Ray Bradbury Stories, Volume 1 (51 page)

What kind of message was this from Dog? What could such a message mean? The stench—the ripe and awful cemetery earth.

Dog was a bad dog, digging where he shouldn’t. Dog was a good dog, always making friends. Dog loved people. Dog brought them home.

And now, moving up the dark hall stairs, at intervals, came the sound of feet, one foot dragged after the other, painfully, slowly, slowly, slowly.

Dog shivered. A rain of strange night earth fell seething on the bed.

Dog turned.

The bedroom door whispered in.

Martin had company.

It was one of those things they keep in a jar in the tent of a sideshow on the outskirts of a little, drowsy town. One of those pale things drifting in alcohol plasma, forever dreaming and circling, with its peeled, dead eyes staring out at you and never seeing you. It went with the noiselessness of late night, and only the crickets chirping, the frogs sobbing off in the moist swampland. One of those things in a big jar that makes your stomach jump as it does when you see a preserved arm in a laboratory vat.

Charlie stared back at it for a long time.

A long time, his big, raw hands, hairy on the roofs of them, clenching the rope that kept back curious people. He had paid his dime and now he stared.

It was getting late. The merry-go-round drowsed down to a lazy mechanical tinkle. Tent-peggers back of a canvas smoked and cursed over a poker game. Lights switched out, putting a summer gloom over the carnival. People streamed homeward in cliques and queues. Somewhere, a radio flared up, then cut, leaving the Louisiana sky wide and silent with stars.

There was nothing in the world for Charlie but that pale thing sealed in its universe of serum. Charlie’s loose mouth hung open in a pink weal, teeth showing; his eyes were puzzled, admiring, wondering.

Someone walked in the shadows behind him, small beside Charlie’s gaunt tallness. ‘Oh,’ said the shadow, coming into the light-bulb glare. ‘You still here, bud?’

‘Yeah,’ said Charlie, like a man in his sleep.

The carny-boss appreciated Charlie’s curiosity. He nodded at his old acquaintance in the jar. ‘Everybody likes it; in a peculiar kinda way, I mean.’

Charlie rubbed his long jawbone. ‘You—uh—ever consider sellin’ it?’

The carny-boss’s eyes dilated, then closed. He snorted. ‘Naw. It brings customers. They like seeing stuff like that. Sure.’

Charlie made a disappointed, ‘Oh.’

‘Well,’ considered the carny-boss, ‘If a guy had money, maybe—’

‘How much money?’

‘If a guy had—’ The carny-boss estimated, counting fingers, watching Charlie as he tacked it out one finger after another. ‘If a guy had three, four, say, maybe seven or eight—’

Charlie nodded with each motion, expectantly. Seeing this, the carnyboss raised his total, ‘—maybe ten dollars or maybe fifteen—’

Charlie scowled, worried. The carny-boss retreated. ‘Say a guy has
twelve
dollars—’

Charlie grinned. ‘Why he could buy that thing in that jar,’ concluded the carny-boss.

‘Funny thing,’ said Charlie. ‘I got just twelve bucks in my denims. And I been reckoning how looked-up-to I’d be back down at Wilder’s Hollow if I brung home something like this to set on my shelf over the table. The folks would sure look up to me then, I bet.’

‘
Well
, now, listen here—,’ said the carny-boss

The sale was completed with the jar put on the back seat of Charlie’s wagon. The horse skittered his hoofs when he saw the jar, and whinnied.

The carny-boss glanced up with an expression of, almost, relief. ‘I was tired of seeing that damn thing around, anyway. Don’t thank me. Lately I been thinking things about it, funny things—but, hell, I’m a big-mouthed so-and-so. S’long, farmer!’

Charlie drove off. The naked blue light bulbs withdrew like dying stars, the open, dark country night of Louisiana swept in around wagon and horse. There was just Charlie, the horse timing his gray hoofs, and the crickets.

And the jar behind the high seat.

It sloshed back and forth, back and forth. Sloshed wet. And the cold gray thing drowsily slumped against the glass, looking out, looking out, but seeing nothing, nothing.

Charlie leaned back to pet the lid. Smelling of strange liquor his hand returned, changed and cold and trembling, excited.
Yes, sir
! he thought to himself,
Yes, sir!

Slosh, slosh, slosh…

In the Hollow, numerous grass-green and blood-red lanterns tossed dusty light over men huddled, murmuring, spitting, sitting on General Store property.

They knew the creak-bumble of Charlie’s wagon and did not shift their raw, drab-haired skulls as he rocked to a halt. Their cigars were glowworms, their voices were frog mutterings on summer nights.

