A sneeze!
They spun. They stared.
Who lay there on the moonlit earth?
Jim? Jim Nightshade?
Had he stirred? Was his mouth wider, his eyelids quivering? Were his cheeks pinker?
Don't look! Dad swung Will handily round in a further reel. They do-si-do'ed, hands extended, the harmonica seeping and guzzling raw tunes from a father who storked his legs and turkeyed his arms. They hopped Jim one way, hopped back, as if he were but a lump-stone on the grass.
"Someone's in the kitchen with Dinah! Someone's in the kitchen--"
"--I know-oh-oh-oh!"
Jim's tongue slid out on his lips.
No one saw this. Or if they saw, ignored it, fearing it might pass.
Jim did the final things himself. His eyes opened. He watched the dancing fools. He could not believe. He had been off on a journey of years. Now, returned, no one said "Hi!" All jigged Sambo-style. Tears might have jumped to his eyes. But before they could start, Jim's mouth curved. He gave up a ghost of laughter. For, after all, there indeed was silly Will and his silly old janitor dad racing like gorillas knuckle-dusting the meadows, their faces a puzzlement. They toppled above him, clapped hands, wiggled ears, bent to wash him all over with their now bright full-river flowing laughter that could not be stopped if the sky fell or the earth rent open, to blend their good mirth with his, to fuse-light and set him off in a detonation which could not stop exploding from lady-fingers to four-inchers to doomsday cannon crackers of delight!
And looking down, jolt-dancing his bones loose and delicious, Will thought: Jim don't remember he was dead, so we won't tell, not now--some day, sure, but not ... Doo-dah! Doo-dah!
They didn't even say "Hello, Jim" or "Join the dance," they just put out hands as if he had fallen from their swung pandemonium commotion and needed a boost back into the swarm. They yanked Jim. Jim flew. Jim came down dancing.
And Will knew, hand in hand, hot palm to palm, they had truly yelled, sung, gladly shouted the live blood back. They had slung Jim like the newborn, knocked his lungs, slapped his back, shocked joyous breath to where it made room.
Then Dad bent and Will leaped over him and Will bent and Dad jumped him and they both waited, crouched in a line, wheezing songs, deliciously tired, while Jim swallowed spit, and ran full tilt. He got half over Dad when they all fell, rolled in the grass, all hoot-owl and donkey, all brass and cymbal as it must have been the first year of Creation, and Joy not yet thrown from the Garden.
Until at last they drew up their feet, socked each other's shoulders, embraced knees tight, rocking, and looking with swift bright happiness at each other, growing wine-drunkenly quiet.
And when they were done smiling at each other's faces as at burning torches, they looked away across the field.
And the black tent poles lay in elephant boneyards with the dead tents blowing away like the petals of a great black rose.
The only three people in a sleeping world, a rare trio of tomcats, they basked in the moon.
"What happened?" asked Jim, at last.
"What didn't!" cried Dad.
And they laughed again, when suddenly Will grabbed Jim, held him tight and wept.
"Hey," Jim said, over and over, quietly. "Hey ... hey ..."
"Oh, Jim, Jim," Will said. "We'll be pals forever."
"Sure, hey sure." Jim was very quiet now.
"It's all right," said Dad. "Have a small cry. We're out of the woods. Then we'll laugh some more, going home."
Will let Jim go.
They got to their feet and stood looking at each other. Will examined his father, with fierce pride.
"Oh, Dad, Dad, you did it, you did it!"
"No, we did it together."