The Stories of Ray Bradbury

by Ray Bradbury

  It was all over.

  They were in another dimension.

  He heard Polly cry out. There was much light. Then he slipped from the table, stood blinking. Polly was running. She stooped and picked up something from the floor.

  It was Peter Horn’s son. A living, pink-faced, blue-eyed boy, lying in her arms, gasping and blinking and crying.

  The pyramidal shape was gone. Polly was crying with happiness.

  Peter Horn walked across the room, trembling, trying to smile himself, to hold on to Polly and the child, both at the same time, and weep with them.

  ‘Well!’ said Wolcott, standing back. He did not move for a long while. He only watched the White Oblong and the slim White Rectangle holding the Blue Pyramid on the opposite side of the room. An assistant came in the door.

  ‘Shhh,’ said Wolcott, hand to his lips. ‘They’ll want to be alone awhile. Come along.’ He took the assistant by the arm and tiptoed across the room. The White Rectangle and the White Oblong didn’t even look up when the door closed.

  I Sing the Body Electric!

  Grandma!

  I remember her birth.

  Wait, you say, no man remembers his own grandma’s birth.

  But, yes, we remember the day that she was born.

  For we, her grandchildren, slapped her to life. Timothy, Agatha, and I, Tom, raised up our hands and brought them down in a huge crack! We shook together the bits and pieces, parts and samples, textures and tastes, humors and distillations that would move her compass needle north to cool us, south to warm and comfort us, east and west to travel round the endless world, glide her eyes to know us, mouth to sing us asleep by night, hands to touch us awake at dawn.

  Grandma, O dear and wondrous electric dream…

  When storm lightnings rove the sky making circuitries amidst the clouds, her name flashes on my inner lid. Sometimes still I hear her ticking, humming above our beds in the gentle dark. She passes like a clock-ghost in the long halls of memory, like a hive of intellectual bees swarming after the Spirit of Summers Lost. Sometimes still I feel the smile I learned from her, printed on my cheek at three in the deep morn…

  All right, all right! you cry. What was it like the day your damned and wondrous-dreadful loving Grandma was born?

  It was the week the world ended…

  Our mother was dead.

  One late afternoon a black car left Father and the three of us stranded on our own front drive staring at the grass, thinking:

  That’s not our grass. There are the croquet mallets, balls, hoops, yes, just as they fell and lay three days ago when Dad stumbled out on the lawn, weeping with the news. There are the roller skates that belonged to a boy, me, who will never be that young again. And yes, there the tire-swing on the old oak, but Agatha afraid to swing. It would surely break. It would fall.

  And the house? Oh, God…

  We peered through the front door, afraid of the echoes we might find confused in the halls; the sort of clamor that happens when all the furniture is taken out and there is nothing to soften the river of talk that flows in any house at all hours. And now the soft, the warm, the main piece of lovely furniture was gone forever.

  The door drifted wide.

  Silence came out. Somewhere a cellar door stood wide and a raw wind blew damp earth from under the house.

  But, I thought, we don’t have a cellar!

  ‘Well,’ said Father.

  We did not move.

  Aunt Clara drove up the path in her big canary-colored limousine.

  We jumped through the door. We ran to our rooms.

  We heard them shout and then speak and then shout and then speak: Let the children live with me! Aunt Clara said. They’d rather kill themselves! Father said.

  A door slammed. Aunt Clara was gone.

  We almost danced. Then we remembered what had happened and went downstairs.

  Father sat alone talking to himself or to a remnant ghost of Mother left from the days before her illness, and jarred loose now by the slamming of the door. He murmured to his hands, his empty palms:

  ‘The children need someone. I love them but, let’s face it, I must work to feed us all. You love them, Ann, but you’re gone. And Clara? Impossible. She loves but smothers. And as for maids, nurses—?’

  Here Father sighed and we sighed with him, remembering.

  The luck we had had with maids or live-in teachers or sitters was beyond intolerable. Hardly a one who wasn’t a crosscut saw grabbing against the grain. Handaxes and hurricanes best described them. Or, conversely, they were all fallen trifle, damp soufflé. We children were unseen furniture to be sat upon or dusted or sent for reupholstering come spring and fall, with a yearly cleansing at the beach.

