by Una Mannion
I picked up Mrs. Boucher’s New York Times. Some mornings we listened to the radio, but it was on Friday nights at Mrs. Boucher’s that I connected to the world. She had newspapers and magazines and television. Reagan was on almost every page. We hadn’t voted for him. My mother had voted for Jimmy Carter. Reagan wanted to spend more money on nuclear arms, and he was against workers and the environment. My dad died before Reagan got the nomination, but he had told me about him because Reagan was one of the actors who had testified against others during the McCarthy trials. My father had hated him for this. He said Reagan lacked honor.
One afternoon the summer before the election, we were driving down Lancaster Avenue, and Marie noticed that the car in the lane next to us had a bumper sticker that read Wyman Was Right. It took me a minute to comprehend what this meant, that Reagan’s first wife, an actress named Jane Wyman, was right to divorce him. Whoever it was didn’t like Reagan either. At the next traffic light we pulled alongside them in the next lane, Mom beeping and all of us waving and giving thumbs-up. The other driver just stared straight ahead. We must have looked like lunatics.
Everything in the paper was depressing: how Reagan was rolling back the reforms made by the civil rights movement in the 1960s and the environmental movements of the 1970s. Workers were in trouble. Air traffic controllers were getting ready to strike; garbage haulers in New Jersey were already on strike, and mountains of trash were piling up on the streets.
“Little patriots on bikes,” Abbey had said the other night, and I thought that more and more I was becoming like Dad, that things happening to America upset me. This was us in the newspaper, this was what the United States was becoming. Everything we cared about was being destroyed, the forests and our water systems, and here we were, making decorations to celebrate this idea of us. I knew this was exactly what had separated my father from other Irish immigrants that we knew, who’d embraced it all and said America was the greatest country on earth. For them it was. They became part of it, took citizenship tests, got good jobs and mortgages. But we’d got stuck. My dad hadn’t been able to talk like that, and even though he was smart and worked harder than anyone I knew, he’d always seemed to struggle.
Soon Wilson would drive along Horseshoe because I had asked him. I wished I never had. It was like what my dad said about those who investigated people, that they were the ones who were most un-American. I wanted to call Wilson and say “No, don’t.” But I didn’t know his number, and it was unlisted. And I couldn’t ask Sage.
By the time I’d got Peter to bed, Ellen had fallen asleep on the couch. I watched the TV with no sound, and looked at the clock. At twelve thirty the headlights hit the windows, and for a few seconds they stayed there. And for a moment I thought, Oh thank God, she’s not stopping. But then they cut. I’d made a terrible mistake. I tried to calm myself. Wilson hadn’t liked the idea, and he’d never said he’d actually do it.
At one fifteen, the headlights came on and drew closer, making the tree trunks look as if they were moving across the room. Now Mrs. Boucher was going to give me money, and I had spied on her. And I had to come back in the morning with Ellen to get Peter ready for the parade. I shook Ellen awake and was glad she was with me right then. I didn’t feel like I could face Mrs. Boucher alone.
On the ride home, Mrs. Boucher smoked, and Ellen was still half asleep. I couldn’t think of anything to say, but sat upright and alert, half expecting Wilson to overtake us or Barbie Man to step out of the trees and flag down the car. Mrs. Boucher dropped us at the top of our street. She rolled down her window as we got out.
“See you in the morning. Thank you, Ellen, for doing this with Peter. I wouldn’t have known where to start.”
Ellen mumbled that she was happy to do it. We’d only walked a few yards down the road when I saw that someone was sitting on the quartz rock at the end of our driveway.
“Ellen, Wilson’s on our driveway.” I was afraid she’d scream if I didn’t warn her. But naming him seemed to wake her up, and she waved at him in the dark. We got closer and Wilson stood.
Before I could say “Please don’t tell me, I’ve changed my mind,” he spoke. “Outside the Nike site. Mercedes W123. From twelve twenty-five until one fifteen.”
I knew already, but it still sucked the breath out of me. Why had I asked him to do this? Why had I looked for proof?
“What, Wilson?” Ellen asked.
