“Each of these is a little firecracker. Just reach in and grab one, light it, and toss her away.” He said this while holding the blue one for me to grab.
He didn’t ask which color we wanted. I knew what was coming.
“No! I want the blue one! I get it!” Patrick screamed, reaching toward the apron. Woody is like Grandma Mutz and everyone else on her block: demands shouted by children aren’t well received.
“You want one at all?” Woody asked, holding up the green pouch filled with Patrick’s treasure. “Or should I give both to Jimmy?” Patrick conceded and reluctantly said thank you. He threw a scornful look my way; he wouldn’t be over this anytime soon.
“All right. Last thing.” Woody produced a sparkler and lit it, but instead of sparks, it only made a dull light on the end. “This here’s a punk. The end stays lit just enough for you to light your wick. Light the Tamer till you see a spark, and toss it quick. If it goes off in your hand, it won’t blow it off; it’ll just hurt like a bee sting is all.”
Bee stings terrify me. I would never say “is all” when referencing a bee sting. He lit the wick, tossed it into the grass, and four seconds later came the pop. There was no color, no big display, just a tiny explosion. It was awesome. Woody lit a punk for each of us and took his seat. “Have fun. I got plenty more when yous run out.”
Dad grinned at our excitement. “Why don’t you boys head to the back with those? And be sure to thank Mr. Danielson.”
Patrick and I each thanked Woody with our shoulders already turned to bolt to the backyard. We raced around the house holding our Olympic torch punks, ready to start the games.
Grandma’s backyard is large, oddly shaped, and full of trees. Unlike the front yard, it’s never well kept. Varieties of weeds, overgrown bushes, and thorns that have frequently given us scrapes and rashes scatter the back. This was my chance to take my revenge on the foliage as I lit wick after wick, tossing them into the green. It didn’t take much time for Patrick to see how long he could hold one before letting it go. He always managed to toss it just before it went off. I had no interest in locating my pain threshold. I just liked the power of making things go boom.
Patrick and I went through the stock in our pouches and reloaded with Woody twice. Each time, he gladly handed over a new spool of fifty Tiger Tamers and told us to have fun as we ran behind the house. He was one of the best people on earth. I was sure of it.
As we finished our third batch, Mom called for us to eat. We walked to the front, where all the adults were in line, except Uncle Mike. He stood on the opposite side of the meat table, soaking in all the compliments for his culinary skills. He sipped his beer after every word of approval as if toasting himself. Brats and hot dogs didn’t seem too hard to make, but Uncle Mike had us convinced he’d completed a masterpiece.
A round card table was set up at the end of the driveway. The kids’ table: a term I’ve grown to despise more and more over the years. My parents have never understood how incredibly awkward the kids’ table is for me. Sofia doesn’t talk. Patrick wasn’t exactly a conversationalist. Not really my ideal seating arrangement.
Sofia took her usual few bites, while Patrick and I sucked back our hot dogs and potato salad as quickly as possible. We didn’t even bother taking our pouches off, since we were going back to our fireworks as soon as our plates were cleaned.
It felt a little strange to finish my dinner quickly so I could go play with Patrick. I was actually having fun with him.
Once we were done eating, neither of us bothered asking to be excused. We had work to do. Woody must have known our intentions when we stood up. In one motion, he set his beer next to his chair and handed us the spools. We now had the last fifty Tiger Tamers in our pouches, and they weren’t going to blow themselves up.
“Can I have the blue pouch now?” Patrick asked, using his nice voice. I knew he wouldn’t let that go.
“No,” I responded without looking at him.
“Why?”
“What difference does it make?”
“Exactly. What’s the difference?”
“No,” I said again, and started walking to another part of the yard. I wanted to enjoy the last explosions. We were about to start our final run of bombings when Patrick said the words that always made me cringe.
“I have an idea.”
I knew it was going to involve the fireworks, and unfortunately, I was too curious to ignore his idea this time. I paused to hear the plan.
“Let’s save half of these for when it gets dark. That way we can really see the explosions light up.”
