The Cat's Pajamas by Ray Bradbury Page B

She couldn’t do that. Not embarrass him in front of his friends. Not that. Let him sit there, then. It was all a mistake, anyway. The clock was crazy.
    The train gave a warning shriek.
    No, she thought. They can’t be getting ready to leave.
    She saw the passengers climb back on the train. He must be sick, she thought. Not even on that train at all. Sick in Chicago, maybe. Sure. And if he is down there now, right now, did he get off, did he try and catch a cab at all? Maybe not enough cabs? Did he walk around the station or the town, or even look up here to the hill and the house where she was? Would she hear from him tomorrow, from New York? Or ever again, for that matter? No, never; that is, if he really was down there now. He’d never write again after this.
    The train whistle blew again. A big funnel of steam rose up on the night air.
    Then, with a jolting, the train moved out of the station, gained speed, and was gone.
    Susan stood by the window. The house was silent. She looked at the western horizon. That must have been the wrong train. Another would be along in a minute. She picked up the alarm clock. It made a cheap tinny clicking in her hand. “Crazy old clock, givin’ the wrong time!” she cried and dropped it into the wastebasket.
    She went back to the window.
    The phone rang once. She didn’t turn. The phone rang again, insistently. She still watched the horizon. The phone rang six more times and would not stop.
    Finally she turned and went to pick it up. She held it in her hands for a time before lifting the receiver. Then she put the receiver to her ear.
    â€œHello, Mom?”
    It was Linda.
    â€œMom, you come over to my place for the night. I know how you feel,” said the voice.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” cried Susan, angrily, into the mouthpiece. “He was just here!”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYes, an’ he was tall an’ good lookin’, an’ he came in a yellow cab just for a minute, an’ you know what I done? I hugged an’ kissed him an’ danced him around!”
    â€œOh, Mom!”
    â€œAn’ he talked an’ laughed an’ was good to me an’ gave me a ten-dollar bill, an’ we remembered old times, everybody, everything, that’s what happened, an’ he went back in his yellow cab an’ caught that train an’ it’s gone. He’s a real gentleman!”
    â€œMom, I’m so glad.”
    â€œYes, sir,” said Susan, looking out the window, holding the phone in her shaking hands. “A real gentleman !”

OLÉ, OROZCO! SIQUEIROS, SÍ!
2003–2004
    S AM W ALTER BURST INTO MY OFFICE , stared around at all the collectors’ posters on the wall, and said: “Whatta you know about the major artists of Mexico?”
    â€œRivera,” I said. “Martinez. Delgado.”
    â€œHow about this?”
    Sam tossed a bright folder on my desk.
    â€œRead it!”
    I read what I saw in big red letters.
    â€œSiqueiros, sí, Orozco, olé .” I read further. “Gambit Gallery. Boyle Heights. They’re having an Orozco Siqueiros art show across the river?”
    â€œRead the small print.” Sam tapped the brochure.
    â€œA memorial exhibit of the fine work of Sebastian Rodriguez, heir to the throne of Siqueiros and Orozco.”
    â€œI’m taking you,” Sam said. “Look at the date.”
    â€œApril twentieth. Hell, that’s today, two p.m. Hell, that’s in an hour! I can’t—”
    â€œYou can. You’re an art gallery expert, right? It’s not an opening, it’s a closing. A funeral.”
    â€œFuneral?!”
    â€œThe artist, Sebastian Rodriguez, will attend, but dead.”
    â€œYou mean—?”
    â€œIt’s a wake. His mom and dad will be there. His brothers and sisters will come. Cardinal Mahoney will drop by.”
    â€œGood Lord, the artist was that good? All those people!”
    â€œIt was