Farewell Summer

"No, a student-come-lately. I learned at fifty I had joined the army of unwanted men. We are not quite Africans, Quartermain, or heathen Chinese, but our racial stigmata are gray, and our wrists are rusted where once they ran clear. I hate that fellow whose face I see, lost and lonely in my dawn mirror! When I see a fine lady, God! I know outrage. Such spring cartwheel thoughts are not for dead pharaohs. So, with limits, Cal, you can count me in. Good night."

The two phones clicked.

Quartermain leaned out his window. Below, in the moonlight, he could see the pumpkins, shining with a terrible October light.

Why do I imagine, he wondered, that one is carved to look like me, another one just like Bleak, and the other just like Gray? No, no. It can't be. Christ, where do I find Braling's metronome?

"Out of the way!" he yelled into the shadows.

Grabbing his crutches, he struggled to his feet, plunged downstairs, tottered onto the porch, and somehow found his way down to the sidewalk and advanced on the flickering line of Halloween gourds.

"Jesus," he whispered. "Those are the ugliest damned pumpkins I ever saw. So!"

He brandished a crutch and whacked one of the orange ghouls, then another and another until the lights in the pumpkins winked out.

He reared to chop and slash and whack until the flesh flung in all directions.

"Someone!" he cried.

His housekeeper, an alarmed expression on her face, burst from the house and raced down the great lawn.

"Is it too late," cried Quartermain, "to light the

"The oven, Mr. Cal?"

"Light the god-damned oven. Fetch the pie pans. Have you recipes for pumpkin pie?"

"Yes, Mr. Cal."

"Then grab these damn pieces. Tomorrow for lunch: Just Desserts!"

Quartermain turned and crutched himself upstairs.

CHAPTER FOURTREEN

THE EMERGENCY MEETING OF THE GREEN TOWN Board of Education was ready to begin.

There were only two there beside Calvin C. Quartermain: Bleak and Miss Flynt, the recording secre-

He pointed at the pies on the table. "What's this?" said the other two. "A victory breakfast, or maybe a lunch." "It looks like pie to me, Quartermain." "It is, idiot! A victory feast, that's what it is. Miss Flynt?"

"Yes, Mr. Cal?"

"Take a statement. Tonight at sunset, on the edge of the ravine, I will make a few remarks."

"Such as?"

"Rebellious rapscallions, hear this: The war is not done, nor have you lost nor have you won. It seems a draw. Prepare for a long October. I have taken your

Quartermain paused and shut his eyes, pressed his fingers to his temples, as if trying to remember.

"Oh, yes. Colonel Freeleigh, sorely missed. We need a colonel. How long was Freeleigh a colonel?"

"Since the month Lincoln was shot."

"Well, someone must be a colonel. I'll do that. Colonel

Quartermain. How does that sound?"

"Pretty fine, Cal, pretty fine."

"All right. Now shut up and eat your pie."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE BOYS SAT IN A CIRCLE ON THE PORCH OF Doug and Tom's house. The pale blue painted ceiling mirrored the blue of the October sky.

"Gosh," said Charlie. "I don't like to say it, Doug- but I'm hungry."

"Charlie! You're not thinking right!" "I'm thinkin' fine," said Charlie. "Strawberry shortcake with a big white summer cloud of whipped cream."

"Tom," said Douglas, "in the by-laws in your nickel tablet, what's it say about treason?"

"Since when is thinking about shortcake treason?" Charlie regarded some wax from his ear with great cu-riosity.

"It's not thinking, it's saying!"

"I'm starved,"

said Charlie. "And the other guys, look, touch 'em and they'd bite. It ain't workin', Doug."

Doug stared around the circle at the faces of his soldiers, as if daring them to add to Charlie's lament.

"In my grandpa's library there's a book that says Hindus starve for ninety days. Don't worry. After the third day you don't feel nothing!"

"How long's it been? Tom, check your watch. How long?"

"Jeez!"

"Whatta you mean 'jeez'? Don't look at your watch! Look at calendars. Seven days is a fast!"

They sat a while longer in silence. Then Charlie said, "Tom, how long's it been now?"

"Don't tell him, Tom!"

Tom consulted his watch, proudly. "One hour and twelve minutes!"

"Holy smoke!" Charlie squeezed his face into a mask. "My stomach's a prune! They'll have to feed me with a tube. I'm dead. Send for my folks. Tell 'em I loved 'em." Charlie shut his eyes and flung himself backward onto the floorboards.

"Two hours," said Tom, later. "Two whole hours we've been starving, Doug. That's sockdolager! If only we can throw up after supper, we're set."

"Boy," said Charlie, "I feel like that time at the dentist and he jammed that needle in me. Numb! And if the other guys had more guts, they'd tell you they're bound for Starved Rock, too. Right, fellas? Think about cheese! How about crackers?"