All right . . . actually not a horrible idea. I kind of did want to see those explosions at night. He could tell I was mulling it over and chimed in again with more details.
“Take half and put them on the step. We’ll come back when it’s dark so we can see them light up.” I agreed, and we made two piles on the back step and fired off what remained in our pouches before heading to the front of the house.
“Ten minutes till showtime!” Woody called out to us while tying the extended wick to what he called the finale. The end of the driveway held the remaining contents of the two paper bags. Each firework was perfectly spaced from the next and had a label that offered a hint of that device’s personality. At the end of the line stood what resembled a small cannon. Woody always uses one long wick to connect all the fireworks. His goal is to light the far end and sit back for the show. He has never disappointed.
Mom and Aunt Rose were helping to put food away while Dad moved the grill. Sofia stood by her parents, twirling a green sparkler to cast spells in the air. Apparently, Woody had a few more gifts for her than he had let on. Uncle Mike was telling the guys his “camping in the rain” story (a story that always makes an appearance at parties), and I could see the color showing in his cheeks. Not an embarrassed shade of red, more of a “twelve pack into the party” red.
Patrick grabbed my arm. “Ten minutes — let’s go!”
He was right. We had ten minutes to see our own nighttime display of tiny explosions. We grabbed our punks and ran to the back. Each of us filled our pouches with the fireworks we’d saved on the back porch. I was thinking about telling Patrick what a good idea this was and giving him a rare compliment. Then he spoke and changed my mind.
“Now can I have the blue one?”
He still wasn’t over it. I sensed he wouldn’t enjoy this as much without the blue pouch, but I didn’t care. I didn’t get many wins over Patrick and was enjoying this one, especially since he wouldn’t let it go. I didn’t even respond, just took my Tamers and headed toward the edge of the yard.
I’m not sure what I thought would happen to the Tiger Tamers in the dark, but it wasn’t the impressive display I’d expected. Really not much more than it was in the light. Either way, they still went boom and that was enough for me. With twenty left now, I was going to make them count.
“Whoa! Check this out!” Patrick yelled from the far corner of the yard. Whenever Patrick said “Check this out,” it meant he’d found an animal, a dead animal, or something he could use as a weapon. “This thing is so fat!”
Animal.
Crouched on his heels, he was holding a stick and prodding the largest toad I had ever seen.
“Look how fat he is! I bet he can’t even jump.” He poked it again. The toad hopped its front end in a semicircle, turning away from Patrick. “He’s so fat! Come on, boy. I bet you can jump farther than that,” he said while poking it from underneath. “Hey, I know what will make you jump. . . .”
Oh, no.
Patrick stood up and reached into his pouch to retrieve a Tamer. Before I could say anything, he had it lit and tossed it in the direction of the toad. Three seconds later, the explosion that must have been massive to the small creature forced it to hop its body away from the noise. Only two hops, though. I so wished it could scurry or fly or do something else animals do to get away. It just sat there. This was only going to get worse.
&nbs
p; “Hmmm. Let’s try that again. I bet we can get him to jump higher.” He reached for another.
“Wait . . . you’re gonna hurt it.” I knew my words wouldn’t matter. The toad looked straight ahead, and I swear it had tears in its eyes. I knew amphibians don’t cry, but this one was crying. Patrick had already thrown another Tamer, this time behind it. It hopped twice and was now closer to Patrick. It had no idea what was coming.
“Let’s see if we can make it hop straight up,” he said with one hand on a new Tamer.
“You’re going to hurt it. Just let it go.” The toad looked directly at me with its tear-filled eyes, asking for help.
Another explosion.
“Let’s set one on top of it. Wonder if it’ll blow up.” He already had the next Tamer lit. In my head flashed an image of this animal’s guts on my shoes. I grabbed his arm as he reached toward the toad.
“No! Just leave it alone!”
Too late.
The Tamer exploded.
The toad was fine, but Patrick howled in pain. The Tamer was in his hand when it blew. Woody was right. He didn’t lose any fingers; it just hurt like a bee sting.
