Bradbury Stories (39 page)

The library was like a stone quarry where no rain had fallen in ten thousand years.

Way off in that direction: silence.

Way off in that direction: hush.

It was the time between things finished and things begun. Nobody died here. Nobody was born. The library, and all its books, just
were
.

We waited, Mr. Dickens and I, on the edge of the silence.

Mr. Dickens trembled. And I suddenly remembered I had never seen him here all summer. He was afraid I might take him near the fiction shelves and see all his books, written, done, finished, printed, stamped, bound, borrowed, read, repaired, and shelved.

But I wouldn't be that dumb. Even so, he took my elbow and whispered:

“Pip, what are we doing here? Let's go. There's . . .”

“Listen!” I hissed.

And a long way off in the stacks somewhere, there was a sound like a moth turning over in its sleep.

“Bless me,” Mr. Dickens's eyes widened. “I
know
that sound.”

“Sure!”

“It's the sound,” he said, holding his breath, then nodding, “of someone writing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Writing with a pen. And . . . and writing . . .”

“What?”

“Poetry,” gasped Mr. Dickens. “That's it. Someone off there in a room, how many fathoms deep, Pip, I swear, writing a poem. There! Eh? Flourish, flourish, scratch, flourish on, on, on, that's not figures, Pip, not numerals, not dusty-dry facts, you feel it
sweep
, feel it
scurry
? A poem, by God, yes, sir, no doubt, a poem!”

“Ma'am,” I called.

The moth-sound ceased.

“Don't stop her!” hissed Mr. Dickens. “Middle of inspiration. Let her go!”

The moth-scratch started again.

Flourish, flourish, scratch, on, on, stop. Flourish, flourish. I bobbed my head. I moved my lips, as did Mr. Dickens, both of us suspended, held, leaned forward on the cool marble air listening to the vaults and stacks and echoes in the subterrane.

Flourish, flourish, scratch, on, on.

Silence.

“There.” Mr. Dickens nudged me.

“Ma'am!” I called ever so urgently soft.

And something rustled in the corridors.

And there stood the librarian, a lady between years, not young, not old; between colors, not dark, not pale; between heights, not short, not tall, but rather frail, a woman you often heard talking to herself off in the dark dust-stacks with a whisper like turned pages, a woman who glided as if on hidden wheels.

She came carrying her soft lamp of face, lighting her way with her glance.

Her lips were moving, she was busy with words in the vast room behind her clouded gaze.

Charlie read her lips eagerly. He nodded. He waited for her to halt and bring us to focus, which she did, suddenly. She gasped and laughed at herself.

“Oh, Ralph, it's you and—” A look of recognition warmed her face. “Why, you're Ralph's friend. Mr. Dickens, isn't it?”

Charlie stared at her with a quiet and almost alarming devotion.

“Mr. Dickens,” I said. “I want you to meet—”

“‘Because I could not stop for Death—'” Charlie, eyes shut, quoted from memory.

The librarian blinked swiftly and her brow like a lamp turned high, took white color.

“Miss Emily,” he said.

“Her name is—” I said.

“Miss Emily.” He put out his hand to touch hers.

“Pleased,” she said. “But how did you—?”

“Know your name? Why, bless me, ma'am, I heard you scratching way off in there, runalong rush, only poets do
that
!”

“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 Charlie 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.”

T
HIS IS HOW HIS WORK WAS
: He got up at five in the cold dark morning and washed his face with warm water if the heater was working and cold water if the heater was not working. He shaved carefully, talking out to his wife in the kitchen, who was fixing ham and eggs or pancakes or whatever it was that morning. By six o'clock he was driving on his way to work alone, and parking his car in the big yard where all the other men parked their cars as the sun was coming up. The colors of the sky that time of morning were orange and blue and violet and sometimes very red and sometimes yellow or a clear color like water on white rock. Some mornings he could see his breath on the air and some mornings he could not. But as the sun was still rising he knocked his fist on the side of the green truck, and his driver, smiling and saying hello, would climb in the other side of the truck and they would drive out into the great city and go down all the streets until they came to the place where they started work. Sometimes, on the way, they stopped for black coffee and then went on, the warmness in them. And they began the work which meant that he jumped off in front of each house and picked up the garbage cans and brought them back and took off their lids and knocked them against the bin edge, which made the orange peels and cantaloupe rinds and coffee grounds fall out and thump down and begin to fill the empty truck. There were always steak bones and the heads of fish and pieces of green onion and stale celery. If the garbage was new it wasn't so bad, but if it was very old it was bad. He was not sure if he liked the job or not, but it was a job and he did it well, talking about it a lot at some times and sometimes not thinking of it in any way at all. Some days the job was wonderful, for you were out early and the air was cool and fresh until you had worked too long and the sun got hot and the garbage steamed early. But mostly it was a job significant enough to keep him busy and calm and looking at the houses and cut lawns he passed by and seeing how everybody lived. And once or twice a month he was surprised to find that he loved the job and that it was the finest job in the world.

It went on just that way for many years. And then suddenly the job changed for him. It changed in a single day. Later he often wondered how a job could change so much in such a few short hours.

He walked into the apartment and did not see his wife or hear her voice, but she was there, and he walked to a chair and let her stand away from him, watching him as he touched the chair and sat down in it without saying a word. He sat there for a long time.