A Medicine for Melancholy and Other Stories

by Ray Bradbury

  Mr. Fields was suddenly behind the children. “Disgusting, barbaric, keeping animals in cages. If I’d known this was here, I’d never let you come see. This is a terrible ritual.”

  “Oh, yes.” But Janet’s eyes were puzzled. “And yet, you know, it’s like a nest of maggots. I want to study it.”

  “I don’t know,” said Robert, his eyes darting, his fingers trembling. “It’s pretty crazy. We might try writing a thesis on it if Mr. Fields says it’s all right …”

  Mr. Fields nodded. “I’m glad you’re digging in here, finding motives, studying this horror. All right—we’ll see the circus this afternoon.”

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” said Janet.

  The Time Machine hummed.

  “So that was a circus,” said Janet, solemnly.

  The trombone circus died in their ears. The last thing they saw was candy-pink trapeze people whirling while baking powder clowns shrieked and bounded.

  “You must admit psychovision’s better,” said Robert slowly.

  “All those nasty animal smells, the excitement.” Janet blinked. “That’s bad for children, isn’t it? And those older people seated with the children. Mothers, fathers, they called them. Oh, that was strange.”

  Mr. Fields put some marks in his class grading book.

  Janet shook her head numbly. “I want to see it all again. I’ve missed the motives somewhere. I want to make that run across town again in the early morning. The cold air on my face—the sidewalk under my feet—the circus train coming in. Was it the air and the early hour that made the children get up and run to see the train come in? I want to retrace the entire pattern. Why should they be excited? I feel I’ve missed out on the answer.”

  “They all smiled so much,” said William.

  “Manic-depressives,” said Robert.

  “What are summer vacations? I heard them talk about it.” Janet looked at Mr. Fields.

  “They spent their summers racing about like idiots, beating each other up,” replied Mr. Fields seriously.

  “I’ll take our State Engineered summers of work for children anytime,” said Robert, looking at nothing, his voice faint.

  The Time Machine stopped again.

  “The Fourth of July,” announced Mr. Fields. “Nineteen hundred and twenty-eight. An ancient holiday when people blew each other’s fingers off.”

  They stood before the same house on the same street but on a soft summer evening. Fire wheels hissed, on front porches laughing children tossed things out that went bang!

  “Don’t run!” cried Mr. Fields. “It’s not war, don’t be afraid!”

  But Janet’s and Robert’s and William’s faces were pink, now blue, now white with fountains of soft fire.

  “We’re all right,” said Janet, standing very still.

  “Happily,” announced Mr. Fields, “they prohibited fireworks a century ago, did away with the whole messy explosion.”

  Children did fairy dances, weaving their names and destinies on the dark summer air with white sparklers.

  “I’d like to do that,” said Janet, softly. “Write my name on the air. See? I’d like that.”

  “What?” Mr. Fields hadn’t been listening.

  “Nothing,” said Janet.

  “Bang!” whispered William and Robert, standing under the soft summer trees, in shadow, watching, watching the red, white, and green fires on the beautiful summer night lawns. “Bang!”

  October.

  The Time Machine paused for the last time, an hour later in the month of burning leaves. People bustled into dim houses carrying pumpkins and corn shocks. Skeletons danced, bats flew, candles flamed, apples swung in empty doorways.

  “Halloween,” said Mr. Fields. “The acme of horror. This was the age of superstition, you know. Later they banned the Grimm Brothers, ghosts, skeletons, and all that claptrap. You children, thank God, were raised in an antiseptic world of no shadows or ghosts. You had decent holidays like William C. Chatterton’s Birthday, Work Day, and Machine Day.”

  They walked by the same house in the empty October night, peering in at the triangle-eyed pumpkins, the masks leering in black attics and damp cellars. Now, inside the house, some party children squatted telling stories, laughing!

  “I want to be inside with them,” said Janet at last.

  “Sociologically, of course,” said the boys.

  “No,” she said.

  “What?” asked Mr. Fields.

  “No, I just want to be inside, I just want to stay here, I want to see it all and be here and never be anywhere else, I want firecrackers and pumpkins and circuses, I want Christmases and Valentines and Fourths, like we’ve seen.”

  “This is getting out of hand …” Mr. Fields started to say.

  But suddenly Janet was gone. “Robert, William, come on!” She ran. The boys leaped after her.

  “Hold on!” shouted Mr. Fields. “Robert! William, I’ve got you!” He seized the last boy, but the other escaped. “Janet, Robert—come back here! You’ll never pass into the seventh grade! You’ll fail, Janet, Bob—Bob!”

  An October wind blew wildly down the street, vanishing with the children off among moaning trees.

  William twisted and kicked.

  “No, not you, too, William, you’re coming home with me. We’ll teach those other two a lesson they won’t forget. So they want to stay in the past, do they?” Mr. Fields shouted so everyone could hear. “All right, Janet, Bob, stay in this horror, in this chaos! In a few weeks you’ll come sniveling back here to me. But I’ll be gone! I’m leaving you here to go mad in this world!”

  He hurried William to the Time Machine. The boy was sobbing. “Don’t make me come back here on any more Field Excursions ever again, please, Mr. Fields, please—”

  “Shut up!”

