The Fourth of July weekend loomed; fireworks were set for Saturday night. Tim’s wife continued to bleed; I continued to work overtime. The sun did not set until nearly ten o’clock, and in the heat no one slept well—except for Dave, who sawed logs down the hall from my room and got up several times a night to use the bathroom. His jail term over, he was staying with us—until he “got his bearings,” as my mother put it. I didn’t really mind; I was hardly ever home.
At the station, tourist traffic rose toward a crescendo. Mr. Davies hired a part-time kid, Eugene Siskin, whom I trained for the night shift. He could not handle two cars at once and only made my job harder. I taught him the seven-point code, and warned him of the possibility of Mr. Shell’s arrival. But my heart was not in it.
As the week wore on, the double shifts wore me down. Driving home from work on Wednesday night, I braked the truck hard and skidded sideways to avoid flapping crows and a white picket fence—but found only black asphalt patches on the highway and the orderly white stripes of the center line.
On a hot Thursday night, toward closing, Dale Bender’s Chevy passed through the intersection. Its dark
tinted windows were fully closed but I was certain I saw a smudge of blond hair behind the smoked glass. Friday night Dale himself came alone to the station. “How’s it going, Paul?”
“It’s gotta go,” I said.
He smiled briefly, and lit a Lucky Strike. I squinted at him in the streetlight. His eyes were bloodshot and tired, as if he hadn’t been sleeping.
“I been thinking, Paul.”
“About what?”
“About Peggy. After I leave.”
“When do you go?”
“Two weeks. Leave from Fargo on the bus.”
“Jesus, Dale,” I said. I felt weepy for some weird reason.
“Hey, get a grip, Paul. You ain’t the one drafted.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Tired, I guess.”
“Here,” he said, shaking a single Lucky Strike half out of the pack, and holding it out to me, “you need a cigarette.”
“No, thanks.”
He laughed. “What—you think you’re gonna live forever?”
I paused, then took it.
Later that night I slipped out of the house to meet Janet. We found each other along the cool, curving concrete side of the silo. Neither of us said anything—we crashed together and kissed until we couldn’t breathe.
Afterward, we slipped around the barn and down the lane in the moonlight. She pulled away and ran laughing ahead of me. I caught her—a clumsy tackle—and we fell into the hay field, onto a sweet-smelling windrow of alfalfa, and lay there kissing until the mosquitoes found us. They tickled and pricked our skin. We swatted them as best we could, but with our arms entwined, our hands busy elsewhere, the mosquitoes escaped, drifting from Janet to me, me to Janet. When we did kill them, they left little black smears on our pale skin. The blood could have been hers, could have been mine.
“We have to keep moving!” I said, and we ran, outpacing the mosquitoes for at least a couple of minutes.
“Fireworks Saturday night,” I said.
“I love fireworks,” she said, taking my hand.
“We’ll go together.”
We walked on in the moonlight, in silence.
Then she stopped me and said, “Is and your father have the engine almost back together.”
“Maybe it won’t run,” I blurted.
We stared at each other, then Janet began to cry. We leaned up against a tree and kissed, and let the mosquitoes take us.
On Saturday afternoon the old, the handicapped, the lonely, and parents with carloads of whining kids began to arrive in town to position themselves for the fireworks—which were not until ten o’clock at night. It was always a contest to see who secured the best parking spot
at the Hawk Lake landing. Fireworks were shot from a barge moored just offshore.
“Pathetic,” Kirk muttered as traffic in town thickened. “It’s like they’ve never seen fireworks in their sorry lives.” Eugene Siskin had quit, and Kirk was pressed into service at the gas pumps. Luckily, Tim was back on duty, so I punched out at six, and sped home against heavy incoming traffic to get Janet.
And her family.
“Sorry—they all want to come,” Janet whispered, as Rising Moon rounded up the children. Janet’s face and neck were spotted with bright red mosquito bites (I had them like chicken pox).
“Can we ride in the back of Paul’s truck? Can we, can we?” the children shouted.
