Shadow Show: All-New Stories in Celebration of Ray Bradbury (34 page)

I felt the way you feel when you find something long gone and dear, something lost for so long you’ve forced yourself to forget how wonderful it was, so you didn’t yearn for it.

I had forgotten just how good Ray Bradbury was. I had forgotten how subtle and deceptive were his stories, like Betty Smith’s
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
and Harper Lee’s
To Kill a Mockingbird
, riven with the kind of fierce mysteries that adults like to pretend don’t exist.

If you don’t know it, “I Sing the Body Electric!” is the story of a widowed father who takes his children to a factory to assemble a robot nanny for them, a perfect grandmother. And as for perfection, it was, and is, simply one of the most perfectly pitched and moving stories I’ve ever read. Eventually, as children will (witness
Toy Story 3
), the little ones outgrow their need for the granny who can spin kite string from her fingertips. But when they are old, their father gone and their own children adults, and have become frail, those same children return to find their electric grandmother as loving and spry as ever.

Later the same week, I read again to the little girl. The story was
The Homecoming
, the tale of the Halloween-night party that annually reunites an extended family composed of pre-
Twilight
vampires, werewolves, and shape-changers of all descriptions, much to the excitement and grief of Timothy, the youngest child, who is disabled, a mutant. Timothy has the misfortune of having been born human.

At the end of the story, Timothy’s mother (the original Morticia Addams) comforts him. Should he die, she promises, all of them will visit him every year on the Homecoming, and tuck him in, all the closer.

If I’d been moved before, now I was undone. Ray Bradbury’s writing is sentimental in the sense that Steinbeck’s is, but it’s never syrupy. It’s simply the iteration of honest human emotions we can neither outrun or deny.

My relationship with that little girl’s dad was not destined to last. He must have thought I was a sissy. Oh, well.

I soon wrote to Ray Bradbury.

This was so long ago that, in the newsroom where I worked, I still had a typewriter next to my computer (which was the size of a commercial oven). What I wrote, I can’t recall. I only know I went on and on. I’m sure I said that I hoped perhaps one day I could write something with such strange inventive terror and tenderness.

You must imagine the face of the clerk in the big newsroom who, a few weeks later, brought me an envelope drawn all over with dragons and witches, and castles shadowed by dark wings, and shuddering, beckoning trees, and bats with the eyes of shiny dimes.

It was addressed only “TO JACQUELYN MITCHARD, A VERY GOOD WRITER INDEED.”

Again, I burst into tears.

That was the beginning of a correspondence and a friendship that has lasted thirty years, and quite a number of letters, and several dinners together. Once, when the great man was in a city nearby (as an expert on vampires, he was addressing a national convention of dentists), I arrived laden with books, one to be signed for each of my (then) six children.

“I know who you are!” he said with a tolerant laugh, and we talked about many things—my hope that
The Homecoming
would one day be a film and how Mr. Bradbury’s growing up in the era that Ronald Reagan was growing up in Dixon, Illinois, was very good preparation for writing
The Martian Chronicles
.

That was the thing of it, Mr. Bradbury said.

The reason that Rod Serling and some few others succeeded with a very specific kind of science fiction and horror (and this is also true for other heirs, notably Stephen King) was that they saw the manifest and immense oddities in daily life. And they asked, Why not? Who would not want a grandmother who never tired of playing and never left you alone, whose feelings could never be crushed—even when you didn’t need her? Who would not grieve for a child born into a family of bloody immortals, whose fate was mortality? What kind of human being would want an alien species’ child, born of Venus, as a pet? (We have the answer to that in the stories of people who buy and try to raise chimpanzees, who, as surely as we, are people—although not human people.)

Ray Bradbury taught me that the secret of writing was the secret of life. Look closely. Be generous. Be honest with genuine emotion. Remember the details. Observe the impossible through the filter of the possible. Show but don’t manipulate.

Now Mr. Bradbury is ninety-two.

Not long ago I read “I Sing the Body Electric!” to my son Will, a second-grader and the seventh of my nine children. The story is not cloying. It was not then. It has not aged. It had not then. It is as subtly humorous and precise as it ever was, and as heartbreaking.

“Wouldn’t it be nice if we could put you away until we were old grandpas?” Will asked, with the icy candor of childhood.