“Oh, nothing. Was just passing and thought I’d say hello to Stunt Girl, aka Wonder Woman, aka Ellen.”
“In the middle of the night? You’re very strange.” Ellen was looking at him like his strangeness was the best thing ever.
22
We stood in the driveway with Beatrice’s packed suitcase, waiting for my mom to reverse the car out of the garage. It was six a.m. Ellen and Thomas had said goodbye to Beatrice from their beds, but I’d come down. The sky at the eastern tree line behind the Walkers’ turned pink as the sun started to climb. The air was cold, the uncut stalks of grass and leaves still wet with dew; it was the time we’d once have been heading out to cut lawns in Dad’s truck, loading machines, getting ready for a day’s work. A chickadee was singing its heart out in the dogwood at the side of the house. We’d had a lawn job where the woman in the house would come out and feed chickadees from her hand, they were that friendly with humans. She’d told us that the chickadee sometimes warns humans. It could be about danger or to foretell luck. I pointed the bird on the dogwood out to Beatrice, his gray sides and tail, black cap and bib, white cheeks and open mouth.
Beatrice had never left home before. I wanted to hold her and not let go. North Carolina seemed far away. She wouldn’t know anyone. Maybe all the other campers would be there with friends from school, from other southern places, and she’d be all by herself.
“Remember that sometimes you have to talk first and ask girls questions to try to get to know them.” Beatrice looked like she was giving this serious consideration. “And remember, southerners are always polite.”
“So am I.”
“Yeah, but they’re, like, ridiculously polite. Think Sage a thousand times over. So be enthusiastic like . . . all the time. That’s what they’re like down there.”
“Okay. I’ll try.” She looked unsure. It did sound exhausting. Her hair was pulled into low ponytails on either side of her head. She was so serious and young.
My mom was wearing a short denim skirt with a suede belt, a white peasant top, and her Dr. Scholl’s wood sandals. She looked like a teenager. The clothes were new, bought, I guessed, for her time away. I put the suitcase in the trunk, and the three of us stood there for a minute on the driveway, looking at each other.
“Libby, don’t forget: Ellen needs to be ready for the Gambinos by nine because they want to go to ten o’clock mass. The trash goes out Thursdays. Under no circumstances is anyone allowed in this house while I’m gone. I want you home at night by nine o’clock, and Thomas by ten. I could be calling around those times.”
“The fireworks are on tonight at the Sun Bowl. They won’t finish until after nine.”
“Well, just tonight, then.” She stepped toward me with her arms out and held me, and I tried to hug her back. This was awkward for us. We weren’t practiced at it. I wished I could tell her to have a good time where she was staying, that she did deserve it, but the words wouldn’t come out of my mouth. I remembered once when she’d tried to go to the beach for one day by herself, just to get some peace, and fell asleep in the dunes. She’d come home with terrible sunburn that blistered and was sick for days.
“We’ll be good. Promise.” We moved apart, and I nodded at Beatrice, who was wearing a matching green Danskin outfit of shorts and top. “People in the South are probably all dressed in flag today. Maybe Bea should arrive in some red, white, or blue.”
“Oh God. The Fourth of July. We’ll stop somewhere on the road.”
I hugged Beatrice then, her little frame smack against me, and I squeezed her until I knew she could
n’t breathe, and she laughed. “Stamp to scare rattlesnakes and only swim when there’s a lifeguard. And have fun.”
“Bye, Libby.” She sat in the back of the car and waved out the window until they reached the end of the driveway.
The blare of the fire engine’s siren startled me. The red light started to spin, and all those that had gathered broke into a cheer. The parade was starting and ending at the Sun Bowl, and while the loop was only a mile and a bit, it would take about an hour and a half to do the circuit with kids on Big Wheels and tricycles and getting pulled in wagons. We were there from the start. Ellen had ended up decorating one of our bikes as well with Meredith Hunter, back from her vacation, and was cycling along. My job was to stay close to Peter and push him on the Big Wheel when he needed it. Of the twenty or so cyclists that had arrived at the Sun Bowl, Peter’s bike was by far the best. Ellen had done both sides of the poster board so you could read I Am Sam, Sam I Am from behind and from the front. The streamers fluttered red, white, and blue from the top hat and handlebars. Ellen had put white face paint very lightly across Peter’s face and drawn the flag hearts on each cheek. He wore a white T-shirt and the vest Ellen had sewn. Around his neck was a giant red bow made from crêpe paper, with matching bows on his sneakers. The rest of the bikes were just covered in streamers, crêpe paper, and glittery pinwheels, but Peter and Ellen stood out. She had traced matching hearts on her own cheeks and was also wearing a white T-shirt and a tiny vest made from the leftover fabric.
