Bradbury, Ray - SSC 09 (23 page)

 
          
    He raised the knife a
number of times like a magician's wand.

 
          
    And, in a short
interval — behold!
all
of them smiled!

 
          
    He broke that memory in
half, crumpled it, balled it,
tossed
it down. Rising
briskly, he went to the hall, down the hall to the kitchen, and from there down
the dim stairs into the cellar where he opened the furnace door and built the
fire steadily and expertly into wonderful flame.

 
          
    Walking upstairs again
he looked about. He'd have cleaners come and clean the empty house,
re-decorators pull down the dull drapes and hoist new
shimmery
banners up. New thick Oriental rugs purchased for the floors would subtly
ensure the silence he desired and would need at least for the next month, if
not for the entire year.

 
          
    He put his hands to his
ears. What if Alice Jane made noise moving about the house? Some noise,
somehow, some place!

 
          
    Then, he laughed. It
was quite a joke. That problem was already solved. He need fear no noise from
Alice
.
It was all absurdly simple. He would have all the pleasure of Alice Jane and
none of the dream-destroying distractions and
uncomfortables
.

 
          
    There was one other
addition needed to the quality of silence. Upon the tops of the doors that the
wind sucked shut with a bang at frequent intervals he would install modern
air-compression brakes, those kind they have on library doors that hiss gently
as their levers seal.

 
          
    He passed through the
dining-room. The figures had not moved from their tableau. Their hands remained
affixed in familiar positions, and their indifference to him was not
impoliteness.

 
          
    He climbed the hall
stairs to change his clothing, preparatory to the task of moving the family.
Taking the links from his fine cuffs he swung his head to one side.

 
          
   
Music.

 
          
    First, he paid it no
mind. Then, slowly, his face lifting to the ceiling, the
colour
drained from his cheeks.

 
          
    At the very apex of the
house the music sounded, note by note, tone following tone, and it terrified
him.

 
          
    Each tone came like a
plucking of one single harp thread. In the complete silence the small sound of
it was made larger until it grew out of proportion to itself, gone mad with all
this soundlessness to stretch about in.

 
          
    The door opened in an
explosion from his hands, the next thing his feet were trying the stairs to the
third level of the house, the banister twisted in a long polished snake under
his tightening, relaxing, sliding, reaching-up, pulling hands! The steps went
under to be replaced by longer, higher, darker steps. He had started the game
at the bottom with a slow stumbling. Now he was running with full impetus and
if a wall had suddenly confronted him he'd not have stopped for it until he saw
blood on it and fingernail scratches where he tried to pass through.

 
          
    He felt like a mouse
running in a great clear space of a bell. High in the bell sphere the one harp
thread hummed. It drew him on, caught him up with an umbilical of sound, gave
his fear sustenance and life,
mothered
him. Fears
passed between mother and groping child. He sought to shear away the connection
with his hands, could not. He fell, as if
someone'd
given a heave on the cord, wriggling.

 
          
    Another clear threaded
tone.
And
another
.

 
          
    'No, keep quiet!' he
shouted. 'There can't be noise in
my
house. Not since two weeks ago. I said there'd be no more noise. So there can't
be — it's impossible! Keep quiet!'

 
          
    He burst upwards into
the attic.

 
          
    Relief can be hysteria.

 
          
    Rain-drops, falling
from a vent in the roof, struck shattering upon a tall cut-glass Swedish flower
vase, with resonant tone.

 
          
    He destroyed the vase
with one violent kick.

 
          
    Putting on an old shirt
and old pair of pants in his room, he chuckled. The music was gone, the vent
plugged, the vase in a thousand pieces, the silence again ensured.

