Farewell Summer (3 page)

On the way into town, on a street near the school stood the nickel emporium where all the sweet poisons hid in luscious traps.

Doug stopped, stared, and waited for Tom to catch up and then yelled, ‘Okay, gang, this way. In!'

Around him all the boys came to a halt because he said the name of the shop, which was pure magic.

Doug beckoned and they all gathered and followed, orderly, like a good army, into the shop.

Tom came last, smiling at Doug as if he knew something that nobody else knew.

Inside, honey lay sheathed in warm African chocolate. Plunged and captured in the amber treasure lay fresh Brazil nuts, almonds, and glazed clusters of snowy coconut. June butter and August wheat were clothed in dark sugars. All were crinkled in folded tin foil, then wrapped in red and blue papers that told the weight, ingredients, and manufacturer. In bright bouquets the candies lay, caramels to glue the teeth, licorice to blacken
the heart, chewy wax bottles filled with sickening mint and strawberry sap, Tootsie Rolls to hold like cigars, red–tipped chalk–mint cigarettes for chill mornings when your breath smoked on the air.

The boys, in the middle of the shop, saw diamonds to crunch, fabulous liquors to swig.
Persimmon–colored pop bottles swam, clinking softly, in the Nile waters of the refrigerated box, its water cold enough to cut your skin. Above, on glass shelves, lay cordwood piles of gingersnaps, macaroons, chocolate bits, vanilla wafers shaped like moons, and marshmallow dips, white surprises under black masquerades. All of this to coat the tongue, plaster the palate.

Doug pulled some nickels from his pocket and nodded at the boys.

One by one they chose from the sweet treasure, noses pressed against glass, breath misting the crystal vault.

Moments later, down the middle of the street they ran and soon stood on the edge of the ravine with the pop and candy.

Once they were all assembled, Doug nodded again and they started the trek down into the ravine. Above them, on the other side, stood the looming homes of the old men, casting dark shadows into the bright day. And above those, Doug saw, as he shielded his eyes, was the hulking carapace of the haunted house.

‘I brought you here on purpose,' said Doug.

Tom winked at him as he flipped the lid off his pop.

‘You must learn to resist, so you can fight the good fight. Now,' he cried, holding his bottle out. ‘Don't look so surprised. Pour!'

‘My gosh!' Charlie Woodman slapped his brow. ‘That's good root beer, Doug. Mine's good Orange
Crush
!'

Doug turned his bottle upside down. The root beer froth hissed out to join the clear stream rushing away to the lake. The others stared, the spectacle mirrored in each pair of eyes.

‘You want to sweat Orange Crush?' Douglas grabbed Charlie's drink. ‘You want root beer spit, to be poisoned forever, to
never
get well? Once you're tall, you can't
un
grow back, can't stab yourself with a pin and let the air out.'

Solemnly, the martyrs tilted their bottles.

‘Lucky crawfish.' Charlie Woodman slung his bottle at a rock. They all threw their bottles, like Germans after a toast, the glass crashing in bright splinters.

They unwrapped the melting chocolate and butter chip and almond frivolities. Their teeth parted, their mouths watered. But their eyes looked to their general.

‘I solemnly pledge from now on: no candy, no pop, no poison.'

Douglas let his chocolate chunk drop like a corpse into the water, like a burial at sea.

Douglas wouldn't even let them lick their fingers.

Walking out of the ravine, they met a girl eating a vanilla ice cream cone. The boys stared, their tongues
lolling. She took a cold dollop with her tongue. The boys blinked. She licked the cone and smiled. Perspiration broke out on a half dozen faces. One more lick, one more jut of that rare pink tongue, one more hint of cool vanilla ice cream and his army would revolt. Sucking in a deep breath, Douglas cried: ‘Git!'

The girl spun around and ran.

Douglas waited for the memory of the ice cream to fade, then said, quietly, ‘There's ice water at Grandma's. March!'

