by Ray Bradbury
"It's nothing."
"Head high, chin up," he said, gently. "It's something. 'Because I could not stop for death' is a fine A-1 first-class poem."
"My own poems are so poor," she said, nervously. "I copy hers out to learn."
"Copy who?" I blurted.
"Excellent way to learn."
"Is it, really?" She looked close at Charlie. "You're not...?"
"Joking? No, not with Emily Dickinson, ma'am!"
"Emily Dickinson?" I said.
"That means much coming from you, Mr. Dickens," she flushed. "I have read all your books."
"All?" He backed off.
"All," she added hastily, "that you have published so far, sir."
"Just finished a new one." I put in, "Sockdolager! A Tale of Two Cities."
"And you, ma'am?" he asked, kindly.
She opened her small hands as if to let a bird go.
"Me? Why, I haven't even sent a poem to our town newspaper."
"You must!" he cried, with true passion and meaning. "Tomorrow. No, today!"
"But," her voice faded. "I have no one to read them to, first."
"Why," said Chadie quietly. "You have Pip here, and, accept my card, C. Dickens, Esquire. Who will, if allowed, stop by on occasion, to see if all's well in this Arcadian silo of books."
She took his card. "I couldn't--"
"Tut! You must. For I shall offer only warm sliced white bread. Your words must be the marmalade and summer honey jam. I shall read long and plain. You: short and rapturous of life and tempted by that odd delicious Death you often lean upon. Enough." He pointed. "There. At the far end of the corridor, her lamp lit ready to guide your hand ... the Muse awaits. Keep and feed her well. Good-bye."
"Good-bye?" she asked. "Doesn't that mean 'God be with you'?"
"So I have heard, dear lady, so I have heard."
And suddenly we were back out in the sunlight, Mr. Dickens almost stumbling over his carpetbag waiting there.
In the middle of the lawn, Mr. Dickens stood very still and said, "The sky is blue, boy."
"Yes, sir."
"The grass is green."
"Sure." Then I stopped and really looked around. "I mean, heck, yeah!"
"And the wind ... smell that sweet wind?"
We both smelled it. He said:
"And in this world are remarkable boys with vast imaginations who know the secrets of salvation..."
He patted my shoulder. Head down, I didn't know what to do. And then I was saved by a whistle: "Hey, the next train! Here it comes!"
We waited.
After a long while, Mr. Dickens said:
"There it goes...and let's go home, boy."
"Home!" I cried, joyfully, and then stopped. "But what about ... Mr. Wyneski?"
"O, after all this, I have such confidence in you, Pip. Every afternoon while I'm having tea and resting my wits, you must trot down to the barbershop and--"
"Sweep hair!"
"Brave lad. It's little enough. A loan of friendship from the Bank of England to the First National Bank of Green Town, Illinois. And now, Pip ... pencil!"
I tried behind one ear, found gum; tried the other ear and found: "Pencil!"
"Paper?"
"Paper!"
We strode along under the soft green summer trees.
"Title, Pip--"
He reached up with his cane to write a mystery on the sky. I squinted at the invisible penmanship.
"The--"
He blocked out a second word on the air.
"Old," I translated.
A third.
"C.U." I spelled. "R.I....Curiosity!"
"How's that for a title, Pip?"
I hesitated. "It ... doesn't seem, well, quite finished, sir."
"What a Christian you are. There!"
He flourished a final word on the sun.
"S.H.O....Shop! The Old Curiosity Shop."
"Take a novel, Pip!"
"Yes, sir," I cried. "Chapter One!"
A blizzard of snow blew through the trees.
"What's that?" I asked, and answered:
Why, summer gone. The calendar pages, all the hours and days, like in the movies, the way they just blow off over the hills. Charlie and I working together, finished, through. Many days at the library, over! Many nights reading aloud with Miss Emily done! Trains come and gone. Moons waxed and waned. New trains arriving and new lives teetering on the brink, and Miss Emily suddenly standing right there, and Charlie here with all their suitcases and handing me a paper sack.
"What's this?"
