A Medicine for Melancholy and Other Stories

by Ray Bradbury

  “This is no calliope,” he said.

  “It cries like one,” Maria said. “A billion people on this world tonight have beds. Why, I ask the saints, not us?”

  “This,” said Antonio gently, “is a bed.” He plucked a little tune on the imitation brass harp behind his head. To his ears it was “Santa Lucia.”

  “This bed has humps like a herd of camels was under it.”

  “Now, Mama,” Antonio said. He called her Mama when she was mad, though they had no children. “You were never this way,” he went on, “until five months ago when Mrs. Brancozzi downstairs bought her new bed.”

  Maria said wistfully, “Mrs. Brancozzi’s bed. It’s like snow. It’s all flat and white and smooth.”

  “I don’t want any damn snow, all flat and white and smooth! These springs—feel them!” he cried angrily. “They know me. They recognize that this hour of night I lie thus, at two o’clock, so! Three o’clock this way, four o’clock that. We are like a tumbling act, we’ve worked together for years and know all the holds and falls.”

  Maria sighed, and said, “Sometimes I dream we’re in the taffy machine at Bartole’s candy store.”

  “This bed,” he announced to the darkness, “served our family before Garibaldi! From this wellspring alone came precincts of honest voters, a squad of clean-saluting Army men, two confectioners, a barber, four second leads for Il Trovatore and Rigoletto, and two geniuses so complex they never could decide what to do in their lifetime! Not to forget enough beautiful women to provide ballrooms with their finest decoration. A cornucopia of plenty, this bed! A veritable harvesting machine!”

  “We have been married two years,” she said with dreadful control over her voice. “Where are our second leads for Rigoletto, our geniuses, our ballroom decorations?”

  “Patience, Mama.”

  “Don’t call me Mama! While this bed is busy favoring you all night, never once has it done for me. Not even so much as a baby girl!”

  He sat up. “You’ve let these women in this tenement ruin you with their dollar-down, dollar-a-week talk. Has Mrs. Brancozzi children? Her and her new bed that she’s had for five months?”

  “No! But soon! Mrs. Brancozzi says … and her bed, so beautiful.”

  He slammed himself down and yanked the covers over him. The bed screamed like all the Furies rushing through the night sky, fading away toward the dawn.

  The moon changed the shape of the window pattern on the floor. Antonio awoke. Maria was not beside him.

  He got up and went to peer through the half-open door of the bathroom. His wife stood at the mirror looking at her tired face.

  “I don’t feel well,” she said.

  “We argued.” He put out his hand to pat her. “I’m sorry. We’ll think it over. About the bed, I mean. We’ll see how the money goes. And if you’re not well tomorrow, see the doctor, eh? Now, come back to bed.”

  At noon the next day, Antonio walked from the lumberyard to a window where stood fine new beds with their covers invitingly turned back.

  “I,” he whispered to himself, “am a beast.”

  He checked his watch. Maria, at this time, would be going to the doctor’s. She had been like cold milk this morning; he had told her to go. He walked on to the candy-store window and watched the taffy machine folding and threading and pulling. Does taffy scream? he wondered. Perhaps, but so high we cannot hear it. He laughed. Then, in the stretched taffy, he saw Maria. Frowning, he turned and walked back to the furniture store. No. Yes. No. Yes! He pressed his nose to the icy window. Bed, he thought, you in there, new bed, do you know me? Will you be kind to my back, nights?”

  He took out his wallet slowly, and peered at the money. He sighed, gazed for a long time at that flat marbletop, that unfamiliar enemy, that new bed. Then, shoulders sagging, he walked into the store, his money held loosely in his hand.

  “Maria!” He ran up the steps two at a time. It was nine o’clock at night and he had managed to beg off in the middle of his overtime at the lumberyard to rush home. He rushed through the open doorway, smiling.

  The apartment was empty.

  “Ah,” he said disappointedly. He laid the receipt for the new bed on top of the bureau where Maria might see it when she entered. On those few evenings when he worked late she visited with any one of several neighbors downstairs.