 
          
    There are silences and
silences.
Each with its own identity.
There were
summer night silences, which weren't silences at all, but layer on layer of
insect chorals and the sound of electric lamps swaying in lonely small orbits
on lonely country roads, casting out feeble rings of illumination upon which
the night fed — summer night silence which, to be a silence, demanded an
indolence and a neglect and an indifference upon the part of the listener. Not
a silence at all! And there was a winter silence, but it was an
encoffined
silence, ready to burst free at the first nod of
spring; things had a compressed, a not-for-long feel, the silence made a sound
unto itself, the freezing was so complete it made chimes of everything or
detonations of a single breath or word you spoke at midnight on the diamond
air. No, it was not a silence worthy of the name. There were also other
silences. For instance — a silence between two lovers, when there need be no
words.
Colour
came in his cheeks, he shut his eyes.
It was a most pleasant silence, even if not complete, because women were always
spoiling it by complaining of some little pressure or lack of pressure. He
smiled. But with Alice Jane even
that
was eliminated. He had seen to everything.
Everything
was perfect.

 
          
   
Whispering.

 
          
    He hoped the
neighbours
hadn't heard him shrieking like a fool.

 
          
   
A
faint whispering.

 
          
    Now, about silences. .
. The best silence was one conceived in every aspect by an individual, himself,
so that there could be no bursting of crystal bonds, no electric-insect
hummings
; the human mind could cope with each sound, each
emergency, until such a complete silence was achieved that one could hear one's
cells adjust in one's hand.

 
          
   
A
whispering.

 
          
    He shook his head.
There was no whispering. There could be none in
his
house. Sweat began to seep down his body, his jaw
loosened,
his eyes were turned free in their sockets.

 
          
   
Whisperings.
Low
rumours
of talk.

 
          
    'I tell you I'm getting
married,' he said, weakly, loosely.

 
          
    'You're lying,' said
the whispers.

 
          
    His head fell forward
on its neck as if hung, chin on chest.

 
          
    'Her name is Alice Jane
— ' he mouthed it between soft, wet lips and the words were formless. One of
his eyes began to
jitter
its lid up and down as if
blinking out a code to some unseen guest. 'You can't stop me from loving her. I
love her
— '

 
          
   
Whispering.

 
          
    He took a blind step
forward.

 
          
    The cuff of his pants
leg quivered as he reached the floor grille of the ventilator. A hot rise of
air hollowed his cuffs.
Whispering.

 
          
   
The
furnace.

 
          
    He was on his way
downstairs when someone knocked on the front door.

 
          
    He leaned against it.
'Who is it?'

 
          
    'Mr.
Greppin
?'

 
          
   
Greppin
drew in his breath. 'Yes?'

 
          
    'Will you let us in,
please?'

 
          
    'Who is it?'

 
          
    'The police,' said the
man outside.

 
          
    'What do you want? I'm
just sitting down to supper!'

 
          
    'Just want a talk with
you. The
neighbours
phoned. Said they hadn't seen
your aunt and uncle for two weeks. Heard a noise a while ago
—
'

 
          
    'I assure you
everything is all right.' He forced a laugh.

 
          
    'Well, then,' continued
the voice outside, 'we can talk it over in friendly style if you'll only open
the door.'

 
          
    'I'm sorry,' insisted
Greppin
. 'I'm tired and hungry, come back tomorrow. I'll
talk to you then, if you want.'

 
          
    'I'll have to
insist
, Mr.
Greppin
.'

 
          
    They began to beat
against the door.

 
          
   
Grippin
turned automatically, stiffly, walked down the hall past the cold clock, into
the dining-room, without a word. He seated himself without looking at any one
in particular and then he began to talk, slowly at first, then more rapidly.

 
          
   
'Some
pests at the door.
You'll talk to them, won't you, Aunt Rose? You'll
tell them to go away, won't you, we're eating supper? Everyone else
go
on eating and look pleasant and they'll go away, if they
do come in. Aunt Rose, you
will
talk
to them, won't you? And now that things are happening I have something to tell
you.' A few hot tears fell for no reason. He looked at them as they soaked and
spread in the white linen, vanishing. 'I don't know anyone named Alice Jane
Bellerd
. I
never
knew anyone named Alice Jane
Bellerd
! It was all —
all — I don't know. I said I loved her and wanted to marry her to get around
somehow
to make
you smile. Yes, I said it because I
planned to make you smile, that was the only reason. I'm never going to have a
woman, I always knew for years I never would have. Will you please pass the
potatoes, Aunt Rose?'

