The Stories of Ray Bradbury (51 page)

‘You know what that is? You know, you
know
? I tells you. That be the center of Life, sure ’nuff! Lord believe me, it so!’

Swaying in a tree-like rhythm, Jahdoo was blown by a swamp wind no one could see, hear or feel, save himself. His eyeballs went around again, as if cut free to wander. His voice needled a dark thread pattern, picking up each person by the lobes of their ears and sewing them into one unbreathing design:

‘From that, lyin’ back in the Middibamboo Sump, all sort o’thing crawl. It put out hand, it put out feet, it put out tongue an’ horn an’ it grow. Little bitty amoeba, perhap. Then a frog with a bulge-throat fit ta bust!
Yah!’ He cracked knuckles. ‘It slobber on up to its gummy joints and it—it
am human
! That am the center of creation! That am Middibamboo Mama, from which we all come ten thousand year ago. Believe it!’

‘Ten thousand year ago!’ whispered Granny Carnation.

‘It am old! Looky it! It donn worra no more. It know betta. It hang like pork chop in fryin’ fat. It got eye to see with, but it donn blink ’em, they donn look fretted, does they? No, man! It know betta. It know that we done come
from
it, and we is goin’ back
to
it.’

‘What color eyes it got?’

‘Gray.’

‘Naw,
green
!’

‘What color hair? Brown?’

‘Black!’

‘Red!’

‘No,
gray
!’

Then Charlie would give his drawling opinion. Some nights he’d say the same thing, some nights not. It didn’t matter. When you said the same thing night after night in the deep summer, it always sounded different. The crickets changed it. The frogs changed it. The thing in the jar changed it. Charlie said:

‘What if an old man went back into the swamp, or maybe a young kid, and wandered aroun’ for years and years lost in all that drippin’, on the trails and gullies, in them old wet ravines in the nights, skin a-turnin’ pale, and makin’ cold and shrivelin’ up. Bein’ away from the sun he’d keep witherin’ away up and up and finally sink into a muck-hole and lay in a kind of—scum—like the maggot ’skeeters sleepin’ in sump-water. Why, why—for all we can tell, this might be someone we
know
! Someone we passed words with once on a time. For all we know—’

A hissing from among the womenfolk back in the shadow. One woman standing, eyes shining black, fumbled for words. Her name was Mrs Tridden, and she murmured:

‘Lots of little kids run stark naked to the swamp ever’ year. They runs around and never comes back. I almost got lost maself. I—I lost my little boy, Foley, that way. You—you
don’t suppose
!!!’

Breath was snatched through nostrils, constricted, tightened. Mouths turned down at corners, bent by hard, clinching muscle. Heads turned on celery-stalk necks, and eyes read her horror and hope. It was in Mrs Tridden’s body, wire-taut, holding to the wall back of her with straight fingers stiff.

‘My baby,’ she whispered. She breathed it out. ‘My baby. My Foley. Foley! Foley, is that you? Foley! Foley, tell me, baby, is that YOU!’

Everybody held their breath, turning to see the jar.

The thing in the jar said nothing. It just stared blind-white out upon
the multitude. And deep in rawboned bodies a secret fear-juice ran like a spring thaw, and their resolute calmness and belief and easy humbleness was gnawed and eaten by that juice and melted away in a torrent! Someone screamed.

‘It moved!’

‘No, no, it didn’ move. Just your eyes playin’ tricks!’

‘Hones’ ta God!’ cried Juke. ‘I saw it shift slow like a dead kitten!’

‘Hush up, now. It’s been dead a long, long time. Maybe since before you was born!’

‘He made a sign!’ screamed Mrs Tridden. ‘That’s my Foley! My baby you got there! Three-year-old he was! My baby lost and gone in the swamp!’

The sobbing broke from her.

‘Now, Mrs Tridden. There now. Set yourself down, stop shakin’. Ain’t no more your child’n mine. There, there.’

One of the womenfolk held her and faded out the sobbing into jerked breathing and a fluttering of her lips in butterfly quickness as the breath stroked over them, afraid.

When all was quiet again, Granny Carnation, with a withered pink flower in her shoulder-length gray hair, sucked the pipe in her trap mouth and talked around it, shaking her head to make the hair dance in the light:

‘All this talkin’ and shovin’ words. Like as not we’ll never find out, never know what it is. Like as not if we found out we wouldn’t
want
to know. It’s like magic tricks magicians do at shows. Once you find the fake, ain’t no more fun’n the innards of a jackbob. We come collectin’ around here every ten nights or so, talkin’, social-like, with somethin’, always somethin’, to talk about. Stands to reason if we spied out what the damn thing is there’d be nothin’ to chew about, so there!’