 

Calvin C. Quartermain was an edifice as tall, long, and as arrogant as his name.

He did not move, he stalked.

He did not see, he glared.

He spoke not, but fired his tongue, point–blank, at any target come to hand.

He orated, he pronounced, he praised not, but heaped scorn.

Right now he was busy shoving bacteria under the microscope of his gold–rimmed spectacles. The bacteria were the boys, who deserved destruction. One boy, especially.

‘A bike, sweet Christ, a damn blue bike! That's
all
it was!'

Quartermain bellowed, kicking his good leg.

‘Bastards! Killed Braling! Now they're after
me
!'

A stout nurse trussed him like a cigar store Indian while Dr. Lieber set the leg.

‘Christ! Damned fool. What was it Braling said about a
metronome
? Jesus!'

‘Leg's broke, easy!'

‘He needs more than a bike! A damned hell–fire device won't kill
me
, no!'

The nurse shoved a pill in his mouth.

‘Peace, Mr C., peace.'

Night, in Calvin C. Quartermain's lemon-sour house, and him in bed, discarded long ago, when his youth breeched the carapace, slid between his ribs, and left his shell to flake in the wind.

Quartermain twisted his head and the sounds of the summer night breathed through the air. Listening, he chewed on his hatred.

‘God, strike down those bastard fiends with fire!'

Sweating cold, he thought:
Braling lost his brave fight to make them human, but
I
will prevail. Christ, what's
happening?

He stared at the ceiling where gunpowder blew in a spontaneous combustion, all their lives exploded in one day at the end of an unbelievably late summer, a thing of weather and blind sky and the surprise miracle that he still lived, still breathed, amidst lunatic events. Christ! Who ran this parade and where was it going? God, stand alert! The drummer–boys are killing the captains.

‘There must be others,' he whispered to the open
window. ‘Some who tonight feel as I do about these infidels!'

He could sense the shadows trembling out there, the other old rusted iron men hidden in their high towers, sipping thin gruels and snapping dog – biscuits. He would summon them with cries, his fever like heat–lightning across the sky.

‘Telephone,' gasped Quartermain. ‘Now, Calvin, line them up!'

There was a rustling in the dark yard.
‘What?'
he whispered.

The boys clustered in the lightless ocean of grass below. Doug and Charlie, Will and Tom, Bo, Henry, Sam, Ralph, and Pete all squinted up at the window of Quartermain's high bedroom.

In their hands they had three beautifully carved and terrible pumpkins. They carried them along the sidewalk below while their voices rose among the star-lit trees, louder and louder: ‘The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out.'

Quartermain turned each of his spotted papyrus hands into fists and clenched the telephone.

‘Bleak!'

‘Quartermain? My God, it's late!'

‘Shut up! Did you hear about Braling?'

‘I knew one day he'd get caught without his hourglass.'

‘This is no time for levity!'

‘Oh, him and his damn clocks; I could hear him ticking across town. When you hold that tight to the edge of the grave, you should just jump in. Some boy with a cap–pistol means nothing. What can you do? Ban cap–pistols?'

‘Bleak, I
need
you!'

‘We all need each other.'

‘Braling was school board secretary. I'm
chairman
! The damn town's
teeming
with killers
in embryo.'

‘My dear Quartermain,' said Bleak dryly, ‘you remind me of the perceptive asylum keeper who claimed that his inmates were mad. You've only just discovered that boys are animals?'

‘
Something
must be done!'

‘
Life
will do it.'

‘The damned fools are outside my house singing a funeral dirge!'

‘“The Worms Crawl In”? My favorite tune when I was a boy. Don't you remember being ten? Call their folks.'

‘Those fools? They'd just say, “Leave the nasty old man alone.”'

