Farewell Summer (Green Town 3)

Douglas looked down at his sleeves and his pants and his shoes.

‘I see you have no better answer than I do,’ observed Quartermain.

‘No, sir.’

‘It was a long time ago. Two tired old generals. Appomattox.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Now.’ Cal Quartermain leaned forward so his wicker bones creaked. ‘What is it you want to know?’

‘Everything,’ said Douglas.

‘Everything?’ Quartermain laughed gently. ‘That’ll take at least ten minutes.’

‘How about something?’ said Douglas finally.

‘Something? One special thing? Why, Doug, that will take a lifetime. I’ve been at it a while. Everything rolls off my tongue, easy as pie. But something! Something! I get lockjaw just trying to def

ine it. So let’s talk about everything instead, for now. When you finally unhinge your tongue and find one special eternal forever thing of substance, let me know. Promise?’

‘Promise.’

‘Now, where were we? Life? There’s an everything topic. You want to know all about life?’

Douglas nodded, head ducked.

‘Steel yourself.’

Douglas looked up and fixed Quartermain with a stare like the sky and all of time waiting.

‘Well, to begin …’ He paused and held out his hand for Douglas’s empty glass. ‘You’re going to need this, son.’

Quartermain poured. Douglas took and drank.

‘Life,’ said the old man, and murmured, muttered, and murmured again.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Calvin C. Quartermain woke because someone had said something or called out in the night air.

But that was impossible. Nobody or nothing had.

He looked out the window at the great face of the courthouse clock and could almost hear it clearing its throat, preparing to announce three in the morning.

‘Who’s there?’ Quartermain said into the cool night air.

Me.

‘How’s that again?’ Quartermain lifted his head and peered left and right.

Me. Remember?

And now he looked down along the quilt.

Without moving his hands to touch and find, he knew his old friend was there. A bare subsistence of friend, but still, friend.

He did not lift his head to peer down along the sheets to the small mound there below his navel, between his legs. It was hardly more than a heartbeat, a pulse, a lost member, a ghost of flesh. But it was there.