Raymond Bradbury: Farewell Summer

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 put-

ting 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."

And then Grandpa had spoken, saying, "Remember, always, everything moves." Thinking of the butterfly, he was reminded of Quartermain. The trees shook with wind and suddenly he was looking out of Quartermain's face, and he knew how it felt to be inside a haunted house, alone. He went to the birthday table and picked up a plate with the largest piece of cake on it, and began to walk toward Quartermain. There was a starched look in the old man's face, then a searching of the boy's eyes and chin and nose with a

Douglas stopped before the wheelchair.

"Mr. Quartermain," he said.

He pushed the plate out on the warm air into Quartermain's hands.

At first the old man's hands did not move. Then as if wakened, his fingers opened with surprise. Quar-termain regarded the gift with utter bewilderment.

"Thank you," he said, so low no one heard him. He touched a fragment of white frosting to his mouth.

Everyone was very quiet.

"Criminy, Doug!" Bo hissed as he pulled Doug away from the wheelchair. "Why'd you do that? Is it Armistice Day? You gonna let me rip off your epaulettes? Why'd you give that cake to that awful old gink?"

Because, Douglas thought but didn't say, because, well, I could hear him breathe.

I've lost, thought Quartermain. I've lost the game. Check. Mate.

Bleak pushed Quartermain in his wheelchair, like a load of dried apricots and yellow wicker, around the block under the dying afternoon sun. He hated the tears that brimmed in his eyes.

"My God!" he cried. "What happened?"

Bleak said he wasn't sure whether it was a significant loss or a small victory.

"Don't small victory me!" Quartermain shouted.

"All right," said Bleak. "I won't."

"All of a sudden," said Quartermain, "in the boys-“

He stopped, for he could not breathe.

"Face," he continued. "In the boy's face." Quartermain touched his mouth with his hands to pull the words out. He had seen himself peer forth from the boy's eyes, as if from an opened door. "How did I get in there, how?"

Bleak said nothing, but pushed Quartermain on through sun and shadow, quietly.

Quartermain did not touch the hand-wheels of his moving chair. He slumped, staring rigidly beyond the moving trees, the flowing white river of sidewalk.

"What happened?"

"If you don't know," said Bleak, "I won't tell you."

"I thought I'd defeated them. I thought I was mean and smart and clever. But I didn't win."

"No," said Bleak.

"I don't understand. Everything was set up for me

"You did them a favor. You made them put one foot in front of the other."

"Is that what I did? So it's their victory."

"They might not know it, but yes. Every time you take a step, even when you don't want to," said Bleak. "When it hurts, when it means you rub chins with death, or even if it means dying, that's good. Anything that moves ahead, wins. No chess game was ever won by the player who sat for a lifetime thinking over his