Author: Ray Bradbury
Category: Christian
Go to read content：https://readnovelfree.com/p/42954_2
“Who are you?”
Someone must have shouted that.
The train rocked as if it might derail.
The old man stood up as if shot in the heart, blindly crammed something in Jonathan Hughes’s hand, and blundered away down the aisle and into the next car.
The younger man opened his fist and turned a card over and read a few words that moved him heavily down to sit and read the words again:
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JONATHAN HUGHES, CPA 679-4990. PLANDOME.
“No!” someone shouted.
Me, thought the young man. Why, that old man is…me.
There was a conspiracy, no, several conspiracies. Someone had contrived a joke about murder and played it on him. The train roared on with five hundred commuters who all rode, swaying like a team of drunken intellectuals behind their masking books and papers, while the old man, as if pursued by demons, fled off away from car to car. By the time Jonathan Hughes had rampaged his blood and completely thrown his sanity off balance, the old man had plunged, as if falling, to the farthest end of the commuter’s special.
The two men met again in the last car, which was almost empty. Jonathan Hughes came and stood over the old man, who refused to look up. He was crying so hard now that conversation would have been impossible.
Who, thought the young man, who is he crying for? Stop, please, stop.
The old man, as if commanded, sat up, wiped his eyes, blew his nose, and began to speak in a frail voice that drew Jonathan Hughes near and finally caused him to sit and listen to the whispers:
?
??We were born—”
“We?” cried the young man.
“We,” whispered the old man, looking out at the gathering dusk that traveled like smokes and burnings past the window, “we, yes, we, the two of us, we were born in Quincy in nineteen fifty, August twenty-second—”
Yes, thought Hughes.
“—and lived at Forty-nine Washington Street and went to Central School and walked to that school all through first grade with Isabel Perry—”
Isabel, thought the young man.
“We…” murmured the old man. “Our” whispered the old man. “Us.” And went on and on with it:
“Our woodshop teacher, Mr. Bisbee. History teacher, Miss Monks. We broke our right ankle, age ten, ice-skating. Almost drowned, age eleven; Father saved us. Fell in love, age twelve, Impi Johnson—”
Seventh grade, lovely lady, long since dead, Jesus God, thought the young man, growing old.
And that’s what happened. In the next minute, two minutes, three, the old man talked and talked and gradually became younger with talking, so his cheeks glowed and his eyes brightened, while the young man, weighted with old knowledge given, sank lower in his seat and grew pale so that both almost met in mid-talking, mid-listening, and became twins in passing. There was a moment when Jonathan Hughes knew for an absolute insane certainty, that if he dared glance up he would see identical twins in the mirrored window of a night-rushing world.
He did not look up.
The old man finished, his frame erect now, his head somehow driven high by the talking out, the long-lost revelations.
“That’s the past,” he said.
I should hit him, thought Hughes. Accuse him. Shout at him. Why aren’t I hitting, accusing, shouting?
Because.…
The old man sensed the question and said, “You know I’m who I say I am. I know everything there is to know about us. Now—the future?”
“Mine?”