by Sandra Hill
Doreen, a senior by anyone’s definition, was dressed today as a cross between Betsy Ross and Anne Bonny with her clearly dyed, reddish-brown hair all poufed up like a big bush, no doubt thanks to the special Jake had seen advertised this week in the window of her daughter Francine’s hair salon, Styles and Smiles. Francine was married to Sheriff Henderson. The family connections in Bell Cove boggled the mind.
“Senator Franklin, this is Captain Jacob Dawson and Lieutenant Isaac Bernstein, whom we told you about,” the mayor chirped happily. Doreen was in her element with these kinds of affairs, always had been. Either that, or she was high on hair spray. “Boys, this is Senator Franklin.”
Boys?
“You can call me Colonel or just Phil,” he said after giving them a smart salute, accompanied by a click of his heels, which almost caused him to tip over.
Jake grabbed for him and almost fell over himself when his cane fell to the ground.
The colonel jabbed Jake in the arm and laughed. “Us fellows with war wounds gotta stick together.”
“What about me?” Izzie asked. “I got wounds, too. Inner wounds.”
The colonel looked at Izzie like he had a few screws loose or was suffering what they had called “shell shock” in the Great War.
Just then Major Durand came up, greeted Jake and Izzie, and carried on a brief conversation with the old guy about some mutual acquaintance who still served on the Armed Services Committee. Jake was impressed by the amount of color on Durand’s uniform. Some of those bars had been given for valor in battle.
So. Apparently the asshole wasn’t a desk jockey all his career, Jake mused. He still didn’t like the guy.
In fact, when Durand walked up to him and insisted, “We need to talk,” Jake actually groaned aloud and said, “Don’t spoil my day.”
“Your day or days are going to be more than spoiled if you don’t learn to take advice, young man.”
Blah, blah, blah. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. When are you leaving?” Hopefully, tonight.
“You’re still in the service, Captain Dawson. And I’m still your superior officer.”
Jake nodded his acceptance of that fact.
“This afternoon at the Conti mansion, after the show.” With a curt salute, the major dismissed him, for the moment.
A short distance away, someone with a bullhorn walked by announcing, “Fifteen minutes till showtime, everyone. Rev your engines.”
Jake saw Izzie do a double take. Then he did the same when he realized it was Laura Atler, wearing a red, white, and blue halter dress that ended midthigh, leading down a length of bare legs to red high heels. Her pale blonde hair was piled on top of her head where there was a red, white, and blue bow. Her lipstick was a bright, really bright red.
When had timid, slightly overweight Laura turned into a centerfold? It was amazing that Jake hadn’t noticed the transformation when they’d met last week. Yeah, he’d seen that she looked different, but not in this way. Wow!
Jake waved at her, which prompted Izzie to hiss, “Stop!” Which of course prompted Jake to glance at Izzie to see why he objected to a mere wave to an old acquaintance.
Before he could make some “What the hell?” type comment, Laura noticed them and stopped. She was staring directly at Izzie, who was staring at her like she was a cherry snow cone on a warm Outer Banks summer day.
She blushed, gave a little wave, and continued on her way, yelling into the bullhorn.
“She’s on the parade committee,” Izzie said dumbly, and then he blushed, too.
Taking one look at Izzie’s red face, Jake said, “Do I sense a romance brewing, or rather reheating?”
“Hell, no!”
“Uncle Abe would lend you his make-out mobile.”
“What are you? Like fifteen years old?”
“Maybe you could ask her to go steady like you did in ninth grade.”
“Bite me.”
Jake just grinned.
“She’s practically engaged to someone else.”
“Practically being the key word to a player like you.”
“I’m not a player. I’ve never been a player.”
Jake shrugged, as if that was debatable.
Mayor Ferguson blew a whistle, the signal for action. Apparently, she was second-in-command and only merited a whistle while the high honcho got the bullhorn.
Izzie and Durand got into the back seat of a convertible with a driver wearing a pirate outfit, complete with eye patch. Jake was glad he hadn’t gotten that particular ride. Instead, he and the colonel sat in the back seat of another convertible driven by a college kid dressed in red, white, and blue—What else?—as Uncle Sam complete with top hat and gray beard.