‘Why not pass a law to make everyone seventy–nine years old?' Bleak's grin ran along the telephone wires. ‘I've two dozen nephews who sweat icicles when I threaten to live forever. Wake up, Cal. We are a minority, like the dark African and the lost Hittite. We live in a country of the young. All we can do is wait until some of these sadists hit nineteen, then truck them off to war. Their crime? Being full up with orange juice and spring
rain. Patience. Someday soon you'll see them wander by with winter in their hair. Sip your revenge quietly.'

‘Damn! Will you help?'

‘If you mean can you count on my vote on the school board? Will I command Quartermain's Grand Army of Old Crocks? I'll leer from the sidelines, with an occasional vote thrown to you mad dogs. Shorten summer vacations, trim Christmas holidays, cancel the Spring Kite Festival – that's what you plan, yes?'

‘I'm a lunatic, then?!'

‘No, a student–come–lately. I learned at fifty I had joined the army of unwanted men. We are not quite Africans, Quartermain, or heathen Chinese, but our racial stigmata are gray, and our wrists are rusted where once they ran clear. I hate that fellow whose face I see, lost and lonely in my dawn mirror! When I see a fine lady, God! I know outrage. Such spring cartwheel thoughts are not for dead pharaohs. So, with limits, Cal, you can count me in. Good night.'

The two phones clicked.

Quartermain leaned out his window. Below, in the moonlight, he could see the pumpkins, shining with a terrible October light.

Why do I imagine,
he wondered,
that one is carved to look like me, another one just like Bleak, and the other just like Gray? No, no. It can't be. Christ, where do I find Braling's
metronome?

‘Out of the way!' he yelled into the shadows.

Grabbing his crutches, he struggled to his feet, plunged downstairs, tottered onto the porch, and somehow found his way down to the sidewalk and advanced on the flickering line of Halloween gourds.

‘Jesus,' he whispered. ‘Those are the ugliest damned pumpkins I ever saw. So!'

He brandished a crutch and whacked one of the orange ghouls, then another and another until the lights in the pumpkins winked out.

He reared to chop and slash and whack until the gourds were split open, spilling their seeds, orange flesh flung in all directions.

‘Someone!' he cried.

His housekeeper, an alarmed expression on her face, burst from the house and raced down the great lawn.

‘Is it too late,' cried Quartermain, ‘to light the oven?'

‘The oven, Mr Cal?'

‘Light the god–damned oven. Fetch the pie pans. Have you recipes for pumpkin pie?'

‘Yes, Mr Cal.'

‘Then grab these damn pieces. Tomorrow for lunch: Just Desserts!'

Quartermain turned and crutched himself upstairs.

The emergency meeting of the Green Town Board of Education was ready to begin.

There were only two there beside Calvin C. Quartermain: Bleak and Miss Flynt, the recording secretary.

He pointed at the pies on the table.

‘What's this?' said the other two.

‘A victory breakfast, or maybe a lunch.'

‘It looks like pie to me, Quartermain.'

‘It
is
, idiot! A victory feast, that's what it is. Miss Flynt?'

‘Yes, Mr Cal?'

‘Take a statement. Tonight at sunset, on the edge of the ravine, I will make a few remarks.'

‘Such as?'

‘Rebellious rapscallions, hear this: The war is not done, nor have you lost nor have you won. It seems a draw. Prepare for a long October. I have taken your measure. Beware.'

Quartermain paused and shut his eyes, pressed his fingers to his temples, as if trying to remember.

‘Oh, yes. Colonel Freeleigh, sorely missed. We need a colonel. How long was Freeleigh a colonel?'

‘Since the month Lincoln was shot.'

‘Well, someone must be a colonel. I'll do that.
Colonel
Quartermain. How does that sound?'

‘Pretty fine, Cal, pretty fine.'

‘All right. Now shut up and eat your pie.'

The boys sat in a circle on the porch of Doug and Tom's house. The pale blue painted ceiling mirrored the blue of the October sky.

‘Gosh,' said Charlie. ‘I don't like to say it, Doug – but I'm hungry.'

‘Charlie! You're not thinking right!'