  Almost instantly the Time Machine whisked away toward the future, toward the underground hive cities, the metal buildings, the metal flowers, the metal lawns.

  “Good-bye, Janet, Bob!”

  A great cold October wind blew through the town like water. And when it had ceased blowing it had carried all the children, whether invited or uninvited, masked or unmasked, to the doors of houses which closed upon them. There was not a running child anywhere in the night. The wind whined away in the bare treetops.

  And inside the big house, in the candlelight, someone was pouring cold apple cider all around, to everyone, no matter who they were.

  The Pedestrian

  To enter out into that silence that was the city at eight o’clock of a misty evening in November, to put your feet upon that buckling concrete walk, to step over grassy seams and make your way, hands in pockets, through the silences, that was what Mr. Leonard Mead most dearly loved to do. He would stand upon the corner of an intersection and peer down long moonlit avenues of sidewalk in four directions, deciding which way to go, but it really made no difference; he was alone in this world of A.D. 2053, or as good as alone, and with a final decision made, a path selected, he would stride off, sending patterns of frosty air before him like the smoke of a cigar.

  Sometimes he would walk for hours and miles and return only at midnight to his house. And on his way he would see the cottages and homes with their dark windows, and it was not unequal to walking through a graveyard where only the faintest glimmers of firefly light appeared in flickers behind the windows. Sudden gray phantoms seemed to manifest upon inner room walls where a curtain was still undrawn against the night, or there were whisperings and murmurs where a window in a tomb-like building was still open.

  Mr. Leonard Mead would pause, cock his head, listen, look, and march on, his feet making no noise on the lumpy walk. For long ago he had wisely changed to sneakers when strolling at night, because the dogs in intermittent squads would parallel his journey with barkings if he wore hard heels, and lights might click on and faces appear and an entire street be startled by the passing of a lone figure, himself, in the early November evening.

  On this particular evenin
g he began his journey in a westerly direction, toward the hidden sea. There was a good crystal frost in the air; it cut the nose and made the lungs blaze like a Christmas tree inside; you could feel the cold light going on and off, all the branches filled with invisible snow. He listened to the faint push of his soft shoes through autumn leaves with satisfaction, and whistled a cold quiet whistle between his teeth, occasionally picking up a leaf as he passed, examining its skeletal pattern in the infrequent lamplights as he went on, smelling its rusty smell.

  “Hello, in there,” he whispered to every house on every side as he moved. “What’s up tonight on Channel 4, Channel 7, Channel 9? Where are the cowboys rushing, and do I see the United States Cavalry over the next hill to the rescue?”

  The street was silent and long and empty, with only his shadow moving like the shadow of a hawk in midcountry. If he closed his eyes and stood very still, frozen, he could imagine himself upon the center of a plain, a wintry, windless American desert with no house in a thousand miles, and only dry river beds, the streets, for company.

  “What is it now?” he asked the houses, noticing his wrist watch. “Eight-thirty P.M.? Time for a dozen assorted murders? A quiz? A revue? A comedian falling off the stage?”

  Was that a murmur of laughter from within a moonwhite house? He hesitated, but went on when nothing more happened. He stumbled over a particularly uneven section of sidewalk. The cement was vanishing under flowers and grass. In ten years of walking by night or day, for thousands of miles, he had never met another person walking, not once in all that time.

  He came to a cloverleaf intersection which stood silent where two main highways crossed the town. During the day it was a thunderous surge of cars, the gas stations open, a great insect rustling and a ceaseless jockeying for position as the scarab-beetles, a faint incense puttering from their exhausts, skimmed homeward to the far directions. But now these highways, too, were like streams in a dry season, all stone and bed and moon radiance.

  He turned back on a side street, circling around toward his home. He was within a block of his destination when the lone car turned a corner quite suddenly and flashed a fierce white cone of light upon him. He stood entranced, not unlike a night moth, stunned by the illumination, and then drawn toward it.

  A metallic voice called to him:

  “Stand still. Stay where you are! Don’t move!”

  He halted.

  “Put up your hands!”

  “But—” he said.

  “Your hands up! Or we’ll shoot!”

  The police, of course, but what a rare, incredible thing; in a city of three million, there was only one police car left, wasn’t that correct? Ever since a year ago, 2052, the election year, the force had been cut down from three cars to one. Crime was ebbing; there was no need now for the police, save for this one lone car wandering and wandering the empty streets.

  “Your name?” said the police car in a metallic whisper. He couldn’t see the men in it for the bright light in his eyes.

  “Leonard Mead,” he said.

  “Speak up!”

  “Leonard Mead!”

  “Business or profession?”

  “I guess you’d call me a writer.”

  “No profession,” said the police car, as if talking to itself. The light held him fixed, like a museum specimen, needle thrust through chest.

  “You might say that,” said Mr. Mead. He hadn’t written in years. Magazines and books didn’t sell any more. Everything went on in the tomblike houses at night now, he thought, continuing his fancy. The tombs, ill-lit by television light, where the people sat like the dead, the gray or multicolored lights touching their faces, but never really touching them.

