Bradbury Stories (63 page)

The skin man shook his head. “Only one way to get rid of that.”

“How?”

“Take a knife and cut off your chest. You won't live long, but the picture'll be gone.”

“Come back here!”

But the skin man walked away.

They could hear the big Sunday-night crowd, waiting.

“That's a big crowd,” said the Illustrated Man.

“But they ain't going to see what they came to see,” said the carny boss. “You ain't going out there, except with the adhesive. Hold still now, I'm curious about this
other
picture, on your back. We might be able to give 'em an Unveiling on this one instead.”

“She said it wouldn't be ready for a week or so. The old woman said it would take time to set, make a pattern.”

There was a soft ripping as the carny boss pulled aside a flap of white tape on the Illustrated Man's spine.

“What do you see?” gasped Mr. Phelps, bent over.

The carny boss replaced the tape. “Buster, as a Tattooed Man, you're a washout, ain't you? Why'd you let that old dame fix you up this way?”

“I didn't know who she was.”

“She sure cheated you on this one. No design to it. Nothing. No picture at all.”

“It'll come clear. You wait and see.”

The boss laughed. “Okay. Come on. We'll show the crowd part of you, anyway.”

They walked out into an explosion of brassy music.

He stood monstrous in the middle of the night, putting out his hands like a blind man to balance himself in a world now tilted, now rushing, now threatening to spin him over and down into the mirror before which he raised his hands. Upon the flat, dimly lighted tabletop were peroxide, acids, silver razors, and squares of sandpaper. He took each of them in turn. He soaked the vicious tattoo upon his chest, he scraped at it. He worked steadily for an hour.

He was aware, suddenly, that someone stood in the trailer door behind him. It was three in the morning. There was a faint odor of beer. She had come home from town. He heard her slow breathing. He did not turn. “Lisabeth?” he said.

“You'd better get rid of it,” she said, watching his hands move the sandpaper. She stepped into the trailer.

“I didn't want the picture this way,” he said.

“You did,” she said. “You planned it.”

“I didn't.”

“I know you,” she said. “Oh, I know you hate me. Well, that's nothing. I hate you. I've hated you a long time now. Good God, when you started putting on the fat, you think anyone could love you then? I could teach you some things about hate. Why don't you ask me?”

“Leave me alone,” he said.

“In front of that crowd, making a spectacle out of me!”

“I didn't know what was under the tape.”

She walked around the table, hands fitted to her hips talking to the beds, the walls, the table, talking it all out of her. And he thought:
Or did I know? Who made this picture, me or the witch? Who formed it? How? Do I really want her dead? No! And yet
. . . .He watched his wife draw nearer, nearer, he saw the ropy strings of her throat vibrate to her shouting. This and this and
this
was wrong with him! That and that and
that
was unspeakable about him! He was a liar, a schemer, a fat, lazy, ugly man, a child. Did he think he could compete with the carny boss or the tentpeggers? Did he think he was sylphine and graceful, did he think he was a framed El Greco? DaVinci, huh! Michelangelo, my eye! She brayed. She showed her teeth. “Well, you can't scare me into staying with someone I don't want touching me with their slobby paws!” she finished, triumphantly.

“Lisabeth,” he said.

“Don't Lisabeth me!” she shrieked. “I know your plan. You had that picture put on to scare me. You thought I wouldn't
dare
leave you. Well!”

“Next Saturday night, the Second Unveiling,” he said. “You'll be proud of me.”

“Proud! You're silly and pitiful. God, you're like a whale. You ever see a beached whale? I saw one when I was a kid. There it was, and they came and shot it. Some lifeguards shot it. Jesus, a whale!”

“Lisabeth.”

“I'm leaving, that's all, and getting a divorce.”

“Don't.”

“And I'm marrying a man, not a fat woman—that's what you are, so much fat on you there ain't no sex!”

“You can't leave me,” he said.

“Just watch!”

“I love you,” he said.

“Oh,” she said. “Go look at your pictures.”

He reached out.

“Keep your hands off,” she said.

“Lisabeth.”

“Don't come near. You turn my stomach.”

“Lisabeth.”

All the eyes of his body seemed to fire, all the snakes to move, all the monsters to seethe, all the mouths to widen and rage. He moved toward her—not like a man, but a crowd.

