Bradbury, Ray - SSC 11 (28 page)

 
          
 
"Yes, you're a handsome young man,"
said Mrs. Mears.

 
          
 
"Before I forget it," said Helen.
"Our son Tom is here."

 
          
 
Of course, Tom. Williams had seen Tom one
time, years ago, when Tom had come in off the street long enough to talk; a
bright boy, an alert boy, well-mannered and well-read. A son to be proud of, that
was Tom.

 
          
 
"He's seventeen now," said Helen.
"He's in his room, do you want me to bring him out? You know, he got into
a little trouble. He's a nice kid. We've given him everything. But he got to
running with some Washington Square gang, a bunch of roughnecks, and they
robbed a store and Tom was caught, this was about two months ago. There was
such excitement and, my God, what a stir, but things'll work out. Tom's a good
kid,
you know that, don't you, Williams?" She filled
his glass.

 
          
 
"A fine kid."
Williams started on the new drink quickly.

 
          
 
"You know how kids are. Not much to do in
a town like this, not for kids anyway."

 
          
 
"I've seen the play streets.'*

 
          
 
"Aren't they awful? But what can we do?
We've got a surprise for you, Williams, Paul and me. Do you know what? We're
buying a place in the country, after all this time, after all these years,
getting out, Paul's quitting television, yes, actually quitting, don't you
think that's wonderful? And he's going into writing just like you, Williams,
just like you, and we're living out in Connecticut, it's a nice little place,
we're going to give him a real test, give Paulie a real chance to write, you
think he can write, don't you, Williams? Don't you think he's a damn sweet
little writer?"

 
          
 
"Of course I do!" said Williams.
"Of course."

 
          
 
"So Paul's quitting his damned job, all
that crap, and we're getting out in the country."

 
          
 
"How soon?”

 
          
 
"Sometime in August Might have to put it
off until September. But the first of the year at the latest."

 
          
 
Of course! Williams' spirit lifted. That'll do
it! If they'll only go away, get out of this town. Paul must have saved enough
by now, after all these years. If they'll only go! If she'll only let him.

 
          
 
He glanced across at Helen with her bright
face that now was bright only because she held certain muscles forever that
way, she held them steady and hard, she was not letting go of this new
brightness that was like a light bulb in a room after the sun had burned out

 
          
 
"Your plan sounds terrific," said
Williams.

 
          
 
"Do you really think we can do it,
Williams, do you think we can really do it? You think Paul's a terrific writer,
don't you?"

 
          
 
"Sure I do. You’ve got to try."

 
          
 
"He can always get his job back if he has
to.'*

 
          
 
"Of course."

 
          
 
"So this time well really do it. Get out,
take Tom with us, the country’ll do him good, do us all good, cut out the
drinking, cut out the night life, and really settle in with a typewriter and
ten reams of paper for Paul to fill up. You think he's a damned good writer,
don't you, Williams?"

 
          
 
"You know I do."

 
          
 
“Tell me, Mr. Williams," said Mrs. Mears.
"How did you get to be a writer?"

 
          
 
"I liked to read when I was a kid. I
started writing every day when I was twelve and kept at it," he said,
nervously. He tried to think of how it had really been at the start. "I
just kept at it, a thousand words a day."

 
          
 
"Paul was the same way," said Helen
quickly.

 
          
 
"You must have a lot of money," said
Mrs. Mears.

 
          
 
But at that moment there was the sound of a
key clicking in the door. Williams jimiped up involuntarily, smiling, relieved.
He smiled at the hallway and the distant door as it opened. He kept smiling
when he saw Paul's shape, and Paul looked wonderful to him coming down the hall
into the room. Paul was fine to look at and Williams stuck out his hand and
hurried forward, calling his name, feeling happy. Paul strode across the
apartment, tall, plumper than a few years ago, his face pink, the eyes
abnormally bright, slightly protuberant, faintly bloodshot, and the faint smell
of whiskey on his breath. He grabbed Williams' hand, pumping away and shouting.

 
          
 
"Williams, for God's sake, it's good to
see you, man! So you called us after all, good to see you, damn it! How you
been? You're getting famous! Christ, have a drink, get some more drinks, Helen,
hi there, Mears. Sit down, for God's sake."

 
          
 
"I've got to be going, I don't want to
intrude," said Mrs. Mears, edging through the room. "Thanks for
letting me come over. Goodbye, Mr. Williams."

 
          
 
"Williams, Goddamn it, good to see you,
did Helen tell you what we plan to do, about leaving town, that is? About the
country?"

           
 
"She said—"

 
          
 
"Boy, we're really getting out of this
damn town. Summer coming on. Glad to get out of that raping office. I've read ten
million words of TV crap a year for ten years, don't you think it's time I got
out, Williams, don't you think I should've gotten out years ago? Connecticut
for us! Do you need a drink? Have you seen Tom? Is Tom in his room, Helen? Get
'im out
here,
let him talk to Williams here. Gee,
Williams, we're glad to see you. Been telling everyone-you'd come to see us.
Who've you seen in town so far?"

