Once, when I was about four, I told Miss Hagerty that Millerton knows how to get dressed up. Miss Hagerty laughed and said, “You are absolutely right, Dearie.”

It’s true. Millerton does know how to get dressed up. And it gets dressed up for every holiday you can think of. Halloween and Christmas are my favorites. At Halloween, jack-o’-lanterns glow in the windows of the stores downtown. Orange lights are strung between the lampposts. And almost everybody decorates their yards with witches and ghosts, or sheaves of corn husks with gourds and ears of dried corn. At Christmas, the store windows are trimmed with holly and greens and red ribbons and candy canes. And the town is aglow. Entire houses are outlined in lights.

Independence Day may not be quite as spectacular as Christmas, but it’s still fun. Downtown Millerton turns red, white, and blue at the beginning of every July. American flags wave up and down Nassau Street, and in front of most houses. Kids twine red and blue crepe paper through the spokes of their bicycle wheels and ride around town in a purple blur.

The first thing I do on the morning of July 4^th is peer out my window. I am hoping, hoping for blue sky and no clouds. My wish is granted. The sky looks like an azure mountain lake.

I run downstairs and fix Miss Hagerty’s tray in a big hurry. When I set it on her bed I say, “No rain today. Not a cloud in sight.”

Miss Hagerty grins. “Wonderful. We won’t be rained out, then.”

On the Fourth of July a band concert is held in the town square, and everyone brings picnics and talks and visits and eats while the Millerton Brass Band plays marches and show tunes and “My Country ’Tis of Thee” and “The Star-Spangled Banner.” But last year the concert was rained out, and we sat at home and watched some fuzzy fireworks on the evening news. That is not going to happen this year.

I always go to the band concert with Mom and Dad and Nana and Papa. The band concert is one town event of which Nana approves. It is tasteful. The music is patriotic.

This year Adam will go with us. He seems to be very excited. “Wonderful, rousing, heart-lifting music, Hattie. Marches by Sousa. Oh, say can you see, broad stripes, bright stars, and Lucy dedicates a statue. Oh, ho, ho, ho, Hattie!”

Late in the afternoon, Mom and Dad and I leave our house carrying a large cooler. In it is a watermelon that Dad has fashioned into a basket by slicing off the top half except for the “handle,” and scooping out the insides. He’s filled it with pieces of fruit, making it an actual fruit basket. I think it is one of his more clever creations. Every year we offer to contribute something more to the picnic, but Nana likes to take control of things. What this means, basically, is that she likes to transport to the town square one of the spectacular meals that normally would be eaten in Nana and Papa’s formal dining room. While everyone else at the picnic is eating hot dogs and potato salad on paper plates with plastic forks, we are eating hors d’oeuvres and steak and baby carrots on china plates with silverware.

I am aware that people stare at us. Even so, I wouldn’t want to miss the concert.

Mom and Dad and I arrive at the town square and search the crowd for Nana and Papa and Adam. They should be easy to spot. Sure enough. They’re sitting on a large blanket like everyone else, but the stack of gold-rimmed plates and the clanking of silver are hard to miss.

Adam looks up as we approach. “Hattie! Hattie!” he calls. “Dorothy! Jonathan! It’s time for the annual fete. Look here! Sizzling barbecued chicken, a tantalizing array of vegetables —”

While Adam itemizes our meal, Dad unpacks the cooler. He sets the fruit basket carefully on a platter provided by Nana. Adam’s eyes fall on it. For exactly one second he is speechless. Then a torrent of words pours forth. “Jonathan, how grand, how simply grand. A creation beyond all creations, yes, oh, yes!”

Adam is jumping up and down and wringing his hands. I glance around. Next to us a family with three boys has spread their picnic on a faded blue bedspread. On their plates are hot dogs and hamburgers and deviled eggs. They have been eating but have stopped with their hands halfway to their mouths to stare at Adam. They have actually stopped that way, like people in a cartoon.

I decide to stare back at one of them. I select the mother in the family, the person I hold responsible for teaching manners to her children. I grab a cookie from a plate, hold it halfway to my own mouth, and stare at her until she notices me. When she does, her face turns bright red and I feel gratified.

After he gets over the excitement of the watermelon basket, Adam settles down. We fill our plates with food and begin to eat as the band tunes up. Dad takes the movie camera out of its case and pans around the square. Then he focuses in on Mom, me, Nana, and Papa. Each of us waves and smiles. When he swings the camera around to Adam and says, “Smile!” Adam refuses to look at him. “Adam!” Dad calls. I know Adam hears him, but he begins to eat rapidly, shoveling in forkful after forkful of chicken. I don’t know why he suddenly won’t look at the camera. He just won’t. Dad turns his attention back to the rest of us. Papa points to the chicken, then rubs his stomach in a grand circular motion. Mom mouths, “YUM, YUM, YUM.” Still, Adam won’t do anything but eat. I’m sitting next to him. I let out a long, low burp that I know only he can hear. Finally Adam laughs. Dad is happy, I am happy, everyone is happy.

