Dark Carnival by Ray Bradbury

turning. 'Uncle Dimity, let me give you a little advice, old man — '
        He talked small talk, picked up a spoon, pretended to eat peaches from an empty dish. He had already eaten downtown in a restaurant, pork, potatoes, pie, coffee. But now he made dessert-eating motions because he enjoyed this little act. He made as if he were chewing.
        'So — tonight you're finally, once and for all, moving out. I've waited two weeks, thinking it all over. In a way, I guess I've kept you here this long because I wanted to keep an eye on you. Once you're gone, I can't be sure — ' And here his eyes gleamed with fear. 'You might come prowling around, making noises at night, and I couldn't stand that. I can't ever have noises in this house, not even when Alice moves in. . .'
        The double carpet was thick and soundless underfoot, reassuring.
        'Alice wants to move in day after tomorrow. We're getting married.'
        Aunt Rose winked evilly, doubtfully at him.
        'Ah!' he cried, leaping up. Then, staring, he sank down, mouth convulsing. He released the tension in him, laughing. 'Oh, I see. It was a fly.' He watched the fly crawl with slow precision on the ivory cheek of Aunt Rose and dart away. Why did it have to pick that instant to make her eye appear to blink, to doubt? 'Do you doubt I ever will marry, Aunt Rose? Do you think me incapable of marriage, of love and love's duties? Do you think me immature, unable to cope with a woman and her methods? Do you think me a child, only day dreaming? Well!' He calmed himself with an effort, shaking his head. 'Man, man,' he argued to himself, 'it was only a fly. And does a fly make doubt of love, or did you make it into a fly and a wink? Damn it!' He pointed at the four of them. 'I'm going to fix the furnace hotter. In an hour I'll be moving you out of the house once and for all. You comprehend? Good. I see you do.'
        Outside, it began to rain, a cold nuzzling downpour that drenched the house. A look of irritation came to Greppin's face. The rain sound was one thing he couldn't stop, the one thing that couldn't be helped. No way to buy new hinges or lubricants or hooks for that. You might tent the housetop with lengths of cloth to soften the sound, mightn't you? That'd be going a bit far. No. No way of preventing the rain sounds.
        He wanted silence now, where he had never wanted it in his life so much. Each sound was a fear. So each sound had to be muffled, gotten to and eliminated.
        The drum of rain was like the knuckles of an impatient man on a surface. He lapsed again into remembering.
        He recalled the rest of it. The rest of that hour on that day two weeks ago when he had made them smile. . .
       
        He had taken up the carving-knife, prepared to cut the bird upon the table. As usual, the family had been gathered, all wearing their solemn, puritanical masks. If the children smiled the smiles were stepped on like nasty bugs by Aunt Rose.
        Aunt Rose criticized the angle of Greppin's elbows as he cut the bird. The knife, she made him understand also, was not sharp enough. Oh yes, the sharpness of the knife. At this point in his memory he stopped, roll-tilted his eyes, and laughed. Dutifully, then, he had crisped the knife on the sharpening rod, and again set upon the fowl. He had severed away much of it in some minutes before he slowly looked up at their solemn, critical faces, like puddings with agate eyes, and after staring at them a moment, as if discovered with a naked woman instead of a naked-limbed partridge, he lifted the knife and yelled hoarsely, 'Why in God's name can't you, any of you, ever smile? I'll make you smile!'
        He raised the knife a number of times like a magician's wand.
        And, in a short interval — behold! all of them smiled!
       
        He broke that memory in half, crumpled it, balled it, tossed it down. Rising briskly, he went to the hall, down the hall to the kitchen, and from there down the dim