Ray Bradbury
I Sing the Body Electric!
Grandma! I remember her birth. Wait, you say,
For we, her grandchildren, slapped her to life. Timothy, Agatha, and I, Tom, raised up our hands and brought them down in a huge crack! We shook together the bits and pieces, parts and samples, textures and tastes, humors and distillations that would move her compass needle north to cool us, south to warm and comfort us, east and west to travel round the endless world, glide her eyes to know us, mouth to sing us asleep by night, hands to touch us awake at dawn.
Grandma, O dear and wondrous electric dream…
When storm lightnings rove the sky making circuitries amidst the clouds, her name flashes on my inner lid. Sometimes still I hear her ticking, humming above our beds in the gentle dark. She passes like a clock-ghost in the long halls of memory, like a hive of intellectual bees swarming after the Spirit of Summers Lost. Sometimes still I feel the smile I learned from her, printed on my cheek at three in the deep morn…
All right, all right! you cry, what was it like the day your damned and wondrous-dreadful-loving Grandma was born?
It was the week the world ended… Our mother was dead.
One late afternoon a black car left Father and the three of us stranded on our own front drive staring at the grass, thinking:
That's not our grass. There are the croquet mallets, balls, hoops, yes, just as they fell and lay three days ago when Dad stumbled out on the lawn, weeping with the news. There are the roller skates that belonged to a boy, me, who will never be that young again. And yes, there the tire- swing on the old oak, but Agatha afraid to swing. It would surely break. It would fall.
And the house? Oh, God…
We peered through the front door, afraid of the echoes we might find confused in the halls; the sort of clamor that happens when all the furniture is taken out and there is nothing to soften the river of talk that flows in any house at all hours. And now the soft, the warm, the main piece of lovely furniture was gone forever.
The door drifted wide.
Silence came out. Somewhere a cellar door stood wide and a raw wind blew damp earth from under the house.
But, I thought, we don't
«Well,» said Father.
We did not move.
Aunt Clara drove up the path in her big canary-colored limousine.
We jumped through the door. We ran to our rooms.
We heard them shout and then speak and then shout and then speak: Let the children live with me! Aunt Clara said. They'd rather kill themselves! Father said.
A door slammed. Aunt Clara was gone.
We almost danced. Then we remembered what had happened and went downstairs.
Father sat alone talking to himself or to a remnant ghost of Mother left from the days before her illness, but jarred loose now by the slamming of the door. He murmured to his hands, his empty palms:
«The children need someone. I love them but, let's face it, I must work to feed us all. You love them, Ann, but you're gone. And Clara? Impossible. She loves but smothers. And as for maids, nurses—?»
Here Father sighed and we sighed with him, remembering.
The luck we had had with maids or live-in teachers or sitters was beyond intolerable. Hardly a one who wasn't a crosscut saw grabbing against the grain. Handaxes and hurricanes best described them. Or, conversely, they were all fallen trifle, damp souffle. We children were unseen furniture to be sat upon or dusted or sent for reupholstering come spring and fall, with a yearly cleansing at the beach.
«What we need,» said Father, «is a…» We all leaned to his whisper. «… grandmother.» «But,» said Timothy, with the logic of nine years, «all our grandmothers are dead.» «Yes in one way, no in another.»
What a fine mysterious thing for Dad to say.
«Here,» he said at last.
He handed us a multifold, multicolored pamphlet. We had seen it in his hands, off and on, for many weeks, and very often during the last few days. Now, with one blink of our eyes, as we passed the paper from hand to hand, we knew why Aunt Clara, insulted, outraged, had stormed from the house.
Timothy was the first to read aloud from what he saw on the first page:
«I Sing the Body Electric!»
He glanced up at Father, squinting. «What the heck does that mean?»
«Read on.»
Agatha and I glanced guiltily about the room, afraid Mother might suddenly come in to find us with this blasphemy, but then nodded to Timothy, who read:
«„Fanto—“» «„Fantoccini,“» Father prompted.
«„Fantoccini Ltd.
«Where does it say
«It doesn't.» Timothy smiled for the first time in days. «I just had to put that in. Wait.» He read on: «„for you who have worried over inattentive sitters, nurses who cannot be trusted with marked liquor bottles, and well- meaning Uncles and Aunts—“»
«Well-meaning,
«Grandmother!?»
The paper slipped away to the floor. «Dad…?»
«Don't look at me that way,» said Father. «I'm half-mad with grief, and half-mad thinking of tomorrow and the day after that. Someone pick up the paper. Finish it.»
«I will,» I said, and did:
«„The Toy that is more than a Toy, the Fantoccini Electrical Grandmother is built with loving precision to give the incredible precision of love to your children. The child at ease with the realities of the world and the even greater realities of the imagination, is her aim.
She is computerized to tutor in twelve languages simultaneously, capable of switching tongues in a thousandth of a second without pause, and has a complete knowledge of the religious, artistic, and sociopolitical histories of the world seeded in her master hive—“»
«How great!» said Timothy. «It makes it sound as if we were to keep bees!
«„Above all,“» I read, «„this human being, for human she seems, this embodiment in electro- intelligent facsimile of the humanities, will listen, know, tell, react and love your children insofar as such great Objects, such fantastic Toys, can be said to Love, or can be imagined to Care. This Miraculous Companion, excited to the challenge of large world and small, inner Sea or Outer Universe, will transmit by touch and tell, said Miracles to your Needy.“»
«Our Needy,» murmured Agatha. Why, we all thought, sadly, that's us, oh, yes, that's
«„We do not sell our Creation to able-bodied families where parents are available to raise, effect, shape, change, love their own children. Nothing can replace the parent in the home. However there are families where death or ill health or disablement undermines the welfare of the children. Orphanages seem not the answer. Nurses tend to be selfish, neglectful, or suffering from dire nervous afflictions.
With the utmost humility then, and recognizing the need to rebuild, rethink, and regrow our