‘Well, damn it to hell!’ rumbled a bull voice. ‘I don’t think it’s nothin’!’

Tom Carmody.

Tom Carmody standing, as always, in shadow. Out on the porch, just his eyes staring in, his lips laughing at you dimly, mocking. His laughter got inside Charlie like a hornet sting. Thedy had put him up to it. Thedy was trying to kill Charlie’s new life, she was!

‘Nothin’,’ repeated Carmody, harshly, ‘in that jar but a bunch of old jellyfish from Sea Cove, a-rottin’ and stinkin’ fit to whelp!’

‘You mightn’t be jealous, Cousin Carmody?’ asked Charlie, slow.

‘Haw!’ snorted Carmody. ‘I just come aroun’ ta watch you dumb fools jaw about nuthin’. You notice I never set foot inside or took part. I’m goin’ home right now. Anybody wanna come along with me?’

He got no offer of company. He laughed again, as if this were a bigger joke, how so many people could be so far gone, and Thedy was raking
her palms with her fingernails away back in a corner of the room. Charlie saw her mouth twitch and was cold and could not speak.

Carmody, still laughing, rapped off the porch with his high-heeled boots and the sound of crickets took him away.

Granny Carnation gummed her pipe. ‘Like I was sayin’ before the storm: that thing on the shelf, why couldn’t it be sort of—all things? Lots of things. All kinds of life—death—I don’t know. Mix rain and sun and muck and jelly, all that together. Grass and snakes and children and mist and all the nights and days in the dead canebrake. Why’s it have to be
one
thing? Maybe it’s
lots
.’

And the talking ran soft for another hour, and Thedy slipped away into the night on the track of Tom Carmody, and Charlie began to sweat. They were up to something, those two. They were planning something. Charlie sweated warm all the rest of the evening…

The meeting broke up late, and Charlie bedded down with mixed emotions. The meeting had gone off well, but what about Thedy and Tom?

Very late, with certain star coveys shuttled down the sky marking the time as after midnight, Charlie heard the slushing of the tall grass parted by her penduluming hips. Her heels tacked soft across the porch, into the house, into the bedroom.

She lay soundlessly in bed, cat eyes staring at him. He couldn’t see them, but he could feel them staring.

‘Charlie?’

He waited.

Then he said, ‘I’m awake.’

Then she waited.

‘Charlie?’

‘What?’

‘Bet you don’t know where I been; bet you don’t know where I been.’ It was a faint, derisive singsong in the night.

He waited.

She waited again. She couldn’t bear waiting long, though, and continued:

‘I been to the carnival over in Cape City. Tom Carmody drove me. We—we talked to the carny-boss, Charlie, we did, we did, we
sure
did!’ And she sort of giggled to herself, secretly.

Charlie was ice-cold. He stirred upright on an elbow.

She said, ‘We found out what it is in your jar, Charlie—’ insinuatingly.

Charlie flumped over, hands to ears. ‘I don’t wanna hear!’

‘Oh, but you gotta hear, Charlie. It’s a good joke. Oh, it’s rare, Charlie,’ she hissed.

‘Go away,’ he said.

‘Unh-unh! No, no, sir, Charlie. Why, no, Charlie—honey. Not until I tell!’

‘Git!’ he said.

‘Let me tell! We talked to that carny-boss, and he—he liked to die laughin’. He said he sold that jar and what was in it to some, some—hick—for twelve bucks. And it ain’t worth more’n two bucks at most!’

Laughter bloomed in the dark, right out of her mouth, an awful kind of laughter.

She finished it, quick:

‘It’s just junk, Charlie! Rubber, papier-mâché, silk, cotton, boric acid! That’s all! Got a metal frame inside! That’s all it is, Charlie. That’s all!’ she shrilled.

‘No, no!’

He sat up swiftly, ripping sheets apart in big fingers, roaring.

‘I don’t wanna hear! Don’t wanna hear!’ he bellowed over and over.

She said, ‘Wait’ll everyone hears how fake it is! Won’t they laugh! Won’t they flap their lungs!’

He caught her wrists. ‘You ain’t gonna tell them?’

‘Wouldn’t wan me known as a liar, would you, Charlie?’

He flung her off and away.

‘Whyncha leave me alone? You dirty! Dirty jealous mean of ever’thing I do. I took shine off your nose when I brung the jar home. You didn’ sleep right ’til you ruined things!’

She laughed. ‘Then I won’t tell anybody,’ she said.

