One More for the Road by Ray Bradbury Read Free Book Online Page B

wondering what it was like to be part of all that chanting and singing, with all those men in hats.
    In the graveyard I found what I knew I would find. The old woman was there, seated next to a stone bearing his name. And she was talking, talking, talking, touching the stone, talking to the stone.
    And he? What else? Was not listening.
    I waited, heard, shut my eyes and backed away.
    With the sun gone and fog coming in with night I passed the bench. It was still empty, which made it worse.
    So what can you do?
    I called Sid.
    â€œAbout that tape recorder of yours?” I said. “And some of those tapes?”
    Â 
    On one of the last nights of summer, Sid and I took our usual stroll down the kosher esplanade, passing the fine pastrami and cheesecake emporiums, stopped for some of that and walked on near the two dozen benches by the sea, talking and greatly contented, when Sid suddenly remarked, “You know, I have often wondered—”
    â€œWhat’s to wonder?” I said, for he was looking ahead at that bench, which had stayed empty for almost a week.
    â€œLook.” Sid touched my arm. “That old woman?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œShe’s back! I thought she was sick or something, but there she is.”
    â€œI know,” I smiled.
    â€œSince when ? The same bench. And talking like crazy.”
    â€œYes,” I said, and we walked closer.
    â€œBut,” said Sid as quiet as he could, “there’s no one there. She’s talking to herself .”
    â€œAlmost,” I said. We were very close. “Listen.”
    â€œYou give me the same smarts. Arguments, who needs?” the old woman was saying, leaning forward toward the empty half of the bench, eyes fiery, face intense, mouth in full motion. “Arguments, who needs? I got plenty. Listen!”
    And then, even more astonishing: a reply.
    â€œGive a listen, she says!” a voice cried. “For what, how come ?”
    â€œThat voice!” Sid exclaimed, then whispered. “ His voice. But he’s dead !”
    â€œYes,” I said.
    â€œAnd another thing,” the old woman said, “look how you eat. Sometime, watch! ”
    â€œEasy for you to say!” the old man’s voice shot back.
    â€œGo ahead, say! ”
    There was a click. Sid’s eyes slid down. He saw what I saw, his borrowed small handheld recorder in the old woman’s palm.
    â€œAnd another thing,” she said, alive.
    Click .
    â€œWhy do I put up with this?” his voice cried, dead.
    Click .
    â€œI got lists you wouldn’t believe!” she cried, alive.
    Sid glanced at me. “You?” he said.
    â€œMe,” I said.
    â€œHow?” Sid said.
    â€œI had your tapes from all those nights,” I said. “I cut them together, him talking, and put spaces between for her to yell back. Some places he just yells, no answer. Or she can click him off so she can yell, then click him back on.”
    â€œHow did you know—?”
    â€œShe was in the graveyard,” I said. “I couldn’t stand it. Her just talking to that cold piece of marble and no answers. So I recopied your tapes, just his raves and yells, and one late afternoon looking into the graveyard I saw that yes, she was there and might be there forever and starve and die being there. No answers. But there had to be, even if you don’t listen or think you don’t, so I just walked in by the grave, turned on the tape, handed it to her where she sat by the stone, made sure he was yelling, and walked away. I didn’t look back or wait to hear if she yelled, too. Him and her, her and him, high and low, low and high, I just left.
    â€œLast night she was back here on the bench, eating some cheesecake. I think she’s going to live. Isn’t that swell?”
    Sid listened. The old man was complaining. “Why do I put up with this? Someone tell me! I’m waiting. So?”
    â€œOkay, smartie,”