“That’s just so adorable,” I heard one of the mothers say as the fire truck led us down Horseshoe Trail Road toward Forge Mountain Drive. Kids rang their bike bells, and I held on to the back of Peter’s seat as we headed down the hill, to keep him from hurtling forward. At the corner of Forge Mountain Drive another group was waiting, more bikes and streamers and two toddlers in strollers being pushed by their dads, who carried giant milk bottles and a big sign with the American flag. Kids cycled into the growing parade as we passed their houses. There was a procession of cars behind us, beeping, and the fire engine blared. Marie would say this was her idea of hell on earth, but large groups of people coming together always got me, and I felt emotional. At Paul Lemen we met our first real competitor. He had a bike designed as a fighter jet, and the sign read We Salute Our Brave Military. His dad was probably an engineer or something, it was so well done. Peter was pedaling furiously, adrenaline-pumped from all the noise and excitement and older kids on their Flyers. We went past our street, and when we came up to Hamilton another boy joined us on a Big Wheel, dressed in red, white, and blue. Like Peter, he had white face paint, except his face was painted to look sad. Big black teardrops fell from his child eyes. Behind him he hauled a six-foot papier-mâché flag and a sign that read Please Don’t Burn My Flag.
“Do you think the flag one will win?” Ellen asked, pushing her bike beside me.
“Probably. But they should disqualify parents who do everything. It’s not fair.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not like we let Peter do very much either.”
Back at the Sun Bowl, the kids circled the basketball court in front of the judges for a few laps. Ellen and I sat on the swings with Bruce while Mrs. Boucher did the three-legged race with Peter. I hadn’t been able to look at her all day. I didn’t know whether I hated her or myself more. Someone announced with a megaphone that they were now going to have the prize-giving, could all the kids bring their bikes; the winners would be asked to do a circuit of the court. Ellen and I stood near the seesaws, watching as they started calling out the prizes. There was Best Effort and Most Original and Most Patriotic, and Craziest—the two dads with the giant bottles won that. They jogged around the court like they had just run a marathon, beers in one hand, the giant bottles in the other, and we all clapped.
The man with the megaphone stood up again. “Now we’ll have the first, second, and third prizes. In third place, for an original and creative depiction of two great American Sams, is Peter Boucher with ‘I Am Sam, Sam I Am.’”
There was a small cheer, and Mrs. Boucher helped Peter put his hat back on and push the Big Wheel onto the court. She gave Ellen a shy thumbs-up, and I felt my insides rip. She was always so nice to us.
“In second place,” the megaphone man continued, “for a patriotic salute to our war heroes, is Scott Jacobs with ‘We Salute Our Brave Military.’” A huge cheer erupted, and a group of men were all slapping each other’s backs, one of whom I guessed must be Scott’s dad.
“Finally,” the megaphone voice announced, “in first place, a sentiment that touched the hearts of all of us here, is Duke Costello with ‘Please Don’t Burn My Flag.’” Grown men roared and started chanting “Duke—Duke—Duke,” and there was more back-slapping and hooting while the three boys who’d each won a prize circled the basketball court on their contraptions. I looked at them pedaling, three ideas of America, completing their victory lap to the cheers of mostly grown men.
I thought about Abbey’s older brother, whooping at the campfire the other night. He had done multiple tours in Vietnam. He and his friends weren’t here. I wasn’t sure if the flag-burning was a reference to antiwar demonstrations in America, or if it was the burning of the American flag in Iran.
