He fumbled into the kitchen and stood waiting a moment.
Then he began to move.
He took the baking powder out of its fine new tin and put it in an old flour sack the way it had always been. He dusted the white flour into an old cookie crock. He removed the sugar from the metal bin marked sugar and sifted it into a familiar series of smaller bins marked spices, cutlery, string. He put the cloves where they had lain for years, littering the bottom of half a dozen drawers. He brought the dishes and knives and forks and spoons back out on top of the tables.
He found Grandma’s new eyeglasses on the parlor mantel and hid them in the cellar. He kindled a great fire in the old wood-burning stove, using pages from the new cookbook. By one o’clock in the still morning a huge husking roar shot up in the black stovepipe, such a wild roar that the house, if it had ever slept at all, awoke. He heard the rustle of Grandma’s slippers down the hall stairs. She stood in the kitchen, blinking at the chaos. Douglas was hidden behind the pantry door.
At one-thirty in the deep dark morning, the cooking odors blew up through the windy corridors of the house. Down the stairs, one by one, came women in curlers, men in bathrobes, to tiptoe and peer into the kitchen—lit only by fitful gusts of red fire from the hissing stove. And there in the black kitchen at two of a warm summer morning, Grandma floated like an apparition, amidst bangings and clatterings, half blind once more, her fingers groping instinctively in the dimness, shaking out spice clouds over bubbling pots and simmering kettles, her face in the firelight red, magical, and enchanted as she seized and stirred and poured the sublime foods.
Quiet, quiet, the boarders laid the best linens and gleaming silver and lit candles rather than switch on electric lights and snap the spell.
Grandfather, arriving home from a late evening’s work at the printing office, was startled to hear grace being said in the candlelit dining room.
As for the food? The meats were deviled, the sauces curried, the greens mounded with sweet butter, the biscuits splashed with jeweled honey; everything toothsome, luscious, and so miraculously refreshing that a gentle lowing broke out as from a pasturage of beasts gone wild in clover. One and all cried out their gratitude for their loose-fitting night clothes.
At three-thirty on Sunday morning, with the house warm with eaten food and friendly spirits, Grandfather pushed back his chair and gestured magnificently. From the library he fetched a copy of Shakespeare. He laid it on a platter, which he presented to his wife.
“Grandma,” he said, “I ask only that tomorrow night for supper you cook us this very fine volume. I am certain we all agree that by the time it reaches the table tomorrow at twilight it will be delicate, succulent, brown and tender as the breast of the autumn pheasant.”
Grandma held the book in her hands and cried happily.
They lingered on toward dawn, with brief desserts, wine from those wild flowers growing in the front yard, and then, as the first birds winked to life and the sun threatened the eastern sky, they all crept upstairs. Douglas listened to the stove cooling in the faraway kitchen. He heard Grandma go to bed.
Junkman, he thought, Mr. Jonas, wherever you are, you’re thanked, you’re paid back. I passed it on, I sure did, I think I passed it on . . .
He slept and dreamed.
In the dream the bell was ringing and all of them were yelling and rushing down to breakfast.
And then, quite suddenly, summer was over.
He knew it first when walking downtown. Tom grabbed his arm and pointed gasping, at the dimestore window. They stood there unable to move because of the things from another world displayed so neatly, so innocently, so frighteningly, there.
“Pencils, Doug, ten thousand pencils!”
“Oh, my gosh!”
“Nickel tablets, dime tablets, notebooks, erasers, water colors, rulers, compasses, a hundred thousand of them!”
“Don’t look. Maybe it’s just a mirage.”
“No,” moaned Tom in despair. “School. School straight on ahead! Why, why do dime stores show things like that in windows before summer’s even over! Ruin half the vacation!”
They walked on home and found Grandfather alone on the sere, bald-spotted lawn, plucking the last few dandelions. They worked with him silently for a time and then Douglas, bent in his own shadow, said:
“Tom, if this year’s gone like this, what will next year be, better or worse?”
“Don’t ask me.” Tom blew a tune on a dandelion stem. “I didn’t make the world.” He thought about it. “Though some days I feel like I did.” He spat happily.
“I got a hunch,” said Douglas.
“What?”
“Next year’s going to be even bigger, days will be brighter, nights longer and darker, more people dying, more babies born, and me in the middle of it all.”
“You and two zillion other people, Doug, remember.”
“Day like today,” murmured Douglas, “I feel it’ll be . . .just me!”
“Need any help,” said Tom, “just yell.”
“What could a ten-year-old brother do?”
“A ten-year-old brother’ll be eleven next summer. I’ll unwind the world like the rubber band on a golf ball’s insides every morning, put it back together every night. Show you how, if you ask.”
“Crazy.”
“Always was.” Tom crossed his eyes, stuck out his tongue. “Always will be.”
Douglas laughed. They went down in the cellar with Grandpa and while he decapitated the flowers they looked at all the summer shelves and glimmering there in the motionless streams, the bottles of dandelion wine. Numbered from one to ninety-odd, there the ketchup bottles, most of them full now, stood burning in the cellar twilight, one for every living summer day.
“Boy,” said Tom, “what a swell way to save June, July, and August. Real practical.”
Grandfather looked up, considered this, and smiled.
“Better than putting things in the attic you never use again. This way, you get to live the summer over for a minute or two here or there along the way through the winter, and when the bottles are empty the summer’s gone for good and no regrets and no sentimental trash lying about for you to stumble over forty years from now. Clean, smokeless, efficient, that’s dandelion wine.”
The two boys pointed along the rows of bottles.
“There’s the first day of summer.”
“There’s the new tennis shoes day.”
“Sure! And there’s the Green Machine!”
“Buffalo dust and Ching Ling Soo!”
“The Tarot Witch! The Lonely One!”
“It’s not really over,” said Tom. “It’ll never be over. I’ll remember what happened on every day of this year, forever.”
“It was over before it began,” said Grandpa, unwinding the wine press. “I don’t remember a thing that happened except some new type of grass that wouldn’t 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
