Bong!
The great clock, striking midnight.
He felt himself, half-crippled, making it to the window and opening it wide to the sound of the great clock.
Bong!
“It can’t be,” he murmured to himself. “Not dead.
Not dead. They fixed the damned thing. Call the others first thing in the morning. Maybe it’s over. Maybe it’s done. Anyway, the town’s running again the way it’s supposed to, and tomorrow I have to figure out what to do next.”
He reached up and found an odd thing on his mouth. A smile. He put his hand up to catch it, and, if possible, examine it.
Could be the weather, he thought. Could be the wind, it’s just right. Or maybe I had some sort of twisted dream—what was I dreaming?—and now that the clock is alive again… I’ve got to figure it out. The war is almost over. But how do I finish it? And how do I win?
Quartermain leaned out the window and gazed at the moon, a silver sliver in the midnight sky. The moon, the clock, his creaking bones. Quartermain recalled numberless nights spent looking out the window at the sleeping town, although in years past his back was not stooped, his joints not stiff ; in years past, looking out this very window, he was young, fit as a fiddle, full of piss and vinegar, just like those boys…
Wait a minute! Whose birthday’s next? he won dered, trying to call up school record sheets in his mind. One of the monsters? What a chance that would be. I’ll kill them with kindness, change my spots, dress in a dog suit, hide the mean cat inside!
They won’t know what hit them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
It was such a day that all the doors stood open and all the window sashes had been up since dawn. No one could stay in, everyone was out, nobody would die, everyone would live forever. It was more spring than farewell summer, more Eden than Illinois.
During the night a rain had come to quench the heat, and in the morning, with the clouds hastened off, each tree in all the yards gave off a separate and private rain if you shook it in passing.
Quartermain, out of bed and whirring through the house in hand-propelled trajectories, again found that odd thing, a smile, on his mouth.
He kicked the kitchen door wide and fl ung himself, eyes glittering, the smile pinned to his thin lips, into the presence of his servants and—
The cake.
“Good morning, Mr. Cal,” said the cook.
The cake stood like a magnificent Alp upon the kitchen table. To the odors of morning were added the smells of snow upon a white mountain, the aroma of frosted blossoms and candied roses, of petal pink candles and translucent icing. There it was, like a distant hill in a dream of the future, the cake as white as noon clouds, the cake in the shape of collected years, each candle ready for the lighting and blowing out.
“That,” he whispered, “oh, my God, that will do it! Take it down to the ravine. Get.”
The housekeeper and the gardener picked up the white mountain. The cook led the way, opening the door.
They carried it out the door and down the porch and across the garden.
Who could resist a sweet thing like that, a dream? thought
Quartermain.
“Watch it! ”
The housekeeper slipped on the dew-wet grass.
Quartermain shut his eyes.
“No, God, no!”
When he opened his eyes again, the servants were still marching steadily, perspiring, down the hill, into the green ravine, toward the clear waters, under the high cool shadowy trees, toward the birthday table.
“Thank you,” murmured Quartermain, and added, “God.”
Below, in the ravine, the cake was set upon the table, and it was white and it glowed and it was perfect.
CHAPTER THIRTY
“There,” said Mother, fixing his tie.
“Who cares about a darn girl’s birthday party?” said Douglas. “It sounds awful.”
“If Quartermain can go to all the trouble to have a cake made for Lisabell, you can take an hour and go. Especially since he sent invitations. Be polite is all I ask.”
“Come on, Doug, aw come on!” cried Tom, from the front porch.
“Hold your horses! Here I go.”
And the screen door slammed and he was in the street and he and Tom were walking in the fresh day.
“Boy,” whispered Tom, smiling, “I’m gonna eat till I get sick.”
“There’s a deep and dire plot in here somewhere,” said Douglas. “How come all of a sudden Quarter-main isn’t making a commotion? How come, just like that, he’s all smiles?”
“I never in my life,” said Tom, “argued with a piece of cake or a bowl of ice cream.”
Halfway down the block they were joined by Charlie, who fell into step beside them and looked like he was going to a funeral.
“Hey, this tie’s killing me.” Charlie walked with them in a solemn line.
