Farewell Summer Part 14

He kept walking and found himself, inexplicably, in Mr. Quartermain's front yard, waiting for he couldn't say what.

Quartermain, half-hidden in shadow on the front porch, leaned forward in his rocking chair, creaking the wicker, creaking his bones. For a long moment the old man looked one way, the boy another, until their gazes locked.

"Douglas Spaulding?" Quartermain said.

"Mr. Quartermain?" asked the boy.

It was as if they were meeting for the fi rst time.

"Douglas Spaulding." This time it was not a question, but a confirmation. "Douglas Hinkston Spaulding."

"Sir." And this was not a question from the boy, either. "Mr. Calvin C. Quartermain." And again, "Sir."

"What're you doing down there, so far out on the lawn?"

Douglas was surprised. "Dunno. "

"Why don't you come up here?" said Quarter-main.

"I've got to get home," said Douglas.

"No hurry. Why don't we sort out the sic transits, letting loose the dogs of war, havocs cried, all that."

Douglas almost laughed, but found he could not take the fi rst step.

"Look," said Quartermain. "If I take out my teeth I won't bite." He pantomimed as if removing something from his mouth but stopped, for Douglas was on the first step, and then the second, and fi nally at the top, where the old man nodded at another rocker.

Whereupon a remarkable thing took place.

Even as Douglas sat it seemed that the porch planks sank the merest half inch under his weight.

Simultaneously, Mr. Quartermain felt his wicker seat move up half an inch!

Then, still further, as Quartermain settled back in his rocker, the porch sank under him.

And at that precise moment, the chair under Douglas rose silently, a quarter inch.

So that each, only sensing, only half knowing, felt that he occupied one end of an invisible teeter-totter which, as they spoke quietly, moved up, moved down, first Douglas sinking as Quartermain rose, then Quartermain descending as Douglas imperceptibly lifted-now one up, now down; now the other up, now down; slowly, slowly.

Now Quartermain high in the soft air of the dying summer, a moment later, Douglas the same.

"Sir?"

"Yes, son?"

He's never called me that before, thought Douglas, and looked at the old man's face softened with some half-perceived sympathy.

Quartermain leaned forward.

"Before you ask me whatever you've got on your mind, let me ask you something."

"Sir?"

The old man's voice was quiet.

"How old are you?"

Doug felt the breath sift over his lips.

"Ummm, eighty-one?"

"What?!"

"I dunno. I mean. I dunno."

At last Douglas added, "And you, sir?"

"Well, now," said Quartermain.

"Sir?"

"Well, let me see. Twelve?"

"Sir?!"

"Or maybe thirteen would be better?"

"Yes, sir."

Teeter up, teeter down.

"Douglas," said Quartermain at last, "I'd like you to tell me. What's life all about?"

"My gosh," cried Douglas, "I was going to ask you that very question!"

Quartermain pulled back.

"Let's rock awhile."

There was no motion up, no motion down. They held still.

"It's been a long summer," the old man said.

"Seemed like it would never end," Doug agreed.

"I don't think it has. Not yet," said Quartermain.

He reached out to the table beside him and found some lemonade and poured a gla.s.s and handed it over. Douglas held the gla.s.s and took a small sip. Quarter-main cleared his throat and looked at his hands.

"Appomattox."

Douglas blinked. "Sir?"

Quartermain looked around at the railings, the boxes of geraniums, and the wicker rockers that he and the boy sat still in.

"Appomattox. You ever heard of that?"

"In school once."

"The thing is, which one is me, which one is you?"

"Which one what, sir?"

"Lee and Grant, Doug. Grant and Lee. What color uniform are you wearing?"

Douglas looked down at his sleeves and his pants and his shoes.

"I see you have no better answer than I do," observed Quartermain.

"No, sir."

"It was a long time ago. Two tired old generals. Appomattox."

"Yes, sir."

"Now." Cal Quartermain leaned forward so his wicker bones creaked. "What is it you want to know?"

"Everything," said Douglas.

"Everything?" Quartermain laughed gently. "That'll take at least ten minutes."

"How about something?" said Douglas fi nally.

"Something? One special thing? Why, Doug, that will take a lifetime. I've been at it a while. Everything rolls off my tongue, easy as pie. But something ! Some thing! I get lockjaw just trying to define it. So let's talk about everything instead, for now. When you fi nally unhinge your tongue and find one special eternal forever thing of substance, let me know. Promise?"

"Promise."

"Now, where were we? Life? There's an everything topic. You want to know all about life?"

Douglas nodded, head ducked.

"Steel yourself."

Douglas looked up and fixed Quartermain with a stare like the sky and all of time waiting.

"Well, to begin . . ." He paused and held out his hand for Douglas's empty gla.s.s. "You're going to need this, son."

Quartermain poured. Douglas took and drank.

"Life," said the old man, and murmured, muttered, and murmured again.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN.

Calvin C. Quartermain woke because some one had said something or called out in the night air. But that was impossible. n.o.body or nothing had. He looked out the window at the great face of the courthouse clock and could almost hear it clearing its throat, preparing to announce three in the morning. "Who's there?" Quartermain said into the cool night air.

Me.

"How's that again?" Quartermain lifted his head and peered left and right.

Me. Remember?

And now he looked down along the quilt.

Without moving his hands to touch and fi nd, he knew his old friend was there. A bare subsistence of friend, but still, friend.

He did not lift his head to peer down along the sheets to the small mound there below his navel, between his legs. It was hardly more than a heartbeat, a pulse, a lost member, a ghost of flesh. But it was there.

"So you're back?" he said to the ceiling, and snorted a chopped-off laugh. "It's been a long while."

In reply, a soft pulse of recognition.

"How long will you stay?"

The slender mound beat its own private heart twice, three times, but showed no signs of going anywhere; it seemed it would stay awhile.

"Is this your very last visit?" asked Quartermain.

Who can say? was the silent reply of his old friend revisiting, nested in a wirework of ancient hair.

I do not so much mind my scalp turning gray, Quartermain had once said, but when you fi nd whiteness sprouting down there, to h.e.l.l with it. Let the rest of me age, but not that !

But age he did and age it did. He was all of a dead winter grayness now. Still, there was this heartbeat, this tender and incredible pulse saluting him, a promise of spring, a seedbed of memory, a touch of . . . what was the word out there in the town in this strange weather when everyone's juices roused again?

Farewell summer.