Bradbury Stories 100 of His Most Celebrated Tales Part 41

"Food?"

"Hot biscuits every morning, peach pie noon, shortcake every supper!"

The stranger inhaled, exhaled those savors.

"I'll sign my soul away!"

"I beg your pardon?!" Grandma was suddenly at the screen door, scowling out.

"A manner of speaking, ma'am." The stranger turned. "Not meant to sound un-Christian."

And he was inside, him talking, Grandma talking, him writing and flouris.h.i.+ng the pen on the registry book, and me and Dog inside, breathless, watching, spelling: "C.H."

"Read upside down, do you, boy?" said the stranger, merrily, giving pause with the inky pen.

"Yes, sir!"

On he wrote. On I spelled: "A.R.L.E.S. Charles!"

"Right."

Grandma peered at the calligraphy. "Oh, what a fine hand."

"Thank you, ma'am." On the pen scurried. And on I chanted. "D.I.C.K.E.N.S."

I faltered and stopped. The pen stopped. The stranger tilted his head and closed one eye, watchful of me.

"Yes?" He dared me, "What, what?"

"d.i.c.kens!" I cried.

"Good!"

"Charles d.i.c.kens, Grandma!"

"I can read, Ralph. A nice name . . ."

"Nice?" I said, agape. "It's great! But . . . I thought you were-"

"Dead?" The stranger laughed. "No. Alive, in fine fettle, and glad to meet a recognizer, fan, and fellow reader here!"

And we were up the stairs, Grandma bringing fresh towels and pillowcases and me carrying the carpetbag, gasping, and us meeting Grandpa, a great s.h.i.+p of a man, sailing down the other way.

"Grandpa," I said, watching his face for shock. "I want you to meet . . . Mr. Charles d.i.c.kens!"

Grandpa stopped for a long breath, looked at the new boarder from top to bottom, then reached out, took hold of the man's hand, shook it firmly, and said: "Any friend of Nicholas Nickleby's is a friend of mine!"

Mr. d.i.c.kens fell back from the effusion, recovered, bowed, said, "Thank you, sir," and went on up the stairs, while Grandpa winked, pinched my cheek, and left me standing there, stunned.

In the tower cupola room, with windows bright, open, and running with cool creeks of wind in all directions, Mr. d.i.c.kens drew off his horse-carriage coat and nodded at the carpetbag.

"Anywhere will do, Pip. Oh, you don't mind I call you Pip, eh?"

"Pip?!" My cheeks burned, my face glowed with astonis.h.i.+ng happiness. "Oh, boy. Oh, no, sir. Pip's fine!"

Grandma cut between us. "Here are your clean linens, Mr. . . .?"

"d.i.c.kens, ma'am." Our boarder patted his pockets, each in turn. "Dear me, Pip, I seem to be fresh out of pads and pencils. Might it be possible-"

He saw one of my hands steal up to find something behind my ear. "I'll be darned," I said, "a yellow Ticonderoga Number 2!" My other hand slipped to my back pants pocket. "And hey, an Iron-Face Indian Ring-Back Notepad Number 12!"

"Extraordinary!"

"Extraordinary!"

Mr. d.i.c.kens wheeled about, surveying the world from each and every window, speaking now north, now north by east, now east, now south: "I've traveled two long weeks with an idea. Bastille Day. Do you know it?"

"The French Fourth of July?"

"Remarkable boy! By Bastille Day this book must be in full flood. Will you help me breach the tide gates of the Revolution, Pip?"

"With these?" I looked at the pad and pencil in my hands.

"Lick the pencil tip, boy!"

I licked.

"Top of the page: the t.i.tle. t.i.tle." Mr. d.i.c.kens mused, head down, rubbing his chin whiskers. "Pip, what's a rare fine t.i.tle for a novel that happens half in London, half in Paris?"

"A-" I ventured.

"Yes?"

"A Tale," I went on.

"Yes?!"

"A Tale of . . . Two Cities?!"

"Madame!" Grandma looked up as he spoke. "This boy is a genius!"

"I read about this day in the Bible," said Grandma. "Everything Ends by noon."

"Put it down, Pip." Mr. d.i.c.kens tapped my pad. "Quick. A Tale of Two Cities. Then, mid-page. Book the First. 'Recalled to Life.' Chapter 1. 'The Period.'"

I scribbled. Grandma worked. Mr. d.i.c.kens squinted at the sky and at last intoned: "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter-"

"My," said Grandma, "you speak fine."

"Madame." The author nodded, then, eyes shut, snapped his fingers to remember, on the air. "Where was I, Pip?"

