The Cat's Pajamas by Ray Bradbury

can write that.”
    â€œYou heard what I said.”
    â€œHe makes a hunerd thousan’ dollars a year now, why he goin’ to bother with you, come outa his way?”
    â€œâ€™Cause I remembers his mother an’ his father an’ his grandma an’ grandpa,’cause I worked for all of ’em, thirty years I worked, that’s why, an’ him being a writer why wouldn’ he wanta see me, an’ talk about all that?”
    â€œI don’t know.” Linda shook her head. “Don’t ask me.”
    â€œHe’s comin’ on that seven-fifteen train, you watch and see.”
    The Grafanola started to play the Knickerbocker Quartette singing “Pretty Baby.”
    â€œShut that thing off,” said Susan.
    â€œI ain’t botherin’ nobody.”
    â€œI can’t hear.”
    â€œYou don’t need your ears, you got eyes, you see him comin’.”
    Susan went over and flipped the switch. The voices died. The silence was sharp and heavy. “There,” said Susan, looking at her daughter. “Now I can think.”
    â€œWhat you going to do to him when he come?” asked Linda, looking up, eyes white and sly.
    â€œWhat you mean?” Susan was careful.
    â€œYou goin’ to kiss him, hug him?”
    â€œI don’t know, I didn’t think about that.”
    Linda laughed. “You better start thinkin’. He’s a big boy now. He ain’t no kid. Maybe he won’t like being hugged and kissed.”
    â€œI’ll do what I’ll do when the time comes,” replied Susan, turning away. A little frown formed on her brow. She felt like slapping Linda. “Stop puttin’ ideas in my head. We’ll just act natural, like always.”
    â€œI bet he just shakes hands and sits on the edge of his chair.”
    â€œHe won’t do that. He was always one to laugh.”
    â€œI bet he don’t call you Mammy in person. Bet he calls you Mrs. Jones.”
    â€œHe used to call me Aunt Jemima, said I looked just like her, always wanted me to fix his pancakes. He was the cutest little boy you ever seen.”
    â€œHe’s not bad now, from the pictures I seen.”
    Susan shut her eyes for a long moment and said nothing. Then she said, “You ought to have your mouth washed out with lye.” She touched the window curtains, searching the land again, looking for the smoke on the horizon. Suddenly, she set up a cry. “There it is! There she comes! I knew it, I knew it!” She glanced wildly at the clock. “Right on time! Come look!”
    â€œI seen a train before.”
    â€œThere she comes, look at that smoke!”
    â€œI seen smoke enough to last me all my life.”
    The train roared into the station below, with a clangor and a belling and a great burning sound.
    â€œWon’t be long now,” said Susan, smiling, showing a gold tooth.
    â€œDon’t hold your breath.”
    â€œI feel too good, talk all you want; I feel fine !”
    The train was stopped now, and people were getting out. She could see them, small, small, at the base of the hill, in the concrete station, moving and milling. She thought of him and what he looked like now and what he had been like then. She remembered the time when he had returned from school, when he was seven, and had missed saying good-bye to her. She lived at home in the outer part of town. Every night she took a trolley at four o’clock. And he had missed walking with her to the trolley. Crying, he had run down the street after her. And found her just in time and embraced her, sobbing against her legs while she reached down and petted and cooed over him.
    â€œThat’s something you never done,” said Susan, angrily.
    â€œWhat didn’t I do?” asked Linda, surprised.
    â€œNever mind.” Susan lapsed once more into her remembering. And then that time, when he was thirteen and had returned from two years in