Farewell Summer (7 page)

It was such a day that all the doors stood open and all the window sashes had been up since dawn. No one could stay in, everyone was out, nobody would die, everyone would live forever. It was more spring than farewell summer, more Eden than Illinois. During the night a rain had come to quench the heat, and in the morning, with the clouds hastened off, each tree in all the yards gave off a separate and private rain if you shook it in passing.

Quartermain, out of bed and whirring through the house in hand–propelled trajectories, again found that odd thing, a smile, on his mouth.

He kicked the kitchen door wide and flung himself, eyes glittering, the smile pinned to his thin lips, into the presence of his servants and—

The cake.

‘Good morning, Mr Cal,' said the cook.

The cake stood like a magnificent Alp upon the kitchen table. To the odors of morning were added the smells of
snow upon a white mountain, the aroma of frosted blossoms and candied roses, of petal pink candles and translucent icing. There it was, like a distant hill in a dream of the future, the cake as white as noon clouds, the cake in the shape of collected years, each candle ready for the lighting and blowing out.

‘That,' he whispered, ‘oh, my God, that will
do
it! Take it down to the ravine. Get.'

The housekeeper and the gardener picked up the white mountain. The cook led the way, opening the door.

They carried it out the door and down the porch and across the garden.

Who could resist a sweet thing like that, a dream?
thought Quartermain.

‘Watch it!'

The housekeeper slipped on the dew–wet grass.

Quartermain shut his eyes.

‘No, God, no!'

When he opened his eyes again, the servants were still marching steadily, perspiring, down the hill, into the green ravine, toward the clear waters, under the high cool shadowy trees, toward the birthday table.

‘Thank you,' murmured Quartermain, and added, ‘God.'

Below, in the ravine, the cake was set upon the table, and it was white and it glowed and it was perfect.

‘There,' said Mother, fixing his tie.

‘Who cares about a darn girl's birthday party?' said Douglas. ‘It sounds awful.'

‘If Quartermain can go to all the trouble to have a cake made for Lisabell, you can take an hour and go. Especially since he sent invitations. Be polite is all I ask.'

‘Come on, Doug, aw come on!' cried Tom, from the front porch.

‘Hold your horses! Here I go.'

And the screen door slammed and he was in the street and he and Tom were walking in the fresh day.

‘Boy,' whispered Tom, smiling, ‘I'm gonna eat till I get sick.'

‘There's a deep and dire plot in here somewhere,' said Douglas. ‘How come all of a sudden Quartermain isn't making a commotion? How come, just like that, he's all smiles?'

‘I never in my life,' said Tom, ‘argued with a piece of cake or a bowl of ice cream.'

Halfway down the block they were joined by Charlie, who fell into step beside them and looked like he was going to a funeral.

‘Hey, this tie's killing me.' Charlie walked with them in a solemn line.

Moments later they were joined by Will and the others.

‘As soon as the party's over, let's all go skinny–dipping out at Apple Crick. Might be our last chance before it gets too cold. Summer's gone.'

Doug said, ‘Am I the only one who thinks there's somethin' fishy goin' on here? I mean, why's old man Quartermain giving Lisabell a birthday party? Why'd he invite
us
? I smell a rat, fellas.'

Charlie tugged at his tie and said, ‘I hate to say this, Doug, but it looks like any day now, whatever's left of our war ain't going to be nothing. There doesn't seem to be any
reason
to fight them anymore.'

‘I don't know, Charlie. Something just doesn't add up.'

They came to the ravine and stopped.

‘Well, here we are,' said Douglas. ‘Keep your eyes peeled. If I give the word, break and scatter. You fellas go ahead,' said Douglas. ‘I'll be down in a minute. I've got some strategizing to do.'

Reluctantly they left him and started down the hill.
After they had gone a hundred feet they began to shuffle and then lope, and then run, yelling. They pulled up below, by the tables, and from a distance, here and there through the ravine, like white birds skimming the grass, came the girls, running too, all gathered in one place, and there was Calvin C. Quartermain, reeling down the pathway in a wheelchair, calling out in a high and cheerful voice.

‘Hell,' said Douglas, standing back alone. ‘I mean, heck.'