He gripped his wounded hand while staring at his fingers, probably to make sure everything was still attached. Once he realized nothing had blown off, he shoved me to the ground. “That hurt!”
I propped myself up on my elbows and was about to explain when I realized what was coming.
“Let’s see how you like it.”
He had already tossed a lit Tamer. It landed on my shirt. I screamed. I shook it off to see it fall just before exploding. He already had another in his hand.
“Patrick, stop it!” I made it to my feet before the next Tamer went off in front of me. Since Patrick had spent a good part of the afternoon timing his throws, he was pretty good at tossing them before they burst.
“Stop it!” I ran toward the front. Another explosion at my heels. “Patrick, stop!” I turned when I reached the side of the house to see he had thrown one at my arm. It bounced off and popped midair. I cried out for help. I needed an adult to hear me.
When I reached the front yard, I searched for my parents without breaking stride. I couldn’t help but notice the Roman candle spraying the sidewalk with pink sparks. Woody’s show had begun. Everyone had moved their chairs up against the house. My feet turned and darted back toward the crowd.
“STOP!”
I wanted everyone to hear me. I wanted Patrick to be in trouble.
He was so caught up in getting me back, he hadn’t noticed all the adults watching us. He threw his last Tamer, perfectly timed to explode on my neck.
The light tap of the undetonated firecracker would have left a slight itch had it not exploded, but I heard the wick simmer and knew I was doomed. I couldn’t see the actual explosion, but sure felt it. Bee stings don’t hurt nearly as bad as that tiny stick of dynamite did.
The adults now had two shows to watch. Woody’s fireworks display at the end of the driveway and Patrick torturing me in the middle. I turned toward the house, clutching my neck to see four figures leap from their chairs. My parents and Patrick’s.
Mom’s eyes widened. Her chair fell over as she darted toward me, saying something I couldn’t hear. Dad got to me first. He took my head and positioned my face toward him. He must have thought it was my eye. Uncle Mike dropped his beer and made his way for Patrick. Aunt Rose shot up with the same look of fear Mom had. But she wasn’t looking at me. Or Patrick.
She was looking at her husband.
Six steps later, he had Patrick by the arm that was holding the lit punk. “What is your problem? You stupid? That it?” His grip tightened on Patrick. Aunt Rose had her hands on my uncle’s other arm as he glared down at his son. “You could have blasted his eye out! I asked you a question! Are you stupid?” His words came out in a flurry of syllables as if they were just one long word. A long, angry word.
“He’s fine, Mike. No harm, just shaken.” Concern filled my dad’s voice, but it wasn’t for me any longer. Aunt Rose was stroking my uncle’s arm as if he were the one injured.
A blast of red light flashed from above, matched with a thunderous boom. The finale.
“ANSWER ME!”
Patrick cowered, then stuttered the word “sorry” over and over.
“Are you stupid?”
Uncle Mike broke away from Aunt Rose’s grip and had Patrick by both shoulders. He forgot Patrick was still holding the lit punk. While only a small source of heat, anyone would feel it pressed against their skin. Uncle Mike felt it.
“Ouch! What the —?” He reactively pushed Patrick away and grabbed his burned forearm. Patrick hit the pavement and howled.
“Sorry! Sorry! I’m sorry!”
“It’s fine, Mike. Enough.” Two bursts of purple went off and nearly drowned out Grandma Mutz’s commands while she stood with her hands on the shoulders of a terrified Sofia.
Whether the noise of the finale was too much or Uncle Mike was too drunk, he ignored her completely. The way he stood over Patrick reminded me of a picture I saw of Muhammad Ali standing over his opponent after a knockout.
“Get up and stop crying!”
The finale must have been reaching its climax. A rapid-fire series of light bursts put Uncle Mike and Patrick into a silhouette against a backdrop of color and noise.
Uncle Mike reached down and grabbed Patrick’s wrist. He yanked him up the same way he starts his lawn mower. Patrick came up. And immediately went back down.
“My arm! Ow! My arm!” Patrick rolled on his back, clutching his elbow. His legs kicked at the air in this wild and out-of-control way. “My arm! Oh, God, it hurts! Please!”