  ‘What we need,’ said Father, ‘is a…’

  We all leaned to his whisper.

  ‘…grandmother.’

  ‘But,’ said Timothy, with the logic of nine years, ‘all our grandmothers are dead.’

  ‘Yes in one way, no in another.’

  What a fine mysterious thing for Dad to say.

  ‘Here,’ he said at last.

  He handed us a multifold, multicolored pamphlet. We had seen it in his hands, off and on, for many weeks, and very often during the last few days. Now, with one blink of our eyes, as we passed the paper from hand to hand, we knew why Aunt Clara, insulted, outraged, had stormed from the house.

  Timothy was the first to read aloud from what he saw on the first page:

  ‘“I Sing the Body Electric!”’

  He glanced up at Father, squinting. ‘What the heck does that mean?’

  ‘Read on.’

  Agatha and I glanced guiltily about the room, afraid Mother might suddenly come in to find us with this blasphemy, but then nodded to Timothy, who read:

  ‘“Fanto—”’

  ‘Fantoccini,’ Father prompted.

  ‘“Fantoccini Limited. We Shadow Forth…the answer to all your most grievous problems. One Model Only, upon which a thousand times a thousand variations can be added, subtracted, subdivided, indivisible, with Liberty and Justice for all.”’

  ‘Where does it say that?’ we all cried.

  ‘It doesn’t.’ Timothy smiled for the first time in days. ‘I just had to put that in. Wait.’ He read on: ‘For you who have worried over inattentive sitters, nurses who cannot be trusted with marked liquor bottles, and wellmeaning Uncles and Aunts—’

  ‘Well-meaning, but!’ said Agatha, and I gave an echo.

  ‘“—we have perfected the first humanoid-genre mini-circuited, rechargeable AC-DC Mark Five Electrical Grandmother…”’

  ‘Grandmother!?’

  The paper slipped away to the floor. ‘Dad…?’

  ‘Don’t look at me that way,’ said Father. ‘I’m half mad with grief, and half mad thinking of tomorrow and the day after that. Someone pick up the paper. Finish it.’

  ‘I will,’ I said, and did:

  ‘“The Toy that is more than a Toy, the Fantoccini Electrical Grandmother is built with loving precision to give the incredible precision of love to your children. The child at ease with the realities of the world and the even greater realities of the imagination, is her aim.

  ‘“She is computerized to tutor in twelve languages simultaneously, capable of switching tongues in a thousandth of a second without pause, and has a complete knowledge of the religious, artistic, and sociopolitical histories of the world seeded in her master hive—”’

  ‘How great!’ said Timothy. ‘It makes it sound as if we were to keep bees! Educated bees!’

  ‘Shut up!’ said Agatha.

  ‘“Above all,”’ I read, ‘“this human being, for human she seems, this embodiment in electro-intelligent facsimile of the humanities, will listen, know, tell, react and love your children insofar as such great Objects, such fantastic Toys, can be said to Love, or can be imagined to Care. This Miraculous Companion, excited to the challenge of large world and small, Inner Sea or Outer Universe, will transmit by
touch and tell, said Miracles to your Needy.”’

  ‘Our Needy,’ murmured Agatha.

  Why, we all thought, sadly, that’s us, oh, yes, that’s us.

  I finished:

  ‘“We do not sell our Creation to able-bodied families where parents are available to raise, effect, shape, change, love their own children. Nothing can replace the parent in the home. However there are families where death or ill health or disablement undermines the welfare of the children. Orphanages seem not the answer. Nurses tend to be selfish, neglectful, or suffering from dire nervous afflictions.

  ‘“With the utmost humility then, and recognizing the need to rebuild, rethink, and regrow our conceptualizations from month to month, year to year, we offer the nearest thing to the Ideal Teacher-Friend-Companion-Blood Relation. A trial period can be arranged for—”’

  ‘Stop,’ said Father. ‘Don’t go on. Even I can’t stand it.’

  ‘Why?’ said Timothy. ‘I was just getting interested.’

  I folded the pamphlet up. ‘Do they really have these things?’

  ‘Let’s not talk any more about it,’ said Father, his hand over his eyes. ‘It was a mad thought—’

  ‘Not so mad,’ I said, glancing at Tim. ‘I mean, heck, even if they tried, whatever they built, couldn’t be worse than Aunt Clara, huh?’