"Rice. Pip, plain ordinary white rice, for the fertility ritual. Throw it at us, boy. Drive us happily away. Hear those bells, Pip? Here goes Mr. and Mrs. Charlie Dickens! Throw, boy, throw! Throw!"
I threw and ran, ran and threw, and them on the back train platform waving out of sight and me yelling good-bye, Happy marriage, Charlie! Happy times! Come back! Happy ... Happy...
And by then I guess I was crying, and Dog chewing my shoes, jealous, glad to have me alone again, and Mr. Wyneski waiting at the barbershop to hand me my broom and make me his son once more.
And autumn came and lingered and at last a letter arrived from the married and traveling couple.
I kept the letter sealed all day and at dusk, while Grandpa was raking leaves by the front porch I went out to sit and watch and hold the letter and wait for him to look up and at last he did and I opened the letter and read it out loud in the October twilight: "Dear Pip," I read, and had to stop for a moment seeing my old special name again, my eyes were so full.
"Dear Pip. We are in Aurora tonight and Felicity tomorrow and Elgin the night after that. Charlie has six months of lectures lined up and looking forward. Charlie and I are both working steadily and are most happy...very happy ... need I say?
"He calls me Emily.
"Pip, I don't think you know who she was, but there was a lady poet once, and I hope you'll get her books out of the library someday.
"Well, Charlie looks at me and says: 'This is my Emily' and I almost believe. No. I do believe."
I stopped and swallowed hard and read on:
"We are crazy, Pip.
"People have said it. We know it. Yet we go on. But being crazy together is fine.
"It was being crazy alone I couldn't stand any longer.
"Charlie sends his regards and wants you to know he has indeed started a fine new book, perhaps his best yet ... one you suggested the title for, Bleak House.
"So we write and move, move and write, Pip. And some year soon we may come back on the train which stops for water at your town. And if you're there and call our names as we know ourselves now, we shall step off the train. But perhaps meanwhile you will get too old. And if when the train stops, Pip, you're not there, we shall understand, and let the train move us on to another and another town.
"Signed, Emily Dickinson.
"P.S. Charlie says your grandfather is a dead ringer for Plato, but not to tell him.
"P.P.S. Charlie is my darling."
"Charlie is my darling," repeated Grandpa, sitting down and taking the letter to read it again. "Well, well..." he sighed. "Well, well..."
We sat there a long while, looking at the burning soft October sky and the new stars. A mile off, a dog barked. Miles off, on the horizon line, a train moved along, whistled, and tolled its bell, once, twice, three times, gone.
"You know," I said. "I don't think they're crazy."
"Neither do I, Pip," said Grandpa, lighting his pipe and blowing out the match. "Neither do I."
Heavy-Set
The woman stepped to the kitchen window and looked out.
There in the twilight yard a man stood surrounded by barbells and dumbbells and dark iron weights of all kinds and slung jump ropes and elastic and coiled-spring exercisors. He wore a sweat suit and tennis shoes and said nothing to no one as he simply stood in the darkening world and did not know she watched.
This was her son, and everyone called him Heavy-Set.<
br />
Heavy-Set squeezed the little bunched, coiled springs in his big fists. They were lost in his fingers, like magic tricks; then they reappeared. He crushed them. They vanished. He let them go. They came back.
He did this for ten minutes, otherwise motionless.
Then he bent down and hoisted up the one-hundred-pound barbells, noiselessly, not breathing. He motioned it a number of times over his head, then abandoned it and went into the open garage among the various surfboards he had cut out and glued together and sanded and painted and waxed, and there he punched a punching bag easily, swiftly, steadily, until his curly golden hair got moist. Then he stopped and filled his lungs until his chest measured fifty inches and stood eyes closed, seeing himself in an invisible mirror poised and tremendous, two hundred and twenty muscled pounds, tanned by the sun, salted by the sea wind and his own sweat.
He exhaled. He opened his eyes.
