Bradbury Stories Read Free

the moon washed her brittle fingers whiter, and she remembered doing all the talking while Francine just sobbed against her.
    A voice called from far off, “You want an escort, ladies?”
    â€œNo, we’ll make it,” said Lavinia to nobody, and they walked on. They walked through the nuzzling, whispering ravine, the ravine of whispers and clicks, the little world of investigation growing small behind them with its lights and voices.
    â€œI’ve never seen a dead person before,” said Francine.
    Lavinia examined her watch as if it was a thousand miles away on an arm and wrist grown impossibly distant. “It’s only eight-thirty. We’ll pick up Helen and get on to the show.”
    â€œThe show!” Francine jerked.
    â€œIt’s what we need. We’ve got to forget this. It’s not good to remember. If we went home now we’d remember. We’ll go to the show as if nothing happened.”
    â€œLavinia, you don’t mean it!”
    â€œI never meant anything more in my life. We need to laugh now and forget.”
    â€œBut Elizabeth’s back there—your friend, my friend—”
    â€œWe can’t help her; we can only help ourselves. Come on.”
    They started up the ravine side, on the stony path, in the dark. And suddenly there, barring their way, standing very still in one spot, not seeing them, but looking on down at the moving lights and the body and listening to the official voices, was Douglas Spaulding.
    He stood there, white as a mushroom, with his hands at his sides, staring down into the ravine.
    â€œGet home!” cried Francine.
    He did not hear.
    â€œYou!” shrieked Francine. “Get home, get out of this place, you hear? Get home, get home, get home !”
    Douglas jerked his head, stared at them as if they were not there. His mouth moved. He gave a bleating sound. Then, silently, he whirled about and ran. He ran silently up the distant hills into the warm darkness.
    Francine sobbed and cried again and, doing this, walked on with Lavinia Nebbs.
    â€œThere you are! I thought you ladies’d never come!” Helen Greer stood tapping her foot atop her porch steps. “You’re only an hour late, that’s all. What happened?”
    â€œWe—” started Francine.
    Lavinia clutched her arm tight. “There was a commotion. Somebody found Elizabeth Ramsell in the ravine.”
    â€œDead? Was she—dead?”
    Lavinia nodded. Helen gasped and put her hand to her throat. “Who found her?”
    Lavinia held Francine’s wrist firmly. “We don’t know.”
    The three young women stood in the summer night looking at each other. “I’ve got a notion to go in the house and lock the doors,” said Helen at last.
    But finally she went to get a sweater, for though it was still warm, she, too, complained of the sudden winter night. While she was gone Francine whispered frantically, “Why didn’t you tell her?”
    â€œWhy upset her?” said Lavinia. “Tomorrow. Tomorrow’s plenty of time.”
    The three women moved along the street under the black trees, past suddenly locked houses. How soon the news had spread outward from the ravine, from house to house, porch to porch, telephone to telephone. Now, passing, the three women felt eyes looking out at them from curtained windows as locks rattled into place. How strange the popsicle, the vanilla night, the night of close-packed ice cream, of mosquito-lotioned wrists, the night of running children suddenly veered from their games and put away behind glass, behind wood, the popsicles in melting puddles of lime and strawberry where they fell when the children were scooped indoors. Strange the hot rooms with the sweating people pressed tightly back into them behind the bronze knobs and knockers. Baseball bats and balls lay upon the unfootprinted lawns. A half-drawn, white-chalk game of hopscotch lay on the broiled,