Charlie leaned down eagerly, ‘Hi, Clem! Hi, Milt!’

‘’Lo, Charlie. ’Lo, Charlie,’ they murmured. The political conflict continued. Charlie cut it down the seam:

‘I got somethin’ here. I got somethin’ you might wanna see!’

Tom Carmody’s eyes glinted, green in the lamplight, from the General Store porch. It seemed to Charlie that Tom Carmody was forever installed under porches in shadow, or under trees in shadow, or if in a room, then in the farthest niche shining his eyes out at you from the dark. You never knew what his face was doing, and his eyes were always funning you. And every time they looked at you they laughed a different way.

‘You ain’t got nothin’ we wants to see, baby-doll.’

Charlie made a fist and looked at it. ‘Somethin’ in a jar,’ he went on. ‘Looks kine a like a brain, kine a like a pickled jellyfish, kine a like—well, come see yourself!’

Someone snicked a cigar into a fall of pink ash and ambled over to look. Charlie grandly elevated the jar lid, and in the uncertain lantern light the man’s face changed. ‘Hey, now, what in hell
is
this—?’

It was the first thaw of the evening. Others shifted lazily upright, leaned forward; gravity pulled them into walking. They made no effort, except to put one shoe before the other to keep from collapsing upon their unusual faces. They circled the jar and contents. And Charlie, for the first time in his life, seized on some hidden strategy and crashed the glass lid shut.

‘You want to see more, drop aroun’ my house! It’ll be there,’ he declared, generously.

Tom Carmody spat from out his porch eyrie. ‘Ha!’

‘Lemme see that again!’ cried Gramps Medknowe. ‘Is it a octopus?’

Charlie flapped the reins; the horse stumbled into action.

‘Come on aroun’! You’re welcome!’

‘What’ll your wife say?’

‘She’ll kick the tar off’n our heels!’

But Charlie and wagon were gone over the hill. The men stood, all of them, chewing their tongues, squinting up the road in the dark. Tom Carmody swore softly from the porch…

Charlie climbed the steps of his shack and carried the jar to its throne in the living room, thinking that from now on this lean-to would be a palace, with an ‘emperor’—that was the word! ‘emperor’—all cold and white and quiet drifting in his private pool, raised, elevated upon a shelf over a ramshackle table.

The jar, as he watched, burnt off the cold mist that hung over this place on the rim of the swamp.

‘What you got there?’

Thedy’s thin soprano turned him from his awe. She stood in the bedroom door glaring out, her thin body clothed in faded blue gingham, her hair drawn to a drab knot behind red ears. Her eyes were faded like the gingham. ‘Well,’ she repeated. ‘What is it?’

‘What’s it look like to you, Thedy?’

She took a thin step forward, making a slow, indolent pendulum of hips, her eyes intent upon the jar, her lips drawn back to show feline milk teeth.

The dead pale thing hung in its serum.

Thedy snapped a dull-blue glance at Charlie, then back to the jar, once more at Charlie, once more to the jar, then she whirled quickly:

‘It—it looks—looks just like
you
, Charlie!’ she cried.

The bedroom door slammed.

The reverberation did not disturb the jar’s contents. But Charlie stood there, longing after his wife, heart pounding frantically. Much later, when his heart slowed, he talked to the thing in the jar.

‘I work the bottom land to the butt-bone every year, and she grabs the money and runs off down home visitin’ her folks nine weeks at a stretch. I can’t keep hold of her. Her and the men from the store, they make fun of me. I can’t help it if I don’t know a way to hold on to her! Damn, but I
try
!’

Philosophically, the contents of the jar gave no advice.

‘Charlie?’

Someone stood in the front-yard door.

Charlie turned, startled, then broke out a grin.

It was some of the men from the General Store.

‘Uh—Charlie—we—we thought—well—we came up to have a look at that—stuff—you got in that there jar—’

July passed warm and it was August.

For the first time in years, Charlie was happy as tall corn growing after a drought. It was gratifying of an evening to hear boots shushing through the tall grass, the sound of men spitting into the ditch prior to setting foot on the porch, the sound of heavy bodies creaking the boards, and the groan of the house as yet another shoulder leaned against its frame door and another voice said, as a hairy wrist wiped a mouth clean:

‘Kin I come in?’

With elaborate casualness, Charlie’d invite the arrivals in. There’d be chairs, soapboxes for all, or at least carpets to squat on. And by the time crickets were itching their legs into a summertime humming and frogs were throat-swollen like ladies with goiters shouting in the great night, the room would be full to bursting with people from all the bottom lands.