He felt the great blooded reservoir of orangeade pump through him now, the sluice of cola and rich lemon pop pulse in sickening sweet anger through his wrists his legs, his heart. All of it, the oceans of mustard and relish and all the million drinks he had drowned himself in in the last year were aboil; his face was the color of a steamed beef. And the pink roses of his hands became those hungry, carnivorous flowers kept long years in tepid jungle and now let free to find their way on the night air before him.

He gathered her to him, like a great beast gathering in a struggling animal. It was a frantic gesture of love, quickening and demanding, which, as she struggled, hardened to another thing. She beat and clawed at the picture on his chest.

“You've got to love me, Lisabeth.”

“Let go!” she screamed. She beat at the picture that burned under her fists. She slashed at it with her fingernails.

“Oh, Lisabeth,” he said, his hands moving up her arms.

“I'll scream,” she said, seeing his eyes.

“Lisabeth.” The hands moved up to her shoulders, to her neck. “Don't go away.”

“Help!” she screamed. The blood ran from the picture on his chest.

He put his fingers about her neck and squeezed.

She was a calliope cut in mid-shriek.

Outside, the grass rustled. There was the sound of running feet.

Mr. William Philippus Phelps opened the trailer door and stepped out.

They were waiting for him. Skeleton, Midget, Balloon, Yoga, Electra, Pop-eye, Seal Boy. The freaks, waiting in the middle of the night, in the dry grass.

He walked toward them. He moved with a feeling that he must get away; these people would understand nothing, they were not thinking people. And because he did not flee, because he only walked, balanced, stunned, between the tents, slowly, the freaks moved to let him pass. They watched him, because their watching guaranteed that he would not escape. He walked out across the black meadow, moths fluttering in his face. He walked steadily as long as he was visible, not knowing where he was going. They watched him go, and then they turned and all of them shuffled to the silent car-trailer together and pushed the door slowly wide. . . .

The Illustrated Man walked steadily in the dry meadows beyond the town.

“He went that way!” a faint voice cried. Flashlights bobbled over the hills. There were dim shapes, running.

Mr. William Philippus Phelps waved to them. He was tired. He wanted only to be found now. He was tired of running away. He waved again.

“There he is!” The flashlights changed direction. “Come on! We'll get the bastard!”

When it was time, the Illustrated Man ran again. He was careful to run slowly. He deliberately fell down twice. Looking back, he saw the tent stakes they held in their hands.

He ran toward a far crossroads lantern, where all the summer night seemed to gather: merry-go-rounds of fireflies whirling, crickets moving their song toward that light, everything rushing, as if by some midnight attraction, toward that one high-hung lantern—the Illustrated Man first, the others close at his heels.

As he reached the light and passed a few yards under and beyond it, he did not need to look back. On the road ahead, in silhouette, he saw the upraised tent stakes sweep violently up, up, and then
down
!

A minute passed.

In the country ravines, the crickets sang. The freaks stood over the sprawled Illustrated Man, holding their tent stakes loosely.

Finally they rolled him over on his stomach. Blood ran from his mouth.

They ripped the adhesive from his back. They stared down for a long moment at the freshly revealed picture. Someone whispered. Someone else swore, softly. The Thin Man pushed back and walked away and was sick. Another and another of the freaks stared, their mouths trembling, and moved away, leaving the Illustrated Man on the deserted road, the blood running from his mouth.

In the dim light, the unveiled Illustration was easily seen.

It showed a crowd of freaks bending over a dying fat man on a dark and lonely road, looking at a tattoo on his back which illustrated a crowd of freaks bending over a dying fat man on a . . .

T
HAT'S THE MAN, RIGHT OVER THERE
,” said Mrs. Ribmoll, nodding across the street. “See that man perched on the tar barrel afront Mr. Jenkins' Odd Martin.”

Odd Martin.

“The one that says he's dead?” cried Arthur.

Mrs. Ribmoll nodded. “Crazy as a weasel down a chimney. Carries on firm about how he's been dead since the flood and nobody appreciates.”

“I see him sitting there every day,” cried Arthur.

“Oh yes, he sits there, he does. Sits there and stares at nothing. I say it's a crying shame they don't throw him in jail.”

