Bradbury, Ray - SSC 13 (25 page)

 
          
M
y name is Margaret Leary and I’m ten
years old and in the fifth grade at Central School. I haven’t any brothers or
sisters, but I’ve got a nice father and mother except they don’t pay much
attention to me. And anyway, we never thought we’d have anything to do with a
murdered woman. Or almost, anyway.

 
          
When
you’re just living on a street like we live on, you don’t think awful things
are going to happen, like shooting or stabbing or burying people under the
ground, practically in your back yard. And when it does happen you don’t
believe it. You just go on buttering your toast or baking a cake.

 
          
I
got to tell you how it happened. It was a noon in the middle of July. It was
hot and Mama said to me, “Margaret, you go to the store and buy some ice cream.
It’s Saturday, Dad’s home for lunch, so we’ll have a treat.”

 
          
I
ran out across the empty lot behind our house. It was a big lot, where kids had
played baseball, and broken glass and stuff. And on my way back from the store
with the ice cream I was just walking along, minding my own business, when all
of a sudden it happened.

 
          
I
heard the Screaming Woman.

 
          
I
stopped and listened.

 
          
It
was coming up out of the ground.

 
          
A
woman was buried under the rocks and dirt and glass, and she was screaming, all
wild and horrible, for someone to dig her out.

 
          
I
just stood there, afraid. She kept screaming, muffled.

 
          
Then
I started to run. I fell down, got up, and ran some more. I got in the screen
door of my house and there was Mama, calm as you please, not knowing what I
knew, that there was a real live woman buried out in back of our house, just a
hundred yards away, screaming bloody murder.

 
          
“Mama,”
I said.

 
          
“Don’t
stand there with the ice cream,” said Mama.

 
          
“But,
Mama,” I said.

 
          
“Put
it in the icebox,” she said.

 
          
“Listen,
Mama, there’s a Screaming Woman in the empty lot.”

 
          
“And
wash your hands,” said Mama.

 
          
“She
was screamin’ and screamin’ …”

 
          
“Let’s
see now, salt and pepper,” said Mama, far away.

 
          
“Listen
to me,” I said, loud. “We got to dig her out. She’s buried under tons and tons
of dirt and if we don’t dig her out, she’ll choke up and die.”

 
          
“I’m
certain she can wait until after lunch,” said Mama.

 
          
“Mama,
don’t you believe me?”

 
          
“Of
course, dear. Now wash your hands and take this plate of meat in to your
father.”

 
          
“I
don’t even know who she is or how she got there,” I said. “But we got to help
her before it’s too late.”

 
          
“Good
gosh,” said Mama. “Look at this ice cream. What did you do, just stand in the
sun and let it melt?”

 
          
“Well,
the empty lot …”

 
          
“Go
on, now, scoot.”

 
          
I
went into the dining room.

 
          
“Hi,
Dad, there’s a Screaming Woman in the empty lot.”

 
          
“I
never knew a woman who didn’t,” said Dad.

 
          
“I’m
serious,” I said.

 
          
“You
look very grave,” said Father.

 
          
“We’ve
got to get picks and shovels and excavate, like for an Egyptian mummy,” I said.

 
          
“I
don’t feel like an archaeologist, Margaret,” said Father. “Now, some nice cool
October day, I’ll take you up on that.”

 
          
“But
we can’t wait that long,” I almost screamed. My heart was bursting in me. I was
excited and scared and afraid and here was Dad, putting meat on his plate,
cutting and chewing and paying me no attention.

 
          
“Dad?”
I said.

 
          
“Mmmm?”
he said, chewing.

 
          
“Dad,
you just gotta come out after lunch and help me,” I said. “Dad, Dad, I’ll give
you all the money in my piggy bank!”

 
          
“Well,”
said Dad, “So it’s a business proposition, is it? It must be important for you
to offer your perfectly good money. How much money will you pay, by the hour?”

 
          
“I
got five whole dollars it took me a year to save, and it’s all yours.”

 
          
Dad
touched my arm. “I’m touched. I’m really touched. You want me to play with you
and you’re willing to pay for my time. Honest, Margaret, you make your old Dad
feel like a piker. I don’t give you enough time. Tell you what, after lunch,
I’ll come out and listen to your screaming woman, free of charge.”

 
          
“Will
you, oh, will you, really?”

 
          
“Yes,
ma’am, that’s what I’ll do,” said Dad. “But you must promise me one thing?”

