Free Bradbury, Ray - SSC 09 by The Small Assassin (v2.1) Page A

faucet in the bath sink.
                 Joseph
opened his eyes.
                 His
wife sat on her bed, staring at him.
                 “I
thought—” he said. He blinked. “No.” He shut his eyes and shook his head. “Just the bells.” A sigh. “What
time is it?”
                 “I
don’t know. Yes, I do. Eight o’clock .”
                 “Good
God,” he murmured, turning over. “We can sleep three more hours.”
                 “You’ve
got to get up!” she cried.
                 “Nobody’s
up. They won’t be to work at the garage until ten, you know that, you can’t
rush these people; keep quiet now.”
                 “But
you’ve got to get up,” she said.
                 He half-turned. Sunlight prickled black hairs into bronze on
his upper lip. “ Why ? Why, in Christ’s
name, do I have to get up?”
                 “You
need a shave!” she almost screamed.
                 He
moaned. “So I have to get up and lather myself at eight in the morning because
I need a shave.”
                 “Well,
you do need one.”
                 “I’m
not shaving again till we reach Texas .”
                 “You
can’t go around looking like a tramp!”
                 “I
can and will. I’ve shaved every morning for thirty goddamn mornings and put on
a tie and had a crease in my pants. From now on, no pants, no
ties, no shaving, no nothing.”
                 He
yanked the covers over his ears so violently that he pulled the blankets off
one of his naked legs.
                 The
leg hung upon the rim of the bed, warm white in the sunlight, each little black
hair—perfect.
                 Her
eyes widened, focused, stared upon it.
                 She
put her hand over her mouth, tight.
                  
                 He
went in and out of the hotel all day. He did not shave. He walked along the
plaza tiles below. He walked so slowly she wanted to throw a lightning bolt out
of the window and hit him. He paused and talked to the hotel manager below,
under a drum-cut tree, shifting his shoes on the pale blue plaza tiles. He
looked at birds on trees and saw how the State Theater statues were dressed in
fresh morning gilt, and stood on the corner, watching the traffic carefully.
There was no traffic! He was standing there on purpose, taking his time, not
looking back at her. Why didn’t he run, lope down the alley, down the hill to
the garage, pound on the doors, threaten the mechanics, lift them by their
pants, shove them into the car motor! He stood
instead, watching the ridiculous traffic pass. A hobbled
swine, a man on a bike, a 1927 Ford, and three half-nude children. Go,
go, go, she screamed silently, and almost smashed the window.
                 He
sauntered across the street. He went around the corner. All the way down to the
garage he’d stop at windows, read signs, look at pictures, handle pottery. Maybe he’d stop in for a beer. God, yes, a beer.
                 She
walked in the plaza, took the sun, hunted for more magazines. She cleaned her
fingernails, burnished them, took a bath, walked again in the plaza, ate very
little, and returned to the room to feed upon her magazines.
                 She
did not lie down. She was afraid to. Each time she did she fell into a
half-dream, half-drowse in which all her childhood was revealed in a helpless
melancholy. Old friends, children she hadn’t seen or thought of in twenty years
filled her mind. And she thought of things she wanted to do and had never done.
She had meant to call Lila Holdridge for the past
eight years since college, but somehow she never had. What friends they had
been! Dear Lila! She thought, when lying down, of all the books, the fine new
and old books, she had meant to buy and might never