“It sure would,” I said. “But maybe it would be better to put Daddy’s mother away.”

I’m not bad with icy candor myself.

But it would. It would all be good. Ray Bradbury’s worlds are fierce and sometimes violent, but they are never vile. Whatever events befall the characters, they do so within the gentle protectorate of a man who, as a writer, valued human dignity and warned of human foibles and believed that humor must inform both.

When I was nearly forty, more than fifteen years after that first note, I sent Mr. Bradbury a copy of my first novel. I did not expect him to write back. He had been ill, I’d heard, and had only recently gotten better. However, a week later, I received a note written in his own hand. It read,
Well. I was correct. Wasn’t I?

As it seemed to me then, and later, and now, I suppose he was and is right—in most ways.

When I sat down to write my first tale of terror, “Two of a Kind” (presented here, for your approval), I followed the example of Ray Bradbury on the deepest level, perhaps without really realizing how much I was thinking of him.

Some of the strangest details of the story of the Nickolai family came from my own colorful tree. My grandmother really did have twin cousins who married brothers; and the boy who robbed the tomb of the Gypsy queen lived to regret it. Other events in the story were borrowed from the lives of others, including the five Irish sisters, four of whom entered the convent (although none was a teleporting vampire).

I kept things humble. A rusty knife. A lame leg. A plumber, like my father, in business with his brother-in-law, like my father. A two-flat in a neighborhood whose sounds and smells and sights I know as well as my prayers.

Perhaps as a result, I love this story. I all but admire it, almost as though someone else’s hand inspired and guided it.

Maybe someone else’s hand did guide it.

Ray Bradbury has many children, and many heirs.

—Jacquelyn Mitchard

FAT MAN AND LITTLE BOY

Gary A. Braunbeck

S
etting down the bulky square insulated bag, the little boy used his key to unlock the back door, looking around to make sure no one had followed him, and let himself into the house—more specifically, the kitchen. He pulled plates and glasses from the cupboards, removed knives, forks, and spoons from the cutlery drawer, hauled four large bottles of soda pop (still unopened) from the colossal refrigerator and two sizeable trays from the counter, which he immediately positioned on the rolling metal serving cart. It usually took him fifteen minutes to get everything ready; today it took less than ten. He was nervous and a bit frightened. He was afraid this might be his last time visiting this house.

Positioning everything on the trays so the cart was not off balance, he rolled through the kitchen doorway, took a left, and made his way into the fat man’s enormous living room.

“Well, hello there, boy,” said the fat man from his bed, which was really
four
, all king-sized, all pushed together to make a bed the size of two parked flatbed trucks. The fat man’s upper body was held up by about a thousand pillows because if he were ever to lie all the way down, he would not be able to breathe. He always had trouble breathing, so he kept a tall oxygen tank next to the bed.

“Hello, sir,” replied the little boy, rolling the cart up to the side of the fat man’s bed, careful not to knock over the oxygen tank. “I got the pizzas like you wanted. Double cheese and pepperoni and hamburger and onions and green peppers on all four of them.” He twisted off the cap on the first two-liter bottle of soda pop and poured glasses for himself and the fat man.

“Did anybody follow you here?”

The little boy shook his head and prepared the fat man’s first tray. “I don’t think so. I took a bunch of shortcuts. I got lots of them all over.” He reached into his pocket. “I got your change.”

“You keep it.”

“But it’s almost
twenty dollars
!”

“We’ll call it hazard pay and let my accountants throw hissy fits over it.”

“Thank you. Now I’m
really
glad I took all those shortcuts.”

