people who lack common sense.” He winked, but I continued to gawk, waiting for a better explanation. “If we all just took responsibility for our own actions, we wouldn’t need politicians telling us what to do. Isn’t that right, Elaine?”
“Ah, I see. Are you taking responsibility for your actions?” she asked him. “Is that what you’re doing today?”
“That’s why I need to get back, isn’t it?”
I wasn’t sure what they were talking about, but knew better than to ask. I examined the boxes, trying to get a glimpse of the contraband.
“Well, get going, then,” Mom finally said, bending over to hoist one of the boxes. “We wouldn’t want to keep them waiting.” She motioned for me to get the other box, then turned her back on him, trudging up the hill. “Come on, Sylvie,” she said. “There’s work to do.”
“What will we say?” I picked up the second box and followed. “About the fireworks?”
“Just say we got them from a neighbor,” she suggested. “Say there was some guy peddling them on Happy Valley Road. After all, it’s not that far from the truth.”
When they arrived at dusk, ice chests bursting with trout, neither my father nor Poppy protested the illicit fireworks as I thought they would. They were sunbaked and smiling, full of bluster about their fishing success. I watched my father lean down to kiss Mom on the cheek as she set card tables on the patio. She paused, then handed him the rest of the silverware and smacked him solidly on the bottom. Uncle Peter took his turn cranking ice cream while Poppy fired up the grill and a few minutes later, Aunt Janie and Sheila arrived wearing white eyelet sundresses, carrying platters of fruit. My father even offered to get out the croquet set.
It was, for those few hours before sunset, just like the old days—Ali and Sheila giggling on the plastic glider while Nick and I set up fireworks on the huge front lawn. Poppy played a few tunes on his harmonica, and Uncle Peter sang badly after too many glasses of wine. Nick offered to let me light some fireworks, and I followed his instructions to the tee, even pulling off, on my last attempt, a stunning sideways roll in the grass that landed me next to my father’s knee.
“Come ’ere, sweet pea,” he said, using the name he usually reserved for Ali. “Come sit with your old man and pretend you’re still my baby.”
It was strange and good to lean against his ribs, feeling the brittle thump of his heart, hearing his familiar nasal laugh echo inside him.
As I relaxed more into our comfortable slump, Uncle Peter asked Nick where we’d gotten the fireworks. My heart skidded, and before Mom or I could speak, Nick was explaining that we’d got them from an old friend of Auntie Elaine’s.
“Some guy she used to know lives around here, I guess,” he said. “Least, that’s what Sylvie said.” My father’s torso went rigid behind me.
“Really, now?” slurred Uncle Peter. “An old boyfriend of yours, Elaine?”
“Oh, sure,” Mom answered, examining her toenail polish. “Like I’ve got time for cavorting around with old boyfriends.” She laughed, then got up stiffly and made her way toward the kitchen. My father pushed me off his lap, set his ice cream on the lawn and stood stretching for a minute before going in after her. My insides went soupy, like the ice cream sloshing in his bowl. Ali dropped her face into her hands as I crossed my legs, trying to enjoy the rest of the fireworks, but this proved impossible, as Nick was getting reckless—lighting three or four fireworks at a time, coming dangerously close to catching himself on fire.
“All right, now, son. Take it easy—party’s over,” Poppy snapped as thin shards of my parents’ argument pierced the screens.
“What’s all the damn fuss?” said Poppy as, one by one, Janie and Sheila and Peter stood to leave, brushing off grass clippings. “What the hell is wrong with everyone?”
I glared at
“Ah, I see. Are you taking responsibility for your actions?” she asked him. “Is that what you’re doing today?”
“That’s why I need to get back, isn’t it?”
I wasn’t sure what they were talking about, but knew better than to ask. I examined the boxes, trying to get a glimpse of the contraband.
“Well, get going, then,” Mom finally said, bending over to hoist one of the boxes. “We wouldn’t want to keep them waiting.” She motioned for me to get the other box, then turned her back on him, trudging up the hill. “Come on, Sylvie,” she said. “There’s work to do.”
“What will we say?” I picked up the second box and followed. “About the fireworks?”
“Just say we got them from a neighbor,” she suggested. “Say there was some guy peddling them on Happy Valley Road. After all, it’s not that far from the truth.”
When they arrived at dusk, ice chests bursting with trout, neither my father nor Poppy protested the illicit fireworks as I thought they would. They were sunbaked and smiling, full of bluster about their fishing success. I watched my father lean down to kiss Mom on the cheek as she set card tables on the patio. She paused, then handed him the rest of the silverware and smacked him solidly on the bottom. Uncle Peter took his turn cranking ice cream while Poppy fired up the grill and a few minutes later, Aunt Janie and Sheila arrived wearing white eyelet sundresses, carrying platters of fruit. My father even offered to get out the croquet set.
It was, for those few hours before sunset, just like the old days—Ali and Sheila giggling on the plastic glider while Nick and I set up fireworks on the huge front lawn. Poppy played a few tunes on his harmonica, and Uncle Peter sang badly after too many glasses of wine. Nick offered to let me light some fireworks, and I followed his instructions to the tee, even pulling off, on my last attempt, a stunning sideways roll in the grass that landed me next to my father’s knee.
“Come ’ere, sweet pea,” he said, using the name he usually reserved for Ali. “Come sit with your old man and pretend you’re still my baby.”
It was strange and good to lean against his ribs, feeling the brittle thump of his heart, hearing his familiar nasal laugh echo inside him.
As I relaxed more into our comfortable slump, Uncle Peter asked Nick where we’d gotten the fireworks. My heart skidded, and before Mom or I could speak, Nick was explaining that we’d got them from an old friend of Auntie Elaine’s.
“Some guy she used to know lives around here, I guess,” he said. “Least, that’s what Sylvie said.” My father’s torso went rigid behind me.
“Really, now?” slurred Uncle Peter. “An old boyfriend of yours, Elaine?”
“Oh, sure,” Mom answered, examining her toenail polish. “Like I’ve got time for cavorting around with old boyfriends.” She laughed, then got up stiffly and made her way toward the kitchen. My father pushed me off his lap, set his ice cream on the lawn and stood stretching for a minute before going in after her. My insides went soupy, like the ice cream sloshing in his bowl. Ali dropped her face into her hands as I crossed my legs, trying to enjoy the rest of the fireworks, but this proved impossible, as Nick was getting reckless—lighting three or four fireworks at a time, coming dangerously close to catching himself on fire.
“All right, now, son. Take it easy—party’s over,” Poppy snapped as thin shards of my parents’ argument pierced the screens.
“What’s all the damn fuss?” said Poppy as, one by one, Janie and Sheila and Peter stood to leave, brushing off grass clippings. “What the hell is wrong with everyone?”
I glared at
Similar Books