  And then we all roared. We hadn’t laughed in months. And now my simple words made everyone hoot and howl and explode. I opened my mouth and yelled happily, too.

  When we stopped laughing, we looked at the pamphlet and I said, ‘Well?’

  ‘I—’ Agatha scowled, not ready.

  ‘We do need something, bad, right now,’ said Timothy.

  ‘I have an open mind,’ I said, in my best pontifical style.

  ‘There’s only one thing,’ said Agatha. ‘We can try it. Sure.

  ‘But—tell me this—when do we cut out all this talk and when does our real mother come home to stay?’

  There was a single gasp from the family as if, with one shot, she had struck us all in the heart.

  I don’t think any of us stopped crying the rest of that night.

  It was a clear bright day. The helicopter tossed us lightly up and over and down through the skyscrapers and let us out, almost for a trot and caper, on top of the building where the large letters could be read from the sky:

  FANTOCCINI.

  ‘What are “Fantoccini”?’ said Agatha.

  ‘It’s an Italian word for shadow puppets. I think, or dream people,’ said Father.

  ‘But “shadow forth,” what does that mean?’

  ‘We try to guess your dream,’ I said.

  ‘Bravo,’ said Father. ‘A-plus.’

  I beamed.

  The helicopter flapped a lot of loud shadows over us and went away.

  We sank down in an elevator as our stomachs sank up. We stepped out onto a moving carpet that streamed away on a blue river of wool toward a desk over which various signs hung:

  THE CLOCK SHOP

  FANTOCCINI OUR SPECIALTY

  RABBITS ON WALLS, NO PROBLEM

  ‘Rabbits on walls?’

  I held up my fingers in profiles as if I held them before a candle flame, and wiggled the ‘ears.’

  ‘Here’s a rabbit, here’s a wolf, here’s a crocodile.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Agatha.

  And we were at the desk. Quiet music drifted about us. Somewhere behind the walls, there was a waterfall of machinery flowing softly. As we arrived at the desk, the lighting changed to make us look warmer, happier, though we were still cold.

  All about us in niches and cases, and hung from ceilings on wires and strings, were puppets and marionettes, and Balinese kite-bamboo-translucent dolls which, held to the moonlight, might acrobat your most secret nightmares or dreams. In passing, the breeze set up by our bodies stirred the various hung souls on their gibbets. It was like an immense lynching on a holiday at some English crossroads four hundred years before.

  You see? I know my history.

  Agatha blinked about with disbelief and then some touch of awe and finally disgust.

  ‘Well, if that’s what they are, let’s go.’

  ‘Tush,’ said Father.

  ‘Well,’ she protested, ‘you gave me one of those dumb things with strings two years ago and the strings were in a zillion knots by dinnertime. I threw the whole thing out the window.’

  ‘Patience,’ said Father.

  ‘We shall see what we can do to eliminate the strings.’

  The man behind the desk had spoken.

  We all turned to give him our regard.

  Rather like a funeral-parlor man, he had the cleverness not to smile. Children are put off by older people who smile too much. They smell a catch, right off.

  Unsmiling, but not gloomy or pontifical, the man said, ‘Guido Fantoccini, at your service. Here’s how we do it, Miss Agatha Simmons, aged eleven.’

  Now, there was a really fine touch.

  He knew that Agatha was only ten. Add a year to that, and you’re halfway home. Agatha grew an inch. The man went on:

  ‘There.’

  And he placed a golden key in Agatha’s hand.

  ‘To wind them up instead of strings?’

  ‘To wind them up.’ The man nodded.

  ‘Pshaw!’ said Agatha.

  Which was her polite form of ‘rabbit pellets.’

  ‘God’s truth. Here is the key to your Do-It-Yourself, Select-Only-the-Best, Electrical Grandmother. Every morning you wind her up. Every night you let her run down. You’re in charge. You are guardian of the Key.’

  He pressed the object in her palm where she looked at it suspiciously.

  I watched him. He gave me a side wink which said, Well, no…but aren’t keys fun?

  I winked back before she lifted her head.

  ‘Where does this fit?’