 
          
    The front door
splintered and fell. A heavy, softened rushing filled the hall. Men broke into
the dining-room.

 
          
   
A
hesitation.

 
          
    The police inspector
hastily removed his hat.

 
          
    'Oh, I beg your
pardon,' he apologized. 'I didn't mean to intrude upon your supper, I
— '

 
          
    The sudden halting of
the police was such that their movement shook the room. The movement catapulted
the bodies of Aunt Rose and Uncle Dimity straight away to the carpet, where
they lay, their throats severed in a half-moon from ear to ear — which caused
them, like the children seated at the table, to have what was the horrid
illusion of a smile under their chins; ragged smiles that welcomed in the late
arrivals and told them everything with a simple grimace. . .

 
          
M
r. Benedict
came out of his little
house. He stood on the porch, painfully shy of the sun and inferior to people.
A little dog trotted by with clever eyes; so clever that Mr. Benedict could not
meet its gaze. A small child peered through the wrought-iron gate around the
graveyard, near the church, and Mr. Benedict winced at the pale
penetrant
curiosity of the child.

 
          
    'You're the funeral
man,' said the child.

 
          
    Cringing within
himself, Mr. Benedict did not speak.

 
          
    'You own the church?'
asked the child, finally.

 
          
    'Yes,' said Mr.
Benedict.

 
          
    'And the funeral
place?'

 
          
    'Yes,' said Mr.
Benedict bewilderedly.

 
          
    'And the yards and the
stones and the graves?' wondered the child.

 
          
    'Yes,' said Mr.
Benedict, with some show of pride. And it was true. An amazing thing it was. A
stroke of business luck really, that had kept him busy and humming nights over long
years. First he had landed the church and the churchyard, with a few green-
mossed
tombs, when the Baptist people moved up-town. Then
he had built himself a fine little mortuary, in Gothic style, of course, and
covered it with ivy, and then added a small house for himself, way in back. It
was very convenient to die for Mr. Benedict. He handled you in and out of
buildings with a minimum of confusion and a maximum of synthetic benediction.
No need of a funeral procession!
declared
his large
advertisements in the morning paper. Out of the church and into the earth,
slick as a whistle. Nothing but the finest preservatives used!

 
          
    The child continued to
stare at him and he felt like a candle blown out in the wind. He was so very
inferior. Anything that lived or moved made him feel apologetic and melancholy.
He was continually agreeing with people, never daring to argue or shout or say
no. Whoever you might be, if Mr. Benedict met you on the street he would look
up your nostrils or perceive your ears or examine your hairline with his little
shy, wild eyes and never look you straight in your eyes and he would hold your
hand between his cold ones as if your hand was a precious gift as he said to
you:

 
          
    'You are definitely,
irrevocably, believably correct.'

 
          
    But, always, when you
talked to him, you felt he never heard a word you said.

 
          
    Now, he stood on his
porch and said, 'You are a sweet little child,' to the little staring child, in
fear that the child might not like him.

 
          
    Mr. Benedict walked
down the steps and out the gate, without once looking at his little mortuary
building. He saved that pleasure for later. It was very important that things
took the right precedence. It wouldn't pay to think with joy of the bodies
awaiting his talents in the mortuary building. No, it was better to follow his
usual day-after-day routine. He would let the conflict begin.

 
          
    He knew just where to
go to get
himself
enraged. Half of the day he spent
travelling
from place to place in the little town, letting
the superiority of the living
neighbours
overwhelm
him, letting his own inferiority dissolve him, bathe him in perspiration, tie
his heart and brain into trembling knots.

