The Toynbee Convector. Ray Bradbury
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“I won’t—”
“Hush.” One eye as large as the Star of India opened, burned, dimmed down, shut. “You spit mornings, whittle afternoons, and catbox the nights. The four nice cousins can’t stay in Cecy’s upper floor. It’s not proper, four wild young men in a slim girl’s head.” Grandma’s mouth sweetened itself. “Besides, there’s a lot you can teach the cousins. You been around long before Napoleon walked in and then ran out of Russia, or Ben Franklin got the pox. Good if the boys were tucked in your ear for a spell. What’s inside, God knows, but it might, I say might, improve their posture. Would you deny them that?”
“Jumping Jerusalem!” Grandpa leaped to his feet. “I won’t have them all wrestling two falls out of three between my left ear and my right! Kick the sides out of my head. Knock my eyes like basketballs around inside my skull! My brain’s no boardinghouse. One at a time! Tom can pull my eyelids up in the morning. William can help me shove the food in, noons. John can snooze in my cold pork-marrow half-into dusk. Philip can dance in my dusty attic nights. Time to myself is what I ask. And clean up when they leave!”
“Done!” Grandma circled like an orchestra leader, waving at the ghosted air. “One at a time, did you hear, boys?”
“We heard!” cried an anvil chorus from Cecy’s mouth.
“Move ’em in!” said Grandpa.
“Gangway!” said four voices.
And since no one had bothered to say which cousin went first, there was a surge of phantoms on the air, a huge tide-drift of storm and unseen wind.
Four different expressions lit Grandpa’s face. Four different earthquakes shook his brittle frame. Four different smiles ran scales along his piano teeth. Before Grandpa could protest, at four different gaits and speeds, he was run out of the house, across the lawn, and down the abandoned railroad tracks toward town, yelling against and laughing for the wild hours ahead.
The family stood lined up on the porch, staring after the rushing parade of one.
“Cecy! Do something!”
But Cecy, exhausted, was fast asleep in her chair.
That did it.
At noon the next day the big, dull blue, iron engine panted into the railroad station to find the Family lined up on the platform, Grandpa leaned and supported in their midst. They not so much walked but carried him to the day coach, which smelled of fresh varnish and hot plush. Along the way, Grandpa, eyes shut, spoke in a variety of voices that everyone pretended not to hear.
They propped him like an ancient doll in his seat, fastened his straw hat on his head like putting a new roof on an old building, and talked into his face.
“Grandpa, sit up. Grandpa, mind your hat. Grandpa, along the way don’t drink. Grandpa, you in there? Get out of the way, cousins, let the old man speak.”
“I’m here.” Grandpa’s mouth and eyes gave some birdlike twitches. “And suffering for their sins. Their whiskey makes my misery. Damn!”
“No such thing!” “Lies!” “We did nothing!” cried a number of voices from one side, then the other of his mouth. “No!”
“Hush!” Grandma grabbed the old man’s chin and focused his bones with a shake. “West of October is Cranamockett, not a long trip. We got all kinds of folks there, uncles, aunts, cousins, some with and some without children. Your job is to board the cousins out and—”
“Take a load off my mind,” muttered Grandpa, a tear trickling down from one trembling eyelid.
“But if you can’t unload the damn fools,” advised Grandma, “bring ’em back alive!”
“If I live through it.”
“Goodbye!” said four voices from under his tongue.
“Goodbye!” Everyone waved from the platform. “So long, Grandpa, Tom, William, Philip, John!”
“I’m here now, too!” said a young woman’s voice.
Grandpa’s mouth had popped wide.
“Cecy!” cried everyone. “Farewell!”
“Good night nurse!” said Grandpa.
The train chanted away into the hills, west of October.
The train rounded a long curve. Grandpa leaned and creaked his body.
“Well,” whispered Tom, “here we are.”
“Yes.” A long pause. William went on: “Here we are.”
A long silence. The train whistled.
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