He walked into the house, into the kitchen and did not look at his mother, this woman, and opened the refrigerator and let the arctic cold steam him while he drank a quart of milk straight out of the carton, never putting it down, just gulping and swallowing. Then he sat down at the kitchen table to fondle and examine the Hallowe'en pumpkins.
He had gone out earlier in the day and bought the pumpkins and carved most of them and did a fine job: they were beauties and he was proud of them. Now, looking childlike in the kitchen, he started carving the last of them. You would never suspect he was thirty years old, he still moved so swiftly, so quietly, for a large action like hitting a wave with an uptilted and outthrust board, or here with the small action of a knife, giving sight to a Hallowe'en eye. The electric light bulb filled the summer wildness of his hair, but revealed no emotion, except this one intent purpose of carving, on his face. There was all muscle in him, and no fat, and that muscle waited behind every move of the knife.
His mother came and went on personal errands around the house and then came to stand and look at him and the pumpkins and smile. She was used to him. She heard him every night drubbing the punching bag outside, or squeezing the little metal springs in his hands or grunting as he lifted his world of weights and held it in balance on his strangely quiet shoulders. She was used to all these sounds even as she knew the ocean coming in on the shore beyond the cottage and laying itself out flat and shining on the sand. Even as she was used, by now, to hearing Heavy-Set each night on the phone saying he was tired to girls and said no, no he had to wax the car tonight or do his exercises to the eighteen-year-old boys who called.
She cleared her throat. "Was the dinner good tonight?"
"Sure," he said.
"I had to get special steak. I bought the asparagus fresh."
"It was good," he said.
"I'm glad you liked it, I always like to have you like it."
"Sure," he said, working.
"What time is the party?"
"Seven thirty." He finished the last of the smile on the pumpkin and sat back. "If they all show up, they might not show up, I bought two jugs of cider."
He got up and moved into his bedroom, quietly massive, his shoulders filling the door and beyond. In the room, in the half-dark, he made the strange pantomime of a man seriously and silently wrestling an invisible opponent as he got into his costume. He came to the door of the living room a minute later licking a gigantic peppermint-striped lollipop. He wore a pair of short black pants, a little boy's shirt with ruff collar, and a Buster Brown hat. He licked the lollipop and said, "I'm the mean little kid!" and the woman who had been watching him laughed. He walked with an exaggerated little child's walk, licking the huge lollipop, all around the room while she laughed at him and he said things and pretended to be leading a big dog on a rope. "You'll be the life of the party!" the woman cried, pink-faced and exhausted. He was laughing now, also.
The phone rang.
He toddled out to answer it in the bedroom. He talked for a long time and his mother heard him say Oh for gosh sakes several times and finally he came slowly and massively into the living room looking stubborn. "What's wrong?" she wanted to know. "Aw," he said, "half the guys aren't showing up at the party. They got other dates. That was Tommy calling. He's got a date with a girl from somewhere. Good grief." "There'll be enough," said his mother. "I don't know," he said. "There'll be enough for a party," she said. "You go on." "I ought to throw the pumpkins in the garbage," he said, scowling. "Well you just go on and have a good time," she said. "You haven't been out in weeks."
Silence.
He stood there twisting the huge lollipop as big as his head, turning it in his large muscular fingers. He looked as if at any moment now he would do what he did other nights. Some nights he pressed himself up and down on the ground with his arms and some nights he played a game of basketball with himself and scored himself, team against team, black against white, in the backyard. Some nights he stood around like this and then suddenly vanished and you saw him way out in the ocean swimming long and strong and quiet as a seal under the full moon or you could not see him those nights the moon was gone and only the stars lay over the water but you heard him there, on occasion, a faint splash as he went under and stayed under a long time and came up, or he went out some times with his surfboard as smooth as a girl's cheeks, sandpapered to a softness, and came riding in, huge and alone on a white and ghastly wave that creamed along the shore and touched the sands with the surfboard as he stepped off like a visitor from another world and stood for a long while holding the soft smooth surfboard in the moonlight, a quiet man and a vast tombstone-shaped thing held there with no writing on it. In all the nights like that in the past years, he had taken a girl out three times one week and she ate a lot and every time he saw her she said Let's eat and so one night he drove her up to a restaurant and opened the car door and helped her out and got back in and said There's the restaurant. So long. And drove off. And went back to swimming way out, alone. Much later, another time, a girl was half an hour late getting ready and he never spoke to her again.