The children gathered, shoving and pushing and laughing. Seen from a distance they were like little figures on a beautiful stage. Their laughter came drifting up to Douglas and his mouth twitched.

And then, beyond the children, resplendent on its own white–clothed table, was the birthday cake. Douglas stared.

It rose, tier upon tier, of such a size that it towered like a snowman, magnificent and shining in the sun.

‘Doug, hey, Doug!' voices drifted up to him.

But he didn't hear.

The cake, the white and beautiful cake, a piece of winter saved from years ago, cool and snowy now in the late summer day. The cake, the white and magnificent cake, frost and rime and snowflakes, apple–flower and lily–bud. And the voices laughing and the laughter rolling up to him where he stood alone and separate
and their voices calling, ‘Doug, come on, aw, Doug, come down. Hey, Doug, aw come on …'

His eyes were blinded by the frost and the snow of it. He felt his feet propelling him down into the ravine and he knew he was moving toward the table and the white vision, and there was no way to stop his feet, no way to turn his eyes away, and all thoughts of battle plans and troop movements fled from his mind. He began to shuffle and he began to lope and then he ran faster and faster, and reaching a large tree, he grabbed hold to catch his breath. He heard himself whisper, ‘Hi.'

And everyone, looking at him, in the light of the snow mountain, in the glare of the wintry hill, replied, ‘Hi.' And he joined the party.

There was Lisabell. Among the others she stood, her face as delicate as the curlicues on the frosted cake, her lips soft and pink as the birthday candles. Her great eyes fixed him where he stood. He was suddenly conscious of the grass under his shoes. His throat was dry. His tongue filled his mouth. The children milled round and round, with Lisabell at the center of their carousel.

Quartermain came hurtling along the rough path, his wheelchair almost flying, and nearly crashed into the table. He gave a cry and sat on the outer edge of the milling crowd, a look of immense satisfaction on his creased yellow face.

And then Mr Bleak appeared and stood behind the wheelchair, smiling an altogether different kind of smile.

Douglas watched as Lisabell bent toward the cake. The soft scent of the candles wafted on the breeze. And there was her face, like a summer peach, beautiful and warm, and the light of the candles reflected in her dark eyes. Douglas held his breath. The entire world waited and held its breath. Quartermain was frozen, gripping his chair as if it were his own body threatening to run off with him. Fourteen candles. Fourteen years to be snuffed out and a goal set toward one more as good or better. Lisabell seemed happy. She was floating down the great river of Time and enjoying the trip, blissful with her journeying. The happiness of the insane was in her eye and hand.

She exhaled a great breath, the smell of a summer apple.

The candles snuffed out.

The boys and girls crowded to the cake as Lisabell picked up a great silver knife. The sun glinted off its edge in flashes that seared the eyes. She cut the cake and pushed the slice with the knife and slipped it onto a plate. This plate she picked up and held with two hands. The cake was white and soft and sweet-looking. Everyone stared at it. Old man Quartermain grinned like an idiot. Bleak smiled sadly.

‘Who shall I give the first piece to?' Lisabell cried.

She deliberated so long it seemed she must be putting a part of herself into the soft color and spun sugar of the frosting.

She took two slow steps forward. She was not smiling now. Her face was gravely serious. She held out the cake upon the plate and handed it to Douglas.

She stood before Doug and moved her face so close to his that he could feel her breath on his cheeks.

Douglas, startled, jumped back.

Shocked, Lisabell opened her eyes as she cried softly a word he could not at first hear.

‘Coward,' she cried. ‘And not only that,' she added. ‘Scaredy-cat!'

‘Don't listen, Doug,' said Tom.

‘Yeah, you don't have to take that,' said Charlie.

Douglas moved back another step, blinking.

Douglas held the plate in his hands and the children stood around him. He did not see Quartermain wink at Bleak and jab him with his elbow. He saw only Lisabell's face. It was a face with snow in it, with cherries, and water and grass, and it was a face like this late afternoon. It was a face that looked into him. He felt as if, somehow, she had touched him, here, there, upon the eyelids, the ears, the nose. He shivered. He took a bite of cake.

