Last Summer Boys(69)

There’s just one problem when we get into town next day: the newspaper building is closed. The big glass door is locked. A sign in the window reads: CLOSED FOR THE FOURTH.

“But it’s not the Fourth yet!” I exclaim. “Why on earth would you close before the Fourth?”

I feel hot on my face and my bare arms. Like the sun has suddenly jumped down right next to me.

“Take it easy, Jack,” says Frankie. He shifts the story, wrapped up in a brown paper bag, under his arm. “We’ll figure something out.”

“Take it easy?” I cry. “But we’re too late! We’ve missed our only shot!”

“Maybe not,” Frankie tells me. “Maybe we can deliver these first thing after the Fourth. It’s only a few days after Pete turns eighteen. That should still be plenty of time.”

My heart is beating faster. My breaths come in short gasps. Inside, I am fighting a wave of doom. I’ve been living on borrowed hope ever since our failed expedition, but now I feel like a noose is starting to tighten around my throat.

“Come on, Jack,” Frankie says. “We’ll go down to Ernie’s and grab ourselves some ice cream. You’re all right. Pete too.”

Wordlessly I follow my cousin down the street.

At the end of the next block we pass a street cleaner hanging red, white, and blue streamers off the lights. It’s the Fourth of July tomorrow. New Shiloh will have its big parade.

But me and Frankie are too late.





The Fourth of July. Pete’s eighteenth birthday. Sun comes up just like any other day and burns a bright hole through the pines next to Stairways. Mist rises off Apple Creek and burns into perfect blue sky.

Ma’s made a big breakfast: waffles on the iron, maple syrup, whipped cream, fresh blueberries, strawberries, and raspberries. Pitchers of orange juice and cold buttermilk. I ask her extra nice and she puts chocolate chips in the waffles for Frankie and me.

Pete and Dad ain’t in the kitchen when we sit down. Then I hear the truck in the drive and a minute later they stride through the screen door, and I wonder where they been so early in the day. They seem different; they wear solemn, proud looks on their faces. Ma turns back to the iron as they pull up chairs, but I catch sight of her face before she does. There’s the barest trace of sadness to it, like the shadow from a cloud that’s being chased across the sky.

Pete pretends like he don’t know what day it is. But then there’s Ma ready with his waffle, everything piled high, and a single lit candle peeking out of that whipped cream. He acts surprised when we bust out singing.

“Pete, you got to make a wish before you blow out that candle,” I tell him. “Make it something real good.”

I know what I’d wish for: for us all to be safe and together here. Always.

Pete puts on a face like he’s thinking real hard, then he lets loose with a breath that blows flecks of whipped cream off his plate and across the table. Ma makes a face. Dad laughs.





That afternoon we pack into the Ford and Dad drives us into town for the parade. New Shiloh’s Fourth of July parade is the town’s grandest occasion. It runs from the Lutheran church all the way down Main Street to the train tracks far side of town.

People are already lining the sidewalk in folding lawn chairs when we park behind Ernie’s ice cream parlor. Out front they’ve got a table and a giant silver can of root beer on tap. We pull up a patch of sidewalk right alongside it and a boy in a white paper hat fills us paper cups of dark, foamy soda for five cents.

I can see the blazing red metal of the fire trucks assembling down at the church. They always go first in the parade, with the New Shiloh High School marching band coming after in their brown and gold and white uniforms. Then it’s a whole mess of floats from all different kinds of organizations: the Lions Club, the Knights of Columbus, and the New Shiloh Historical Association. Last to come will be the veterans. They are all ages, from a whole bunch of different wars. The oldest is a man who fought in the Spanish-American War. He walks every year despite being ninety years old and having not one tooth left in his head.

Will leaves to hunt for Anna May and her family somewhere along Main Street. Dad and Pete start for Hudspeth’s Barbershop. I spy them going and figure on getting Frankie and me some gumballs.

“Cherry, right?” I ask him.

“Right,” he says.

I leave him and Ma and needle my way through the crowd after them.

It’s red, white, and blue banners and flags everywhere I look: stitched into people’s clothes, on their hats, in the tiny American flags they hold and wave. There’s a man in a kilt playing a bagpipe at the corner, though why he’s doing that on the Fourth of July I don’t know.

The sidewalk fills up. The parade will start soon. I dodge out of the way of a group of kids who come running by, ice cream cones dripping in their hands. One of them crashes into a woman holding a red-and-white-striped paper bag of popcorn. That corn goes flying every which way. The kid loses his ice cream cone and starts crying as the pigeons scuttle across the pavement for the spilled corn.

Down Main Street, one of those fire engines gives a blast on its horn. A cheer goes up from the crowd. The parade is starting. I dash across the street and through that barbershop door that’s tied open by a string and into the cool dark. Right away I smell aftershave and newsprint, but it’s a moment before my sight comes back.