Farewell Summer (Green Town 3)

‘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 sunless gaze.

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. Quartermain 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.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

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 boy’s—’

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 to win.’