Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury Page B

listening to and looking at she hadn’t saved. John was far out in the meadow country, dated and boxed and hidden under grasses, and nothing remained of him but his high silk hat and his cane and his good suit in the closet. So much of the rest of him had been devoured by moths.
    But what she could keep she had kept. Her pink-flowered dresses crushed among moth balls in vast black trunks, and cut-glass dishes from her childhood—she had brought them all when she moved to this town five years ago. Her husband had owned rental property in a number of towns, and, like a yellow ivory chess piece, she had moved and sold one after another, until now she was here in a strange town, left with only the trunks and furniture, dark and ugly, crouched about her like the creatures of a primordial zoo.
    The thing about the children happened in the middle of summer. Mrs. Bentley, coming out to water the ivy upon her front porch, saw two cool-colored sprawling girls and a small boy lying on her lawn, enjoying the immense prickling of the grass.
    At the very moment Mrs. Bentley was smiling down upon them with her yellow mask face, around a corner like an elfin band came an ice-cream wagon. It jingled out icy melodies, as crisp and rimmed as crystal wineglasses tapped by an expert, summoning all. The children sat up, turning their heads, like sunflowers after the sun.
    Mrs. Bentley called, “Would you like some? Here!” The ice-cream wagon stopped and she exchanged money for pieces of the original Ice Age. The children thanked her with snow in their mouths, their eyes darting from her buttoned-up shoes to her white hair.
    â€œDon’t you want a bite?” said the boy.
    â€œNo, child. I’m old enough and cold enough; the hottest day won’t thaw me,” laughed Mrs. Bentley.
    They carried the miniature glaciers up and sat, three in a row, on the shady porch glider.
    â€œI’m Alice, she’s Jane, and that’s Tom Spaulding.”
    â€œHow nice. And I’m Mrs. Bentley. They called me Helen.”
    They stared at her.
    â€œDon’t you believe they called me Helen?” said the old lady.
    â€œI didn’t know old ladies had first names,” said Tom, blinking.
    Mrs. Bentley laughed dryly.
    â€œYou never hear them used, he means,” said Jane.
    â€œMy dear, when you are as old as I, they won’t call you Jane, either. Old age is dreadfully formal. It’s always ‘Mrs.’ Young People don’t like to call you ‘Helen.’ It seems much too flip.”
    â€œHow old are you?” asked Alice.
    â€œI remember the pterodactyl.” Mrs. Bentley smiled.
    â€œNo, but how old?”
    â€œSeventy-two.”
    They gave their cold sweets an extra long suck, deliberating.
    â€œThat’s old,” said Tom.
    â€œI don’t feel any different now than when I was your age,” said the old lady.
    â€œOur age?”
    â€œYes. Once I was a pretty little girl just like you, Jane, and you, Alice.”
    They did not speak.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?”
    â€œNothing.” Jane got up.
    â€œOh, you don’t have to go so soon, I hope. You haven’t finished eating.... Is something the matter?”
    â€œMy mother says it isn’t nice to fib,” said Jane.
    â€œOf course it isn’t. It’s very bad,” agreed Mrs. Bentley.
    â€œAnd not to listen to fibs.”
    â€œWho was fibbing to you, Jane?”
    Jane looked at her and then glanced nervously away. “You were.”
    â€œI? ” Mrs. Bentley laughed and put her withered claw to her small bosom. “About what?”
    â€œAbout your age. About being a little girl.”
    Mrs. Bentley stiffened. “But I was, many years ago, a little girl just like you.”
    â€œCome on, Alice, Tom.”
    â€œJust a moment,” said Mrs. Bentley. “Don’t you believe me?”
    â€œI don’t know,” said Jane. “No.”
    â€œBut how