It was hard to tell exactly what the theme of this parade was. Patriotism. Pirates. Treasure hunting. Local pride. Or something else. When Jake had first talked to the mayor about this parade, she’d suggested “Hometown Heroes” as a theme. But, when he’d said he would be damned if he would be the highlight of a parade, she changed it to “Hometown Spirit,” which was much more inclusive. In other words, a potluck of whatevers.
From their seats in the open vehicle on the side street, while they waited their turn, they were able to watch the first half of the parade go by on the main drag leading into town, starting with a local high school marching band. Then there were antique cars, truck-drawn boats worth a fortune for sale from some marinas, motorcycle clubs, baton twirlers, color guards, more bands, including a colonial drum and fife one, and a small Army unit from Fort Bragg that must have come at Durand’s request. Scottish bagpipers added yet another type of music.
There was a pet parade section that marched along, or were tugged along, featuring everything from the usual dogs and cats, along with a goose on a leash, a llama, ferrets in a cage on a red wagon, a potbellied pig, a pygmy goat, several snakes, and a monkey. These were followed later by some of the wild ponies from Ocracoke and Corolla.
Intermixed with all these were local floats put together by a garden club and several bell choirs, not to mention some local stores, like Abe Bernstein’s deli, making the most of his Reuben’s Masterpiece. The float featured a huge canvas depicting the artist Rubens painting his own self-portrait, shown eating one of Abe’s corned beef sandwiches. An impressive Bell Forge float held early bell-making equipment being fired by laborers in early 1900s–type clothing. Then, historic Southern quilts were displayed by Blankety-Blank, a town square quilt store, which included a huge frame being worked by a woman in period costume sitting on a stool. The Rutledge Tree Farm float showcased a funny display of their famous Rutledge trees, which were horribly misshapen examples, not unlike Charlie Brown trees, that had become an Outer Banks sensation because they were so bad.
The Bell Cove Treasure and Salvaging Company float starred Merrill Good, “Uncle” Kevin, and several others, including two women, who must all be part of the team. They were gathered around a fake sailing ship of the 1800s, supposedly the one they’d uncovered recently, tossing candy gold coins to the crowds. They were dressed, not in pirate attire like Mayor Ferguson wanted them to, but jeans and T-shirts with the logo “Bell Cove Treasure Hunters.”
From other sectors of the Outer Banks, there were floats depicting the historic Wright Brothers flight from Kill Devil Hills, sponsored by Wright Brothers National Memorial, and a drama enactment of Virginia Dare and the Lost Colony of Roanoke.
There were also some OBX fire trucks, representatives of the Wicked Tuna TV show, and more bands.
“What a great town to live in!” the colonel remarked beside him.
“You think so?” Jake asked. “They can be irritating as hell.”
The colonel shrugged.
“Where do you live?”
“With my nephew in Richmond. I always thought it would be cool to grow up in a small town, though.”
Jake’s attention was drawn to the scout troops who were marching by then in haphazard rows that would drive a drill sergeant nuts. They must ha
ve been advised to keep their faces forward, but his boys darted glances and little smiles his way.
Jake stood up in the seat and waved, yelling, “Hooah!” at them, despite the scoutmasters’ glares his way. One of them, a female, gave him a little smile, though.
“Are those your sons?” the colonel asked.
“Yep. Three of them.”
“You’re a lucky man.”
Jake knew he was, but he looked at the old guy in question. “Do you have a family? I mean, other than your nephew.”
“Nope. Was married once, but we never had any babies before we got divorced. Heard she remarried a few years later and had three daughters. Coulda been mine.” Those last words were said on a kind of choked whisper.
Jake didn’t know what to say to that.
But no words were necessary as the old guy continued, “I was a wreck after I came back from that German war camp. And they didn’t have any of the services you young fellas have today for handling those kinds of problems.”
Jake still didn’t know what to say.