 
          
“What?”

 
          
“If
I come out, you must eat all of your lunch first.”

 
          
“I
promise,” I said.

 
          
“Okay.”

 
          
Mother
came in and sat down and we started to eat.

 
          
“Not
so fast,” said Mama.

 
          
I
slowed down. Then I started eating fast again.

 
          
“You
heard your mother,” said Dad.

 
          
“The
Screaming Woman,” I said. “We got to hurry.”

 
          
“I,”
said Father, “intend sitting here quietly and judiciously giving my attention
first to my steak, then to my potatoes, and my salad, of course, and then to my
ice cream, and after that to a long drink of iced coffee, if you don’t mind. I
may be a good hour at it. And another thing, young lady, if you mention her
name, this Screaming What-sis, once more at this table during lunch, I won’t go
out with you to hear her recital.”

 
          
“Yes,
sir.”

 
          
“Is
that understood?”

 
          
“Yes,
sir,” I said.

 
          
Lunch
was a million years long. Everybody moved in slow motion, like those films you
see at the movies. Mama got up slow and got down slow and forks and knives and
spoons moved slow. Even the flies in the room were slow. And Dad’s cheek
muscles moved slow. It was so slow. I wanted to scream, “Hurry! Oh, please,
rush, get up, run around, come on out, run!”

 
          
But
no, I had to sit, and all the while we sat there slowly, slowly eating our
lunch, out there in the empty lot (I could hear her screaming in my mind.
Scream!
) was the Screaming Woman, all
alone, while the world ate its lunch and the sun was hot and the lot was empty
as the sky.

 
          
“There
we are,” said Dad, finished at last.

 
          
“Now
will you come out to see the Screaming Woman?” I said.

 
          
“First
a little more iced coffee,” said Dad.

 
          
“Speaking
of Screaming Women,” said Mother. “Charlie Nesbitt and his wife, Helen, had
another fight last night.”

 
          
“That’s
nothing new,” said Father. “They’re always fighting.”

 
          
“If
you ask me, Charlie’s no good,” said Mother. “Or her, either.”

 
          
“Oh,
I don’t know,” said Dad. “I think she’s pretty nice.”

 
          
“You’re
prejudiced. After all, you almost married her.”

 
          
“You
going to bring that up again?” he said. “After all, I was only engaged to her
six weeks.”

 
          
“You
showed some sense when you broke it off.”

 
          
“Oh,
you know Helen. Always stagestruck. Wanted to travel in a trunk. I just
couldn’t see it. That broke it up. She was sweet, though. Sweet and kind.”

 
          
“What
did it get her? A terrible brute of a husband like Charlie.”

 
          
“Dad,”
I said.

 
          
“I’ll
give you that. Charlie has got a terrible temper,” said Dad. “Remember when
Helen had the lead in our high school graduation play? Pretty as a picture. She
wrote some songs for it herself. That was the summer she wrote that song for
me.”

 
          
“Ha,”
said Mother.

 
          
“Don’t
laugh. It was a good song.”

 
          
“You
never told me about that song.”

 
          
“It
was between Helen and me. Let’s see, how
did
it go?”

 
          
“Dad,”
I said.

 
          
“You’d
better take your daughter out in the back lot,” said Mother, “before she
collapses. You can sing me that wonderful song later.”

 
          
“Okay,
come on you,” said Dad, and I ran him out of the house.

 
          
The
empty lot was still empty and hot and the glass sparkled green and white and
brown all around where the bottles lay.

 
          
“Now,
where’s this Screaming Woman?” laughed Dad.

 
          
“We
forgot the shovels,” I cried.

 
          
“We’ll
get them later, after we hear the soloist,” said Dad.

 
          
I
took him over to the spot. “Listen,” I said. We listened.

 
          
“I
don’t hear anything,” said Dad, at last.

 
          
“Shh,”
I said. “Wait.”

 
          
We
listened some more. “Hey, there, Screaming Woman!” I cried.

 
          
We
heard the sun in the sky. We heard the wind in the trees, real quiet. We heard
a bus, far away, running along. We heard a car pass.

 
          
That
was all.

 
          
“Margaret,”
said Father. “I suggest you go lie down and put a damp cloth on your forehead.”

 
          
“But
she was here,” I shouted. “I heard her, screaming and screaming and screaming.
See, here’s where the ground’s been dug up.” I called frantically at the earth.
“Hey there, you down there!”