 
          
 
"I saw Reynolds last night."

 
          
 
"Reynolds, the editor at United Features?
How is he? Does he get out much?"

 
          
 
"A little."

 
          
 
"You know he's been in his apartment for
twelve months, Helen? You remember Reynolds? A nice guy, but army life or
something screwed him up. He was afraid to leave his apartment all last year,
afraid he'd kill someone, anyone, on the street."

 
          
 
"He left his apartment last night with
me," said Williams. "Walked me down to the bus line."

 
          
 
"Hey, that's all right for Reynolds, glad
to hear it. Did you hear about Banks?
Killed in an auto
accident in
Rhode Island
last week."

 
          
 
"No!"

 
          
 
"Yes, sir, damn it, one of the nicest
guys in the world, best photographer who ever worked for the big magazines.
Really talented, young too, damned young, got drunk and was killed in a crash
on his way home. Automobiles, Christ!"

 
          
 
Williams felt as if a great flight of ravens
were beating upon the hot air of the room. This was not Paul any more. This was
the husband of the strange woman who had moved in after the Piersons went away,
sometime in the last three years. Nobody knew where the Piersons had gone. It would
do no good to ask this man where Paul was now, this man could not have told
anyone.

 
          
 
"Williams, you've met our son, haven't
you? Go get Tom, Helen, have him come out!"

 
          
 
The son was fetched, seventeen, silent, into
the parlor doorway, where, feeling the drinks come over him rapidly now,
Williams stood with a freshly filled glass, weaving slightly.

           
 
"This is Tom, Williams, this is
Tom."

 
          
 
“You remember Tom."

 
          
 
"You remember Williams, Tom?"

 
          
 
"Say hello, Tom."

 
          
 
"Tom's a good boy, don't you think so,
Williams?"

 
          
 
Both talking at once, never stopping, always
the river, always the rush and the stumbled words and the alcohol blue-flame
eyes and the hurrying on. Helen said, "Tom, say a few words of gang jargon
for Mr. Williams.”

 
          
 
Silence.

 
          
 
"Tom's picked it up, he's got a good
mind, a good memory. Tom, say a few words of gang talk for Mr. Williams. Oh,
come on, Tom," said Helen.

 
          
 
Silence. Tom stood tall and looking at the
floor in the parlor doorway.

 
          
 
"Come on, Tom," said Helen.

 
          
 
"Oh, leave him alone, Helen."

 
          
 
"Why, Paulie, I just thought Williams
would like to hear some gang jargon. You know it, Tom, say some for us."

 
          
 
"If he doesn't want to he doesn't want
to!" said Paul.

 
          
 
Silence.

 
          
 
"Come on out to the kitchen while I fix
myself a drink," said Paul, moving Williams along by his arm, walking huge
beside him.

 
          
 
In the kitchen they swayed together and Paul
took hold of Williams' elbow, shook his hand, talked to him close and quiet,
his face like a pig's that had been crying all afternoon. "Williams, tell
me, you think I can make it go away quitting this way? I got a swell novel
idea!" He hit Williams' arm, gently at first, then, with each point of his
story, harder. "You like that idea, Williams?" Williams drew back,
but his hand was trapped. The fist smashed his arm again and again. "Say,
it'll be good to write again! Write, have free time, and take off some of this
fat, too."

 
          
 
"Don't do it like Mrs. Mears' son
did."

 
          
 
"He was a fool!" Paul crushed Williams'
arm tight, tight. In all the years of their friendship they had rarely touched,
but now here was Paul gripping, pressuring, petting him. He shook Williams'
shoulder, slapped his back. "In the country, by God, I'll have time to
think, work off this flab! Here in town you know what we do weekends? Kill a
quart or two of Scotch between us. Hard to drive out of town weekends, traffic,
crowds, so we stick here, get loaded and relax. But that'll be over, m the
country. I want you to read a manuscript of mine, Williams."

 
          
 
"Oh, Paulie, wait!"

 
          
 
"Stop it, Helen. Williams won't mind,
will you, Williams?"

 
          
 
I won't mind, thought Williams, but I'll mind.
I'll be afraid but not afraid. If I were sure I'd find the old Paul in the
story somewhere, living and walking around, sober and light and free, sure and
quick in his decisions, tasteful in his choices, direct and forceful in his
criticism, the good producer but most of all the good friend, my personal god
for years, if I could find that Paul in the story, I'd read it in a second. But
I'm not sure, and I wouldn't want to see the new and strange Paul on paper,
ever. Paul, he thought, oh, Paul, don't you know, don't you realize, that you
and Helen will never get out of town, never, never?

 
          
 
"Hell!" cried Paul. "How you
like New York, Williams? Don't like it, do you? Neurotic, you said once. Well,
it's no different than Sioux City or Kenosha. You just meet more people here in
a shorter time. How's it feel, Williams, so high in the world, so famous all of
a sudden?"