“You make sure you take advantage of all the help they give you,” the colonel advised him, squeezing his arm for emphasis. “Don’t lose those things most precious to you through fool pride. Y’hear?”
Jake nodded, and wished he’d been in the car with the pirate, after all.
But now, there was a signal for the convertibles to begin entering the parade. Not all at once, just a few at a time, to be interspersed with other parade events.
Jake found the whole experience uncomfortable. He didn’t like calling attention to himself in this way. But it wasn’t awful. Mostly, he just smiled and tossed individually wrapped hard candies to spectators who lined the streets, especially the kids. Everywhere along the route, they saw handheld flags being waved.
Until they turned a corner where a dozen protestors, presumably from that hateful Westboro Baptist Church, carried placards that said “Thank God for Dead Soldiers” and “Thank God for 9/11” and the usual anti-gay ones.
“Oh, shit! Them wackos again!” the colonel said.
Jake blinked behind his sunglasses, and saw red behind his closed eyelids, even the bad eye. Apparently the red tide of rage was not dead. It was rising and rising and rising. He was about to launch himself out of the slowly moving vehicle to knock a few heads together, or worse, bad leg or no bad leg.
The colonel put his hand on Jake’s arm and cautioned, “Don’t do anything stupid. That’s what the idiots want. Besides, the sheriff is about to put their sorry asses in jail. Don’t do anything to land yourself there, too, son.”
Jake did the “just breathe” exercises for a few moments, even as their car passed the protestors. He heard a flurry of activity behind them as the law did in fact arrive, and he relaxed somewhat, knowing he was not going to go psycho with rage.
Not this time anyhow. But it was a wake-up call to Jake, knowing that the rage condition had been only dormant, not dead. What would be the trigger next time? And who might he attack when in a rage?
“Pick your battles, my boy,” the colonel advised, like he was reading his mind. “As a soldier you already know that. Those kind of protestors are like flies on a manure pile. In the end they’re just full of shit. If you give yourself time to think, you’ll realize they aren’t worth the effort.”
“Yeah, but in the moment I don’t think, that’s the problem,” Jake admitted.
The colonel shrugged. “I can’t promise it will ever go away, completely, that you’ll ever forget, completely. But it should get better. Don’t let the bastards win by giving in to it. I did, and I lost everything.”
Jake was saved from having to comment on that because they were approaching the bakery where Sally, her parents, his father, and Old Mike stood in front of a six-deep crowd. Cheers and waves greeted him, and Sally threw him a kiss which he threw back. Most disconcerting was that all five of them appeared to have tears in their eyes. He lowered his sunglasses to midnose to peer over at them.
Yep! Tears. That is just great. He raised his shades again, and they moved on.
When they got to the end of the route, he shook hands with the colonel and they exchanged phone numbers and email addresses. Soon the colonel was overrun with autograph seekers and old veterans wanting to exchange war stories. Jake caught up to Izzie and they went together to find the boys. When they found them, they all hopped onto a jitney bus, one of a number that the town council had hired for the occasion. It took them directly to the Conti mansion, where the talent show would be held. The rest of his family would be meeting them there.
In the meantime, they walked up the steps to the impressive mansion built by the Conti brothers more than a hundred years ago when they founded Bell Forge. The white-shingled mansion, named Chimes, sat on a man-made bluff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean on the one side, and a view of Bell Sound in the distance on the other side.
The main ballroom had been set up with a makeshift stage and at least a hundred folding chairs for the audience. While they waited for Sally and the others to show up, they walked through the side rooms, which had once been a massive glass-walled garden solarium. An author sat at a table in one room signing copies of a book he had written about shipwrecks, including the Falcon, which was the one recently discovered by the town’s new salvaging/treasure-hunting company. The town council had set up a table with brochures for tourists, highlighting all the events to be held in Bell Cove throughout the year, as well as the Outer Banks in general. In another room, they saw the big honkin’, totally garish trophies that would be awarded to the winners of the first ever Lollypalooza talent contest in various categories. The local bookstore, The Book Den, was selling books in another space, ones dealing with Bell Cove or Outer Banks history, and also related to shipwrecks, treasure hunting, heroes, and pirates. Quite a mix! Jake bought the kids a book called Talk Like a Pirate, and for a long time afterward they heard lots of “Aaarr’s!” and “Ahoy, mateys!” and “Shiver me timbers!” and their favorite, “Thar she blows!”
