Bradbury Stories (18 page)

“I love our lives,” said Maggie, lying there, “all the games. I hope it never stops. You're not like other men, who drink beer and talk poker. Dear God, I wonder, how many other marriages play like us?”

“No one, nowhere. Remember?”

“What?”

He lay back to trace his memory on the ceiling.

“The day we were married—”

“Yes!”

“Our friends driving and dropping us off here and we walked down to the drugstore by the pier and bought a tube of toothpaste and two toothbrushes, big bucks, for our honeymoon . . .? One red toothbrush, one green, to decorate our empty bathroom. And on the way back along the beach, holding hands, suddenly, behind us, two little girls and a boy followed us and sang:

She sang it now, quietly. He chimed in, remembering how they had blushed with pleasure at the children's voices, but walked on, feeling ridiculous but happy and wonderful.

“How did they guess? Did we
look
married?”

“It wasn't our clothes! Our faces, don't you think? Smiles that made our jaws ache. We were exploding. They got the concussion.”

“Those dear children. I can still hear their voices.”

“And so here we are, seventeen months later.” He put his arm around her and gazed at their future on the dark ceiling.

“‘And here
I
am,” a voice murmured.

“Who?” Douglas said.

“Me,” the voice whispered. “Sascha.”

Douglas looked down at his wife's mouth, which had barely trembled.

“So, at last, you've decided to speak?” said Douglas.

“Yes,” came the whisper.

“We wondered,” said Douglas, “when we would hear from you.” He squeezed his wife gently.

“It's time,” the voice murmured. “So here I am.”

“Welcome, Sascha,” both said.

“Why didn't you talk sooner?” asked Douglas Spaulding.

“I wasn't sure that you
liked
me,” the voice whispered.

“Why would you think
that?
”

“First I was, then I wasn't. Once I was only a name. Remember, last year, I was ready to come and stay. Scared you.”

“We were broke,” said Douglas quietly. “And nervous.”

“What's so scary about life?” said Sascha. Maggie's lips twitched. “It's that
other
thing.
Not
being, ever. Not being wanted.”

“On the contrary.” Douglas Spaulding moved down on his pillow so he could watch his wife's profile, her eyes shut, but her mouth breathing softly. “We love you. But last year it was bad timing. Understand?”

“No,” whispered Sascha. “I only understand you didn't want me. And now you
do
. I should leave.”

“But you just
got
here!”

“Here I go, anyway.”

“Don't, Sascha! Stay!”

“Good-bye.” The small voice faded. “Oh, good-bye.”

And then silence.

Maggie opened her eyes with quiet panic.

“Sascha's gone,” she said.

“He
can't
be!”

The room was still.

“
Can't
be,” he said. “It's only a game.”

“More than a game. Oh, God, I feel cold. Hold me.”

He moved to hug her.

“It's okay.”

“No. I had the funniest feeling just now, as if he were real.”

“He
is
. He's
not
gone.”

“Unless we do something. Help me.”

“Help?” He held her even tighter, then shut his eyes, and at last called:

“Sascha?”

Silence.

“I know you're there. You can't hide.”

His hand moved to where Sascha might be.

“Listen. Say something. Don't scare us, Sascha. We don't want to be scared or scare you. We need each other. We three against the world. Sascha?”

Silence.

“Well?” whispered Douglas.

Maggie breathed in and out.

They waited.

“Yes?”

There was a soft flutter, the merest exhalation on the night air.

“Yes.”

“You're back!” both cried.

Another silence.

“Welcome?” asked Sascha.

“Welcome!” both said.

And that night passed and the next day and the night and day after that, until there were many days, but especially midnights when he dared to declare himself, pipe opinions, grow stronger and firmer and longer in half-heard declarations, as they lay in anticipatory awareness, now she moving her lips, now he taking over, both open as warm, live ventriloquists' mouthpieces. The small voice shifted from one tongue to the other, with soft bouts of laughter at how ridiculous but loving it all seemed, never knowing what Sascha might say next, but letting him speak on until dawn and a smiling sleep.

“What's this about Halloween?” he asked, somewhere in the sixth month.

“Halloween?” both wondered.

“Isn't that a death holiday?” Sascha murmured.

“Well, yes . . .”

“I'm not sure I want to be born on a night like that.”

“Well, what night
would
you like to be born on?”

Silence as Sascha floated a while.

“Guy Fawkes,” he finally whispered.

“Guy Fawkes??!!”

“That's mainly fireworks, gunpowder plots, Houses of Parliament, yes?
Please to remember the fifth of November?
”

“Do you think you could wait until then?”

“I could try. I don't think I want to start out with skulls and bones. Gunpowder's more like it. I could write about that.”

“Will you be a writer, then?”

“Get me a typewriter and a ream of paper.”

“And keep us awake with the
typing
?”

“Pen, pencil, and pad, then?”

“Done!”

So it was agreed and the nights passed into weeks and the weeks leaned from summer into the first days of autumn and his voice grew stronger, as did the sound of his heart and the small commotions of his limbs. Sometimes as Maggie slept, his voice would stir her awake and she would reach up to touch her mouth, where the surprise of his dreaming came forth.

“There, there, Sascha. Rest now. Sleep.”

“Sleep,” he whispered drowsily, “sleep.” And faded away.

“Pork chops, please, for supper.”

“No pickles with ice cream?” both said, almost at once.

“Pork chops,” he said, and more days passed and more dawns arose and he said: “Hamburgers!”

“For
breakfast
?”

“With onions,” he said.

October stood still for one day and then . . .

Halloween departed.

“Thanks,” said Sascha, “for helping me past
that
. What's up ahead in five nights?”

“Guy Fawkes!”

“Ah, yes!” he cried.

And at one minute after midnight five days later, Maggie got up, wandered to the bathroom, and wandered back, stunned.