 
          
    He spoke with Mr.
Rodgers, the druggist, idle, senseless morning talk. And he saved and put away
all the little slurs and intonations and insults that Mr. Rodgers sent his way.
Mr. Rodgers always had some terrible thing to say about a man in the funeral
profession. 'Ha, ha,' laughed Mr. Benedict at the latest joke upon himself, and
he wanted to cry with miserable violence. 'There you are, you cold one,' said
Mr. Rodgers on this particular morning. 'Cold one,' said Mr. Benedict.
'Ha, ha!'

 
          
    Outside the drug-store,
Mr. Benedict met up with Mr. Stuyvesant, the contractor. Mr. Stuyvesant looked
at his watch to estimate just how much time he dared waste on Benedict before
trumping up some appointment. 'Oh, hello, Benedict,' shouted Stuyvesant. 'How's
business? I bet you're going at it tooth and nail. Did you get it? I said, I bet
you're going at it tooth and — ' 'Yes, yes,' chuckled Mr. Benedict vaguely.
'And how is your business, Mr. Stuyvesant?' 'Say, how do your hands get so
cold, Benny old man? That's a cold shake you got there. You just get done
embalming a frigid woman? Hey, that's not bad. You heard what I said?' roared
Mr. Stuyvesant, pounding him on the back. 'Good, good!' cried Mr. Benedict,
with a fleshless smile. 'Good day.'

 
          
    On it went, person
after person. Mr. Benedict,
pummelled
on from one to
the next, was the lake into which all refuse was thrown. People began with
little pebbles and then when Mr. Benedict did not ripple or protest, they
heaved a stone, a brick,
a
boulder. There was no
bottom to Mr. Benedict, no splash and no settling. The lake did not answer.

 
          
    As the day passed he
became more helpless and enraged with them, and he walked from building to
building and had more little meetings and conversations and hated himself with
a very real, masochistic pleasure. But the thing that kept him going most of
all was the thought of the night pleasures to come. So he inflicted himself
again and again with these stupid, pompous bullies and bowed to them and held
his hands like little biscuits before his stomach, and asked no more than to be
sneered at.

 
          
    'There you are,
meat-chopper,' said Mr. Flinger, the delicatessen man. 'How are all your corned
beeves and pickled brains?'

 
          
    Things worked to a
crescendo of inferiority. With a final kettle-drumming of insult and terrible
self-effacement, Mr. Benedict, seeking wildly the correct time from his wrist
watch, turned and ran back through the town. He was at his peak, he was all
ready now, ready to work, ready to do what must be done, and enjoy himself. The
awful part of the day was
over,
the good part was now
to begin! He ran eagerly up the steps to his mortuary.

 
          
    The room waited like a
fall of snow. There were white hummocks and pale delineations of things
recumbent under sheets in the dimness.

 
          
    The door burst open.

 
          
    Mr. Benedict, framed in
a flow of light, stood in the door, head back, one hand upraised in dramatic
salute, the other hand upon the door-knob in unnatural rigidity.

 
          
    He was the
puppet-master come home.

 
          
    He stood a long minute
in the very centre of his theatre. In his head applause, perhaps, thundered. He
did not move, but lowered his head in abject appreciation of this kind, kind
applauding audience.

 
          
    He carefully removed
his coat, hung it up, got himself into a fresh white smock, buttoned the cuffs
with professional crispness,
then
washed his hands
together as he looked around at his very good friends.

 
          
    It had been a fine
week; there were any number of family relics lying under the sheets, and as Mr.
Benedict stood before them he felt himself grow and grow and tower and stretch
over them.

 
          
    'Like
Alice
!'
he cried to himself in surprise.
'Taller, taller.
Curiouser
and
curiouser
!'
He flexed his hands straight out and up.

 
          
    He had never gotten
over his initial incredulity when in the room with the dead. He was both
delighted and bewildered to discover that here he was master of peoples, here
he might do what he wished with men, and they must, by necessity, be polite and
co-operative with him. They could not run away. And now, as on other days, he
felt himself released and resilient, growing, growing like
Alice
.
'Oh, so tall, oh, so tall, so very
tall.
. . until my
head. . . bumps. . . the ceiling.'

