Farewell Summer Part 9

"Yes, sir."

"You don't look so fine to me. In fact, you look a little bit under the weather. Taking that together with the boys missing school and Tom feeling poorly and here you are, looking kind of pale around the gills, I figure there must have been some great commotion somewhere last night."

Grandpa stopped and picked up a piece of paper he'd been holding on his lap.

"I got a phone call a little earlier from the courthouse clerk. It seems they found a whole lot of firecracker paper somewhere in the City Hall this morning. Now that is a most peculiar place to fi nd burnt firecracker paper. The clerk told me they're going to have to do quite a lot of repairs in City Hall. They don't say quite what it is they have to fi x, but the bill is sizeable and I figure if we apportion it out to various homesteads in the town, it will come to about . . ." Here Grandpa put his gla.s.ses back on his fine big nose before continuing. ". . . $70.90 per homestead. Now, most of the people I know around here don't have that kind of money. In order to get it, the people in those homes will have to work quite a few days or maybe weeks or, who knows, months. Would you like to see the list of repairs that have to be done in City Hall, Doug? I've got it right here."

"I don't think so," said Doug.

"I think you'd better look and study, boy. Here goes." He handed the piece of paper to Doug.

Doug stared at the list. His eyes were so fogged that he couldn't read it. The numbers were immense and they seemed to extend far into the future, not just weeks or months, but ohmigosh, years.

"Doug, I want you to do me a favor," said Grandpa. "I want you to take this list and play the part of doctor. I want you to make a series of house calls when school lets out for the day. First of all, go over to your house and see how Tom is doing. Tell him that Grandpa wants him to buy a couple of Eskimo Pies and come over and eat them on the front porch with me this afternoon. Say that to Tom, Doug, and see if his face doesn't brighten up."

"Yes, sir," said Doug.

"Then, later, I want you to go to all the other boys' houses and see how your friends are doing. Afterward, come back and give me a report, because all those boys who are lying low need something to make them sit up in bed. I'll be waiting for you. Does that seem fair to you?"

"Yes, sir," said Doug, and stood up. "Grandpa, can I say something?"

"What's that, Doug?"

"You're pretty great, Grandpa."

Grandpa mused over that for a few moments before saying, "Not great, Doug, just perceptive. Have you ever looked that word up in Webster's Dictionary?"

"No, sir."

"Well, before you leave, open Mr. Webster and see what he has to say."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN.

It was getting late and they were still up in the clock tower, nine boys working and cleaning out the firecracker dust and bits of burnt paper. It made a neat little pile outside the door.

It was a hot evening and all the boys were perspiring and talking under their breath and wis.h.i.+ng they were somewhere else, almost wis.h.i.+ng they were in school, which would be better than this.

When Doug looked out the clock tower window, he could see Grandpa standing down below, looking up, very quietly.

When Grandpa saw Doug looking down, he nodded at him and gave him the merest wave with the stub of his cigar.

Finally the last twilight was gone and full darkness descended and the janitor came in. There was lubricant to be put on the big cog and wheels of the clock. The boys watched with a mixture of fascination and fear. Here was their nemesis, which they thought they'd defeated, being brought back to life. And, they'd helped. In the weak light from a naked ceiling bulb they watched as the janitor wound up the great spring and stood back. There was a rasping shudder from deep within the great clock's innards, and as if afflicted, the boys moved away, s.h.i.+vering.

The big clock began to tick and the boys knew it wouldn't be long till the hour would strike, so they backed off and fled out the door, down the stairs, with Doug following and Tom leading the way.

The mob met Grandpa in the middle of the courthouse lawn and he gave each of them a pat on the head or the shoulder. Then the other boys ran to their homes, leaving Tom and Doug and Grandpa to walk a block to the corner where the United Cigar Store still stood open because it was Sat.u.r.day night.

The last of the Sat.u.r.day night strollers were starting to drift home and Grandpa picked out the fi nest cigar he could find, cut it, and lit it from the eternal flame that stood on the cigar store counter. He puff ed contentedly and looked with quiet satisfaction upon his two grandsons.

"Well done, boys," he said. "Well done."

Then the sound that they didn't want to hear came.

The great clock was clearing its throat in the tower and struck its fi rst note.

Bong!

One by one the town lights began to go out.

Bong!

Grandpa turned and nodded, and gestured with his cigar for the boys to follow him home.

They crossed the street and walked up the block as the great clock struck another note, and another, which s.h.i.+vered the air and trembled their blood.

The boys grew pale.

Grandpa looked down and pretended not to notice.

All the town's lights were now out and they had to find their way in the dark, with only the merest sliver of moon in the sky to lead the way.

They walked away from the clock and its terrible sound, which echoed in their blood and compelled all the people in the town toward their destinies.

They went down past the ravine where, maybe, a new Lonely One was hiding and might come up at any moment and grab hold.

Doug looked out and saw the black silhouette of the haunted house, perched on the edge of the ravine, and wondered.

Then, at last, in the total dark, as the last peal of the great clock faded away, they ambled up the sidewalk and Grandpa said, "Sleep well, boys. G.o.d bless."

The boys ran home to their beds. They could feel, though they did not hear, the great clock ticking and the future rus.h.i.+ng upon them in the black night.

In the dark Doug heard Tom say from his room across the hall, "Doug?"

"What?"

"That wasn't so hard after all."

"No," said Doug. "Not so hard."

"We did it. At least we put things back the way they should be."

"I don't know about that," said Doug. "But I know," said Tom, "because that darned clock is going to make the sun rise. I can hardly wait." Then Tom was asleep and Doug soon followed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT.

Bong!

Calvin C. Quartermain stirred in his sleep and slowly rose to an upright position.

Bong!

The great clock, striking midnight.

He felt himself, half-crippled, making it to the window and opening it wide to the sound of the great clock.

Bong!

"It can't be," he murmured to himself. "Not dead.

Not dead. They fixed the d.a.m.ned thing. Call the others first thing in the morning. Maybe it's over. Maybe it's done. Anyway, the town's running again the way it's supposed to, and tomorrow I have to figure out what to do next."

He reached up and found an odd thing on his mouth. A smile. He put his hand up to catch it, and, if possible, examine it.

Could be the weather, he thought. Could be the wind, it's just right. Or maybe I had some sort of twisted dream-what was I dreaming?-and now that the clock is alive again . . . I've got to figure it out. The war is almost over. But how do I finish it? And how do I win ?

Quartermain leaned out the window and gazed at the moon, a silver sliver in the midnight sky. The moon, the clock, his creaking bones. Quartermain recalled numberless nights spent looking out the window at the sleeping town, although in years past his back was not stooped, his joints not stiff ; in years past, looking out this very window, he was young, fit as a fiddle, full of p.i.s.s and vinegar, just like those boys . ..

Wait a minute! Whose birthday's next? he won dered, trying to call up school record sheets in his mind. One of the monsters? What a chance that would be. I'll kill them with kindness, change my spots, dress in a dog suit, hide the mean cat inside!

They won't know what hit them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE.

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, n.o.body 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 pa.s.sing.

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 fl ung 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 G.o.d, 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 gra.s.s.

Quartermain shut his eyes.

"No, G.o.d, 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, "G.o.d."

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

CHAPTER THIRTY.

"There," said Mother, fixing his tie.

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