  “No profession,” said the phonograph voice, hissing. “What are you doing out?”

  “Walking,” said Leonard Mead.

  “Walking!”

  “Just walking,” he said simply, but his face felt cold.

  “Walking, just walking, walking?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Walking where? For what?”

  “Walking for air. Walking to see.”

  “Your address!”

  “Eleven South Saint James Street.”

  “And there is air in your house, you have an air conditioner, Mr. Mead?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you have a viewing screen in your house to see with?”

  “No.”

  “No?” There was a crackling quiet that in itself was an accusation.

  “Are you married, Mr. Mead?”

  “No.”

  “Not married,” said the police voice behind the fiery beam. The moon was high and clear among the stars and the houses were gray and silent.

  “Nobody wanted me,” said Leonard Mead with a smile.

  “Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to!”

  Leonard Mead waited in the cold night.

  “Just walking, Mr. Mead?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you haven’t explained for what purpose.”

  “I explained; for air, and to see, and just to walk.”

  “Have you done this often?”

  “Every night for years.”

  The police car sat in the center of the street with its radio throat faintly humming.

  “Well, Mr. Mead,” it said.

  “Is that all?” he asked politely.

  “Yes,” said the voice. “Here.” There was a sigh, a pop. The back door of the police car sprang wide. “Get in.”

  “Wait a minute, I haven’t done anything!”

  “Get in.”

  “I protest!”

  “Mr. Mead.”

  He walked like a man suddenly drunk. As he passed the front window of the car he looked in. As he had expected there was no one in the front seat, no one in the car at all.

  “Get in.”

  He put his hand to the door and peered into the back seat, which was a little cell, a little black jail with bars. It smelled of riveted steel. It smelled of harsh antiseptic; it smelled too clean and hard and metallic. There was nothing soft there.

  “Now if you had a wife to give you an alibi,” said the iron voice. “But—”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  The car hesitated, or rather gave a faint whirring click, as if information, somewhere, was dropping card by punch-slotted card under electric eyes. “To the Psychiatric Center for Research on Regressive Tendencies.”

  He got in. The door shut with a soft thud. The police car rolled through the night avenues, flashing its dim lights ahead.

  They passed one house on one street a moment later, one house in an entire city of houses that were dark, but this one particular house had all of its electric lights brightly lit, every window a loud yellow illumination, square and warm in the cool darkness.

  “That’s my house,” said Leonard Mead.

  No one answered him.

  The car moved down the empty river-bed streets and off away, leaving the empty streets with the empty sidewalks, and no sound and no motion all the rest of the chill November night.

  Hail and Farewell

  But of course he was going away, there was nothing else to do, the time was up, the clock had run out, and he was going very far away indeed. His suitcase was packed, his shoes were shined, his hair was brushed, he had expressly washed behind his ears, and it remained only for him to go down the stairs, out the front door, and up the street to the small-town station where the train would make a stop for him alone. Then Fox Hill, Illinois, would be left far off in his past. And he would go on, perhaps to Iowa, perhaps to Kansas, perhaps even to California; a small boy, twelve years old, with a birth certificate in his valise to show he had been born forty-three years ago.

  “Willie!” called a voice belowstairs.

  “Yes!” He hoisted his suitcase. In his bureau mirror he saw a face made of June dandelions and July apples and warm summer-morning milk. There, as always, was his look of the angel and the innocent, which might nev
er, in the years of his life, change.

  “Almost time,” called the woman’s voice.

  “All right!” And he went down the stairs, grunting and smiling. In the living room sat Anna and Steve, their clothes painfully neat.

  “Here I am!” cried Willie in the parlor door.

  Anna looked like she was going to cry. “Oh, good Lord, you can’t really be leaving us, can you, Willie?”

  “People are beginning to talk,” said Willie quietly. “I’ve been here three years now. But when people begin to talk, I know it’s time to put on my shoes and buy a railway ticket.”

  “It’s all so strange. I don’t understand. It’s so sudden,” Anna said. “Willie, we’ll miss you.”

  “I’ll write you every Christmas, so help me. Don’t you write me.”

  “It’s been a great pleasure and satisfaction,” said Steve, sitting there, his words the wrong size in his mouth. “It’s a shame it had to stop. It’s a shame you had to tell us about yourself. It’s an awful shame you can’t stay on.”

  “You’re the nicest folks I ever had,” said Willie, four feet high, in no need of a shave, the sunlight on his face.

  And then Anna did cry. “Willie, Willie.” And she sat down and looked as if she wanted to hold him but was afraid to hold him now; she looked at him with shock and amazement and her hands empty, not knowing what to do with him now.

  “It’s not easy to go,” said Willie. “You get used to things. You want to stay. But it doesn’t work. I tried to stay on once after people began to suspect. ‘How horrible!’ people said. ‘All these years, playing with our innocent children,’ they said, ‘and us not guessing! Awful!’ they said. And finally I had to just leave town one night. It’s not easy. You know darned well how much I love both of you. Thanks for three swell years.”

  They all went to the front door. “Willie, where’re you going?”

  “I don’t know. I just start traveling. When I see a town that looks green and nice, I settle in.”

  “Will you ever come back?”