Ray Bradbury Stories Volume 2. Ray Bradbury
was behind me, a bit unsteady on his feet, a hopeful grin, part panic, on his face.
I looked at the sky and the rising moon.
‘Nothing out here,’ I said.
‘Oh, Christ, yes, there is. Look,’ he said. ‘No, wait. Listen.’
I stood turning white cold, wondering why I waited, and listened.
‘Do we stand out in the middle of your garden, where they can see us? You don’t have to if you don’t want.’
‘Hell,’ I lied. ‘I’m not afraid.’ I lifted my glass. ‘To the Lafayette Escadrille?’ I said.
‘No, no!’ cried Bill, alarmed. ‘Not tonight. They mustn’t hear that. To them, Doug. Them.’ He motioned his glass at the sky where the clouds flew over in squadrons and the moon was a round, white, tombstone world.
‘To von Richthofen, and the beautiful sad young men.’
I repeated his words in a whisper.
And then we drank, lifting our empty glasses so the clouds and the moon and the silent sky could see.
‘I’m ready,’ said Bill, ‘if they want to come get me now. Better to die out here than go in and hear them landing every night and every night in their parachutes and no sleep until dawn when the last silk folds in on itself and the bottle’s empty. Stand right over there, son. That’s it. Just half in the shadow. Now.’
I moved back and we waited.
‘What’ll I say to them?’ he asked.
‘God, Bill,’ I said, ‘I don’t know. They’re not my friends.’
‘They weren’t mine, either. More’s the pity. I thought they were the enemy. Christ, isn’t that a dumb stupid halfass word. The enemy! As if such a thing ever really happened in the world. Sure, maybe the bully that chased and beat you up in the schoolyard, or the guy who took your girl and laughed at you. But them, those beauties, up in the clouds on summer days or autumn afternoons? No, no!’
He moved farther out on the porch.
‘All right,’ he whispered. ‘Here I am.’
And he leaned way out, and opened his arms as if to embrace the night air.
‘Come on! What you waiting for!’
He shut his eyes.
‘Your turn,’ he cried. ‘My God, you got to hear, you got to come. You beautiful bastards, here!’
And he tilted his head back as if to welcome a dark rain.
‘Are they coming?’ he whispered aside, eyes clenched.
‘No.’
Bill lifted his old face into the air and stared upward, willing the clouds to shift and change and become something more than clouds.
‘Damn it!’ he cried, at last. ‘I killed you all. Forgive me or come kill me!’ And a final angry burst. ‘Forgive me. I’m sorry!’
The force of his voice was enough to push me completely back into shadows. Maybe that did it. Maybe Bill, standing like a small statue in the middle of my garden, made the clouds shift and the wind blow south instead of north. We both heard, a long way off, an immense whisper.
‘Yes!’ cried Bill, and to me, aside, eyes shut, teeth clenched, ‘You hear!?’
We heard another sound, closer now, like great flowers or blossoms lifted off spring trees and run along the sky.
‘There,’ whispered Bill.
The clouds seemed to form a lid and make a vast silken shape which dropped in serene silence upon the land. It made a shadow that crossed the town and hid the houses and at last reached our garden and shadowed the grass and put out the light of the moon and then hid Bill from my sight.
‘Yes! They’re coming,’ cried Bill. ‘Feel them? One, two, a dozen! Oh, God, yes.’
And all around, in the dark, I thought I heard apples and plums and peaches falling from unseen trees, the sound of boots hitting my lawn, and the sound of pillows striking the grass like bodies, and the swarming of tapestries of white silk or smoke flung across the disturbed air.
‘Bill!’
‘No!’ he yelled. ‘I’m okay! They’re all around. Get back! Yes!’
There was a tumult in the garden. The hedges shivered with propeller wind. The grass lay down its nap. A tin watering can blew across the yard. Birds were flung from trees. Dogs all around the block yelped. A siren, from another war, sounded ten miles away. A storm had arrived, and was that thunder or field artillery?
And one last time, I heard Bill say, almost quietly, ‘I didn’t know, oh, God, I didn’t know what I was doing.’ And a final fading sound of ‘Please.’
And the rain fell briefly to mix with the tears on his face.
And the rain stopped and the wind was still.
‘Well.’ He wiped his eyes, and blew his nose on his big hankie, and looked at the hankie as if it were the map of France. ‘It’s time to go. Do you think I’ll get lost again?’
‘If you do, come here.’
‘Sure.’ He moved across the lawn, his eyes clear. ‘How much do I owe you, Sigmund?’
‘Only this,’ I said.
I gave him a hug. He walked out to the street. I followed to watch.
When he got to the corner, he seemed to be confused. He turned to his right, then his left. I waited and then called gently:
‘To your left, Bill.’
‘God bless you, buster!’ he said, and waved.
He turned and went into his house.
They found him a month later, wandering two miles from home. A month after that he was in the hospital, in France all the time now, and Rickenbacker in the bed to his right and von Richthofen in the cot to his left.
The day after his funeral the Oscar arrived, carried by his wife, to place on my mantel, with a single red rose beside it, and the picture of von Richthofen, and the other picture of the gang lined up in the summer of ’18 and the wind blowing out of the picture and the buzz of planes. And the sound of young men laughing as if they might go on forever.
Sometimes I come down at three in the morning when I can’t sleep and I stand looking at Bill and his friends. And sentimental sap that I am, I wave a glass of sherry at them.
‘Farewell, Lafayette,’ I say. ‘Lafayette, farewell.’
And they all laugh as if it were the grandest joke that they ever heard.
Remember? Why, how could they forget? Although they knew him for only a little while, years later his name would arise and they would smile or even laugh and reach out to hold hands, remembering.
Sascha. What a tender, witty comrade, what a sly, hidden individual, what a child of talent; teller of tales, bon vivant, late-night companion, ever-present illumination on foggy noons.
Sascha!
He, whom they had never seen, to whom they spoke often at three A.M. in their small bedroom, away from friends who might roll their eyeballs under their lids, doubting their sanity, hearing his name.
Well, then, who and what was Sascha, and where did they meet or perhaps only dream him, and who were they?
Quickly: they were Maggie