Farewell Summer ~ Ray Bradbury - Marimarister

smashing it with a stick, for no reason at all, other than it seemed like the thing to do. Glancing
up, he had seen his grandfather, like a framed picture, startled, on the porch above him. Douglas
dropped the stick and picked up the shattered flakes of butterfly, the bright pieces of sun and
grass. He tried to fit it back together again and breathe a spell of life into it. But at last, crying, he
said, ―I‘m sorry.‖
And then Grandpa had spoken, saying, ―Remember, always, everything moves.‖
Thinking of the butterfly, he was reminded of Quartermain. The trees shook with wind and
suddenly he was looking out of Quartermain‘s face, and he knew how it felt to be inside a
haunted house, alone. He went to the birthday table and picked up a plate with the largest piece
of cake on it, and began to walk toward Quartermain. There was a starched look in the old man‘s
face, then a searching of the boy‘s eyes and chin and nose with a sunless gaze.
Douglas stopped before the wheelchair.
―Mr. Quartermain,‖ he said.
He pushed the plate out on the warm air into Quartermain‘s hands.
At first the old man‘s hands did not move. Then as if wakened, his fingers opened with
surprise. Quartermain regarded the gift with utter bewilderment.
―Thank you,‖ he said, so low no one heard him. He touched a fragment of white frosting
to his mouth.
Everyone was very quiet.
―Criminy, Doug!‖ Bo hissed as he pulled Doug away from the wheelchair. ―Why‘d you
do that? Is it Armistice Day? You gonna let me rip off your epaulettes? Why‘d you give that
cake to that awful old gink?‖
Because, Douglas thought but didn‘t say, because, well, I could hear him breathe .
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I’ve lost, thought Quatermain. I've lost the game. Check. Mate.
Bleak pushed Quartermain in his wheelchair, like a load of dried apricots and yellow
wicker, around the block under the dying afternoon sun. He hated the tears that brimmed in his
eyes.
―My God!‖ he cried. ―What happened?‖