One More for the Road by Ray Bradbury

Author:Ray Bradbury
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: HarperCollins

Ralph Fentriss entered the bedroom dragging his coat and unraveling his tie. “I am now sober,” he said.

His wife looked up from turning pages in a book.

“Just back from a funeral?”

“I promised to get Wilma to take one more call. What are you reading?”

“One of those silly romances. Just like real life.”

“What are these?”

He nudged some scraps of notepaper on the bureau.

“Phone messages. I didn’t look at them. Over to you.”

He scanned one of them. “‘Urgent. Bosco.’ Who’s Bosco?”

“We never knew his last name. One of Tina’s pals. Watched TV. Ate us out of house and home.”

“Oh, yeah. Bosco.” He touched another note. “Here’s Arnie Ames. ‘Immediamente pronto or I’ll kill myself.’ Do you think he will?”

“Why not? He was a charmer, but never stopped talking.”

“Motormouth, yeah. Here’s a third. From Bud wondering what ever happened to Emily Junior. What ever did happen to Emily Junior?”

“That’s the daughter who’s in New York, writing soap operas. Does it come back to you now?”

“Oh, yeah, Emily Junior. Got out of town while the get was good. Boy, am I thirsty. Any beer in the icebox?”

“We junked the icebox years ago. We have a fridge now.”

“Oh, yeah.” He tossed the messages down. “You want to help with these panic notices? Someone’s got to answer. How about a split? Fifty percent you, fifty me?”

“Oh no you don’t.”

“I thought marriage was sharing.”

“Unh-unh.” She turned back to her book and scowled. “Where was I?”

He ruffled the pile of messages, clutched them with a weary croupier’s hand and lurched down the hall, passing one empty bedroom after another, Emily Junior’s, Tina’s, Wilma’s, and reached the kitchen to fix the messages on the refrigerator door with some Mickey Mouse magnets. Opening it, he gasped with relief.

“Two beers, thank God, no, three!”

Fifteen minutes passed and the refrigerator door stayed open, its light playing over an almost happy becoming a happy man in his early forties, a can of beer in each hand.

Another minute passed and Emily Fentriss came shuffling along the hall in her bedroom scruffies, a robe over her shoulders.

She stood in the doorway for a long moment, examining her husband across the room as he peered into the refrigerator, examined various items, brought them forth, and turned them upside down to dump their contents into an open trash bag.

Some green peas in a small bowl. A half cup of corn. Some meat loaf and a slice of corned beef hash. Some cold mashed potatoes. Some boiled onions in cream.

The trash bag filled.

With her arms crossed, leaning against the doorsill, Emily Fentriss at last said, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Cleaning the icebox. The fridge.”

“Throwing out perfectly good food.”

“No,” he said, sniffing some green onions and letting them fall. “Not perfectly good.”

“What then?” she said, motionless.

He stared down into the trash bag.

“Leftovers,” he said. “Yeah, that’s it.”

And shut the door, dousing the light.

“Leftovers,” he said.

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