The fat man smiled. “I knew you were a wise one, my boy. Don’t ever listen to those cretins who make fun of you, be it at home or at school.” He accepted the first glass of pop, remembering at the last second to remove his oxygen mask before taking the first gulp. “Ahhh, refreshing.” He watched as the little boy prepared the first tray for this feast. “Hell of a world out there now, isn’t it? Hell of a world. All of those beautiful people, hale and hearty and happy, and all of them so much the very
right
size. Wasn’t enough that all of the movies and television shows and commercial and magazines showed only people with perfectly aligned white teeth whose bodies were so flawless it was almost stupid, nosiree. They had to go and—bear in mind, boy, this was long before you were born, so I’m guessing you’ve never heard of this—they had to go and pass laws saying that individuals like myself, that is, persons of the ‘larger-than-legal’ body size, we beached whales, we human obesedons, we well-padded folk who are resplendent in our Tubby-the-Tuba-like corpulescence—and if that’s not an actual word, it damn well ought to be, don’t you think?—they passed laws stating in murky yet curiously adjective-heavy legalese that we of the you-should-pardon-the-expression jiggly ginormous girth guild were not allowed to leave our homes until such time that our bodies were of a more, oh, how did they phrase it? Ah, yes, I have it now, ‘aesthetically agreeable appearance.’ Foolhardy flibbertigibbets, the lot of them. It’s enough to make a man lose his appetite.” He winked. “Just not
this
one.”

The little boy smiled as he finished preparing the first tray. The fat man had a wonderful way of talking. It always made the little boy smile. When he went home after these visits, he often wrote down many of the things—the “pearls of wide-load wisdom” as the fat man called them—that his large friend imparted. The fat man talked to him like he was a real person, not some child who everyone made fun of and spoke to in that awful little-baby voice. He liked that. He liked that right down to the ground.

“Well, don’t just stand there gawking,” said the fat man. “My God, Fedor Jeftichew—better known as Jo-Jo the Dog-Faced Boy—looked more with-it than you do at this moment. Now, sit down, pile high your plate, for you are still a growing boy, and let us begin our magnificent banquet.”

It was always something to watch the fat man eat a meal. Every slice of pizza, every forkful of roasted vegetables, every hunk of garlic bread, spoonful of pudding, and delicate triangle of baklava was scrutinized with the intensity of a jeweler examining a fine and rare stone. Sometimes the fat man would even pause after his assessments to say something like, “The crunch of pizza crust sounds like the crackle of distant lightning in the middle of a summer’s night, when you were still young enough to dream that Martian spaceships were hiding up there,” or “There’s nothing,
nothing
, I say, like the smell of steam from a hunk of warm, fresh-baked bread when you first tear it in half; it’s the gentle comfort of picturing Grandma in the kitchen baking through the night because you’re visiting and she has no one to bake for since Grandpa passed away,” or “The sensation when you first take a cold drink is like feeling this glorious bird made of ice spreading its wings in your chest, giving you the power of flight with every chill so you can soar up above and leave all the cruelty of man,” and “It should be a sin for a person to gobble down a truly excellent cheeseburger; it doesn’t matter if you’re eating at a restaurant or backyard cookout, somebody bygod took the time to cook it with their own hands, and their labors should be appreciated, even if they never know how much you admire their skill with a grill and spatula.”

And it wasn’t only the fat man’s audio narrations, it was also the
sounds
he made while eating; it was almost like music: the wet smacking noises made by his large lips accompanied by the timpani sounds of silverware; the basso profundo of his occasional belches; the long notes of a melancholy oboe whenever his stomach rumbled; and the final, triumphant glissandos of a pianist at the finale of a symphony as the fat man put down his napkin, eased back, and released a pleasant sigh.

This meal was no different, except today the fat man seemed to glow from within with each bite taken, each morsel savored, each crumb licked from his fingertips. The little boy thought he’d never seen a happier person, until, just for a moment, the fat man paused near the end of the feast and seemed to be staring at something really depressing a hundred yards away.

“I must say, boy, this was without a doubt the finest last meal a man could ask for, and a man could expect no finer a companion with whom to share it than you.”

“Last meal?” said the little boy, feeling his stomach tighten and something grip his throat from the inside.

“I’m afraid so. Time to sleep the big sleep, go toes-up, get the oxygen monkey off my back, heed Nature’s signal of retreat, buy the farm and turn in the warranty card and dance the meat-freeze mambo. Would you be so kind as to hand me that black case on the nightstand?”

The little boy did so, asking, “What’s in there?”

“As far as anyone will know or care, it’s my diabetes medication.”

“But it . . . it isn’t, is it?”