“Why not?” Is said. The kids looked healthier now—tanned and fuller in their faces. They all scrambled aboard.
“We’ll find you there,” my mother called from across the yard. Dave already waited by the car. It was like he was one of our family now—the older, prodigal brother come home. If so, what did that make me?
The drive from the city limits sign to the landing took a full twenty minutes. “An actual traffic jam,” Is called. He stood up in the rear to see better, and his tie-dyed T-shirt and bushel of black hair drew stares. But not for long; people were too busy having fun. Music played from car radios and tape players, and ahead the smell of
hot dogs and burgers wafted from the parking lot where the local Jaycees had set up their brightly painted food trailer. Nearby was a competing trailer belonging to the Elks Club. I found a good parking spot on a side hill and we all clambered out. Below, at the landing, kids splashed and chased dogs in the water.
“Can we? Can we?” called Safflower and, without waiting for an answer, grabbed the toddler and ran toward the shore.
“I better go keep an eye on them,” Rising Moon said, and followed.
“They’ll be fine,” Is said as he continued to stare at all the farmers and tourists.
“What a crowd,” Janet murmured.
Is surveyed the scene. “Sad.”
“Why sad?” I said.
“It’s sad how deeply people have bought into the whole patriotic load of crap.”
I shrugged. “Patriotism is not all bad.”
“Wait till you get drafted and sent to Vietnam—then you’ll change your tune.”
I was silent.
“Farm boys like you from small towns, poor black and Hispanic kids—that’s who the government wants for their war machine. You’re perfect, and you know why?”
“No. Tell me,” I said sarcastically.
“Because you haven’t been politicized. You have no awareness of global issues. You haven’t started to think.”
“For once just shut up!” Janet said.
Is blinked and drew back.
“Come on, Paul,” she said, and tugged me away. We found a spot on a grassy bank by a tree, which put us above the sea of people on their blankets and in their lawn chairs. She leaned against me. We didn’t talk as we watched the people. The sun settled toward the far lakeshore and twilight rose dusky, smoky; the air drew grays and blues from the lake.
“Soon,” I said, slipping my arm around her.
“I can’t wait.”
“For what?” I teased.
“Why, the fireworks, of course; what did you mean?” Through my arm tight around her I could feel her smile.
And then the opening shot: Ka-boom!
The crowd cheered in one voice. Fireworks arced and hung—a sudden bleed of color quickly healed by the purpling air. “Oooooh! Ahhhh!” went the crowd at each shot. I lost track of time. Holding on to Janet always felt better than anything I’d ever done in my life. Eventually a red, white, and blue flag of fire—with heavier concussions—brought everyone cheering to their feet.
“That’s it,” I said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Grand finale.”
“How do you know?” she said. “Let’s wait.”
We did, but there were no more fireworks.
In the parking lot we met up with my parents. Janet
and I held hands defiantly, brazenly. “I want to stay in town for a while,” I said to my parents.
“Me, too,” said Janet.
The two sets of parents stared at us. Safflower sing-songed, “Janet-loves-Paul, Janet-loves-Paul.”
“Just shut up!” Janet said.
Is and Rising Moon laughed; my parents didn’t.
“Hey—it’s the Fourth of July in middle America,” Is said. “Let the kids have some fun.”
“But not too much fun,” my mother said. She stepped forward and touched my face—as if to protect me, inoculate me from this midsummer night—then turned away.
As the crowd flowed past, Janet and I waited in my truck and listened to the radio. Janet laughingly pulled me down onto the seat, out of sight of passersby, and we murmured and touched each other until the landing was quiet. Janet popped up to look. “Everyone’s gone,” she whispered; she sank back down, took my hand, and held it to her breast. I left it there for a burning moment, then pulled away. “Not here,” I whispered. “If we’re going to do it, we should do it right.”
“You mean it?”
I paused a moment. “Yes.”
“When?”
I turned up my face to hers; I could see stars through the windshield above me. “Tomorrow night.”
“Where?”
“I’m thinking, I’m thinking.”