At first nobody would say anything. The first half-hour of such an evening, while people came in and got settled, was spent in carefully rolling cigarettes. Putting tobacco neatly into the rut of brown paper, loading it, tamping it, as they loaded and tamped and rolled their thoughts and fears and amazement for the evening. It gave them time to think. You could
see their brains working behind their eyes as they fingered the cigarettes into smoking order.

It was kind of a rude church gathering. They sat, squatted, leaned on plaster walls, and one by one, with reverent awe, they stared at the jar upon its shelf.

They wouldn’t stare sudden-like. No, they kind of did it slow, casual, as if they were glancing around the room—letting their eyes fumble over just
any
old object that happened into their consciousness.

And—just by accident, of course—the focus of their wandering eyes would occur always at the same place. After a while all eyes in the room would be fastened to it, like pins stuck in some incredible pincushion. And the only sound would be someone sucking a corncob. Or the children’s barefooted scurry on the porch planks outside. Maybe some woman’s voice would come. ‘You kids git away, now! Git!’ And with a giggle like soft, quick water, the bare feet would rush off to scare the bullfrogs.

Charlie would be up front, naturally, on his rocking chair, a plaid pillow under his lean rump, rocking slow, enjoying the fame and looked-up-toness that came with keeping the jar.

Thedy, she’d be seen way back of the room with the womenfolk in a bunch, all gray and quiet, abiding their men.

Thedy looked like she was ripe for jealous screaming. But she said nothing, just watched men tromp into her living room and sit at the feet of Charlie, staring at this here Holy Grail-like thing, and her lips were set cold and hard and she spoke not a civil word to anybody.

After a period of proper silence, someone, maybe old Gramps Medknowe from Crick Road, would clear the phlegm from a deep cave somewhere inside himself, lean forward, blinking, wet his lips, maybe, and there’d be a curious tremble in his calloused fingers.

This would cue everyone to get ready for the talking to come. Ears were primed. People settled like sows in the warm mud after a rain.

Gramps looked a long while, measured his lips with a lizard tongue, then settled back and said, like always, in a high, thin, old-man’s tenor:

‘Wonder what it is? Wonder if it’s a he or a she or just a plain old
it?
Sometimes I wake up nights, twist on my corn-mattin’, think about that jar settin’ here in the long dark. Think about it hangin’ in liquid, peaceful and pale like an animal oyster. Sometimes I wake Maw and we both think on it…’

While talking, Gramps moved his fingers in a quavering pantomime. Everybody watched his thick thumb weave, and the other heavy-nailed fingers undulate.

‘…We both lay there, thinkin’. And we shivers. Maybe a hot night, trees sweatin’, mosquitoes too hot to fly, but we shivers jest the same, and turn over, tryin’ to sleep…’

Gramps lapsed back into silence, as if his speech was enough from him, let some other voice talk the wonder, awe, and strangeness.

Juke Marmer, from Willow Sump, wiped sweat off his palms on the round of his knees and softly said:

‘I remember when I was a runnel-nosed kid. We had a cat who was all the time makin’ kittens. Lordamighty, she’d a litter any time she jumped around and skipped a fence—’ Juke spoke in a kind of holy softness, benevolent. ‘Well, we give the kittens away, but when this one particular litter busted out, everybody within walkin’ distance had one-two our cats by gift, already.

‘So Ma busied on the back porch with a big two-gallon glass jar, fillin’ it to the top with water. Ma said, “Juke, you drown them kittens!” I ’member I stood there; the kittens mewed, runnin’ ’round, blind, small, helpless, and funny—just beginnin’ to get their eyes open. I looked at Ma, I said, “Not
me
, Ma!
You
do it!” But Ma turned pale and said it had to be done and I was the only one handy. And she went off to stir gravy and fix chicken. I—I picked up one—kitten. I held it. It was warm. It made a mewin’ sound. I felt like runnin’ away, not ever comin’ back.’

Juke nodded his head now, eyes bright, young, seeing into the past, making it new, shaping it with words, smoothing it with his tongue.

‘I dropped the kitten in the water. The kitten closed his eyes, opened his mouth, tryin’ for air. I ’member how the little white fangs showed, the pink tongue came out, and bubbles with it, in a line to the top of the water!

‘I know to this day the way that kitten floated after it was all over, driftin’ aroun’, slow and not worryin’, lookin’ out at me, not condemnin’ me for what I done. But not likin’ me, neither. Ahhhh…’

Hearts jumped quick. Eyes swiveled from Juke to the shelved jar, back down, up again apprehensively.

A pause.

Jahdoo, the black man from Heron Swamp, tossed his ivory eyeballs, like a dusky juggler, in his head. His dark knuckles knotted and flexed—grasshoppers alive.