“Dear,” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

Douglas Spaulding turned over, half awake. “Yes?”

“What day is it?” whispered Sascha.

“Guy Fawkes, at last. So?”

“I don't feel well,” said Sascha. “Or, no, I feel fine. Full of pep. Ready to go. It's time to say good-bye. Or is it hello? What
do
I mean?”

“Spit it out.”

“Are there neighbors who said, no matter when, they'd take us to the hospital?”

“Yes.”

“Call the neighbors,” said Sascha.

They called the neighbors.

At the hospital, Douglas kissed his wife's brow and listened.

“It's been nice,” said Sascha.

“Only the best.”

“We won't talk again. Good-bye,” said Sascha.

“Good-bye,” both said.

At dawn there was a small clear cry somewhere.

Not long after, Douglas entered his wife's hospital room. She looked at him and said, “Sascha's gone.”

“I know,” he said quietly.

“But he left word and someone else is here. Look.”

He approached the bed as she pulled back a coverlet.

“Well, I'll be damned.”

He looked down at a small pink face and eyes that for a brief moment flickered bright blue and then shut.

“Who's that?” he asked.

“Your daughter. Meet Alexandra.”

“Hello, Alexandra,” he said.

“And do you know what the nickname for Alexandra is?” she said.

“What?”

“Sascha,” she said.

He touched the small cheek very gently.

“Hello, Sascha,” he said.

I
T WAS ON THE MORNING OF
O
CTOBER 1
that Albert Beam, aged eighty-two, woke to find an incredible thing had happened, if not in the night, miraculously at dawn.

He witnessed a warm and peculiar rise two-thirds of the way down the bed, under the covers. At first he thought he had drawn up one knee to ease a cramp, but then, blinking, he realized—

It was his old friend, Albert, Junior.

Or just Junior, as some frolicsome girl had dubbed it, how long, oh God . . . some sixty years ago!

And Junior was alive, well, and freshly alert.

Hallo, thought Albert Beam, Senior, to the scene, that's the first time he's waked before me since July 1970.

July
1970
!

He stared. And the more he stared and mused, the more Junior blushed unseen; all resolute, a true beauty.

Well, thought Albert Beam, I'll just wait for him to go away.

He shut his eyes and waited, but nothing happened. Or rather, it
continued
to happen. Junior did not go away. He lingered, hopeful for some new life.

Hold on! thought Albert Beam. It
can't
be.

He sat bolt upright, his eyes popped wide, his breath like a fever in his mouth.

“Are you going to
stay
?” he cried down at his old and now bravely obedient friend.

Yes
! he thought he heard a small voice say.

For as a young man, he and his trampoline companions had often enjoyed Charlie McCarthy talks with Junior, who was garrulous and piped up with outrageously witty things. Ventriloquism, amidst Phys. Ed. II, was one of Albert Beam's most engaging talents.

Which meant that Junior was talented, too.

Yes
! the small voice seemed to whisper.
Yes
!

Albert Beam bolted from bed. He was halfway through his personal phonebook when he realized all the old numbers still drifted behind his left ear. He dialed three of them, furiously, voice cracking.

“Hello.”

“Hello!”

“Hello!”

From this island of old age now he called across a cold sea toward a summer shore. There, three women answered. Still reasonably young, trapped between fifty and sixty, they gasped, crowed and hooted when Albert Beam stunned them with the news:

“Emily, you won't believe—”

“Cora, a
miracle
!”

“Elizabeth, Junior's back.”

“Lazarus has returned!”

“Drop everything!”

“Hurry over!”

“Good-bye, good-bye,
good-bye
!”

He dropped the phone, suddenly fearful that after all the alarums and excursions, this Most Precious Member of the Hot-Dog Midnight Dancing-Under-the-Table Club might dismantle. He shuddered to think that Cape Canaveral's rockets would fall apart before the admiring crowd could arrive to gape in awe.

Such was not the case.

Junior, steadfast, stayed on, frightful in demeanor, a wonder to behold.

Albert Beam, ninety-five percent mummy, five percent jaunty peacock lad, raced about his mansion in his starkers, drinking coffee to give Junior courage and shock himself awake, and when he heard the various cars careen up the drive, threw on a hasty robe. With hair in wild disarray he rushed to let in three girls who were not girls, nor maids, and almost ladies.

But before he could throw the door wide, they were storming it with jackhammers, or so it seemed, their enthusiasm was so manic.

They burst through, almost heaving him to the floor, and waltzed him backward into the parlor.

One had once been a redhead, the next a blond, the third a brunette. Now, with various rinses and tints obscuring past colors false and real, each a bit more out of breath than the next, they laughed and giggled as they carried Albert Beam along through his house. And whether they were flushed with merriment or blushed at the thought of the antique miracle they were about to witness, who could say? They were scarcely dressed, themselves, having hurled themselves into dressing-gowns in order to race here and confront Lazarus triumphant in the tomb!

“Albert, is it
true
?”

“No
joke
?”

“You once pinched our legs, now are you
pulling
them?!”

“Chums!”

Albert Beam shook his head and smiled a great warm smile, sensing a similar smile on the hidden countenance of his Pet, his Pal, his Buddy, his Friend. Lazarus, impatient, jogged in place.

“No jokes. No lies. Ladies, sit!”

The women rushed to collapse in chairs and turn their rosy faces and July Fourth eyes full on the old moon rocket expert, waiting for countdown.

Albert Beam took hold of the edges of his now purposely elusive bathrobe, while his eyes moved tenderly from face to face.

“Emily, Cora, Elizabeth,” he said, gently, “how special you were, are, and will
always
be.”

“Albert, dear Albert, we're dying with curiosity!”

“A moment, please,” he murmured. “I need to—
remember
.”