When it came time for the talent show, Jake found himself in the center of the fifth row with Sally and the boys, her parents, Joe, and Old Mike on one side and Izzie, his parents, Abe, and Rachel Bernstein on the other. Jake had tried to plant himself on the aisle chair but Sally had insisted he move over, probably because she suspected he might try to slip out midshow. Which might have been a possibility, though he wouldn’t admit to that.
Finally, the show was about to get underway. He took off his sunglasses and put on the eye patch so that he could see better. Then, he linked his left hand with her right one, laying their doubled fist on his thigh. He winked at her with a promise of better things to come, later.
The senior citizen yodeler that Sally had mentioned started off the show, and she was as bad as Jake could have imagined. Then Binky Jones stumbled through his dog Sparkie’s tricks, but you had to give the kid credit for having the nerve to get up on stage. He couldn’t imagine his kids ever doing that, or himself at that age, for that matter. After that, a pianist played a classic piece that was probably really good, but Jake felt himself dozing off. It had been a long day.
Sally nudged him awake, and he got to see a ventriloquist do a pretty funny routine with his dummy named Bad Luck Chuck. Then a lady from Nags Head carrying an umbrella and an outfit that looked a little Mary Poppins–esque did a tap dance to “Singin’ in the Rain.” After that, it was Irish folk dancing by a local group. He was whispering to Izzie, “Not one of them is giving Michael Flatley any competition,” when he noticed Sally and the boys were getting up.
“What? Are we leaving?” he asked hopefully.
“Shhh,” she said. A barbershop quartet had just started singing. “Stay put. We’ll be back.”
He assumed the boys needed to visit the head. Jake could swear they had bladders the size of peas.
“Any clue how we can escape from this nuthouse?” he asked Izzie.
“Chill, my friend. I’m trying to impress
Laura with how well-behaved I can be.”
Jake glanced over to the side where Laura was indeed checking Izzie out. “She looks like a cross between Betsy Ross and a Playboy centerfold in that outfit,” Jake observed.
“I’ve always had a thing for Betsy Ross.”
“Be careful. You may find yourself landlocked in Bell Cove again.”
“Like you?”
No, he hadn’t meant like himself.
While he’d been looking the other way, at Izzie, Major Durand slid into the seat that Sally had occupied. Jake was about to tell him the seat was taken when Durand leaned closer and said, “We have to talk.”
“Here? Now?”
“No, not now. But right after this frickin’ show. You’re not sneaking out of here without our discussion.”
Was I so obvious? “What’s so important that it can’t wait?”
“Your wife is suspicious about what happened to you in Balakistan, and if she, a civilian, is savvy enough to dig up dirt on Nazim, the newshounds are surely three steps ahead of her. Plus, some Qadir dissident claims to have firsthand knowledge of your imprisonment and is going to announce it to the world if the US/Balakistan deal is approved.”
There was only one thing Jake heard or cared about in Durand’s spiel.
“Sally? What does Sally have to do with all this?”
“She told Bernstein about internet research she’s been doing about Nazim, and—”
“Hey,” Izzie leaned forward around Jake and addressed Durand, “I told you that in confidence.”
“Urgency takes precedence over privacy,” Durand contended.
“You knew . . . You talked to Sally about this? And didn’t tell me?” Jake asked Izzie, incredulous that his friend would betray him in this way.
“She swore me to secrecy.”
“Bullshit!” Jake said.
“Shhhhhh!” at least a half-dozen people hissed around them, and another half dozen shot glowers their way.
They all sat back and shut up, but Jake’s mind was simmering with a mixture of emotions. Hurt, anger, disappointment, fear. What to do, what to do? He needed to get out of here and think, but he was trapped, unless he wanted to make a scene.