Dan Simmons: Summer of Night

Harlen grinned. "Yeah, but there are other things that aren't. People always pay a lot of money for things that make them stupid."

"I'm gonna be a big-league ballplayer," said Lawrence from where he sat on the railing. "Probably a catcher. Like Yogi Berra."

"Uh-huh," four of the boys said in unison. "Sure."

Cordie was also on the railing. She had been looking at the sky, but now she stared at Dale. "What y'all gonna be?"

"A writer," Dale said softly.

The others stared. Dale had never suggested anything of the kind before. Embarrassed, he brought out one of Duane's notebooks that he'd been carrying in his pocket. "You should read this stuff. Really. Duane spent hours . . . years . . .

writing down this stuff about how people look and what they say and how they walk . . ."He paused, hearing how silly he sounded but not caring. "Well, it's like he knew exactly what he was going to be and how long it'd take him to get ready to be it. . . years of work and practice before he could even try something as hard as a story ..." Mike touched the notebook. "It's all in here. In all his books."

Harlen squinted at him, dubious. "And you're going to write Duane's books? The books he would've written?"

"No," said Dale softly, shaking his head. "I'll write my own stories. But I'm going to remember Duane. And try to learn from what he was doing . . . what he was teaching himself ..."

Lawrence seemed excited. "You gonna write about all the real stuff? The stuff that's happened?"

Dale was embarrassed, ready to end this part of the conversation. "If I do, twitto, I'm going to describe just how big and flappy your ears are. And how tiny your brain ..."

"Look!" interrupted Cordie, pointing to the sky.

They all raised their eyes to watch Echo move silently across the sky. Even the adults stopped in their conversation to watch the small ember of the satellite move between the stars.

"Gosh," whispered Lawrence.

"It's way up there, ain't it?" whispered Cordie, her face strangely soft and glowing in the starlight.

"Just where and when Duane said it'd be," whispered Mike.

Dale quietly lowered his head, knowing that the satellite-like the Bootleggers' Cave, like so many things- would be there tomorrow night and the day after, but that this moment, with his friends around and the night soft with summer sounds and breezes, and the voices of his parents and their friends just beyond the house, and the sense of endless summer days that August brought-that this moment was only for now and must be saved.

And while Mike and Lawrence and Kevin and Harlen and Cordie watched the satellite pass over, their faces raised in wonder at the bright new age now beginning, Dale watched them, thinking of his friend Duane and seeing things through the words that Duane might have used to describe them.

And then, knowing instinctively that such moments must be observed but not destroyed by observation, Dale joined his friends in watching as Echo reached the zenith and began to fade. A minute later they were arguing baseball and shouting at each other about whether the Cubs would ever win another pennant, and Dale was only slightly aware of it as a warm breeze blew across the endless fields, rustling the silk tassels on a million stalks of corn as if promising many more weeks of summer and another hot, bright day after the short interlude of night.