Read Online We'll Always Have Paris by Ray Bradbury - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ray Bradbury
Tags: Short Fiction, Bradbury
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forgive and go on? Isn’t that somehow like us?’
‘Pillow talk!’ cried Father Gilman. ‘Pillow talk and dogs and sinful
beasts!’
‘Father, he may not come back!’
‘Good riddance. I’ll not have such things in my hospital!’
‘My God, sir, didn’t you see? He’s a golden retriever. What a name. After an
hour of listening to your penitents, to ask and forgive, wouldn’t you love to hear me call you
that?’
‘Golden retriever?’
‘Yes. Think about it, Father,’ said the young priest. ‘Enough. Come. Let’s go
back and see if that beast, as you call him, has done any harm.’
Father Kelly went back into the hospital. Moments later, the older priest
followed. They walked along the hall and looked in the rooms at the patients in their beds. A
peculiar sound of silence hung over the place.
In one room they saw a look of strange peace.
In another room they heard whispering. Father Gilman thought he caught the
name Mary, though he could not be sure.
And so they roamed among the quiet rooms on this special night and as the
older priest walked along he felt his skins fall away–a skin of ignorance, a layer of contempt,
and then a subdermis of neglect–so that when he arrived back at his office he felt as if he had
shed an invisible flesh.
Father Kelly said good night and left.
The old priest sat and covered his eyes, leaning against the desk.
After a few moments of silence, he heard a sound and looked up.
In the doorway the dog stood, waiting there quietly; it had come back on its
own. The dog hardly breathed and did not whimper or bark or sigh. It came forward, very
quietly, and sat across the desk from the priest.
The priest looked into that golden face and
the dog looked back.
Finally the old priest said, ‘Bless me, what do I call you? I can think of
nothing. But bless me, please, for I have sinned.’
The priest then spoke of his arrogance and the sin of pride and all the other
sins he had committed that day.
And the dog, sitting there, listened.
Arrival and Departure
No day in all of time began with nobler heart or fresher spirit. No morn
had ever chanced upon its greener self as did this morn discover spring in every aspect and
every breath. Birds flew about, intoxicated, and moles and all things holed up in earth and
stone ventured forth, forgetting that life itself might be forfeit. The sky was a Pacific, a
Caribbean, an Indian sea, hung in a tidal outpouring over a town that now exhaled the dust of
winter from a thousand windows. Doors slammed wide. Like a tide moving over a town that now
exhaled the dust of winter from a thousand windows. Doors slammed wide. Like a tide moving into
a shore, wave after wave of laundered curtains broke over the piano-wire lines behind the
houses.
And at last the mild sweetness of this particular daysummoned forth two souls, like wintry figures from a Swiss clock, hypnotized, upon
their porch. Mr and Mrs Alexander, twenty-four months locked deep in their rusty house, felt
long-forgotten wings stir in their shoulder blades as the sun rekindled their bones.
‘Smell
that
!’
Mrs Alexander took a drink of air and spun to accuse the house. ‘Two years!
One hundred sixty-five bottles of throat molasses! Ten pounds of sulfur! Twelve boxes of
sleeping pills! Five yards of flannel for our chests! How much mustard grease? Get away!’ She
pushed at the house. She turned to the spring day, opened her arms. The sun made teardrops jump
from her eyes.
They waited, not yet ready to descend away from two years of nursing each
other, falling ill time and again, accepting but never quite enjoying the prospect of another
evening together after six hundred of seeing no other human face.
‘Why, we’re strangers here.’ The husband nodded to the shady streets.
And they remembered how they had stopped answering the door and kept the
shades down, afraid that some abrupt encounter, some flash of bright sun, might shatter them
‘Pillow talk!’ cried Father Gilman. ‘Pillow talk and dogs and sinful
beasts!’
‘Father, he may not come back!’
‘Good riddance. I’ll not have such things in my hospital!’
‘My God, sir, didn’t you see? He’s a golden retriever. What a name. After an
hour of listening to your penitents, to ask and forgive, wouldn’t you love to hear me call you
that?’
‘Golden retriever?’
‘Yes. Think about it, Father,’ said the young priest. ‘Enough. Come. Let’s go
back and see if that beast, as you call him, has done any harm.’
Father Kelly went back into the hospital. Moments later, the older priest
followed. They walked along the hall and looked in the rooms at the patients in their beds. A
peculiar sound of silence hung over the place.
In one room they saw a look of strange peace.
In another room they heard whispering. Father Gilman thought he caught the
name Mary, though he could not be sure.
And so they roamed among the quiet rooms on this special night and as the
older priest walked along he felt his skins fall away–a skin of ignorance, a layer of contempt,
and then a subdermis of neglect–so that when he arrived back at his office he felt as if he had
shed an invisible flesh.
Father Kelly said good night and left.
The old priest sat and covered his eyes, leaning against the desk.
After a few moments of silence, he heard a sound and looked up.
In the doorway the dog stood, waiting there quietly; it had come back on its
own. The dog hardly breathed and did not whimper or bark or sigh. It came forward, very
quietly, and sat across the desk from the priest.
The priest looked into that golden face and
the dog looked back.
Finally the old priest said, ‘Bless me, what do I call you? I can think of
nothing. But bless me, please, for I have sinned.’
The priest then spoke of his arrogance and the sin of pride and all the other
sins he had committed that day.
And the dog, sitting there, listened.
Arrival and Departure
No day in all of time began with nobler heart or fresher spirit. No morn
had ever chanced upon its greener self as did this morn discover spring in every aspect and
every breath. Birds flew about, intoxicated, and moles and all things holed up in earth and
stone ventured forth, forgetting that life itself might be forfeit. The sky was a Pacific, a
Caribbean, an Indian sea, hung in a tidal outpouring over a town that now exhaled the dust of
winter from a thousand windows. Doors slammed wide. Like a tide moving over a town that now
exhaled the dust of winter from a thousand windows. Doors slammed wide. Like a tide moving into
a shore, wave after wave of laundered curtains broke over the piano-wire lines behind the
houses.
And at last the mild sweetness of this particular daysummoned forth two souls, like wintry figures from a Swiss clock, hypnotized, upon
their porch. Mr and Mrs Alexander, twenty-four months locked deep in their rusty house, felt
long-forgotten wings stir in their shoulder blades as the sun rekindled their bones.
‘Smell
that
!’
Mrs Alexander took a drink of air and spun to accuse the house. ‘Two years!
One hundred sixty-five bottles of throat molasses! Ten pounds of sulfur! Twelve boxes of
sleeping pills! Five yards of flannel for our chests! How much mustard grease? Get away!’ She
pushed at the house. She turned to the spring day, opened her arms. The sun made teardrops jump
from her eyes.
They waited, not yet ready to descend away from two years of nursing each
other, falling ill time and again, accepting but never quite enjoying the prospect of another
evening together after six hundred of seeing no other human face.
‘Why, we’re strangers here.’ The husband nodded to the shady streets.
And they remembered how they had stopped answering the door and kept the
shades down, afraid that some abrupt encounter, some flash of bright sun, might shatter them
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