Farewell Summer ~ Ray Bradbury - Marimarister

Douglas almost laughed, but found he could not take the first step.
―Look,‖ said Quartermain. ―If I take out my teeth I won‘t bite.‖ He pantomimed as if
removing something from his mouth but stopped, for Douglas was on the first step, and then the
second, and finally at the top, where the old man nodded at another rocker.
Whereupon a remarkable thing took place.
Even as Douglas sat it seemed that the porch planks sank the merest half inch under his
weight.
Simultaneously, Mr. Quartermain felt his wicker seat move up half an inch!
Then, still further, as Quartermain settled back in his rocker, the porch sank under him.
And at that precise moment, the chair under Douglas rose silently, a quarter inch.
So that each, only sensing, only half knowing, felt that he occupied one end of an
invisible teeter-totter which, as they spoke quietly, moved up, moved down, first Douglas
sinking as Quartermain rose, then Quartermain descending as Douglas imperceptibly
lifted—now one up, now down; now the other up, now down; slowly, slowly.
same.
Now Quartermain high in the soft air of the dying summer, a moment later, Douglas the
―Sir?‖
―Yes, son?‖
He’s never called me that before, thought Douglas, and looked at the old man‘s face
softened with some half-perceived sympathy.
Quartermain leaned forward.
―Before you ask me whatever you‘ve got on your mind, let me ask you something.‖
―Sir?‖
The old man‘s voice was quiet.
―How old are you?‖
Doug felt the breath sift over his lips.
―Ummm, eighty-one?‖