Thinking all this, remembering all this, his mother looked at him now.
"Don't stand there," she said. "You make me nervous."
"Well," he said, resentfully.
"Go on!" she cried. But she didn't cry it strong enough. Even to herself her voice sounded faint. And she did not know if her voice was just naturally faint or if she made it that way. She might as well have been talking about winter coming; everything she said had a lonely sound. And she heard the words again from her own mouth, with no force: "Go on!"
He went into the kitchen. "I guess there'll be enough guys there," he said. "Sure, there will," she said, smiling again. She always smiled again. Sometimes when she talked to him, night after night, she looked as if she were lifting weights, too. When he walked through the rooms she looked like she was doing the walking for him. And when he sat brooding, as he often did, she looked around for something to do which might be burn the toast or overfire the steak. She made a short barking faint and stifled laugh now, "Get out, have a good time." But the echoes of it moved around in the house as if it were already empty and cold and he should come back in the door. Her lips moved: "Fly away."
He snatched up the cider and the pumpkins and hurried them out to his car. It was a new car and had been new and unused for almost a year. He polished it and jiggered with the motor or lay underneath it for hours messing with all the junk underneath or just sat in the front seat glancing over the strength and health magazines, but rarely drove it. He put the cider and the cut pumpkins proudly in on the front seat, and by this time he was thinking of the possible good time tonight so he did a little child's stagger as if he might drop everything, and his mother laughed. He licked his lollipop again, jumped into the car, backed it out of the gravel drive, swerved it around down by the ocean, not looking out at this woman, and drove off along the shore road. She stood in the yard watching the car go away. Leonard, my son, she thought.
It was seven fifteen and very dark now; already the chil
dren were fluttering along the sidewalks in white ghost sheets and zinc-oxide masks, ringing bells, screaming, lumpy paper sacks banging their knees as they ran.
Leonard, she thought.
They didn't call him Leonard, they called him Heavy-Set and Sammy, which was short for Samson. They called him Butch and they called him Atlas and Hercules. At the beach you always saw the high-school boys around him feeling his biceps as if he was a new sports car, testing him, admiring him. He walked golden among them. Each year it was that way. And then the eighteen-year-old ones got to be nineteen and didn't come around so often, and then twenty and very rarely, and then twenty-one and never again, just gone, and suddenly there were new eighteen year olds to replace them, yes, always the new ones to stand where the others had stood in the sun, while the older ones went on somewhere to something and somebody.
Leonard, my good boy, she thought. We go to shows on Saturday nights. He works on the high power lines all day, up in the sky, alone, and sleeps alone in his room at night, and never reads a book or a paper or listens to a radio or plays a record, and this year he'll be thirty-one. And just where, in all the years, did the thing happen that put him up on that pole alone and working out alone every night? Certainly there had been enough women, here and there, now and then, through his life. Little scrubby ones, of course, fools, yes, by the look of them, but women, or girls, rather, and none worth glancing at a second time. Still, when a boy gets past thirty...? She sighed. Why even as recent as last night the phone had rung. Heavy-Set had answered it, and she could fill in the unheard half of the conversation because she had heard thousands like it in a dozen years: "Sammy, this is Christine." A woman's voice. "What you doing?"
His little golden eyelashes flickered and his brow furrowed, alert and wary. "Why?"
"Tom, Lu, and I are going to a show, want to come along?"
"It better be good!" he cried, indignantly.
She named it.
"That!" He snorted.
"It's a good film," she said.
"Not that one," he said. "Besides, I haven't shaved yet today."
"You can shave in five minutes."
"I need a bath, and it'd take a long time."
A long time, thought his mother, he was in the bathroom two hours today. He combs his hair two dozen times, musses it, combs it again, talking to himself.