"It was the winter," I said, "of despair."

Very late in the afternoon I heard Grandma calling someone named Ralph, Ralph, down below. I didn't know who that was. I was writing hard.

A minute later, Grandpa called, "Pip!"

I jumped. "Yes, sir!"

"Dinnertime, Pip," said Grandpa, up the stairwell.

I sat down at the table, hair wet, hands damp. I looked over at Grandpa. "How did you know . . . Pip?"

"Heard the name fall out the window an hour ago."

"Pip?" said Mr. Wyneski, just come in, sitting down.

"Boy," I said. "I been everywhere this afternoon. The Dover Coach on the Dover Road. Paris! Traveled so much I got writer's cramp! I-"

"Pip?" said Mr. Wyneski, again.

Grandpa came warm and easy to my rescue.

"When I was twelve, changed my name-on several occasions." He counted the tines on his fork. "d.i.c.k. That was Dead-Eye d.i.c.k. And . . . John. That was for Long John Silver. Then: Hyde. That was for the other half of Jekyll-"

"I never had any other name except Bernard Samuel Wyneski," said Mr. Wyneski, his eyes still fixed to me.

"None?" cried Grandpa, startled.

"None."

"Have you proof of childhood, then, sir?" asked Grandpa. "Or are you a natural phenomenon, like a s.h.i.+p becalmed at sea?"

"Eh?" said Mr. Wyneski.

Grandpa gave up and handed him his full plate.

"Fall to, Bernard Samuel, fall to."

Mr. Wyneski let his plate lie. "Dover Coach . . .?"

"With Mr. d.i.c.kens, of course," supplied Grandpa. "Bernard Samuel, we have a new boarder, a novelist, who is starting a new book and has chosen Pip there, Ralph, to work as his secretary-"

"Worked all afternoon," I said. "Made a quarter!"

I slapped my hand to my mouth. A swift dark cloud had come over Mr. Wyneski's face.

"A novelist? Named d.i.c.kens? Surely you don't believe-"

"I believe what a man tells me until he tells me otherwise, then I believe that. Pa.s.s the b.u.t.ter," said Grandpa.

The b.u.t.ter was pa.s.sed in silence.

". . . h.e.l.l's fires . . ." Mr. Wyneski muttered.

I slunk low in my chair.

Grandpa, slicing the chicken, heaping the plates, said, "A man with a good demeanor has entered our house. He says his name is d.i.c.kens. For all I know that is his name. He implies he is writing a book. I pa.s.s his door, look in, and, yes, he is indeed writing. Should I run tell him not to? It is obvious he needs to set the book down-"

"A Tale of Two Cities!" I said.

"A Tale!" cried Mr. Wyneski, outraged, "of Two-"

"Hush," said Grandma.

For down the stairs and now at the door of the dining room there was the man with the long hair and the fine goatee and mustaches, nodding, smiling, peering in at us doubtful and saying, "Friends . . .?"

"Mr. d.i.c.kens," I said, trying to save the day. "I want you to meet Mr. Wyneski, the greatest barber in the world-"

The two men looked at each other for a long moment.

"Mr. d.i.c.kens," said Grandpa. "Will you lend us your talent, sir, for grace?"

"An honor, sir."

We bowed our heads. Mr. Wyneski did not.

Mr. d.i.c.kens looked at him gently.

Muttering, the barber glanced at the floor.

Mr. d.i.c.kens prayed: "O Lord of the bounteous table, O Lord who furnishes forth an infinite harvest for your most respectful servants gathered here in loving humiliation, O Lord who garnishes our feast with the bright radish and the resplendent chicken, who sets before us the wine of the summer season, lemonade, and maketh us humble before simple potato pleasures, the lowborn onion and, in the finale, so my nostrils tell me, the bread of vast experiments and fine success, the highborn strawberry shortcake, most beautifully smothered and amiably drowned in fruit from your own warm garden patch, for these, and this good company, much thanks. Amen."

"Amen," said everyone but Mr. Wyneski.

We waited.

"Amen, I guess," he said.

O what a summer that was!

None like it before in Green Town history.

I never got up so early so happy ever in my life! Out of bed at five minutes to, in Paris by one minute after . . . six in the morning the English Channel boat from Calais, the White Cliffs, sky a blizzard of seagulls, Dover, then the London Coach and London Bridge by noon! Lunch and lemonade out under the trees with Mr. d.i.c.kens, Dog licking our cheeks to cool us, then back to Paris and tea at four and . . .

"Bring up the cannon, Pip!"

"Yes, sir!"