‘Well,' said Lisabell. ‘Got nothing to say? If you're scared down here, I bet you're even more scared up there.' She pointed upward, toward the far edge of the
ravine. ‘Tonight,' she said, ‘we're all going to be there. I bet you won't even show up.'

Doug looked from her up to the top of the ravine and there stood the haunted house where, in the daytime, the boys sometimes gathered, but where they never dared to go at night.

‘Well,' said Lisabell. ‘What are you waiting for? Will you be there or not?'

‘Doug,' said Tom. ‘You don't have to take that. Give her what for, Doug.'

Doug looked from Lisabell's face up to the heights of the ravine and again to the haunted house.

The cake melted in Douglas's mouth. Between looking at the house and trying to decide, with the cake in his mouth, sugar melting on his tongue, he didn't know what to do. His heart was beating wildly and his face was a confusion of blood.

‘I'll …' he blurted.

‘You'll what?' taunted Lisabell.

‘… be there,' he said.

‘Thatta boy, Doug,' said Tom.

‘Don't let her fool you,' said Bo.

But Doug turned away from his friends.

Suddenly a memory came to him. Years ago, he had killed a butterfly on a bush, smashing it with a stick, for no reason at all, other than it seemed like the thing to do. Glancing up, he had seen his grandfather, like a framed picture, startled, on the porch above him.
Douglas dropped the stick and picked up the shattered flakes of butterfly, the bright pieces of sun and grass. He tried to fit it back together again and breathe a spell of life into it. But at last, crying, he said, ‘I'm sorry.'

And then Grandpa had spoken, saying, ‘Remember, always, everything moves.' Thinking of the butterfly, he was reminded of Quartermain. The trees shook with wind and suddenly he was looking out of Quartermain's face, and he knew how it felt to be inside a haunted house, alone. He went to the birthday table and picked up a plate with the largest piece of cake on it, and began to walk toward Quartermain. There was a starched look in the old man's face, then a searching of the boy's eyes and chin and nose with a sunless gaze.

Douglas stopped before the wheelchair.

‘Mr Quartermain,' he said.

He pushed the plate out on the warm air into Quartermain's hands.

At first the old man's hands did not move. Then as if wakened, his fingers opened with surprise. Quartermain regarded the gift with utter bewilderment.

‘Thank you,' he said, so low no one heard him. He touched a fragment of white frosting to his mouth.

Everyone was very quiet.

‘Criminy, Doug!' Bo hissed as he pulled Doug away from the wheelchair. ‘Why'd you do that? Is it Armistice
Day? You gonna let me rip off your epaulettes? Why'd you give that cake to that awful old gink?'

Because,
Douglas thought but didn't say,
because, well, I could hear him
breathe.

I've lost
, thought Quartermain.
I've lost the game. Check. Mate.

Bleak pushed Quartermain in his wheelchair, like a load of dried apricots and yellow wicker, around the block under the dying afternoon sun. He hated the tears that brimmed in his eyes.

‘My God!' he cried. ‘What happened?'

Bleak said he wasn't sure whether it was a significant loss or a small victory.

‘Don't small victory
me
!' Quartermain shouted.

‘All right,' said Bleak. ‘I won't.'

‘All of a sudden,' said Quartermain, ‘in the boy's—'

He stopped, for he could not breathe.

‘Face,' he continued. ‘In the boy's face.' Quartermain touched his mouth with his hands to pull the words out. He had seen
himself
peer forth from the boy's eyes, as if from an opened door. ‘How did
I
get in there, how?'

Bleak said nothing, but pushed Quartermain on through sun and shadow, quietly.

Quartermain did not touch the hand–wheels of his moving chair. He slumped, staring rigidly beyond the moving trees, the flowing white river of sidewalk.

‘What
happened
?'

‘If you don't know,' said Bleak, ‘I won't tell you.'

‘I thought I'd defeated them. I thought I was mean and smart and clever. But I didn't win.'

‘No,' said Bleak.

‘I don't understand. Everything was set
up
for me to win.'

‘You did them a favor. You made them put one foot in front of the other.'

‘Is that what I did? So it's their victory.'

‘They might not know it, but yes. Every time you take a step, even when you don't want to,' said Bleak. ‘When it hurts, when it means you rub chins with death, or even if it means dying, that's good. Anything that moves ahead, wins. No chess game was ever won by the player who sat for a lifetime thinking over his next move.'

