Driving Blind. Ray Bradbury
fired,” she said.
“Take it easy,” he said.
She rose, gathered a few papers, hunted for her purse, applied a perfect lipstick mouth, and stood at the door.
“Have Joey and Ralph bring all the stuff in that top file,” she said. “That’ll do for starters. You coming?”
“In a moment,” he said, standing by the window, still not looking at her.
“What if the Japs figure out this comedy, and bomb the real Hughes Aircraft instead of this fake one?”
“Some days,” sighed Jerry Would, “you can’t win for losing.”
“Shall I write a letter to Goldfarb to tell him where you’re going?”
“Don’t write, call. That way there’s no evidence.”
A shadow loomed. They both looked up at the sky over the studio.
“Hey,” he said, softly, “there’s another. A third balloon.”
“How come,” she said, “it looks like a producer I used to know?”
“You’re—” he said.
But she was gone. The door shut.
There was a quiet tapping at the door and when Steve Ralphs opened it there stood Henry Grossbock, five foot one inches tall, immaculately dressed, very pale and very perturbed.
“Henry!” Steve Ralphs cried.
“Why do you sound like that?” Henry Grossbock said. “What have I done? Why am I dressed like this? Where am I going?”
“Come in, come in, someone might see you!”
“Why does it matter if someone sees me?”
“Come in, for God’s sake, don’t stand there arguing.”
“All right, I’ll come in, I have things to talk about anyway. Stand aside. There. I’m in.”
Steve Ralphs backed off across the room and waved to a chair. “Sit.”
“I don’t feel welcome.” Henry sat. “You have any strong liquor around this place?”
“I was just thinking that.” Steve Ralphs jumped, ran into the kitchen, and a minute later returned with a tray, a bottle of whiskey, two glasses, and some ice. His hands were trembling as he poured the liquor.
“You look shaky,” said Henry Grossbock. “What’s wrong?”
“Don’t you know, can’t you guess? Here.”
Henry took the glass. “You sure poured me a lot.”
“You’re going to need it. Drink.”
They drank and Henry examined his coat front and his sleeves.
“You still haven’t told me where I am going,” he said, “or have I been there already? I don’t usually dress this way except for concerts. When I stand up there before an audience, well, one desires respect. This is very good scotch. Thanks. Well?”
He stared at Steve Ralphs with a steady and penetrating stare.
Steve Ralphs gulped half of his drink and put it down and shut his eyes. “Henry, you’ve already been to a far place and just come back, for God’s sake. And now you’ll have to return to that place.”
“What place, what place, stop the riddles!”
Steve Ralphs opened his eyes and said, “How did you get here? Did you take a bus, hire a taxi, or … walk from the graveyard?”
“Bus, taxi, walk? And what’s that about a graveyard?”
“Henry, drink the rest of your drink. Henry, you’ve been in that graveyard for years.”
“Don’t be silly. What would I be doing there? I never applied for any—” Henry stopped and slowly sank back in his chair. “You mean—?”
Steve Ralphs nodded. “Yes, Henry.”
“Dead? And in the graveyard? Dead and in the graveyard four years? Why didn’t someone tell me?”
“It’s hard to tell someone who’s dead that he is.”
“I see, I see.” Henry finished his drink and held the glass out for more. Steve Ralphs refilled.
“Dear, dear,” said Henry Grossbock, slowly. “My, my. So that’s why I haven’t felt up to snuff lately.”
“That’s why, Henry. Let me catch up.” Steve Ralphs poured more whiskey in his own glass and drank.
“So that’s why you looked so peculiar when you opened the door just now—”
“That’s why, Henry.”
“Sorry. I really didn’t mean—”
“Don’t get up, Henry. You’re here now.”
“But under the circumstances—”
“It’s all right. I’m under control. And even given the circumstances, you were always my best friend and it’s nice, in a way, to see you again.”
“Strange. I wasn’t shocked to see you.”
“There’s a difference, Henry. I mean, well—”
“You’re alive, and I’m not, eh? Yes, I can see that. Hello, I must be going.”
“What?”
“Groucho Marx sang a song with that title.”
“Oh, yeah. Sure.”
“Marvelous man. Funny. Is he still around? Did he die, too?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Don’t be afraid. I’m not. Don’t know why. Just now.” Henry Grossbock sat up straight. “To business.”
“What business?”
“Told you at the front door. Important. Must tell. I am very upset.”
“So was I, but this liquor does wonders. Okay, Henry, shoot.”
“The thing is—” Henry Grossbock said, finishing his second drink quickly, “my wife is neglecting me.”
“But Henry, it’s perfectly natural—”
“Let me finish. She used to come visit constantly. Brought me flowers, put a book nearby once, cried a lot. Every day. Then every other day. Now, never. How do you explain that? Refill, please.”
Steve Ralphs tipped the bottle.
“Henry, four years is a long time—”
“You can say that again. How about Eternity, there’s a real vaudeville show.”
“You didn’t really expect to be entertained, did you?”
“Why not? Evelyn always spoiled me. She changed dresses two or three times a day because she knew I loved it. Haunted bookshops, brought me the latest, read me the oldest, picked my ties, shined my shoes, her women’s-lib friends joshed her for that. Spoiled. Yes, I expected to have someone fill the time for me.”
“That’s not how it works, Henry.”
Henry Grossbock thought and nodded, solemnly, and sipped his whiskey. “Yes, I guess you’re right. But let me name the biggest problem.”
“What’s that?”
“She’s