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What

they

talked

of

all

evening

long

,

no

one

remembered

next

day

.

It

wasn

’

t

important

to

anyone

what

the

adults

talked

about

;

it

was

only

important

that

the

sounds

came

and

went

over

the

delicate

ferns

that

bordered

the

porch

on

three

sides

;

it

was

only

important

that

the

darkness

filled

the

town

like

black

water

being

poured

over

the

houses

,

and

that

the

cigars

glowed

and

that

the

conversations

went

on

,

and

on

.

The

female

gossip

moved

out

,

disturbing

the

first

mosquitoes

so

they

danced

in

frenzies

on

the

air

.

The

male

voices

invaded

the

old

house

timbers

;

if

you

closed

your

eyes

and

put

your

head

down

against

the

floor

boards

you

could

hear

the

men

’

s

voices

rumbling

like

a

distant

,

political

earthquake

,

constant

,

unceasing

,

rising

or

falling

a

pitch

.

Douglas

sprawled

back

on

the

dry

porch

planks

,

completely

contented

and

reassured

by

these

voices

,

which

would

speak

on

through

eternity

,

flow

in

a

stream

of

murmurings

over

his

body

,

over

his

closed

eyelids

,

into

his

drowsy

ears

,

for

all

time

.

The

rocking

chairs

sounded

like

crickets

,

the

crickets

sounded

like

rocking

chairs

,

and

the

moss

-

covered

rain

barrel

by

the

dining

-

room

window

produced

another

generation

of

mosquitoes

to

provide

a

topic

of

conversation

through

endless

summers

ahead

.

Sitting

on

the

summer

-

night

porch

was

so

good

,

so

easy

and

so

reassuring

that

it

could

never

be

done

away

with

.

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These

were

rituals

that

were

right

and

lasting

;

the

lighting

of

pipes

,

the

pale

hands

that

moved

knitting

needles

in

the

dimness

,

the

eating

of

foil

-

wrapped

,

chilled

Eskimo

Pies

,

the

coming

and

going

of

all

the

people

.

For

at

some

time

or

other

during

the

evening

,

everyone

visited

here

;

the

neighbors

down

the

way

,

the

people

across

the

street

;

Miss

Fern

and

Miss

Roberta

humming

by

in

their

electric

runabout

,

giving

Tom

or

Douglas

a

ride

around

the

block

and

then

coming

up

to

sit

down

and

fan

away

the

fever

in

their

cheeks

;

or

Mr

.

Jonas

,

the

junkman

,

having

left

his

horse

and

wagon

hidden

in

the

alley

,

and

ripe

t

,

bursting

with

words

,

would

come

up

the

steps

looking

as

fresh

as

if

his

talk

had

never

been

said

before

,

and

somehow

it

never

had

.

And

last

of

all

,

the

children

,

who

had

been

off

squinting

their

way

through

a

last

hide

-

and

-

seek

or

kick

-

the

-

can

,

panting

,

glowing

,

would

sickle

quietly

back

like

boomerangs

along

the

soundless

lawn

,

to

sink

beneath

the

talking

talking

talking

of

the

porch

voices

which

would

weigh

and

gentle

them

down

.

.

.

Oh

,

the

luxury

of

lying

in

the

fern

night

and

the

grass

night

and

the

night

of

susurrant

,

slumbrous

voices

weaving

the

dark

together

.

The

grownups

had

forgotten

he

was

there

,

so

still

,

so

quiet

Douglas

lay

,

noting

the

plans

they

were

making

for

his

and

their

own

futures

.

And

the

voices

chanted

,

drifted

,

in

moonlit

clouds

of

cigarette

smoke

while

the

moths

,

like

late

appleblossoms

come

alive

,

tapped

faintly

about

the

far

street

lights

,

and

the

voices

moved

on

into

the

coming

years

.

.

.

In

front

of

the

United

Cigar

Store

this

evening

the

men

were

gathered

to

burn

dirigibles

,

sink

battleships

,

blow

up

dynamite

works

and

,

all

in

all

,

savor

the

very

bacteria

in

their

porcelain

mouths

that

would

someday

stop

them

cold

.

Clouds

of

annihilation

loomed

and

blew

away

in

their

cigar

smoke

about

a

nervous

figure

who

could

be

seen

dimly

listening

to

the

sound

of

shovels

and

spades

and

the

intonations

of

"

ashes

to

ashes

,

dust

to

dust

.

"

This

figure

was

that

of

Leo

Auffmann

,

the

town

jeweler

,

who

,

widening

his

large

liquid

-

dark

eyes

,

at

last

threw

up

his

childlike

hands

and

cried

out

in

dismay

.

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"

Stop

!

In

God

’

s

name

,

get

out

of

that

graveyard

!

"

"

Lee

,

how

right

you

are

,

"

said

Grandfather

Spaulding

,

passing

on

his

nightly

stroll

with

his

grandsons

Douglas

and

Tom

.

"

But

,

Lee

,

only

you

can

shut

these

doom

-

talkers

up

·

Invent

something

that

will

make

the

future

brighter

,

well

rounded

,

infinitely

joyous

.

You

’

ve

invented

bicycles

,

fixed

the

penny

-

arcade

contraptions

,

been

our

town

movie

projectionist

,

haven

’

t

you

?

"

"

Sure

,

"

said

Douglas

.

"

invent

us

a

happiness

machine

!

"

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