Not everyone loves July 4 on Main Street. God knows some of our friends avoid it as if it were the plague. Staying inside, shades pulled low, flicking the pages of the Inquirer Mirror with distaste at every hoot or holler. But if this isn’t the real America, children and dogs and musicians and shopkeepers all mixing on a cobblestone street, what is? The hordes of tiny flag-painted faces. The blueberry ice cream running down wrists. The star-spangled water guns, the street music, the fire truck standing by to douse the crowd at noon. And the crush, the sheer volume of people inching along is just the small price we pay.
Tripp and I had always appreciated the hubbub. Some traditions aren’t easy; that doesn’t make them any less worth doing. You want a clam, you have to dig it. To enjoy a bonfire, you have to gather the wood.
We’d taken Sydney every year since she was a baby, even in a stroller. And of course she wanted to go! We all did, even Tom.
The stores had been preparing for weeks, of course, setting up window and sidewalk displays. Most of the day-trippers would come later, streaming off the boats and walking straight up Main Street, here for afternoon shopping, dinner, and the fireworks, not the daytime festivities. No. Complain about it all you like, but this morning at least, downtown was for people who lived here or summered here or were spending the weekend here. The numbers had swollen, but what did it matter? If we were separated in the crowd, we knew our way around. Sydney could find her way home with one eye closed.
And Tripp… Well, he seemed to be doing a little better. Remembered what day it was and what we had planned and didn’t suggest we go bungee jumping or deep-sea diving, thank God. Courtney had not brought the hoverboard he’d been so excited about because they don’t let them on planes anymore—it was the first question Caroline had asked her as she helped her to her room. Not “Did you have a smooth flight?” or “Would you like to call your mother and tell her you’re here?” I think if I hadn’t been standing nearby, she might have gone through the child’s luggage, aiming to confiscate anything that remotely looked like fun. I know she was furious that the child showed up, but really, why couldn’t Sydney have a little friend along? How dull for a child to have only her parents, grandparents, and uncle for company! Finally, Tripp had done something that made a modicum of sense!
We stood on the lawn of our little cottage, waiting for Tom to finish in the bathroom, as he managed to sleep later than anyone despite being on the couch in the middle of everything. Eyes closed, mouth closed, one hand under his head like a little cherub. He had always looked so peaceful, so calm. Even as a little boy, getting a shot or falling off his bike. Never hysterical, like some little boys can be. I always thought he’d choose a profession that would make good use of that, a diplomat or surgeon, but when I told him those things, he’d just laugh.
Now he’d grown into a calm man with a job that didn’t require the use of any of his gifts. The boys he went to school with were litigators and doctors and senators. I imagine their parents asking, “Whatever became of Tom Warner?” and being told he had the best job in the world. Drinking wine all day. The fathers would laugh, but the mothers would frown. They knew better.
Still, Tom had always had a nice relationship with his father, balancing Tripp’s upbeat energy, and I didn’t think twice when Tom bounded outside, hair damp from the shower, and announced that he and his dad were going to split off for a little bonding time. They’d watch a little Wimbledon, then look at yachts down at Straight Wharf, talk to the fishermen. I told him that sounded like an excellent idea, as if he’d thought of it himself, as if I didn’t know it had been preordained. Even children who don’t get along particularly well will conspire against you if given the chance. All mothers know this.
John said nothing. Didn’t offer to go along with Tom, just followed us with his mouth shut. We walked into town the quickest and safest way, on the sidewalk, along Bathing Beach Road. It was crystal clear they were in cahoots. Caroline and I hardly needed any assistance with the girls. But the decree had been laid down.
I followed like a lemming. My own fault, in retrospect. After all, I was the one who asked them for help. And isn’t it always your closest lieutenants who stage the coup?