Ray Bradbury Stories Volume 2. Ray Bradbury
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‘I remember the pterodactyl.’ Mrs Bentley smiled.
‘No, but how old?’
‘Seventy-two.’
They gave their cold sweets an extra long suck, deliberating.
‘That’s old,’ said Tom.
‘I don’t feel any different now than when I was your age,’ said the old lady.
‘Our age?’
‘Yes. Once I was a pretty little girl just like you, Jane, and you, Alice.’
They did not speak.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing.’ Jane got up.
‘Oh, you don’t have to go so soon, I hope. You haven’t finished eating.… Is something the matter?’
‘My mother says it isn’t nice to fib,’ said Jane.
‘Of course it isn’t. It’s very bad,’ agreed Mrs Bentley.
‘And not to listen to fibs.’
‘Who was fibbing to you, Jane?’
Jane looked at her and then glanced nervously away. ‘You were.’
‘I?’ Mrs Bentley laughed and put her withered claw to her small bosom. ‘About what?’
‘About your age. About being a little girl.’
Mrs Bentley stiffened. ‘But I was, many years ago, a little girl just like you.’
‘Come on, Alice, Tom.’
‘Just a moment,’ said Mrs Bentley. ‘Don’t you believe me?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Jane. ‘No.’
‘But how ridiculous! It’s perfectly obvious. Everyone was young once!’
‘Not you,’ whispered Jane, eyes down, almost to herself. Her empty ice stick had fallen in a vanilla puddle on the porch floor.
‘But of course I was eight, nine, ten years old, like all of you.’
The two girls gave a short, quickly-sealed-up laugh.
Mrs Bentley’s eyes glittered. ‘Well, I can’t waste a morning arguing with ten-year-olds. Needless to say, I was ten myself once and just as silly.’
The two girls laughed. Tom looked uneasy.
‘You’re joking with us,’ giggled Jane. ‘You weren’t really ten ever, were you, Mrs Bentley?’
‘You run on home!’ the woman cried suddenly, for she could not stand their eyes. ‘I won’t have you laughing.’
‘And your name’s not really Helen?’
‘Of course it’s Helen!’
‘Good-bye,’ said the two girls, giggling away across the lawn under the seas of shade, Tom followed them slowly. ‘Thanks for the ice cream!’
‘Once I played hopscotch!’ Mrs Bentley cried after them, but they were gone.
Mrs Bentley spent the rest of the day slamming teakettles about, loudly preparing a meager lunch, and from time to time going to the front door, hoping to catch those insolent fiends on their laughing excursions through the late day. But if they had appeared, what could she say to them, why should she worry about them?
‘The idea!’ said Mrs Bentley to her dainty, rose-clustered teacup. ‘No one ever doubted I was a girl before. What a silly, horrible thing to do. I don’t mind being old – not really – but I do resent having my childhood taken away from me.’
She could see the children racing off under the cavernous trees with her youth in their frosty fingers, invisible as air.
After supper, for no reason at all, with a senseless certainty of motion, she watched her own hands, like a pair of ghostly gloves at a séance, gather together certain items in a perfumed kerchief. Then she went to her front porch and stood there stiffly for half an hour.
As suddenly as night birds the children flew by, and Mrs Bentley’s voice brought them to a fluttering rest.
‘Yes, Mrs Bentley?’
‘Come up on this porch!’ she commanded them, and the girls climbed the steps, Tom trailing after.
‘Yes, Mrs Bentley?’ They thumped the ‘Mrs’ like a bass piano chord, extra heavily, as if that were her first name.
‘I’ve some treasures to show you.’ She opened the perfumed kerchief and peered into it as if she herself might be surprised. She drew forth a hair comb, very small and delicate, its rim twinkling with rhinestones.
‘I wore this when I was nine,’ she said.
Jane turned it in her hand and said, ‘How nice.’
‘Let’s see!’ cried Alice.
‘And here is a tiny ring I wore when I was eight,’ said Mrs Bentley. ‘It doesn’t fit my finger now. You look through it and see the Tower of Pisa ready to fall.’
‘Let’s see it lean!’ The girls passed it back and forth between them until Jane fitted it to her hand. ‘Why, it’s just my size!’ she exclaimed.
‘And the comb fits my head!’ gasped Alice.
Mrs Bentley produced some jackstones. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘I once played with these.’
She threw them. They made a constellation on the porch.
‘And here!’ In triumph she flashed her trump card, a postal picture of herself when she was seven years old, in a dress like a yellow butterfly, with her golden curls and blown blue-glass eyes and angelic pouting lips.
‘Who’s this little girl?’ asked Jane.
‘It’s me!’
The two girls held onto it.
‘But it doesn’t look like you,’ said Jane simply. ‘Anybody could get a picture like this, somewhere.’
They looked at her for a long moment.
‘Any more pictures, Mrs Bentley?’ asked Alice. ‘Of you, later? You got a picture of you at fifteen, and one at twenty, and one at forty and fifty?’
The girls chortled.
‘I don’t have to show you anything!’ said Mrs Bentley.
‘Then we don’t have to believe you,’ replied Jane.
‘But this picture proves I was young!’
‘That’s some other little girl, like us. You borrowed it.’
‘I was married!’
‘Where’s Mr Bentley?’
‘He’s been gone a long time. If he were here, he’d tell you how young and pretty I was when I was twenty-two.’
‘But he’s not here and he can’t tell, so what does that prove?’
‘I have a marriage certificate.’
‘You could have borrowed that, too. Only way I’ll believe you were ever young’—Jane shut her eyes to emphasize how sure she was of herself—‘is if you have someone say they saw you when you were ten.’
‘Thousands of people saw me but they’re dead, you little fool—or ill, in other towns. I don’t know a soul here, just moved here a few years ago, so no one saw me young.’
‘Well, there you are!’ Jane blinked at her companions. ‘Nobody saw her!’
‘Listen!’