends over at the—” Steve Ralphs stopped, flushed, refilled his glass, refilled Henry’s.
“You were going to say graveyard. Bad lot, those. Layabouts. No conversation.”
“You were always a great talker, Henry.”
“Yes, yes, that’s so, wasn’t I? Aren’t I? And you were my best listener.”
“Talk some more, Henry. Get it all out.”
“I think I’ve hit the high points, the important stuff. She’s stopped coming by. That’s bad. She’s stopped crying. That’s the very worst. The lubricant that makes—what I have become—worth the long while. I wonder if I showed up, would she cry again?”
“You’re not going to visit?”
“Don’t think I should, eh?”
“Nasty shock. Unforgivable.”
“Who wouldn’t forgive me?”
“Me, Henry. I wouldn’t.”
“Yes, yes. Oh dear. My, my. Good advice from my best friend.”
“Best, Henry.” Steve Ralphs leaned forward. “You do want her to get over you, don’t you?”
“No! Yes. No! God, I don’t know. Yes, I guess so.”
“After all she has missed you and cried every day for most of four years.”
“Yes.” Henry Grossbock nursed his glass. “She has put in the time. I suppose I should let her off the hook.”
“It would be a kindness, Henry.”
“I don’t feel kind, I don’t want to be kind, but hell, I’ll be kind anyhow. I do love the dear girl.”
“After all, Henry, she has lots of years ahead.”
“True. Damn. Think of it. Men age better but die younger. Women live longer but age badly. Strange arrangement God has made, don’t you agree?”
“Why don’t you ask Him, now that you’re there?”
“Who, God? An upstart like me? Weil, well. Ummm.” Henry sipped. “Why not? What’s she up to? If she’s not dashing about in open cars with strange men, what?”
“Dancing, Henry. Taking dance lessons. Sculpting. Painting.”
“Always wanted to do that, never could. Concert schedules, cocktail parties for possible sponsors, recitals, lectures, travel. She always said someday.”
“Someday is here, Henry.”
“Took me by surprise, is all. Dancing, you say? Sculpting? Is she any good?”
“A fair
dancer. A very fine sculptor.”
“Bravo. Or is it brava? Yes. Brava. I think I’m glad for that. Yes, I am glad. Fills the time. And what do I do? Crosswords.”
“Crosswords?”
“Dammit, what else is there, considering my circumstances? Fortunately, I recall every single good and bad puzzle ever printed in the New York Times or the Saturday Review. Crossword. Short nickname, three letters, for Tutankhamen. Tut! Four letters, one of the Great Lakes. Erie! Easy, that one. Fourteen letters, old Mediterranean capital. Hell. Constantinople!”
“Five letters. Word for best pal, good friend, fine husband, brilliant violinist.”
“Henry?”
“Henry. You.” Steve Ralphs smiled, lifted his glass, drank.
“That’s my cue to grab my hat and leave. Oh, I didn’t bring a hat. Well, well.”
Steve Ralphs suddenly swallowed very hard.
“What’s this?” said Henry, leaning forward, listening.
“A repressed sob, Henry.”
“Good! That’s better. Warms the old heart, that does. I don’t suppose you could—”
“Suppress a few more sobs, once or twice a week for the next year?”
“I hesitate to ask—”
“I’ll try, Henry.” Another mysterious sound moved up Steve Ralph’s throat. He hastened to lid it with whiskey. “Tell you what. I’ll call Evelyn, say I’m writing a book about you, need some of your personal books, notes, golf clubs, spectacles, the lot, bring them here, and, well, once a week, anyway, look them over, feel sad. How’s that sound?”
“That’s the ticket, or what are friends for?” Henry Grossbock beamed. There was color in his cheeks. He drank and stood up.
At the door, Henry turned and peered into Steve Ralph’s face.
“Dear me, dear me, are those tears?”
“I think so, Henry.”
“Well now, that’s more like it. Not Evelyn’s of course, and you’re not heaving great sobs. But it’ll do. Much thanks.”
“Don’t mention it, Henry.”
“Well.” Henry opened the door. “See you around.”
“Not too soon, Henry.”