 
          
    He walked about among
the sheeted people. He felt the same he did when coming from a picture show
late at night, very strong, very alert, very certain of
himself
.
He felt that everyone was watching him as he left a picture show, and that he
was very handsome and very correct and brave and all the things that the
picture hero was, his voice oh, so resonant, persuasive, and he had the right
lilt to his left eyebrow and the right tap with his cane — and sometimes this
movie-induced hypnosis lasted all the way home and persisted into sleep. Those
were the only two times in his living he felt miraculous and fine, at the
picture show, or here — in his own little theatre of the cold.

 
          
    He walked along the
sleeping rows, noting each name on its white card.

 
          
    'Mrs. Walters. Mr.
Smith. Miss Brown. Mr. Andrews.
Ah, good afternoon, one and
all!'

 
          
    'How are you today,
Mrs.
Shellmund
?' he wanted to know, lifting a sheet
as if looking for a child under a bed. 'You're looking splendid, dear lady.'

 
          
    Mrs.
Shellmund
had never spoken to him in her life; she'd always
gone by like a large white statue with roller skates hidden under her skirts,
which gave her an elegant gliding, imperturbable rush.

 
          
    'My dear Mrs.
Shellmund
,' he said, pulling up a chair and regarding her
through a magnifying-glass. 'Do you realize, my lady, that you have a sebaceous
condition of the pores? You were quite waxen in life. Pore trouble.
Oil and grease and pimples.
A rich, rich diet, Mrs.
Shellmund
, there was your trouble. Too many
frosties
and
spongie
cakes and
cream candies. You always prided yourself on your brain, Mrs.
Shellmund
, and thought I was like a dime under your toe, or
a penny, really. But you kept that wonderful priceless brain of yours afloat in
parfaits and fizzes and limeades and sodas and were so very superior to me that
now, Mrs.
Shellmund
, here is what shall happen. . .'

 
          
    He did a neat operation
on her. Cutting the scalp in a circle, he lifted it off,
then
lifted out the brain. Then he prepared a cake-confectioner's little
sugar-bellows and squirted her empty head full of little whipped cream and
crystal ribbons, stars and
frollops
, in pink, white
and green, and on top he printed in a fine pink scroll SWEET DREAMS and put the
skull back on and sewed it in place and hid the marks with wax and powder. 'So
there,' he said, finished.

 
          
    He walked on to the
next table.

 
          
    'Good afternoon, Mr.
Wren. Good afternoon. And how is the master of the racial hatreds today, Mr.
Wren? Pure, white, laundered Mr. Wren. Clean as snow, white as linen, Mr. Wren
you are. The man who hated Jews and
negroes
.
Minorities, Mr. Wren, minorities.' He pulled back the sheet. Mr. Wren stared up
with glassy cold eyes. 'Mr. Wren, look upon a member of a minority. Myself. The
minority of inferiors, those who speak not above a whisper, those afraid of
talking aloud, those frightened little nonentities, mice. Do you know what I am
going to do with you, Mr. Wren? First, let us draw your blood from you,
intolerant friend.' The blood was drawn off 'Now — the injection of, you might
say, embalming fluid.'

 
          
   
Mr.
Wren, snow-white, linen-pure, lay with the fluid going in him.

 
          
    Mr. Benedict laughed.

 
          
    Mr. Wren turned black;
black as dirt, black as night.

 
          
    The embalming fluid was
— ink.

 
          
    'And hello to
you
, Edmund Worth!'

 
          
    What a handsome body
Worth had. Powerful, with muscles pinned from huge bone to huge bone, and a
chest like a boulder. Women had grown speechless when he walked by, men had
stared with envy and hoped they might borrow that body some night and ride home
in it to the wife and give her a nice surprise. But Worth's body had always
been
his own,
and he had applied it to those tasks and
pleasures which made him a conversational topic among all people who enjoyed
sin.