Quartermain let himself be pushed another block in silence and then said: ‘Braling was a fool.'

‘The metronome? Yes.' Bleak shook his head. ‘He might be alive today if he hadn't scared himself to death. He thought he could stand still or even run backward. He thought he could trick life. Tricked himself right into a fine oration and a quick burial.'

They turned a corner.

‘Oh, it's hard to let go,' said Quartermain. ‘All my life I've held on to everything I ever touched. Preach to me, Bleak!'

Bleak, obediently, preached: ‘Learning to
let go
should be learned before learning to
get
. Life should be touched, not strangled. You've got to relax, let it happen at times, and at others move forward with it. It's like boats. You keep your motor on so you can steer with the current. And when you hear the sound of the waterfall coming nearer and nearer, tidy up the boat, put on your best tie and hat, and smoke a cigar right up till the moment you go over. That's a triumph. Don't argue with the cataract.'

‘Take me around the block again.'

‘Here we go.'

The leaf–light flickered on the paper–thin skin of the old men's wrists, the shadows alternating with fading sunlight. They moved in a soft whisper.

‘All of a sudden. In that boy's face … He gave me a piece of cake, Bleak.'

‘I saw him.'

‘Why, why did he do it? He kept looking at me as if I were someone new. Was that it? Or what? Why did he do it? And there I was, me, staring out of his face. And I knew I'd lost.'

‘Let's say you didn't win, maybe. But you didn't lose.'

‘What broke me down all of a sudden? I hated that monster, and then, suddenly, I hated
myself
. Why?'

‘Because he wasn't your son.'

‘Ridiculous!'

‘Nevertheless. You never got married that I knew …'

‘Never!'

‘Never had children?'

‘Never!'

‘And the children never had children.'

‘Of course not. Impossible!'

‘You cut yourself off from life. The boy has
reconnected
you. He is the grandson you should have had, to keep the juices flowing, life staying alert.'

‘Hard to believe.'

‘You're coming around. You can't cut all the phone lines and still be on speaking terms with the world. Instead of living inside your son and your son's son, you were
really
heading for the junkyard. The boy reminded you of your utter and complete finish.'

‘No more, no more!' Quartermain grabbed the hard rubber wheels of his chair, causing them to stop short.

‘Face up to it,' Bleak said. ‘We're both dumb old fools. A little late for wisdom, but better an ironic recognition than none at all.'

Uncurling his friend's fingers from the spider web wheels, Bleak pushed the chair around a corner so the light of the dying sun stained their faces a healthy red, and added, ‘Look, life gives us everything. Then it takes it away. Youth, love, happiness, friends. Darkness gets
it all in the end. We didn't have enough sense to know you can will it – life – to others. Your looks, your youth. Pass it on. Give it away. It's lent to us for only a while. Use it, let go without crying. It's a very fancy relay race, heading God knows where. Except now, in your last lap of the race, you find no one waiting for you on the track ahead. Nobody for you to hand the stick to. You've run the race for no reason. You've failed the team.'

‘Is that what I've done?'

‘Yes. You weren't hurting the boy. Actually, what you were trying to do was make him grow up. You were both wrong for a while. Now you're both winning. Not because you want to, but because you have to.'

‘No, it's only he who's ahead. The idea was to grow them as fruit for the grave. But all I did was give them—'

‘Love,' said Bleak.

Quartermain could not say the word. That dreadful sweet, candy–sickening word. So trite, so true, so irritating, so wonderful, so frightening, and, in the end, so lost to himself.

‘They won. I did them a favor, my God, a favor! I was blind! I wanted them to race about, like we run about, and wither, and be shocked by their withering, and die, like I'm dying. But they don't realize, they don't know, they're even happier, if that's possible.'

‘Yes.' Bleak pushed the chair. ‘Happier. Because growing old isn't all that bad. None of it is bad if you have one thing. If you have the one thing that makes it all all right.'

That dreadful word again!

‘Don't say it!'

‘But I'm thinking it,' said Bleak, trying mightily to keep an unaccustomed smile from creasing his lips.

‘So you're right, so I'm miserable, and here I sit, crying like a goddamn idiot fool!'

