neither uncle nor cousin 16 страница

need cutting."

"You're joking!"

"No, sir, Doug, Tom, you'll find as you get older the days kind of blur...

can't tell one from the other...."

"But, heck," said Tom. "On Monday this week It rollerskated at Electric

Park, Tuesday I ate chocolate cake, Wednesday I fell in the crick, Thursday fell

off a swinging vine, the week's been full of things! And today, I'll remember

today because the leaves outside are beginning to get all red and yellow. Won't

be long they'll be all over the lawn and we'll jump in piles of them and burn

them. I'll never forget today! I'll always remember, I know!"

Grandfather looked up through the cellar window at the late_summer trees

stirring in a colder wind. "Of course you will, Tom," he said. "Of course you

will."

And they left the mellow light of the dandelion wine and went upstairs to

carry out the last few rituals of summer, for they felt that now the final day,

the final night had come. As the day grew late they realized that for two or

three nights now, porches had emptied early of their inhabitants. The air had a

different, drier smell and Grandma was talking of hot coffee instead of iced

tea; the open, white_flutter_curtained windows were closing in the great bays;

cold cuts were giving way to steamed beef. The mosquitoes were gone from the

porch, and surely when they abandoned the conflict the war with Time was really

done, there was nothing for it but that humans also forsake the battleground.

Now Tom and Douglas and Grandfather stood, as they had stood three months,

or was it three long centuries ago, on this front porch which creaked like a

ship slumbering at night in growing swells, and they sniffed the air. Inside,

the boys' bones felt like chalk and ivory instead of green mint sticks and

licorice whips as earlier in the year. But the new cold touched Grandfather's

skeleton first, like a raw hand chording the yellow bass piano keys in the

dining room.

As the compass turns, so turned Grandfather, north.

"I guess," he said, deliberating, "we won't be coming out here anymore."

And the three of them clanked the chains shaken down from the porch_ceiling

eyelets and carried the swing like a weathered bier around to the garage,

followed by a blowing of the first dried leaves. Inside, they heard Grandma

poking up a fire in the library. The windows shook with a sudden gust of wind.

Douglas, spending a last night in the cupola tower above Grandma and

Grandpa, wrote in his tablet:

"Everything runs backward now. Like matinee films sometimes, where people

jump out of water onto diving boards. Come September you push down the windows

you pushed up, take off the sneakers you put on, pull on the hard shoes you

threw away last June. People run in the house now like birds jumping back inside

clocks. One minute, porches loaded, everyone gabbing thirty to a dozen. Next

minute, doors slam, talk stops, and leaves fall off trees like crazy."

He looked from the high window at the land where the crickets were strewn

like dried figs in the creek beds, at a sky where birds would wheel south now

through the cry of autumn loons and where trees would go up in a great fine

burning of color on the steely clouds. Way out in the country tonight he could

smell the pumpkins ripening toward the knife and the triangle eye and the

singeing candle. Here in town the first few scarves of smoke unwound from

chimneys and the faint faraway quaking of iron was the rush of black hard rivers

of coal down chutes, building high dark mounds in cellar bins.

But it was late and getting later.

Douglas in the high cupola above the town, moved his hand.

"Everyone, clothes off!"

He waited. The wind blew, icing the windowpane.

"Brush teeth."

He waited again.

"Now," he said at last, "out with the lights!"

He blinked. And the town winked out its lights, sleepily, here, there, as

the courthouse clock struck ten, ten_thirty, eleven, and drowsy midnight.

"The last ones now... there... there..."

He lay in his bed and the town slept around him and the ravine was dark and

the lake was moving quietly on its shore and everyone, his family, his friends,

the old people and the young, slept on one street or another, in one house or

another, or slept in the far country churchyards.

He shut his eyes.

June dawns, July noons, August evenings over, finished, done, and gone

forever with only the sense of it all left here in his head. Now, a whole

autumn, a white winter, a cool and greening spring to figure sums and totals of

summer past. And if he should forget, the dandelion wine stood in the cellar,

numbered huge for each and every day. He would go there often, stare straight

into the sun until he could stare no more, then close his eyes and consider the

burned spots, the fleeting scars left dancing on his warm eyelids; arranging,

rearranging each fire and reflection until the pattern was clear....

So thinking, he slept.

And, sleeping, put an end to Summer, 1928.

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