Рэй Брэдбери: There Was an Old Woman

«You are quite philosophical, and philanthropical, no doubt of it, madam, but I have work. A body has arrived.» This last, he said with apparent relish, and a winnowing of his knives, tubes, jars, and instruments.

Tildy bristled. «You put so much as a fingerprint on that body, and I'll―»

He laid her aside like a little old moth. «George,» he called with a suave gentleness, «escort this lady out, please.»

Aunt Tildy glared at the approaching George.

«Show me your backside, goin' the other way!»

George took her wrists. «This way, please.»

Tildy extricated herself. Easily. Her flesh sort of―slipped. It even amazed Tildy. Such an unexpected talent to develop at this late day.

«See?» she said, pleased with her ability. «You can't budge me. I want my body back!»

The mortician opened the wicker lid casually. Then, in a recurrent series of scrutinies he realized the body inside was ... it seemed ... could it be? ... maybe... yes... no... no... it just _couldn't_ be, but ... «Ah,» he exhaled, abruptly. He turned. His eyes were wide, then they narrowed.

«Madam,» he said, cautiously. «This lady here is―a―relative― of yours?»

«A very dear relation. Be careful of her.»

«A sister, perhaps?» He grasped at a straw of dwindling logic, hopefully.

«No, you fool. Me, do you hear? _Me!_»

The mortician considered the idea. «No,» he said. «Things like this don't happen.» He fumbled with his tools. «George, get help from the others. I can't work with a crank present.»

The four men returned. Aunt Tildy crossed her arms in defiance. «Won't budge!» she cried, as she was moved like a pawn on a chessboard, from preparations room to slumber room, to hall, to waiting chamber, to funeral parlor, where she threw herself down on a chair in the very center of the vestibule. There were pews going back into gray silence, and a smell of flowers.

«Please, ma'am,» said one of the men. «That's where the body rests for the service tomorrow.»

«I'm sittin' right plumb here until I get what I want.»

She sat, pale fingers fussing with the lace at her throat, jaw set, one high-buttoned shoe tapping with irritation. If a man got in whopping distance, she gave him a parasol whop. And when they touched her, now, she remembered to―slip away.

Mr. Carrington, Mortuary President, heard the disturbance in his office and came toddling down the aisle to investigate. «Here, here,» he whispered to everyone, finger to mouth. «More respect, more respect. What is this? Oh, madam, may I help you?»

She looked him up and down. «You may.»

«How may I be of service, please?»

«Go in that room back there,» directed Aunt Tildy.

«Yee―ess.»

«And tell that eager young investigator to quit fiddlin' with my body. I'm a maiden lady. My moles, birthmarks, scars, and other bric-a-brac, including the turn of my ankle, are my own secret. I don't want him pryin' and probin', cuttin', or hurtin' it any way.»

This was vague to Mr. Carrington, who hadn't correlated bodies yet. He looked at her in blank helplessness.

«He's got me in there on his table, like a pigeon ready to be drawn and stuffed!» she told him.

Mr. Carrington hustled off to check. After fifteen minutes of waiting silence and horrified arguing, comparing notes with the mortician behind closed doors, Carrington returned, three shades whiter.

Carrington dropped his glasses, picked them up. «You're making it difficult for us.»

«_I_ am?» raged Aunt Tildy. «Saint Vitus in the mornin'! Looky here, Mister Blood and Bones or whatever, you tell that―»

«We're already draining the blood from the―»

«What!»

«Yes, yes, I assure you, yes. So, you just go away, now; there's nothing to be done.» He laughed nervously. «Our mortician is also performing a brief autopsy to determine cause of death.»

Auntie jumped to her feet, burning.

«He can't do that! Only coroners are allowed to do that!»

«Well, we sometimes allow a little―»

«March straight in and tell that Cut-'em-up to pump all that fine New England blue blood right back into that fine-skinned body, and if he's taken anything out, for him to attach it back in so it'll function proper, and then turn that body, fresh as paint, into my keepin'. You hear!»

«There's nothing I can do. Nothing.»

«Tell you _what_. I'm settin' here for the next two hundred years. You listenin'? And every time any of your customers come by, I'll spit ectoplasm right squirt up their nostrils!»

Carrington groped that thought around his weakening mind and emitted a groan. «You'd ruin our business. You wouldn't do that.»

Auntie smiled. «_Wouldn't_ I?»

Carrington ran up the dark aisle. In the distance you could hear him dialing a phone over and over again. Half an hour later cars roared up in front of the mortuary. Three vice-presidents of the mortuary came down the aisle with their hysterical president.

«What seems to be the trouble?»

Auntie told them with a few well-chosen infernalities.

They held a conference, meanwhile notifying the mortician to discontinue his homework, at least until such time as an agreement was reached.... The mortician walked from his chamber and stood smiling amiably, smoking a big black cigar.

Auntie stared at the cigar.

«Where'd you put the _ashes?_» she cried, in horror.

The mortician only grinned imperturbably and puffed.

The conference broke up.

«Madam, in all fairness, you wouldn't force us out on the street to continue our services, would you?»

Auntie scanned the vultures. «Oh, I wouldn't mind at all.»

Carrington wiped sweat from his jowls. «You can have your body back.»

«Ha!» shouted Auntie. Then, with caution: «Intact?»

«Intact.»

«No formaldehyde?»

«No formaldehyde.»

«Blood in it?»

«Blood, my God, yes, blood, if only you'll take it and go!»

A prim nod. «Fair enough. Fix 'er up. It's a deal.»

Carrington snapped his fingers at the mortician. «Don't _stand_ there, you mental incompetent. Fix it up!»

«And be careful with that cigar!» said the old woman.

«Easy, easy,» said Aunt Tildy. «Put the wicker on the floor where I can step in it.»

She didn't look at the body much. Her only comment was, «Natural-lookin'.» She let herself fall back into the wicker.

A biting sensation of arctic coldness gripped her, followed by an unlikely nausea and a giddy whorling. She was two drops of matter fusing, water trying to seep into concrete. Slow to do. Hard. Like a butterfly trying to squirm back into a discarded husk of flinty chrysalis!

The vice-presidents watched Aunt Tildy with apprehension. Mr. Carrington wrung his fingers and tried to assist with boosting and pushing moves of his hands and arms. The mortician, frankly skeptical, watched with idle, amused eyes.

Seeping into cold, long granite. Seeping into a frozen and ancient statue. Squeezing all the way.

«Come alive, damn ye!» shouted Aunt Tildy to herself. «Raise up a bit.»

The body half-rose, rustling in the dry wicker.

«Fold your legs, woman!»

The body grabbled up, blindly groping.

«See!» shouted Aunt Tildy.

Light entered the webbed blind eyes.

«Feel!» urged Aunt Tildy.

The body felt the warmth of the room, the sudden reality of the preparations table on which to lean, panting.

«Move!»

The body took a creaking, slow step.

«Hear!» she snapped.

The noises of the place came into the dull ears. The harsh, expectant breath of the mortician, shaken; the whimpering Mr. Carrington; her own crackling voice.

«Walk!» she said.

The body walked.

«Think!» she said.

The old brain thought.