He stared at her. ‘You spoiled
my
fun. That’s all that counted. It don’t matter if you tell the rest.
I
know. And I’ll never have no more fun. You and that Tom Carmody. I wish I could stop him laughin’. He’s been laughin’ for years at me! Well, you just go tell the rest, the other people, now—might as well have your fun—!’

He strode angrily, grabbed the jar so it sloshed, and would have flung it on the floor, but he stopped trembling, and let it down softly on the spindly table. He leaned over it, sobbing. If he lost this, the world was gone. And he was losing Thedy, too. Every month that passed she danced further away, sneering at him, funning him. For too many years her hips had been the pendulum by which he reckoned the time of his living. But other men, Tom Carmody, for one, were reckoning time from the same source.

Thedy stood waiting for him to smash the jar. Instead, he petted and stroked and gradually quieted himself over it. He thought of the long, good evenings in the past month, those rich evenings of friends and talk, moving about the room. That, at least, was good, if nothing else.

He turned slowly to Thedy. She was lost forever to him.

‘Thedy, you didn’t go to the carnival.’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘You’re lyin’,’ he said, quietly.

‘No, I’m not!’

‘This—this jar
has
to have somethin’ in it. Somethin’ besides the junk you say. Too many people believe there’s somethin’ in it, Thedy. You can’t change that. The carny-boss, if you talked with him, he lied.’ Charlie took a deep breath and then said, ‘Come here, Thedy.’

‘What you want?’ she asked, sullenly.

‘Come over here.’

He took a step toward her. ‘Come here.’

‘Keep away from me, Charlie.’

‘Just want to show you somethin’, Thedy.’ His voice was soft, low, and insistent. ‘Here, kittie. Here, kittie, kittie, kittie—
HERE KITTIE!
’

It was another night, about a week later. Gramps Medknowe and Granny Carnation came, followed by young Juke and Mrs Tridden and Jahdoo, the black man. Followed by all the others, young and old, sweet and sour, creaking into chairs, each with his or her thought, hope, fear, and wonder in mind. Each not looking at the shrine, but saying hello softly to Charlie.

They waited for the others to gather. From the shine of their eyes one could see that each saw something different in the jar, something of the life and the pale life after life, and the life in death and the death in life, each with his story, his cue, his lines, familiar, old but new.

Charlie sat alone.

‘Hello, Charlie.’ Somebody peered into the empty bedroom. ‘Your wife gone off again to visit her folks?’

‘Yeah, she run for Tennessee. Be back in a couple weeks. She’s the darndest one for runnin’. You know Thedy.’

‘Great one for jumpin’ around, that woman.’

Soft voices talking, getting settled, and then, quite suddenly, walking on the dark porch and shining his eyes in at the people—Tom Carmody.

Tom Carmody standing outside the door, knees sagging and trembling, arms hanging and shaking at his side, staring into the room. Tom Carmody not daring to enter. Tom Carmody with his mouth open, but not smiling. His lips wet and slack, not smiling. His face pale as chalk, as if it had been sick for a long time.

Gramps looked up at the jar, cleared his throat and said, ‘Why I never noticed so definite before. It’s got
blue
eyes.’

‘It always had blue eyes,’ said Granny Carnation.

‘No,’ whined Gramps. ‘No, it didn’t. They was brown last time we was here.’ He blinked upward. ‘And another thing—it’s got brown hair. Didn’t have brown hair
before
!’

‘Yes, yes, it did,’ sighed Mrs Tridden.

‘No, it didn’t!’

‘Yes, it did!’

Tom Carmody, shivering in the summer night, staring in at the jar. Charlie, glancing up at it, rolling a cigarette, casually, all peace and calm, very certain of his life and thoughts. Tom Carmody, alone, seeing things about the jar he never saw before.
Everybody
seeing what he wanted to see; all thoughts running in a fall of quick rain:

My baby. My little baby, thought Mrs Tridden.

A brain! thought Gramps.

The black man jigged his fingers. Middibamboo Mama!

A fisherman pursed his lips. Jellyfish!

Kitten. Here kittie, kittie, kittie! The thoughts drowned clawing in Juke’s eyes. Kitten!

Everything and anything! shrilled Granny’s weazened thought. The night, the swamp, death, the pale things, the wet things from the sea!

Silence. And then Gramps whispered, ‘I wonder. Wonder if it’s a he—or a she—or just a plain old
it
?’

Charlie glanced up, satisfied, tamping his cigarette, shaping it to his mouth. Then he looked at Tom Carmody, who would never smile again, in the door, ‘I reckon we’ll never know. Yeah. I reckon we won’t,’ Charlie shook his head slowly and settled down with his guests, looking, looking.