Farewell Summer

by Ray Bradbury

  ‘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 wishing they were somewhere else, almost wishing 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, shivering.

  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 Saturday night.

  The last of the Saturday night strollers were starting to drift home and Grandpa picked out the finest cigar he could find, cut it, and lit it from the eternal flame that stood on the cigar store counter. He puffed 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 first 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 shivered 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. God bless.’

  The boys ran home to their beds. They could feel, though they did not hear, the great clock ticking and the future rushing 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 damned 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 piss and vinegar, just like those boys …

  Wait a minute! Whose birthday’s next? he wondered, 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, 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 a
s 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.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  ‘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.’