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t watch.
I didn’t want this.
“Get up, you baby,” Uncle Mike said, like this was common, as if Patrick didn’t get the toy he wanted. “Get up.”
“Mike, I think he’s hurt,” Dad said, moving toward Patrick.
“He’s fine. He does this. Now, get up!”
“Mike, his arm. I think it’s bro —”
“Think I don’t know what a broken arm looks like? He’s fine.”
I didn’t know what I wanted to see happen. I knew Patrick was hurt. I knew I didn’t want to see Uncle Mike pick him up.
Before anyone else could react, Uncle Mike grabbed Patrick and threw him over his shoulder the way a fireman carries someone from a burning house. He tossed his son into a lawn chair. Patrick howled and pleaded. It didn’t do any good.
The popping of the finale had stopped, and the driveway was left with smoldering wisps of smoke and whimpers.
Uncle Mike had his hands on the arms of the chair and crouched down to face Patrick. “You’re fine. Stop crying. You’re ruining the party.”
Patrick bit his lip and clutched his arm. He winced, tears streaming down his cheeks. Aunt Rose was now stroking my uncle’s back. Patrick took a breath. The kind that comes before someone lets out a wailing cry. Uncle Mike’s knuckles turned white as he clenched the chair. “I said —”
“Mikey —”
Uncle Mike turned.
He let go of the chair. He had to; otherwise he wouldn’t have caught the beer Woody tossed at him. Uncle Mike never missed a tossed beer.
“Kids cry, Mikey. It’s all right. You having a beer with me or what?”
Another beer was the absolute last thing he needed, but Woody did that for Patrick, not my uncle. Uncle Mike walked away from Patrick, muttering something about how whiny kids get, and apologized to Woody for his son ruining the fireworks.
Aunt Rose took Patrick inside, where Sofia brought him ice and let him cry. I stayed outside with my parents as Uncle Mike had a few more beers and laughs with Woody. He kept telling Woody how sorry he was about Patrick: how they didn’t know what to do with him because he had no self-control. I don’t know why we stayed when none of us wanted to be there.
I didn’t want to see Patrick crying inside. I didn’t want to be around Uncle M
ike outside. I stayed close to my parents and pretended to help them clean up.
Uncle Mike was loud again, telling Woody how Patrick needed discipline. Mom turned toward Uncle Mike, stared right through him. Then she stepped toward him.
Oh, no. She was going to yell at him for how he treated Patrick. But she didn’t get more than two steps before being stopped. Her wrist was anchored by her mother’s viselike grip.
“Don’t interfere.”
Mom was still locked on Uncle Mike as he took another sip. Her shoulders were aimed to confront him, even with Grandma Mutz holding her wrist.
“Not your family. Don’t interfere,” she repeated until Mom relaxed. Still in her lawn chair, Grandma Mutz stopped her daughter from creating more fireworks.
Every time we see my grandma, I learn more family rules.
The next July I asked if we were going to Grandma’s again. Mom told me she wasn’t having the party that year. When I asked why, she just said, “The neighborhood wants to keep things quieter is all.”
I didn’t believe that.
I felt terrible about that night, about when Patrick was hurt. I hoped his arm wasn’t broken and was relieved to hear it wasn’t. His father had only dislocated his elbow when he yanked him off the driveway.
The doctor told Patrick he was lucky because it healed faster than a break. And things would be back to normal any day.
I didn’t believe that, either.
The back room of Wainwright’s Funeral Home. My Fortress of Solitude. A sanctuary of stale sugar cookies and watered-down red punch, with no one around to bother me. It’ll do just fine for now.
OK, deep breath. This is what happens in movies when people are stuck, physically or otherwise. They take a breath, focus, and a solution presents itself.
Here goes.
Inhale. Deep bre —
Oh, no.
I feel it. As small as it is, no doubt in my mind that’s a thread popping with relief. The button won’t last. A belt could have totally saved me. But of course this is the day I can’t find it. It’s not like I have a bunch of extra belts lying around for all my fancy pants.
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