Arthur made a face at the man. “Yah!”

“Never mind, he won't notice you. Most uncivil man I ever seen. Nothing pleased him.” She yanked Arthur's arm. “Come on, sonny, we got shopping to do.”

They passed on up the street past the barber shop. In the window, after they'd gone by, stood Mr. Simpson, sniping his blue shears and chewing his tasteless gum. He squinted thoughtfully out through the fly-specked glass, looking at the man sitting over there on the tar barrel. “I figure the best thing could happen to Odd Martin would be to get married,” he figured. His eyes glinted slyly. Over his shoulder he looked at his manicurist, Miss Weldon, who was busy burnishing the scraggly fingernails of a farmer named Gilpatrick. Miss Weldon, at this suggestion, did not look up. She had heard it often. They were always ragging her about Odd Martin.

Mr. Simpson walked back and started work on Gilpatrick's dusty hair again. Gilpatrick chuckled softly. “What woman would marry Odd? Sometimes I almost believe he
is
dead. He's got an awful odor to him.”

Miss Weldon looked up into Mr. Gilpatrick's face and carefully cut his finger with one of her little scalpels. “Gol darn it!” “Watch what you're doing, woman!”

Miss Weldon looked at him with calm little blue eyes in a small white face. Her hair was mouse-brown; she wore no make-up and talked to no one most of the time.

Mr. Simpson cackled and snicked his blue steel shears. “Hope, hope, hope!” he laughed like that. “Miss Weldon, she knows what she's doin', Gilpatrick. You just be careful. Miss Weldon, she give a bottle of eau de cologne to Odd Martin last Christmas. It helped cover up his smell.”

Miss Weldon laid down her instruments.

“Sorry, Miss Weldon,” apologized Mr. Simpson. “I won't say no more.”

Reluctantly, she took up her instruments again.

“Hey, there he goes again!” cried one of the four other men waiting in the shop. Mr. Simpson whirled, almost taking Gilpatrick's pink ear with him in his shears. “Come look, boys!”

Across the street the sheriff stepped out of his office door just then and he saw it happen, too. He saw what Odd Martin was doing.

Everybody came running from all the little stores.

The sheriff arrived and looked down into the gutter.

“Come on now, Odd Martin, come on now,” he shouted. He poked down into the gutter with his shiny black boot-tip. “Come on, get up. You're not dead. You're good as me. You'll catch your death of cold there with all them gum wrappers and cigar butts! Come on, get up!”

Mr. Simpson arrived on the scene and looked at Odd Martin lying there. “He looks like a carton of milk.”

“He's takin' up valuable parkin' space for cars, this bein' Friday mornin',” whined the sheriff. “And lots of people needin' the area. Here now, Odd. Hmm. Well, give me a hand here, boys.”

They laid the body on the sidewalk.

“Let him stay here,” declared the sheriff, jostling around in his boots. “Just let him stay till he gets tired of layin'. He's done this a million times before. Likes the publicity.
Git
, you kids!”

He sent a bunch of children scuttling ahead of his cheek of tobacco.

Back in the barber shop, Simpson looked around. “Where's Miss Weldon? Unh.” He looked through the glass. “There she is, brushing him off again, while he lies there. Fixing his coat, buttoning it up. Here she comes back. Don't nobody fun with her, she resents it.”

The barber clock said twelve o'clock and then one and then two and then three. Mr. Simpson kept track of it. “I make you a bet that Odd Martin lies over there 'till four o'clock,” he said.

Someone else said, “I'll bet he's there until four-thirty.”

“Last time—” a snickering of the shears “—he was there four hours. Nice warm day today. He may nap there until five. I'll say five. Let's see your money, gents or maybe later.”

The money was collected and put on a shelf by the hair-ointments.

One of the younger men began shaving a stick with his pocketknife. “It's sorta funny how we joke about Odd. We're scared of him, inside. I mean we won't let ourselves believe he's really dead. We don't dare believe it. We'd never get over it if we knew. So we make him a joke. We let him lie around. He don't hurt nobody. He's just there. But I notice Doc Hudson has never really touched Odd's heart with his stethoscope. Scared of what he'd find, I bet.”