  I’ll go find her, he thought, and stopped. No. I want to tell her alone. I’ll wait. He sat on the bed. “Old bed,” he said, “good-by to you. I am very sorry.” He patted the brass lions nervously. He paced the floor. Come on, Maria. He imagined her smile.

  He listened for her quick running on the stair, but he heard only a slow, measured tread. He thought: That’s not my Maria, slow like that, no.

  The doorknob turned.

  “Maria!”

  “You’re early!” She smiled happily at him. Did she guess? Was it written on his face? “I’ve been downstairs,” she cried, “telling everyone!”

  “Telling everyone?”

  “The doctor! I saw the doctor!”

  “The doctor?” He looked bewildered. “And?”

  “And, Papa, and—”

  “Do you mean—Papa?”

  “Papa, Papa, Papa, Papa!”

  “Oh,” he said, gently, “you walked so carefully on the stairs.”

  He took hold of her, but not too tight, and he kissed her cheeks, and he shut his eyes, and he yelled. Then he had to wake a few neighbors and tell them, shake them, tell them again. There had to be a little wine and a careful waltz around, an embracing, a trembling, a kissing of brow, eyelids, nose, lips, temples, ears, hair, chin—and then it was past midnight.

  “A miracle,” he sighed.

  They were alone in their room again, the air warm from the people who had been here a minute before, laughing, talking. But now they were alone again.

  Turning out the light, he saw the receipt on the bureau. Stunned, he tried to decide in what subtle and delicious way to break this additional news to her.

  Maria sat upon her side of the bed in the dark, hypnotized with wonder. She moved her hands as if her body was a strange doll, taken apart, and now to be put back together again, limb by limb, her motions as slow as if she lived beneath a warm sea at midnight. Now, at last, careful not to break herself, she lay back upon the pillow.

  “Maria, I have something to tell you.”

  “Yes?” she said faintly.

  “Now that you are as you are.” He squeezed her hand. “You deserve the comfort, the rest, the beauty of a new bed.”

  She did not cry out happily or turn to him or seize him. Her silence was a thinking silence.

  He was forced to continue. “This bed is nothing but a pipe organ, a calliope.”

  “It is a bed,” she said.

  “A herd of camels sleep under it.”

  “No,” she said quietly, “from it will come precincts of honest voters, captains enough for three armies, two ballerinas, a famous lawyer, a very tall policeman, and seven basso profundos, altos, and sopranos.”

  He squinted across the dimly lighted room at the receipt upon the bureau. He touched the worn mattress under him. The springs moved softly to recognize each limb, each tired muscle, each aching bone.

  He sighed. “I never argue with you, little one.”

  “Mama,” she said.

  “Mama,” he said.

  And then as he closed his eyes and drew the covers to his chest and lay in the darkness by the great fountain, in the sight of a jury of fierce metal lions and amber goat and smiling gargoyles, he listened. And he heard it. It was very far away at first, very tentative, but it came clearer as he listened.

  Softly, her arm back over her head. Maria’s finger tips began to tap a little dance on the gleaming harp strings, on the shimmering brass pipes of the ancient bed. The music was—yes, of course: “Santa Lucia!” His lips moved to it in a warm whisper. Santa Lucia! Santa Lucia.

  It was very beautiful.

  The Town Where No On
e Got Off

  Crossing the continental United States by night, by day, on the train, you flash past town after wilderness town where nobody ever gets off. Or rather, no person who doesn’t belong, no person who hasn’t roots in these country graveyards ever bothers to visit their lonely stations or attend their lonely views.

  I spoke of this to a fellow passenger, another salesman like myself, on the Chicago-Los Angeles train as we crossed Iowa.

  “True,” he said. “People get off in Chicago; everyone gets off there. People get off in New York, get off in Boston, get off in L.A. People who don’t live there go there to see and come back to tell. But what tourist ever just got off at Fox Hill, Nebraska, to look at it? You? Me? No! I don’t know anyone, got no business there, it’s no health resort, so why bother?”