“Ellen’s should’ve won.” Thomas was next to me. I was surprised he had come. “It was the only one that really looked homemade. Those others look like they were made by professional designers.”
Peter was with Ellen and Mrs. Boucher, holding a white third-place ribbon and a little bronze trophy.
“Well done, Sam,” said Thomas.
Peter was about to correct him and then broke into a smile. “Thanks,” he said.
Mrs. Boucher was heading home. They wouldn’t stay for the picnic. I knew none of this was her kind of thing. She gave Ellen a hug. “Thank you. I think you’ve just given him the best day of his life.” I looked at the ground and mumbled goodbye. I felt wretched.
Thomas, Ellen, and I wandered around together for a while. Out on the baseball diamond, children sprinted with eggs and spoons and ran wheelbarrow races, and families spread out picnic blankets and lawn chairs. On the hill a group of men had carried up grills and started to fire them up. We’d have hot dogs and hamburgers later and wait for nightfall and fireworks.
By late afternoon, more teenagers had arrived. Ellen wanted to walk around with Meredith. I scanned the crowd. We were surrounded by neighbors and families. There was no one remotely like Barbie Man around. I told her not to leave the Sun Bowl. Thomas disappeared with a kid he knew from swimming. I could smell the hot dogs and hamburgers cooking and saw kids coming down the embankment. The field was getting dark, the sandstone hill lit by the sun dropping behind it. I went up and got two hot dogs, squirting mustard and ketchup across both. Coming down, I met Abbey. I wondered how she’d known about Mrs. Boucher and if other people had known it, too.
“You’re getting just downright social, Libby Gallagher.”
“I know,” I said with my mouth full of hot dog. “I’m like the mountain’s social butterfly.”
“Careful what you wish for,” she said.
I waited while she got her hot dog, and we sat up on the hill by the swim club, our backs against the fence, waiting for the sun to fall. On this side of the fence, facing the Sun Bowl, honeysuckle climbed through the shrubbery and wound itself around the links, reaching in some parts all the way to the barbed wire at the top. The air was heavy with its scent. I picked one and inhaled it in my palm. In Ireland, honeysuckle growing around doorways and houses kept away bad spirits. I pinched the bottom of the flower and pulled out the stamen with the nectar. I’d never thought of my father as superstitious, but so much of what he’d taught me was how things in nature carried messages between worlds.
Next to me, Abbey started to roll a joint, completely unfazed that there was a field of parents below us. She didn’t even try to conceal it, lighting it and holding it between her forefinger and thumb and squinting as she inhaled. She held
the smoke in her lungs, clamping her mouth shut, and then offered the joint to me. I shook my head. She held the smoke for a few more seconds, then exhaled and raised the joint high up in the air, gesturing toward someone.
“There’s our golden girl.”
Sage was coming across the court, looking up at us. I wanted to get to her before she got to us.
“Abbey, I need to talk to Sage for a few minutes. It’s really important. We’ll come back.” I ran down the hill.
“Hey,” said Sage. She had on her 1976 Rolling Stones T-shirt with the flag tongue.
“Very patriotic of you,” I said.
“Charlotte begged me not to wear it today.”
Hearing Charlotte’s name pained me. I didn’t know how to start. I couldn’t say what I’d found out. I still wanted to know what she was telling Wilson about Barbie Man, about me, maybe even about Jack. Wilson’s “bitter education” remark kept replaying in my head. I didn’t know how to put in words this well of feelings.
“What’s up with you and Wilson?” My tone was wrong. It sounded like an accusation.
“What do you mean? Nothing. You’re the one that left the other night on his Yamaha.”
“You talked to him on the phone about Space Port and Barbie Man. You never told me you did.”
“I have to tell you when I talk to Wilson?” Sage crossed her arms. We were both standing, facing each other at the edge of the field.
“How do you even have his number? It’s not listed.”
“Jesus, Libby. I have his number because he gave it to me. Because I buy pot off him. You’re so uptight about that shit, I’d never tell you.”
There was that hint that I was childish.
“If it was about Barbie Man, you should’ve said it to me, not him. He’s the one that’s made it all worse.”