The fat man grinned. “See? You just keep proving that I was correct in my conclusions about you. A fine, smart boy you are. And so kind, so brave, the way you know all those shortcuts to get here and not have them spot you and follow along. Were they ever to enter this house and behold that I have become the size of a small planet, they would realize that I’ve not made effort one toward becoming more aesthetically agreeable and place me under arrest. And don’t think for a moment that you would escape severe punishment, dear boy, though I imagine nowhere near the level of that which would be dropped on my head like a curse from heaven. Undoubtedly arrangements would be made to knock down a wall or two so a crane could be more easily employed to lift me away and then deposit me in the bed of a tractor trailer. I refuse to chance that sort of public humiliation, being airlifted like some Vietnamese elephant so they can haul me to one of their ‘readjustment facilities,’ where I would subsequently be put down like some stray dog. None of that for me, thank you very much.” He opened the case and removed the first of three hypodermics. “If that must be my fate, then I will exit stage left under my own direction.”

After injecting the contents of the first syringe into his system, the fat man looked at his last-dinner companion and friend and said, “May I be permitted to say that it has been a pleasure and a great honor to have you as companion, bagman, and best friend?”

“Really?” said the little boy. “I’m your best friend?”

“As best as they come,” replied the fat man, sinking the plunger of the second syringe. “And I shall miss you until time and space are no more.”

“I’m gonna miss you, too. You’re the only friend I’ve ever had.”

The fat man’s eyes were starting to glaze over. “Dear me, that pusher fellow wasn’t having me on when he said this was the strongest stuff available.” He held the final syringe in his hand. “Listen to me. After I fall asleep, do not tell anyone for at least a day. Promise me?”

“I promise.”

“And I believe you. I want you to have enough time . . . enough . . . time . . .”

“For what?” said the little boy, his voice cracking like the weak ugly crybaby everybody said he was. “Time for what?”

The fat man grasped a thin, long, silver chain that hung around his neck and gave it a firm tug, pulling it free. A single key dangled at the end. He handed it to the little boy. “Time for you to take anything and everything you want from this house. Books, movies, the stereo, anything. And after you do that, you take this key and go to the bank. I’ve already made arrangements. A man will take you to my security deposit box. Use this key to open it.”

“What’s in there?”

“Three things—oh, speaking of three . . .” He emptied the last syringe. His entire body shuddered, and kept on shuddering. He reached out and took both of the little boy’s hands in one of his. “You’ll find three things: an envelope containing money, a lot of money—it’s been so long I don’t recall the exact amount, but, trust me, it’s quite a lot, and it’s all yours. And you will find the two things I’ve treasured for all of my life: an ancient book with my grandmother’s handwritten recipes and poems, her lovely, funny, sad, lonely poems; and a slightly torn black-and-white photo of a little boy not unlike yourself, standing with his beaming parents before he leaves for his first day of first grade. He looks happy and strong and ready to take on the world, because, you see, his body is aesthetically agreeable, and all of his dreams and goals are waiting for him to catch up to them. He’s ready to take on the world, to have a life chock-full of adventures. He’s ready to wake up every day laughing and fall asleep singing, never stopping, never sad, growing up running at full speed so he can chase the horizon like a joyous fool and drink down the sky from a golden chalice. Nowhere in his eyes do you see any hint of evil glands that will later slow him and then stop him altogether. I want you to have it. Put it in a nice frame, not ostentatious, and hang it high on a bright wall where everyone can see his face and hear the morning song and the evening laughter. Will you do this for me?”

The little boy couldn’t speak, so he nodded.

“Of course you will. I had no doubt.” His grasp weakened, his hand slipping quietly down to his side. “Falling asleep now.” His head tilted to one side, but then his eyes snapped open. “One last thing,” he whispered. “Always remember that no one will dare mock you if you know how to throw your weight around. Ha! I knew I had one more in me.” And with that, he fell asleep, humming a song the little boy did not recognize.

After a few minutes, the little boy wiped his eyes and blew his nose, lifted himself on the bed just high enough to kiss the fat man’s cheek, and quietly left. But not before grabbing the remaining slices of the last pizza.

The fat man would have hated to see any food go to waste.

About “Fat Man and Little Boy”

I have been a reader of the Great Man all of my life. He’s never failed to amaze, move, or pointedly disturb me. He taught me the grace of metaphor and the importance of never standing at arm’s length from your own heart. I hope my contribution here evokes the wonder of false mummies, heartbroken sea-beasts, and those who make tragic discoveries long after midnight.

—Gary A. Braunbeck