  ‘You’ll see when the time comes. In the middle of her stomach, perhaps, or up her left nostril or in her right ear.’

  That was good for a smile as the man arose.

  ‘This way, please. Step light. Onto the moving stream. Walk on the water, please, Yes. There.’

  He helped to float us. We stepped from rug that was forever frozen onto rug that whispered by.

  It was a most agreeable river which floated us along on a green spread of carpeting that rolled forever through halls and into wonderfully secret dim caverns where voices echoed back our own breathing or sang like oracles to our questions.

  ‘Listen,’ said the salesman, ‘the voices of all kinds of women. Weigh and find just the right one…!’

  And listen we did, to all the high, low, soft, loud, in-between, half scolding, half affectionate voices saved over from times before we were born.

  And behind us, Agatha trod backward, always fighting the river, never catching up, never with us, holding off.

  ‘Speak,’ said the salesman. ‘Yell.’

  And speak and yell we did.

  ‘Hello. You there! This is Timothy, hi!’

  ‘What shall I say!’ I shouted. ‘Help!’

  Agatha walked backward, mouth tight.

  Father took her hand. She cried out.

  ‘Let go! No, no! I won’t have my voice used! I won’t!’

  ‘Excellent.’ The salesman touched three dials on a small machine he held in his hand.

  On the side of the small machine we saw three oscillograph patterns mix, blend, and repeat our cries.

  The salesman touched another dial and we heard our voices fly off amidst the Delphic caves to hang upside down, to cluster, to beat words all about, to shriek, and the salesman itched another knob to add, perhaps, a touch of this or a pinch of that, a breath of Mother’s voice, all unbeknownst, or a splice of Father’s outrage at the morning’s paper or his peaceable one-drink voice at dusk. Whatever it was the salesman did, whispers danced all about us like frantic vinegar gnats, fizzed by lightning, settling round until at last a final switch was pushed and a voice spoke fr
ee of a far electronic deep:

  ‘Nefertiti,’ it said.

  Timothy froze. I froze. Agatha stopped treading water.

  ‘Nefertiti?’ asked Tim.

  ‘What does that mean?’ demanded Agatha.

  ‘I know.’

  The salesman nodded me to tell.

  ‘Nefertiti,’ I whispered, ‘is Egyptian for The Beautiful One Is Here.’

  ‘The Beautiful One Is Here,’ repeated Timothy.

  ‘Nefer,’ said Agatha, ‘titi.’

  And we all turned to stare into that soft twilight, that deep far place from which the good warm soft voice came.

  And she was indeed there.

  And, by her voice, she was beautiful…

  That was it.

  That was, at least, the most of it.

  The voice seemed more important than all the rest.

  Not that we didn’t argue about weights and measures:

  She should not be bony to cut us to the quick, nor so fat we might sink out of sight when she squeezed us.

  Her hand pressed to ours, or brushing our brow in the middle of sickfever nights, must not be marble-cold, dreadful, or oven-hot, oppressive, but somewhere between. The nice temperature of a baby chick held in the hand after a long night’s sleep and just plucked from beneath a contemplative hen; that, that was it.

  Oh, we were great ones for detail. We fought and argued and cried, and Timothy won on the color of her eyes, for reasons to be known later.

  Grandmother’s hair? Agatha, with girls’ ideas, though reluctantly given, she was in charge of that. We let her choose from a thousand harp strands hung in filamentary tapestries like varieties of rain we ran amongst. Agatha did not run happily, but seeing we boys would mess things in tangles, she told us to move aside.

  And so the bargain shopping through the dime-store inventories and the Tiffany extensions of the Ben Franklin Electric Storm Machine and Fantoccini Pantomime Company was done.

  And the always flowing river ran its tide to an end and deposited us all on a far shore in the late day…

  It was very clever of the Fantoccini people, after that.

  How?

  They made us wait.

  They knew we were not won over. Not completely, no, nor half completely.

  Especially Agatha, who turned her face to her wall and saw sorrow there and put her hand out again and again to touch it. We found her fingernail marks on the wallpaper each morning, in strange little silhouettes, half beauty, half nightmare. Some could be erased with a breath, like ice flowers on a winter pane. Some could not be rubbed out with a washcloth, no matter how hard you tried.