  “Wouldn’t it be a fascinating change,” I said, “some year to plan a really different vacation? Pick some village lost on the plains where you don’t know a soul and go there for the hell of it?”

  “You’d be bored stiff,”

  “I’m not bored thinking of it!” I peered out the window. “What’s the next town coming up on this line?”

  “Rampart Junction.”

  I smiled. “Sounds good. I might get off there.”

  “You’re a liar and a fool. What you want? Adventure? Romance? Go ahead, jump off the train. Ten seconds later you’ll call yourself an idiot, grab a taxi, and race us to the next town.”

  “Maybe.”

  I watched telephone poles flick by, flick by, flick by. Far ahead I could see the first faint outlines of a town.

  “But I don’t think so,” I heard myself say.

  The salesman across from me looked faintly surprised.

  For slowly, very slowly, I was rising to stand. I reached for my hat. I saw my hand fumble for my own suitcase. I was surprised myself.

  “Hold on!” said the salesman. “What’re you doing?”

  The train rounded a curve suddenly. I swayed. Far ahead I saw one church spire, a deep forest, a field of summer wheat.

  “It looks like I’m getting off the train,” I said.

  “Sit down,” he said.

  “No,” I said. “There’s something about that town up ahead. I’ve got to go see. I’ve got the time. I don’t have to be in L.A., really, until next Monday. If I don’t get off the train now, I’ll always wonder what I missed, what I let slip by when I had the chance to see it.”

  “We were just talking. There’s nothing there.”

  “You’re wrong,” I said. “There is.”

  I put my hat on my head and lifted the suitcase in my hand.

  “By God,” said the salesman, “I think you’re really going to do it.”

  My heart beat quickly. My face was flushed.

  The train whistled. The train rushed down the track. The town was near!

  “Wish me luck,” I said.

  “Luck!” he cried.

  I ran for the porter, yelling.

  There was an ancient flake-painted chair tilted back against the station-platform wall. In this chair, completely relaxed so he sank into his clothes, was a man of some seventy years whose timbers looked as if he’d been nailed there since the station was built. The sun had burned his face dark and tracked his cheek with lizard folds and stitches that held his eyes in a perpetual squint. His hair smoked ash-white in the summer wind. His blue shirt, open at the neck to show white clock springs, was bleached like the staring late afternoon sky. His shoes were blistered as if he had held them, uncaring, in the mouth of a stove, motionless, forever. His shadow under him was stenciled a permanent black.

  As I stepped down the old man’s eyes flicked every door on the train and stopped, surprised, at me.

  I thought he might wave.

  But there was only a sudden coloring of his secret eyes; a chemical change that was recognition. Yet he had not twitched so much as his mouth, an eyelid, a finger. An invisible bulk had shifted inside him.

  The moving train gave me an excuse to follow it with my eyes. There was no one else on the platform. No autos waited by the cobwebbed, nailed-shut office. I alone had departed the iron thunder to set foot on the choppy waves of platform lumber.

  The train whistled over the hill.

  Fool! I thought. My fellow passenger had been right. I would panic at the boredom I already sensed in this place. All right, I thought, fool, yes, but run, no!

  I walked my suitcase down the platform, not looking at the old man. As I passed, I heard his thin bulk shift again, this time so I could hear it. His feet were coming down to touch and tap the mushy boards.

  I kept walking.

  “Afternoon,” a voice said faintly.

  I knew he did not look at me but only at that great cloudless spread of shimmering sky.

  “Afternoon,” I said.

  I started up the dirt road toward the town. One hundred yards away, I glanced back.

  The old man, still seated there, stared at the sun, as if posing a question.

  I hurried on.

  I moved through the dreaming late afternoon town, utterly anonymous and alone, a trout going upstream, not touching the banks of a clear-running river of life that drifted all about me.

