Outrun the Moon(81)

I survey the crowds like a rooster eyes his flock, a profound sense of satisfaction replacing the hunger inside my own breadbasket. As Mrs. Lowry says of a successful enterprise: Teamwork makes the dream work.

Ma, wherever you and Jack are, may your bowls be filled to the top, and your chairs comfortable.

Even Ba would be amazed to see all these people eating together from the same pot. Maybe even proud of me. He never thought he’d see such a range of folks standing shoulder to shoulder in all his born days.

Well, Ba, better come quick if you don’t want to miss it.

Someone taps me on the shoulder. It’s Georgina, who has donned an army shirt over her uniform. “Been counting the numbers,” she says in her serious way of talking. “We’ve got eighty-two people here, and more coming in every minute. What should we do?”

“We feed them until every last crumb is gone.”

Harry and Katie, who are hovering nearby, come closer to hear our conversation. Francesca leaves the admiring attentions of Mr. Fordham to join us as well.

Georgina frowns. “That happened thirty minutes ago. People are already sucking on the bones.”

A man and a woman lean over the stewpot, holding rib bones out for their kids to lick. The tray of crackers is clean of all but a few sprigs of parsley, and the pots that held the greens and the pasta have already been ported to the lake for scrubbing out.

Francesca taps a finger to her chin, the fingernail worn to the quick. “We could give them milk?”

Katie shakes her head. “We don’t know where Forgivus went. Minnie Mae went to look for her.”

I draw in a sharp breath. Forgivus was single-handedly keeping my stomach from shriveling into a raisin. The only thing I’d eaten for dinner was the cube of meat Francesca pushed into my mouth, washed down with a small jar of wine.

“Well, a party is more than the food. The company is good, and so is the fire.” It is like trying to polish a peach, and no one’s mood improves. “I wish someone had a fiddle,” I add glumly.

Francesca’s eyes dart to the man with the floppy hair, who is watching Oliver Chance carefully stack pinecones. He steals a look at me, then his pile falls and everyone laughs. “Mr. Fordham knows how to play the comb.”

Katie elbows Harry. “And Harry sings like an angel.”

Harry reacts as if a spider had swung across her field of vision. “Oh no, I couldn’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because, I wouldn’t know what to sing.” She backs away.

“Sing the one about the girl from Atterly Row.”

Harry puts a hand to her crimson cheek. “That one’s about a sporting woman!”

“How about ‘When Johnny Comes Marching Home’?” suggests Georgina.

“That one’s about war!”

“Well, a song’s gotta be about something,” says Katie.

More people crowd our little corner of the park, meekly looking around for something to eat. Word has spread. Though they find only a bit of hot water and mint for washing up, they still stay, maybe because the only thing worse than being hungry is being hungry and alone.

Time to raise some sand.

I inhale a deep breath, and belt out, “When Johnny comes marching home again, hurrah! Hurrah! We’ll give him a hearty welcome then, hurrah! Hurrah!”

I have a hunch about songbirds, hoping it will be hard for someone who has an ear for music to sit still while others botch up a tune. Every New Year’s, Ma would make me wrap sticky rice in bamboo leaves but would inevitably bump me from the chair to do it herself. Since I preferred the eating to making them, I ruined them on purpose so Ma would release me from my servitude.

The girls gape at me. Harry’s hands inch closer to her ears. Then she clasps them in front of her, as if hoping to keep them from floating up again.

“The men will cheer and the boys will shout, the ladies they will all turn out, and we’ll all feel gay when Johnny comes marching home!” I sing.

I dearly hope someone joins in soon because everyone is giving me the most peculiar stares—plus, I don’t know the next verse. The Gullivers’ baby begins to wail. Come on, squeaker, I’m not that bad. “Oh the old church bell . . . da-dee-da-dum . . . ” I trail off, not knowing what’s next.

“Will peal with joy, hurrah! Hurrah!” starts a velvety alto on my left—Francesca. “To welcome home our darling boy, hurrah!”

“Hurrah!” I second.

“The village lads and the lassies say, with roses they will strew the way,” adds a third voice, one so clear and light, even the birds stop to listen. Harry holds her hands with fingers curled into each other as she sings. Her posture is so straight, it looks like she’s standing on her toes.

Francesca and I join her in the chorus, “And we’ll all feel gay when Johnny comes marching home!”

As she launches into the third verse, someone begins to whistle a harmony. Then Mr. Fordham produces a comb, folds a cigarette paper on top, and blows a bass line of buzzy beats. Not to be outdone, Mr. Chance grabs a wine bottle and begins hooting some counterpoint.

And the horses are off! I lower my volume and let Harry’s voice take center stage, amazed at her transformation. The girl I always considered reserved and rather stiff unfolds like a silk fan, commanding all eyes on her.