‘How old are you?’
Doug felt the breath sift over his lips.
‘Ummm, eighty–one?’
‘What?!’
‘I dunno. I mean. I dunno.’
At last Douglas added, ‘And you, sir?’
‘Well, now,’ said Quartermain.
‘Sir?’
‘Well, let me see. Twelve?’
‘Sir?!’
‘Or maybe thirteen would be better?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Teeter up, teeter down.
‘Douglas,’ said Quartermain at last, ‘I’d like you to tell me. What’s life all about?’
‘My gosh,’ cried Douglas, ‘I was going to ask you that very question!’
Quartermain pulled back.
‘Let’s rock awhile.’
There was no motion up, no motion down. They held still.
‘It’s been a long summer,’ the old man said.
‘Seemed like it would never end,’ Doug agreed.
‘I don’t think it has. Not yet,’ said Quartermain.
He reached out to the table beside him and found some lemonade and poured a glass and handed it over. Douglas held the glass and took a small sip. Quartermain cleared his throat and looked at his hands.
‘Appomattox.’
Douglas blinked. ‘Sir?’
Quartermain looked around at the railings, the boxes of geraniums, and the wicker rockers that he and the boy sat still in.
‘Appomattox. You ever heard of that?’
‘In school once.’
‘The thing is, which one is me, which one is you?’
‘Which one what, sir?’
‘Lee and Grant, Doug. Grant and Lee. What color uniform are you wearing?’