  My suspicions were confirmed: it was a town where nothing happened, where occurred only the following events:

  At four o’clock sharp, the Honneger Hardware door slammed as a dog came out to dust himself in the road. Four-thirty, a straw sucked emptily at the bottom of a soda glass, making a sound like a great cataract in the drugstore silence. Five o’clock, boys and pebbles plunged in the town river. Five-fifteen, ants paraded in the slanting light under some elm trees.

  And yet—I turned in a slow circle—somewhere in this town there must be something worth seeing. I knew it was there. I knew I had to keep walking and looking. I knew I would find it.

  I walked. I looked.

  All through the afternoon there was only one constant and unchanging factor: the old man in the bleached blue pants and shirt was never far away. When I sat in the drugstore he was out front spitting tobacco that rolled itself into tumblebugs in the dust. When I stood by the river he was crouched downstream making a great thing of washing his hands.

  Along about seven-thirty in the evening, I was walking for the seventh or eighth time through the quiet streets when I heard footsteps beside me.

  I looked over, and the old man was pacing me, looking straight ahead, a piece of dried grass in his stained teeth.

  “It’s been a long time,” he said quietly.

  We walked along in the twilight.

  “A long time,” he said, “waitin’ on that station platform.”

  “You?” I said.

  “Me.” He nodded in the tree shadows.

  “Were you waiting for someone at the station?”

  “Yes,” he said. “You.”

  “Me?” The surprise must have shown in my voice. “But why …? You never saw me before in your life.”

  “Did I say I did? I just said I was waitin’.”

  We were on the edge of town now. He had turned and I had turned with him along the darkening riverbank toward the trestle where the night trains ran over going east, going west, but stopping rare few times.

  “You want to know anything about me?” I asked, suddenly. “You the sheriff?”

  “No, not the sheriff. And no, I don’t want to know nothing about you.” He put his hands in his pockets. The sun was set now. The air was suddenly cool. “I’m just surprised you’re here at last, is all.”

  “Surprised?”

  “Surprised,” he said, “and … pleased.”

  I stopped abruptly and looked straight at him.

  “How long have you been sitting on that station platform?”

  “Twenty years, give or take a few.”

  I knew he was telling the truth; his voice was as easy and quiet as the river.

  “Waiting for me?” I said.

  “Or someone like you,” he said.


  We walked on in the growing dark.

  “How you like our town?”

  “Nice, quiet,” I said.

  “Nice, quiet.” He nodded. “Like the people?”

  “People look nice and quiet.”

  “They are,” he said. “Nice, quiet.”

  I was ready to turn back but the old man kept talking and in order to listen and be polite I had to walk with him in the vaster darkness, the tides of field and meadow beyond town.

  “Yes,” said the old man, “the day I retired, twenty years ago, I sat down on that station platform and there I been, sittin’, doin’ nothin’, waitin’ for something to happen, I didn’t know what, I didn’t know, I couldn’t say. But when it finally happened, I’d know it, I’d look at it and say, yes, sir, that’s what I was waitin’ for. Train wreck? No. Old woman friend come back to town after fifty years? No. No. It’s hard to say. Someone. Something. And it seems to have something to do with you. I wish I could say—”

  “Why don’t you try?” I said.

  The stars were coming out. We walked on.

  “Well,” he said slowly, “you know much about your own insides?”

  “You mean my stomach or you mean psychologically?”

  “That’s the word. I mean your head, your brain, you know much about that?”

  The grass whispered under my feet. “A little.”

  “You hate many people in your time?”

  “Some.”

  “We all do. It’s normal enough to hate, ain’t it, and not only hate but, while we don’t talk about it, don’t we sometimes want to hit people who hurt us, even kill them?”

  “Hardly a week passes we don’t get that feeling,” I said, “and put it away.”

  “We put away all our lives,” he said. “The town says thus and so, Mom and Dad say this and that, the law says such and such. So you put away one killing and another and two more after that. By the time you’re my age, you got lots of that kind of stuff between your ears. And unless you went to war, nothin’ ever happened to get rid of it.”