“Somewhere” (kiss) “without” (kiss) “mosquitoes,” she said. And we made out until the stars moved, until the Big Dipper rose in the northwest sky.
Much, much later, as we came home I shut off the truck’s engine well ahead of the house and we coasted into the yard. Even the dog didn’t bark. Is was still up, silhouetted by the embers of the fire ring.
I walked her home, so to speak—to the van and the fire ring. Is looked up. His eyes were slitty in the orange glow, and he was smoking a hand-rolled cigarette, which he cupped in his palm as we approached.
“Well well, if it isn’t the lovebirds.”
“I’m going to bed,” Janet said. She blew me a kiss, mouthed “Tomorrow night,” and disappeared into the van. I smiled and turned to go.
“Hey, Paul, what’s the rush?” Is said.
“It’s kinda late.”
“Too hot to sleep.”
I was silent.
“Let me ask you a question.”
“All right,” I said.
He looked up at me. “Do you believe all that Bible crap your parents lay on you?”
I paused. “Bible crap?”
“You know what I mean.” Is motioned for me to sit down. I glanced over my shoulder to the darkened house.
“The Bible runs their lives big-time,” he said, “but what about you?”
I shrugged. “I dunno.”
“A reasonable answer,” Is said. He took another puff and stared into the fire. At length he said, “But the question remains, doesn’t it?”
“What question?”
“The main one, the big one, the heaviest one of all: Is the Bible true?”
I was silent. I crouched by the fire, poked it briefly with a small stick.
“Your parents think it is. Certainly, so do those Workers who are after you. But what do you think?”
I shrugged. “I’m not sure. Maybe some parts are, some aren’t.”
He took a puff of his joint, handed it to me. I knew what it was, and if I had not already had a cigarette from Dale, offered in the same, easy motion, I would not have taken it. But I did. I took a short puff—coughed once—and handed it back. It tasted way sweeter and better than a Lucky Strike.
“I used to believe,” Is said. “The whole Bible, I mean—which was a little strange for a Jew. But then as I got older and saw how the world really works, how crappy and unfair things are, I came to think that none of it was true—that God gave up on us.”
“Which means He was there at some point,” I said.
Is smiled. “Very good. You got me there.” He
handed me the joint; I took a longer draw. I did not cough this time. “So you do believe,” he said.
I slowly exhaled. “I guess. Sort of. I mean, somebody had to get the world started. Nothing can come from nowhere.”
“Okay, I’ll go for that,” Is allowed. “But what do we do about Jesus? God is pretty simple to explain; it’s Jesus who creates the problem for us.”
The fire shifted, glowed, snapped briefly; we thought about that. Gradually there were two campfires, then three. I touched the ground to steady myself. “Listen, I should go,” I said.
“Sure,” Is said absently, and didn’t look up.
I headed across the dark yard, which suddenly rose in small hills, sank in deep valleys. My stomach churned, and I hung on to the prickly caragana hedge—and threw up. Afterward, I crossed to the milk house, where I splashed water on my face. I slumped there for a while on the cool concrete until I felt better, then passed through the swinging door into the barn. I had chores. I was certain that Dave had not fed the calves—that they were starving, possibly dead. I fumbled with a single lightbulb chain overhead. In the sudden light, black-and-white calves stood up sleepily and blinked at me. Milk bottles lay here and there, but I unlatched the gate and went into their pen to make sure; they didn’t rush me, which was a good sign. Dave had even put down fresh straw—way too much, but better than too little. I held a handful to my nose: it smelled like baked oats, like August. The
calves milled about now, and the pen tilted—threatened to spill all of us, so I latched the gate. I sat down among them. Sat on the clean straw and leaned against the battered wood and squinted my eyes at the fly-spotted little sun that swung slowly overhead. I heaved up and caught its chain, turned off the light. The calves soon quieted, and I closed my eyes—just for a second. I listened to sounds of the night barn: the purr of pigeons in the hayloft, the skitter of mice overhead, the whisper of stars as they swam through the dark ocean of the sky, the pale froth of the Milky Way.