Raymond Bradbury - Farewell Summer

"Is that it, Doug?" said Tom.

"Yeah," said Pete. "You sure you know what you're talking about?"

"What Pete is trying to say is that we gotta know with precision, we gotta know what's accurate," said Bo.

"I'll say it again," said Doug. "You listen close. Tom, you taking this down?"

"Yup," said Tom, his pencil poised over his notepad. "Shoot."

They stood in the darkening shadows, in the smell of grass and leaves and old roses and cold stone and raised their heads, sniffling, and wiped their cheeks on their shirtsleeves.

"Okay, then," said Doug. "Let's go over it again. It's not enough just seeing these graves. We've got to sneak under open windows, listen, discover what those old geezers are sick with. Tom, go get the pumpkins out of Grandma's pantry. We're gonna have a contest, see which of us can carve the scariest pumpkin. One to look like old man Qjiartermain, one like Bleak, one like Gray. Light them up and put them out. Later tonight we start our first attack with the carved pumpkins. Okay?"

"Okay!" everyone shouted.

They leapt over WHYTE, WILLIAMS, and NEBB, jumped and vaulted SAMUELS and KELLER, screamed the iron gate wide, leaving the cold land behind them, lost sunlight, and the creek running forever below the hill. A host of gray moths followed them as far as the gate where Tom braked and stared at his brother accusingly.

"Doug, about those pumpkins. Gosh almighty, you're nuts!"

"What?" Doug stopped and turned back as the

"It ain't enough. I mean, look what you've done. You've pushed the fellas too far, got 'em scared. Keep on with this sort of talk you're going to lose your army. You've got to do something that will put everything back together again. Find something for us to do or else everyone will go home and stay there, or go lie down with the dogs and sleep it off. Think of something, Doug. It's important."

Doug put his hands on his hips and stared at Tom. "Why do I got this feeling you're the general and I'm just a buck private?"

"WTiat do you mean, Doug?"

"I mean here I am, almost fourteen, and you're twelve going on a hundred and ordering me around and telling me what to do. Are things so bad?"

"Bad, Doug? They're terrible. Look at all those guys running away. You better catch up and think of something between here and the middle of town. Re-carving jack-o'-lanterns. Think, Doug, think."

"I'm thinking," said Doug, eyes shut.

"Well then, get going! Run, Doug, I'll catch up."

And Doug ran on.

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 splin-

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."