Under a Dark Summer Sky by Vanessa Lafaye

implored Cyril. “Blast it out of the sky!”
    The sunset had been stunningly beautiful that evening, as if the cosmos was determined to outdo any display of spectacle planned by the humans. The horizon still glowed with embers of gold, orange, and crimson, but the sky had darkened enough for a few stars to show through. Torches had been lit, their flames buffeted by the breeze, casting jerky shadows across the beach. Spectators, white and black, gathered at the ocean.
    â€œStand back, everyone!” called Cyril, the long match clamped in his claw. The crowd went quiet in anticipation, faces turned toward the sky. He touched the match to the fuse of the first rocket. It charred the end of the fuse and went out with a quiet phut .
    There was a collective groan of disappointment. This happened every year, as Cyril bought the fireworks cheap to make the budget go farther. This year had been especially hard, with the budget cut almost to nothing.
    â€œAin’t you got a flamethrower, Cyril?” came a voice from the crowd.
    â€œMaybe Doc Williams can install one for you!” cackled another.
    Cyril struck another match on his claw, hurrying to get the flame to the fuse in the stiff breeze. The fuse fizzled with a disappointing sssss . And again. Same result. In frustration, he tried every fuse, to no avail. “Sorry, folks, must have got damp.” He rose off his knees. “Or those crooks up in Brooksville sold me a load of duds. Sorry.” He put the matches away but left the rockets where they were.
    People shuffled back up the beach. Zeke growled his unhappiness. Poncho let out a quiet, disappointed, “ Caw .”
    Deprived of the promised spectacle, the crowd seemed caught in a state of suspended anticipation. It was too early to go home, but the engine of the party had stalled. People freshened their drinks, scolded their children, and cast dismayed glances at the line of impotent rockets by the sea’s edge.
    Then came, from the road, a noise that at first sounded like loud rushing water. It resolved itself as it came closer into the sound of booted feet, marching in formation, crunching over the oyster-shell path to the beach. The veterans appeared from around the bend in the road, Henry at the lead. They came smartly to a halt with a stamp of feet where the path met the sand.
    Henry surveyed the scene with a soldier’s eye. On the colored side, people seemed to be spooked by something, and there were tearful women being comforted. There was also a great mound of fly-covered meat. Selma looked both tired and angry. Missy, barefoot in a pretty yellow dress, waited alone at the water. On the white side of the beach, there were long drag marks in the sand, coming from the colored side, spotted with what looked like blood. And at the water, a line of unattended, unfired rockets. “Good evening, everyone,” he said in his best officer voice. “Looks like we missed quite a party.”

Chapter 8
    Hilda observed the veterans’ arrival with little interest. Her feet hurt. Nelson was clearly in no hurry to go home. There was sand in her hair and in her teeth. God only knew how it got there. Nelson whispered in Dolores’s ear, his mouth up close to her glossy black hair. They looked like two thoroughbred horses together. Dolores flung her head back to laugh, exposing the strong lines of her throat. Hilda pictured them in the back of the Caddy, Dolores’s toned legs wrapped around him, his hands at her narrow waist, his mouth on hers. The pain was overwhelming, like she was drowning in it.
    Her eyes rested on the veterans’ leader, the one with the big scar on his neck. He was clearly in command, carried himself straight and tall and the others followed. Hilda recognized him. She struggled to focus. Harold? Horace? No…Henry. Selma’s brother, been away a long time, back now with the veterans to build that bridge. He had done some work at the house to make