Free Farewell Summer by Ray Bradbury

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.’
    â€˜I don’t know, Charlie. Something just doesn’t add up.’
    They came to the ravine and stopped.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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 magnificent cake, frost and rime and snowflakes, apple–flower and lily–bud. And the voices laughing and the laughter rolling up to him where he stood alone and separateand 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 different 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 reflected 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