Ray Bradbury Stories Volume 2. Ray Bradbury
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a faint splash as he went under and stayed under a long time and came up, or he went out some times with his surfboard as smooth as a girl’s cheeks, sandpapered to a softness, and came riding in, huge and alone on a white and ghastly wave that creamed along the shore and touched the sands with the surfboard as he stepped off like a visitor from another world and stood for a long while holding the soft smooth surfboard in the moonlight, a quiet man and a vast tombstone-shaped thing held there with no writing on it. In all the nights like that in the past years, he had taken a girl out three times one week and she ate a lot and every time he saw her she said Let’s eat and so one night he drove her up to a restaurant and opened the car door and helped her out and got back in and said There’s the restaurant. So long. And drove off. And went back to swimming way out, alone. Much later, another time, a girl was half an hour late getting ready and he never spoke to her again.
Thinking all this, remembering all this, his mother looked at him now.
‘Don’t stand there,’ she said. ‘You make me nervous.’
‘Well,’ he said, resentfully.
‘Go on!’ she cried. But she didn’t cry it strong enough. Even to herself her voice sounded faint. And she did not know if her voice was just naturally faint or if she made it that way.
She might as well have been talking about winter coming; everything she said had a lonely sound. And she heard the words again from her own mouth, with no force: ‘Go on!’
He went into the kitchen. ‘I guess there’ll be enough guys there,’ he said.
‘Sure, there will,’ she said, smiling again. She always smiled again. Sometimes when she talked to him, night after night, she looked as if she were lifting weights, too. When he walked through the rooms she looked like she was doing the walking for him. And when he sat brooding, as he often did, she looked around for something to do which might be burn the toast or overfire the steak. She made a short barking faint and stifled laugh now, ‘Get out, have a good time.’ But the echoes of it moved around in the house as if it were already empty and cold and he should come back in the door. Her lips moved: ‘Fly away.’
He snatched up the cider and the pumpkins and hurried them out to his car. It was a new car and had been new and unused for almost a year. He polished it and jiggered with the motor or lay underneath it for hours messing with all the junk underneath or just sat in the front seat glancing over the strength and health magazines, but rarely drove it. He put the cider and the cut pumpkins proudly in on the front seat, and by this time he was thinking of the possible good time tonight so he did a little child’s stagger as if he might drop everything, and his mother laughed. He licked his lollipop again, jumped into the car, backed it out of the gravel drive, swerved it around down by the ocean, not looking out at this woman, and drove off along the shore road. She stood in the yard watching the car go away. Leonard, my son, she thought.
It was seven fifteen and very dark now; already the children were fluttering along the sidewalks in white ghost sheets and zinc-oxide masks, ringing bells, screaming, lumpy paper sacks banging their knees as they ran.
Leonard, she thought.
They didn’t call him Leonard, they called him Heavy-Set and Sammy, which was short for Samson. They called him Butch and they called him Atlas and Hercules. At the beach you always saw the high-school boys around him feeling his biceps as if he was a new sports car, testing him, admiring him. He walked golden among them. Each year it was that way. And then the eighteen-year-old ones got to be nineteen and didn’t come around so often, and then twenty and very rarely, and then twenty-one and never again, just gone, and suddenly there were new eighteen year olds to replace them, yes, always the new ones to stand where the others had stood in the sun, while the older ones went on somewhere to something and somebody.
Leonard, my good boy, she thought. We go to shows on Saturday nights. He works on the high power lines all day, up in the sky, alone, and sleeps alone in his room at night, and never reads a book or a paper or listens to a radio or plays a record, and this year he’ll be thirty-one. And just where, in all the years, did the thing happen that put him up on that pole alone and working out alone every night? Certainly there had been enough women, here and there, now and then, through his life. Little scrubby ones, of course, fools, yes, by the look of them, but women, or girls, rather, and none worth glancing at a second time. Still, when a boy gets past thirty …? She sighed. Why even as recent as last night the phone had rung. Heavy-Set had answered it, and she could fill in the unheard half of the conversation because she had heard thousands like it in a dozen years:
‘Sammy, this is Christine.’ A woman’s voice. ‘What you doing?’
His little golden eyelashes flickered and his brow furrowed, alert and wary. ‘Why?’
‘Tom, Lu, and I are going to a show, want to come along?’
‘It better be good!’ he cried, indignantly.
She named it.
‘That!’ He snorted.
‘It’s a good film,’ she said.
‘Not that one,’ he said. ‘Besides, I haven’t shaved yet today.’
‘You can shave in five minutes.’
‘I need a bath, and it’d take a long time.’
A long time, thought his mother, he was in the bathroom two hours today. He combs his hair two dozen times, musses it, combs it again, talking to himself.
‘Okay for you.’ The woman’s voice on the phone. ‘You going to the beach this week?’
‘Saturday,’ he said, before he thought.
‘See you there, then,’ she said.
‘I meant Sunday,’ he said, quickly.
‘I could change it to Sunday,’ she replied.
‘If I can make it,’ he said, even more quickly. ‘Things go wrong with my car.’
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Samson. So long.’
And he had stood there for a long time, turning the silent phone in his hand.
Well, his mother thought, he’s having a good time now. A good Hallowe’en party, with all the apples he took along, tied on strings, and the apples, untied, to bob for in a tub of water, and the boxes of candy, the sweet corn kernels that really taste like autumn. He’s running around looking like the bad little boy, she thought, licking his lollipop, everyone shouting, blowing horns, laughing, dancing.
At eight, and again at eight thirty and nine she went to the screen door and looked out and could almost hear the party a long way off at the dark beach, the sounds of it blowing on the wind crisp and furious and wild, and wished she could be there at the little shack out over the waves on the pier, everyone whirling about in costumes, and all the pumpkins cut each a different way and a contest for the best homemade mask or makeup job, and too much popcorn to eat and—
She held to the screen door knob, her face pink and excited and suddenly realized the children had stopped coming to beg at the door. Hallowe’en, for the neighborhood kids anyway, was over.
She went to look out into the backyard.
The house and yard were too quiet. It was strange not hearing the basketball volley on the gravel or the steady bumble of the punching bag taking a beating. Or the little tweezing sound of the hand-squeezers.
What if, she thought, he found someone tonight, found someone down there, and just never came back, never came home. No telephone call. No letter, that was the way it could be. No word. Just go off away and never come back again. What if? What if?
No! she thought, there’s no one, no one there, no one anywhere. There’s just this place. This is the only place.
But her heart was beating fast and she had to sit down.
The wind blew softly from the shore.
She turned on the radio but could not