Moments later they were joined by Will and the others.
“As soon as the party’s over, let’s all go skinny-dipping out at Apple Crick. Might be our last chance before it gets too cold. Summer’s gone.”
Doug said, “Am I the only one who thinks there’s somethin’ fishy goin’ on here? I mean, why’s old man Quartermain giving Lisabell a birthday party? Why’d He invite us? I smell a rat, fellas. ”
Charlie tugged at his tie and said, “I hate to say this, Doug, but it looks like any day now, whatever’s left of our war ain’t going to be nothing. There doesn’t seem to be any reason to fight them anymore.”
“I don’t know, Charlie. Something just doesn’t add up.”
They came to the ravine and stopped.
“Well, here we are,” said Douglas. “Keep your eyes peeled. If I give the word, break and scatter. You fellas go ahead,” said Douglas. “I’ll be down in a minute. I’ve got some strategizing to do.”
Reluctantly they left him and started down the hill. After they had gone a hundred feet they began to shuffle and then lope, and then run, yelling. They pulled up below, by the tables, and from a distance, here and there through the ravine, like white birds skimming the grass, came the girls, running too, all gathered in one place, and there was Calvin C. Quartermain, reeling down the pathway in a wheelchair, calling out in a high and cheerful voice.
“Hell,” said Douglas, standing back alone. “I mean, heck.”
The children gathered, shoving and pushing and laughing. Seen from a distance they were like little figures on a beautiful stage. Their laughter came drifting up to Douglas and his mouth twitched.
And then, beyond the children, resplendent on its own white-clothed table, was the birthday cake. Douglas stared.
It rose, tier upon tier, of such a size that it towered like a snowman, magnificent and shining in the sun.
“Doug, hey, Doug!” voices drifted up to him.
But he didn’t hear.
The cake, the white and beautiful cake, a piece of winter saved from years ago, cool and snowy now in the late summer day. The cake, the white and magnifi cent cake, frost and rime and snowfl akes, apple-flower and lily-bud. And the voices laughing and the laughter rolling up to him where he stood alone and separate and their voices calling, “Doug, come on, aw, Doug, come down. Hey, Doug, aw come on…”
His eyes were blinded by the frost and the snow of it. He felt his feet propelling him down into the ravine and he knew he was moving toward the table and the white vision, and there was no way to stop his feet, no way to turn his eyes away, and all thoughts of battle plans and troop movements fled from his mind.
He began to shuffle and he began to lope and then he ran faster and faster, and reaching a large tree, he grabbed hold to catch his breath. He heard himself whisper, “Hi.”
And everyone, looking at him, in the light of the snow mountain, in the glare of the wintry hill, replied, “Hi.” And he joined the party.
There was Lisabell. Among the others she stood, her face as delicate as the curlicues on the frosted cake, her lips soft and pink as the birthday candles. Her great eyes fixed him where he stood. He was suddenly conscious of the grass under his shoes. His throat was dry. His tongue filled his mouth. The children milled round and round, with Lisabell at the center of their carousel.
Quartermain came hurtling along the rough path, his wheelchair almost flying, and nearly crashed into the table. He gave a cry and sat on the outer edge of the milling crowd, a look of immense satisfaction on his creased yellow face.
And then Mr. Bleak appeared and stood behind the wheelchair, smiling an altogether diff erent kind of smile.
Douglas watched as Lisabell bent toward the cake.
The soft scent of the candles wafted on the breeze.
And there was her face, like a summer peach, beautiful and warm, and the light of the candles refl ected in her dark eyes. Douglas held his breath. The entire world waited and held its breath. Quartermain was frozen, gripping his chair as if it were his own body threatening to run off with him. Fourteen candles.
Fourteen years to be snuffed out and a goal set toward one more as good or better. Lisabell seemed happy. She was floating down the great river of Time and enjoying the trip, blissful with her journeying. The happiness of the insane was in her eye and hand.
She exhaled a great breath, the smell of a summer apple.
The candles snuff ed out.
The boys and girls crowded to the cake as Lisabell picked up a great silver knife. The
