to, their faces in the breeze, their eyes half closed, dropping down suddenly onto the planet when it suited them. Some jellyfish washed up and shimmering eerily beyond the sea reach. The salty wind. The cool, clean damp everywhere.
And on the sandy dune, the three Peppers sitting close, crying a little—a good crying. Remembering the way she held her head, the way she moved her hands, how easily she cried, how easily she laughed.
And inside, in the hall, pictures of Tommy Pepper’s mother in pale yellow hints on pale yellow walls.
Thrimble and illil.
It hardly seemed that anyone in Plymouth should have been in the mood for the Plymouth Fall Festival. But as the farmers’ market brought in yellow gourds and gallons of apple cider, and as the winds turned and the first frosts of the season laced the windowpanes, Plymouth felt that autumn would be lost if folks never had a chance to walk the 4-H stalls and smear cotton candy over their faces and cheer the tractor pulls and ride the Tilt-a-Whirl and eat footlong boiled hot dogs and elephant ears.
So on the last Saturday of October, Tommy and Patty and their father—who was carrying three of the seascapes—weren’t the only ones who got to the fairgrounds early to watch the sows get their pre-judging milk baths, to see the great horses have their manes braided before the parades, to whistle as the giant pumpkins got weighed, to walk between the cages of the quick-eyed rabbits and the scatterbrained chickens and the white ducks with their startling orange bills. Everywhere there was the smell of sawdust and frying oil and good clean manure—except in the Big Tent, where the pies and jams scented the closed air with nutmeg and cinnamon—and everywhere the barkers were calling out, inviting them to try their luck on the Wheel of Chance, to have their fortunes read, to choose from among the Oriental glass beads brought back from deepest Asia, to win a giant panda by making three only three that’s right just three baskets in a row, to see the one the only the original Cardiff Giant, the greatest hoax of all time!
They met Alice Winslow around ten o’clock and she hugged Patty and told her that she would braid her hair if she wanted and Patty nodded and they found a bench near to the Musical Stage and close enough to the food booths that they could get a hot elephant ear and watch the acts while Mr. Pepper went to the seascape painting exhibit. Mr. Pepper gave them a bunch of tokens and said they’d meet again right at noon, okay? By the apple pie booth? Patty would stay close to her brother? Promise? Good.
Alice Winslow and Tommy and Patty had eaten five elephant ears between them—which they figured was probably more than they should have—and heard the Foxboro Fiddlers perform with their star fiddler fiddling behind his back, and the Andrews Sisters Redux sing a medley of World War II top hits, before James Sullivan found them.
“Am I too late?” he said.
“For what?” said Tommy.
“Belknap.”
They looked at him.
“Belknap is playing today.”
“Playing what?” said Tommy.
“His accordion.”
“In front of everyone?” said Alice Winslow.
“No, he’s going to wait until everyone leaves,” said James Sullivan.
“That might not be a bad idea,” said Tommy.
Patty hit him on the shoulder.
“That’s right,” said James Sullivan. “Hit him again.”
Patty might have hit him again if a guy wearing a gold-sequined coat hadn’t come on stage and announced Pat Bellnip and His Sweet-Singing Toe-Stomping Dance-Making Accordion playing a Medley of American Folk Songs, and Patrick Belknap, wearing a black cowboy hat, stepped out onto the stage.
Alice Winslow said, “Oh my goodness.”
They could tell he was nervous, slinging his accordion around. His eyes were blinking—a lot. And his cheeks were bright red. His mouth was open as if he was sucking air.
But then he started in on the Medley of American Folk Songs.
Tommy had to admit, he
And on the sandy dune, the three Peppers sitting close, crying a little—a good crying. Remembering the way she held her head, the way she moved her hands, how easily she cried, how easily she laughed.
And inside, in the hall, pictures of Tommy Pepper’s mother in pale yellow hints on pale yellow walls.
Thrimble and illil.
It hardly seemed that anyone in Plymouth should have been in the mood for the Plymouth Fall Festival. But as the farmers’ market brought in yellow gourds and gallons of apple cider, and as the winds turned and the first frosts of the season laced the windowpanes, Plymouth felt that autumn would be lost if folks never had a chance to walk the 4-H stalls and smear cotton candy over their faces and cheer the tractor pulls and ride the Tilt-a-Whirl and eat footlong boiled hot dogs and elephant ears.
So on the last Saturday of October, Tommy and Patty and their father—who was carrying three of the seascapes—weren’t the only ones who got to the fairgrounds early to watch the sows get their pre-judging milk baths, to see the great horses have their manes braided before the parades, to whistle as the giant pumpkins got weighed, to walk between the cages of the quick-eyed rabbits and the scatterbrained chickens and the white ducks with their startling orange bills. Everywhere there was the smell of sawdust and frying oil and good clean manure—except in the Big Tent, where the pies and jams scented the closed air with nutmeg and cinnamon—and everywhere the barkers were calling out, inviting them to try their luck on the Wheel of Chance, to have their fortunes read, to choose from among the Oriental glass beads brought back from deepest Asia, to win a giant panda by making three only three that’s right just three baskets in a row, to see the one the only the original Cardiff Giant, the greatest hoax of all time!
They met Alice Winslow around ten o’clock and she hugged Patty and told her that she would braid her hair if she wanted and Patty nodded and they found a bench near to the Musical Stage and close enough to the food booths that they could get a hot elephant ear and watch the acts while Mr. Pepper went to the seascape painting exhibit. Mr. Pepper gave them a bunch of tokens and said they’d meet again right at noon, okay? By the apple pie booth? Patty would stay close to her brother? Promise? Good.
Alice Winslow and Tommy and Patty had eaten five elephant ears between them—which they figured was probably more than they should have—and heard the Foxboro Fiddlers perform with their star fiddler fiddling behind his back, and the Andrews Sisters Redux sing a medley of World War II top hits, before James Sullivan found them.
“Am I too late?” he said.
“For what?” said Tommy.
“Belknap.”
They looked at him.
“Belknap is playing today.”
“Playing what?” said Tommy.
“His accordion.”
“In front of everyone?” said Alice Winslow.
“No, he’s going to wait until everyone leaves,” said James Sullivan.
“That might not be a bad idea,” said Tommy.
Patty hit him on the shoulder.
“That’s right,” said James Sullivan. “Hit him again.”
Patty might have hit him again if a guy wearing a gold-sequined coat hadn’t come on stage and announced Pat Bellnip and His Sweet-Singing Toe-Stomping Dance-Making Accordion playing a Medley of American Folk Songs, and Patrick Belknap, wearing a black cowboy hat, stepped out onto the stage.
Alice Winslow said, “Oh my goodness.”
They could tell he was nervous, slinging his accordion around. His eyes were blinking—a lot. And his cheeks were bright red. His mouth was open as if he was sucking air.
But then he started in on the Medley of American Folk Songs.
Tommy had to admit, he
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