The freckled leaf–shadows passed over his liver–spotted hands. They fitted, for a moment, like a jigsaw and made his hands look muscled, tanned, and young. He stared at them, as if delivered free of age and corruption. Then the freckling, twinkling motion of passing trees went on.

‘What do I do now, what do I do? Help me, Bleak.'

‘We can help ourselves. You were heading for the cliff. I tried to warn you. You can't hold them back now. If you'd had any sense, you might have encouraged the children to continue their damned revolution, never grow up, to be egocentrics. Then they really would have been unhappy!'

‘A fine time to tell me.'

‘I'm glad I didn't think of it. The worst thing is never to grow up. I see it all around. I see children in every house. Look there, that's Leonora's house, poor woman.
And here's where those two old maids live, and their Green Machine. Children, children without love. And over there, take a look. There's the ravine. The Lonely One. There's a life for you, there's a child in a man's body. That's the ticket. You could make Lonely Ones of them all, given time and patience. You used the wrong strategy. Don't force people to grow. Baby them. Teach them to nurse their grievances and grow their private poison gardens. Little patches of hate and prejudice. If you wanted them unhappy, how much better to say, “Revolt, I'm with you, charge! Ignorance, I'm for you! Down with the slob and the swine forever!”'

‘Don't rub it in. I don't hate them anymore, anyway. What a strange afternoon, how odd. There I was, in his face. There I was, in love with the girl. It was as if time had never passed. I saw Liza again.'

‘It's still possible, of course, you can reverse the process. The child is in us all. It's not hard to keep the child locked there forever. Give it another try.'

‘No, I'm done with it. I'm done with wars. Let them go. If they can earn a better life than I did, let them earn it. I wouldn't be so cruel as to wish them my life now. I was in his face, remember, and I saw her. God, what a beautiful face! Suddenly I felt so young. Now, turn me around and roll me home. I want to think about the next year or so. I'll have to start figuring.'

‘Yes, Ebenezer.'

‘No, not Ebenezer, not Scrooge. I'm not anything. I haven't decided to be anything. You can't be anything that quickly. All I know is I'm not quite the same. I've got to figure what I want to be.'

‘You could give to charity.'

‘You know me better than that.'

‘You've got a brother.'

‘Lives in California.'

‘How long's it been since you've seen him?'

‘Oh, God, thirty years.'

‘He has children, right?'

‘Yes, I think so. Two girls and a boy. Grown now. Got children of their own.'

‘You could write a letter.'

‘What kind?'

‘Invite them for a visit. You've got a big house. And one of those children, God help them, might seem like you. It struck me, if you can't have any private sense of destiny, immortality, you name it – you could get it secondhand from your brother's house. Seems to me you'd want to connect up with a thing like that.'

‘Foolish.'

‘No, common sense. You're too old for marriage and children, too old for everything except experiments. You know how things work. Some children look like their fathers, or mothers, or grandfathers, and some take after
a distant brother. Don't you think you'd get a kick out of something like that?'

‘Too easy.'

‘Think on it, anyway. Don't wait, or you'll sink back into being nothing but a mean old son–of–a–bitch again.'

‘So that's what I've been! Well, well. I didn't start out intending to be mean, but I got there somehow. Are
you
mean, Bleak?'

‘No, because I know what I did to myself. I'm only mean in private. I don't blame others for my own mistakes. I'm bad in a different way than you, of course, with a sense of humor developed out of necessity.' For a moment, Bleak's eyes seemed to twinkle, but maybe it was only the passing sun.

‘I'll need a sense of humor from here on out. Bleak, visit me more often.' Quartermain's gnarled fingers grasped Bleak's hand.

‘Why would I visit you, you sorry old bastard, ever again?'

‘Because we're the Grand Army, aren't we? You must help me think.'

‘The blind leading the sick,' said Bleak. ‘Here we are.'

He paused at the walk leading up to the gray, flake–painted house.

‘Is that my place?' said Quartermain. ‘My God, it's ugly, ugly as sin. Needs paint.'

‘You can think about that, too.'

‘My God, what a Christ–awful ugly house! Wheel me in, Bleak.'

And Bleak wheeled his friend up the walk toward his house.