Farewell Summer Read Free Page A

was cool with old deaths, old stones grown in far Italian mountains to be shipped here to this green tunnel, under skies too bright in summer, too sad in winter.
    Douglas stared. The entire territory swarmed with ancient terrors and dooms. The Great Army stood around him and he looked to see if the invisible webbed wings in the rushing air ran lost in the high elms and maples.And did they feel all that? Did they hear the autumn chestnuts raining in cat–soft thumpings on the mellow earth? But now all was the fixed blue lost twilight which sparked each stone with light specules where fresh yellow butterflies had once rested to dry their wings and now were gone.
    Douglas led his suddenly disquieted mob into a further land of stillness and made them tie a bandanna over his eyes; his mouth, isolated, smiled all to itself.
    Groping, he laid hands on a tombstone and played it like a harp, whispering.
    â€˜Jonathan Silks. 1920. Gunshot.’ Another: ‘Will Colby. 1921. Flu.’
    He turned blindly to touch deep–cut green moss names and rainy years, and old games played on lost Memorial Days while his aunts watered the grass with tears, their voices like windswept trees.
    He named a thousand names, fixed ten thousand flowers, flashed ten million spades. ‘Pneumonia, gout, dyspepsia, TB. All of ’em taught,’ said Doug. ‘Taught to
learn
how to die. Pretty dumb lying here, doing nothing, yup?’
    â€˜Hey Doug,’ Charlie said, uneasily. ‘We met here to plan our army, not talk about dying. There’s a billion years between now and Christmas. With all that time to fill, I got no time to die. I woke this morning and said to myself, “Charlie, this is swell,
living
. Keep
doing
it!”’
    â€˜Charlie, that’s how they
want
you to talk!’
    â€˜Am I wrinkly, Doug, and dog–pee yellow? Am I fourteen, Doug, or fifteen or twenty?
Am
I?’
    â€˜Charlie, you’ll spoil everything!’
    â€˜I’m just not
worried
.’ Charlie beamed. ‘I figure everyone dies, but when it’s
my
turn, I’ll just say no thanks. Bo, you goin’ to die someday? Pete?’
    â€˜Not me!’
    â€˜Me either!’
    â€˜See?’ Charlie turned to Doug. ‘Nobody’s dyin’ like flies. Right now we’ll just lie like hound–dogs in the shade. Cool off, Doug.’
    Douglas’s hands fisted in his pockets, clutching dust, marbles, and a piece of white chalk. At any moment Charlie would run, the gang with him, yapping like dogs, to flop in deep grape–arbor twilight, not even swatting flies, eyes shut.
    Douglas swiftly chalked their names, CHARLIE, TOM, PETE, BO, WILL, SAM, HENRY, AND RALPH, on the gravestones, then jumped back to let them spy themselves, so much chalk–dust on marble, flaking, as time blew by in the trees.
    The boys stared for a long, long time, silent, their eyes moving over the strange shapes of chalk on the cold stone. Then, at last, there was the faintest exhalation of a whisper.
    â€˜Ain’t going to die!’ cried Will. ‘I’ll fight!’
    â€˜Skeletons don’t fight,’ said Douglas.
    â€˜No, sir!’ Will lunged at the stone, erasing the chalk, tears springing to his eyes.
    The other boys stood, frozen.
    â€˜Sure,’ Douglas said. ‘They’ll teach us at school, say, here’s your heart, the thing you get attacks with! Show you bugs you can’t
see
! Teach you to jump off buildings, stab people, fall and not move.’
    â€˜No, sir,’ Sam gasped.
    The great meadow of graveyard rippled under the last fingers of fading sunlight. Moths fluttered around them, and the sound of a graveyard creek ran over all their cold moonlit thoughts and gaspings as Douglas quietly finished:’ Sure, none of us wants to just lie here and never play kick–the–can again. You want all that?’
    â€˜Heck no, Doug…’
    â€˜Then we
stop
it! We find out