Read Online Bradbury, Ray - SSC 11 by The Machineries of Joy (v2.1) - Free Book Online

what about Mexico City? Anywhere the rails lead us,
anywhere at all, and if we come to an old offshoot rail line we don't know
anything about, what the hell, we'll just take it, go down it, to see where it
goes. And some year, by God, we'll boat down the Mississippi, always wanted to
do that. Enough to last us a lifetime. And that's just
how long I want to take to do it all..."
                   His voice faded. He started to fumble the map
shut, but, before he could move, a bright thing fell through the air and hit
the paper. It rolled off into the sand and made a wet lump.
                   His wife glanced at the wet place in the sand
and then swiftly searched his face. His solemn eyes were too bright. And down
one cheek was a track of wetness.
                   She gasped. She took his hand and held it,
tight.
                   He clenched her hand very hard, his eyes shut
now, and slowly he said, with difficulty, "Wouldn't it be nice if we went
to sleep tonight and in the night, somehow, it all came back. All the
foolishness, all the noise, all the hate, all the terrible things, all the
nightmares, all the wicked people and stupid children, all the mess, all the
smallness, all the confusion, all the hope, all the need, all the love.
Wouldn't it be nice."
                   She waited and nodded her head once.
                   Then both of them started.
                   For standing between them, they knew not for
how long, was their son, an empty pop bottle in one hand.
                   The boy's face was pale. With his free hand he
reached out to touch his father's cheek, where the single tear had made its
track.
                   "You," he said. "Oh, Dad, you.
You haven't anyone to play with, either.''
                   The wife started to speak.
                   The husband moved to take the boy's hand.
                   The boy jerked back. "Silly! Oh, silly!
Silly fools! Oh, you dumb, dumb!" And, whirling, he rushed down to the
ocean and stood there crying loudly.
                   The wife rose to follow, but the husband
stopped her.
                   "No. Let him."
                   And then they both grew cold and quiet. For
the boy, below on the shore, crying steadily, now was writing on a piece of
paper and stuffing it in the pop bottle and ramming the tin cap back on and
taking the bottle and giving it a great glittering heave up in the air and out
into the tidal sea.
                   What, thought the wife, what did he write on
the note? What's in the bottle?
                   The bottle moved out in the waves.
                   The boy stopped crying.
                  After a long while he walked up the shore, to
stand looking at his parents. His face was neither bright nor dark, alive nor
dead, ready nor resigned; it seemed a curious mixture that simply made do with
time, weather and these people. They looked at him and beyond to the bay, where
the bottle containing the scribbled note was almost out of sight now, shining
in the waves.
                   Did he write what we wanted? thought the
woman, did he write what he heard us just wish, just say?
                   Or did he write something for only himself,
she wondered, that tomorrow he might wake and find himself alone in an empty
world, no one around, no man, no woman, no father, no mother, no fool grownups
with fool wishes, so he could trudge up to the railroad tracks and take the
handcar motoring, a solitary boy, across the continental wilderness, on eternal
voyages and picnics?
                   Is that what he wrote in the note?
                   Which?
                   She searched his colorless eyes, could not
read the answer; dared not ask.
                   Gull shadows sailed over and kited