‘I'm thinkin' fine,' said Charlie. ‘Strawberry shortcake with a big white summer cloud of whipped cream.'

‘Tom,' said Douglas, ‘in the by–laws in your nickel tablet, what's it say about treason?'

‘Since when is thinking about shortcake treason?' Charlie regarded some wax from his ear with great curiosity.

‘It's not thinking, it's
saying
!'

‘I'm
starved
,' said Charlie. ‘And the other guys, look, touch 'em and they'd bite. It ain't workin', Doug.'

Doug stared around the circle at the faces of his soldiers, as if daring them to add to Charlie's lament.

‘In my grandpa's library there's a book that says Hindus
starve for ninety days. Don't worry. After the third day you don't feel nothing!'

‘How long's it been? Tom, check your watch. How long?'

‘Mmmm, one hour and ten minutes.'

‘Jeez!'

‘Whatta you mean “jeez”? Don't look at your watch! Look at calendars. Seven
days
is a fast!'

They sat a while longer in silence. Then Charlie said, ‘Tom, how long's it been
now
?'

‘Don't tell him, Tom!'

Tom consulted his watch, proudly. ‘One hour and
twelve
minutes!'

‘Holy smoke!' Charlie squeezed his face into a mask. ‘My stomach's a
prune
! They'll have to feed me with a tube. I'm dead. Send for my folks. Tell 'em I loved 'em.' Charlie shut his eyes and flung himself backward onto the floorboards.

‘Two hours,' said Tom, later. ‘Two whole hours we've been starving, Doug. That's sockdolager! If only we can throw up after supper, we're set.'

‘Boy,' said Charlie, ‘I feel like that time at the dentist and he jammed that needle in me. Numb! And if the other guys had more guts, they'd tell you they're bound for Starved Rock, too. Right, fellas? Think about cheese! How about crackers?'

Everyone moaned.

Charlie ran on. ‘Chicken à la
king
!'

They groaned.

‘Turkey drumsticks!'

‘See.'
Tom poked Doug's elbow. ‘You got 'em writhing! Now where's your revolution?!'

‘Just one more day!'

‘And
then
?'

‘Limited rations.'

‘Gooseberry pie, apple–butter, onion sandwiches?'

‘Cut it out, Charlie.'

‘Grape jam on white
bread
!'

‘Stop!'

‘No, sir!' Charlie snorted. ‘Tear off my chevrons, General. This was fun for the first ten minutes. But there's a bulldog in my belly. Gonna go home, sit down real polite, wolf me half a banana cake, two liverwurst sandwiches, and get drummed outta your dumb old army, but at least I'll be a live dog and no shriveled–up mummy, whining for leftovers.'

‘Charlie,' Doug pleaded, ‘you're our strong right
arm.'

Doug jumped up and made a fist, his face blood–red. All was lost. This was terrible. Right before his face his plan unraveled and the grand revolt was over.

At that very instant the town clock boomed twelve o'clock, noon, the long iron strokes which came as salvation because Doug leapt to the edge of the porch and stared toward the town square, up at that great terrible iron monument, and then down at the grassy park, where all the old men played at their chessboards.

An expression of wild surmise filled Doug's face.

‘Hey,' he murmured. ‘Hold on. The chessboards!' he cried. ‘Starvation's one thing, and that helps, but now I see what our
real
problem is. Down outside the courthouse, all those terrible old men playing chess.'

The boys blinked.

‘What?' said Tom.

‘Yeah, what?' echoed the boys.

‘We're
on
the chessboard!' cried Douglas. ‘Those chess pieces, those chessmen, those are us! The old guys
move
us on the squares, the streets! All our lives we've been there, trapped on the chessboards in the square, with them shoving us around.'

‘Doug,' said Tom. ‘You got brains!'

The clock stopped booming. There was a great wondrous silence.

‘Well,' said Doug, exhaling, ‘I guess you know what we do
now
!'