The band finishes tuning up and begins playing something quiet that I don’t recognize. Around me the crowd seems to ease into themselves. Voices grow softer. A few minutes later, when Jack parks the Good Humor truck at the edge of the square, there is no mad rush to it, like there is when it comes tinkling down our street on bright afternoons. Instead, here and there someone yawns and stretches, then stands slowly and searches for change before ambling to the truck to choose an ice-cream sandwich or a Popsicle.

I’m glad everyone is slowing down, keeping to themselves. The blankets become small islands that people are hesitant to step off of. I begin to relax.

“Well,” says Nana as she and my mother stack our plates. “Who wants dessert?” She sounds very perky.

“Dessert,” I repeat. “Yum. What is it?”

Nana reaches into one of her picnic baskets. “Strawberry and blueberry pie with whipped cream.”

“Oh, red, white, and blue!” I exclaim. I glance at Adam, sure this will please him.

Adam’s face looks hard, though. Hard and tight and actually a little frightening. “I want to get dessert from the Good Humor truck,” he says.

“But Ermaline made —” Nana starts to say.

Adam jumps up. “I don’t like strawberries! I want chocolate ice cream. I have enough money.” He withdraws some change from his pocket. “And I want to see Sandy.”

Papa frowns. “Sandy? Oh, Adam, Sandy doesn’t drive the Good Humor truck anymore.”

“Yeah, now it’s Jack,” I pipe up.

“I don’t care who drives the damn truck,” says Adam loudly. “I’m going to get ice cream.” He begins loping through the crowd. Although he doesn’t actually run over anyone’s blanket, he pushes through groups of people and knocks over someone’s lawn chair.

“Go with him, Hattie,” says Nana, pushing me forward.

My heart is pounding, and my stomach feels sour, but when I catch up with Adam, he grins at me. “I have enough money for two ice creams,” he says. “What do you want, Hattie? What do you want? Do you want a treat? Do you want ice cream? I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream!”

“I want —”

“Look! There’s the truck! And there’s the man. Is that man Jack, Hattie? Is he Jack?”

There is no line at the truck, and I am glad. “Yes, it’s Jack,” I say.

Jack sees me and calls, “Happy Fourth, Hattie!”

“Happy Fourth!” I reply. “Jack, this is my uncle Adam. Adam, this is —”

“Yes, yes, the famous Jack. Greetings, Jack. What do you have here in your splendid truck? I myself would like chocolate ice cream. Do you have chocolate ice cream for your royal subjects? And what would you like, Hattie? When Lucy was pregnant, she got cravings at four o’clock in the morning. She asked Ricky to bring her pistachio ice cream with hot fudge and sardines. Oh, boy, wonderful!”

Jack laughs gently. “Well, I don’t have any sardines here.”

Adam laughs too. He seems to calm down.

A moment later, Adam has his chocolate ice-cream bar and I have an ice-cream sandwich. We say good-bye to Jack and return to our blanket.

We have no sooner sat down than the quiet music becomes “When the Saints Go Marching In.” The party mood returns to the crowd. People talk more loudly. I see the shadowy figures of men and women as they rise to talk with friends or to chase after children. Halfway through the song I realize that Adam is no longer on our blanket. I’m the only one who notices, since not only is it growing dark but six of Nana and Papa’s friends have stopped to chat with them, and the grown-ups are busy getting coffee out of the silver urn.

I leap up. I have an idea where Adam is and, still licking the chocolate off of my fingers, I run to the bandstand.

Adam has placed himself directly behind the conductor and is dancing to the music. I have to admit that the music makes even me feel like dancing. But at Millerton’s annual Fourth of July band concert, people do not dance. They sit and eat and talk and visit.

Only Adam dances. So of course he attracts a lot of attention. Quite a few people stop their eating and talking to turn and stare at the young man who is jumping up and down, up and down in time to the music. Sometimes he wrings his hands. Sometimes he calls out, “Happiness! Happiness!” which makes me smile. What a wonderful way to celebrate Independence Day.

The song ends, and another one begins. I glance over my shoulder. My parents and grandparents are still busy with their guests. I decide to wait until this new song ends and then try to talk to Adam. I don’t think I should disturb him now.

I’m standing behind him, waiting, when I hear the words freak show.” I whirl around.

Well, there they are. Nancy and Janet. What a surprise. I shoot a look at them. And then, even though the music hasn’t stopped, I take Adam by the arm and lead him toward our blanket. He allows this, just as he allowed me to walk him home on that early morning. As we make our way through the crowd he winds down, so that by the time we return to Nana and Papa he’s just Adam again, talking about his chocolate ice cream.

I sit on the edge of the blanket, apart from everyone. My face is burning. Over the treetops I see fireworks showering the night sky. I think they are the fireworks at Fred Carmel’s.

I am just sitting there, staring, when an absolutely horrible thought occurs to me. I don’t know exactly what is wrong with Adam, but maybe it’s one of those diseases that run in families. Maybe that’s why Nana and Papa seem ashamed of him. And maybe … is that why Mom and Dad never told me about Adam? To keep the knowledge of his illness from me? Do they maybe even think that I’m a little like Adam? Is that why Mom wants me to be more like other kids — so she can prove to herself that I’m not going to turn out like Adam one day?

I twist around and look at my family. I can’t stop the questions from coming. And I can’t ask a single one of them.