Free Farewell Summer by Ray Bradbury Page A

victory.
    “Don’t small victory me !” Quartermain shouted.
    “All right,” said Bleak. “I won’t.”
    “All of a sudden,” said Quartermain, “in the boy’s—”
    He stopped, for he could not breathe.
    “Face,” he continued. “In the boy’s face.” Quartermain touched his mouth with his hands to pull the words out. He had seen himself peer forth from the boy’s eyes, as if from an opened door. “How did I get in there, how?”
    Bleak said nothing, but pushed Quartermain on through sun and shadow, quietly.
    Quartermain did not touch the hand-wheels of his moving chair. He slumped, staring rigidly beyond the moving trees, the flowing white river of sidewalk.
    “What happened ?”
    “If you don’t know,” said Bleak, “I won’t tell you.”
    “I thought I’d defeated them. I thought I was mean and smart and clever. But I didn’t win.”
    “No,” said Bleak.
    “I don’t understand. Everything was set up for me to win.”
    “You did them a favor. You made them put one foot in front of the other.”
    “Is that what I did? So it’s their victory.”
    “They might not know it, but yes. Every time you take a step, even when you don’t want to,” said Bleak. “When it hurts, when it means you rub chins with death, or even if it means dying, that’s good. Anything that moves ahead, wins. No chess game was ever won by the player who sat for a lifetime thinking over his next move.”
    Quartermain let himself be pushed another block in silence and then said: “Braling was a fool.”
    “The metronome? Yes.” Bleak shook his head. “He might be alive today if he hadn’t scared himself to death. He thought he could stand still or even run backward. He thought he could trick life. Tricked himself right into a fine oration and a quick burial.”
    They turned a corner.
    “Oh, it’s hard to let go,” said Quartermain. “All my life I’ve held on to everything I ever touched. Preach to me, Bleak!”
    Bleak, obediently, preached: “Learning to let go should be learned before learning to get. Life should be touched, not strangled. You’ve got to relax, let it happen at times, and at others move forward with it. It’s like boats. You keep your motor on so you can steer with the current. And when you hear the sound of the waterfall coming nearer and nearer, tidy up the boat, put on your best tie and hat, and smoke a cigar right up till the moment you go over. That’s a triumph. Don’t argue with the cataract.”
    “Take me around the block again.”
    “Here we go.”
    The leaf-light flickered on the paper-thin skin of the old men’s wrists, the shadows alternating with fading sunlight. They moved in a soft whisper.
    “All of a sudden. In that boy’s face . . . He gave me a piece of cake, Bleak.”
    “I saw him.”
    “Why, why did he do it? He kept looking at me as if I were someone new. Was that it? Or what? Why did he do it? And there I was, me, staring out of his face. And I knew I’d lost.”
    “Let’s say you didn’t win, maybe. But you didn’t lose.”
    “What broke me down all of a sudden? I hated that monster, and then, suddenly, I hated myself. Why?”
    “Because he wasn’t your son.”
    “Ridiculous!”
    “Nevertheless. You never got married that I knew . . .”
    “Never!”
    “Never had children?”
    “Never!”
    “And the children never had children.”
    “Of course not. Impossible!”
    “You cut yourself off from life. The boy has recon nected you. He is the grandson you should have had, to keep the juices flowing, life staying alert.”
    “Hard to believe.”
    “You’re coming around. You can’t cut all the phone lines and still be on speaking terms with the world. Instead of living inside your son and your son’s son, you were really heading for the junkyard. The boy reminded you of your utter and complete fi nish.”
    “No more, no more!” Quartermain grabbed the hard rubber wheels of his chair, causing them to stop short.
    “Face up to it,”