“Grace, this is one time that crying won’t help,” Doc said unsympathetically. “You have to make better choices. From now on, take a deep breath, count to ten, and think before you act. I know you can do it—you’re a good girl.”
I buried my face in my hands and sobbed.
Dr. Whalen dropped by our house about four o’clock that afternoon to examine me. He always made us his last house call because after he finished with the medical stuff, he and my grandfather liked to relax over a couple of highballs.
I was in the living room lying on the couch with an ice pack on my head when he knocked on the door. My head felt better, but the cut on my elbow hurt whenever I moved my arm. My cuts and scrapes stung even though my mother made me take a bath and rub them with Unguentine before she went over to the Millers to check on Jimmy. I pushed my head into the rough couch pillow; I wanted my father.
My grandfather poked his head into the living room, and I turned over. “Grace, Dr. Whalen is waiting for you in the kitchen.” He walked over to the couch and handed me his handkerchief. “Here now, dry those tears. You didn’t anticipate what happened, but now you know. You’ve learned a valuable lesson—the hard way.”
I dragged myself into the kitchen. Dr. Whalen was sitting at the table. He turned his chair sideways to look at me. I’d bandaged the cut on my elbow and was wearing a long-sleeved sweater so he wouldn’t notice it. I didn’t want him checking it out because he’d probably say the s-word—stitches.
Dr. Whalen fingered the purple bump on my forehead. “Look up; follow the light,” he said, shining a small silver flashlight into my right eye. “Now look left; right; down. Do you have a headache?”
He asked me more standard concussion questions. “Can you remember what you had for breakfast?”
“Uh,” I lied, thinking about the orange Popsicle I snuck from the refrigerator that morning. “Orange juice, I guess.”
“If you feel nauseous or light-headed, have your mother call me, but Grace, I think you’ll live. Did your bike make it?”
“My bike’s fine,” I said with a sigh. I glanced down at the bloodstains on my new white sneakers. “Uh, how’s Jimmy?”
“He’ll live too, but with a cast on his wrist for the next six weeks. Damned shame, because summer’s just started.”
“Did you see Maggie? Is she okay?”
“She was upstairs in her room, but her father said she was fine. Now you get outta the kitchen and let me talk to your grandfather.” Dr. Whalen patted me on the shoulder. “And girl, take off that sweater, it’s hot.”
I was so worried about Maggie that I couldn’t even feel truly glad about no stitches. I walked outside to get my bike. The kitchen window was open, and Doc was saying, “She’s a good girl, but she changed some after her father died. She’s more impulsive—doesn’t always think things through. Almost like she’s afraid to think because if she did…”
“Well, that kind of a death is tough—especially on kids. Makes ’em feel powerless and out of control.”
Death was tough all right. I got on my bike and rode over to the Millers; my mother and Denny were there visiting Jimmy. Instead of riding down the road like I usually do, I rode down the sidewalk because my legs felt wobbly. I looked for Louanne when I passed the Dodd house, but the only sign of life was Gabriel peering out of Uncle Tony’s bedroom window.
A dog would be nice—someone who loved me no matter what.
When I got to the Millers’, Jimmy was spread out on the couch in his Roy Rogers pajamas. He had a big plaster cast that covered half of his arm and his wrist. Denny was so busy signing it that he didn’t even look up when I walked in. Comic books and candy wrappers littered the coffee table; Jimmy was probably on a sugar high and not feeling any pain. In fact, the Amazing Jimbo looked like he was in his glory.
“Want me to sign your cast?”
“Sure, Grace,” he said, holding it up. “Good thing you got here while I still have room. Mom says you guys have to give me my money back.”
I drew a rainbow on his cast, ignored the money comment, and wandered into the kitchen, where my mother and Mrs. Miller were sipping tea.
“Your grandfather just called, Grace,” my mother said. “I thought you were fine, but it was a load off my mind to hear Dr. Whalen thinks so too.” I walked over and put my arms around my mother. She smelled fresh—like lemons. She hugged me and then sat back and frowned. “But you know, it won’t be a very nice summer for Jimmy.”
She had a bad habit of saying something nice and I’d feel good, but then she’d say something else and make me feel bad. My head started to hurt again.
“I know.” I looked at Mrs. Miller. Her knees were bouncing up and down, and she seemed about to jump out of her chair. “I’m sorry he got hurt, we didn’t think…”
“You’re right, Grace. It’s a shame,” she said as Maggie walked into the kitchen. “Right, Maggie?”
Maggie had on a pair of blue slacks—the same ones she’d worn the last week of school, and she looked like she’d been crying. “Mom, I said I was sorry.”
I looked at Maggie, and she looked the other way. It was pretty obvious Mr. Miller had whipped her again. I felt sick to my stomach.
“Your father called me from the mill. He’s upset that Mr. Kutter blew the horn and made you fall. He’s going to call O’Malley and report him.”
Mr. Miller worked the late afternoon shift. I was happy I didn’t have to see him; he wouldn’t be home until almost midnight.
“Mom,” Jimmy called in a loud voice. “I’m thirsty. I want water.”
Mrs. Miller filled a glass from the tap and walked toward the living room. She stopped and looked back at my mother. “What was Mr. Kutter doing in Stillwater, Sarah? Doesn’t he still work at the school during the summer?”
“Ruth, I was just going to tell you. The school let Mr. Kutter go. Doc talked to Father Flanagan about the basement incident. The priest agreed the janitor shouldn’t be working in a school and made sure he was fired.”
I cocked my head at Maggie. Sister John the Baptist had said that Mr. Kutter had six kids and lived in the projects. We didn’t want him fired.
“Mom,” I said, attempting to reason with her. “It wasn’t Mr. Kutter’s fault that we went down there. He needs a job—he’s got little kids.”
“Grace, it’s obvious he shouldn’t be working at a school,” my mother replied. “But you don’t need to worry about him. He’s doing odd jobs until he picks up something permanent. Right now he’s helping Mr. Nelson clean up after the fire.”
CHAPTER 14
Next morning, Denny and I went over to the Millers’ to decorate our bikes for the Fourth of July parade. Mrs. Miller wanted us to decorate them at their house so Jimmy wouldn’t miss anything.
The three of us had decided to go with a red-white-and-blue theme. We’d ride side by side like the stripes in the American flag. I got a late start because my mother made me clean my room before I went over to Maggie’s. I didn’t argue because I figured I was lucky she was letting me be in the parade at all after what happened.
“Cool,” I said after I finished decorating. I stepped back to see the whole effect. “My bike looks good. I like using one color each.”
I’d woven long strips of red crepe paper through the spokes in my wheels and tied red streamers onto the handlebars. The back fender had been dented in the accident, but Doc had bent it back so it didn’t rub on the tire. I stooped down to tape the end of a loose strip and winced.
“Ouch,” I said. “My head still hurts.”
The cut on my elbow didn’t hurt as long as I didn’t hit it on anything; if I did, it hurt like heck and started to bleed again. In case that happened, I bandaged it extra and had on a dark long-sleeved shirt. The scrapes on my leg looked gross, but they were healing. Maggie was wearing Bermuda shorts, and, along with the cuts on her chin and scrapes on her knees, there was a long red welt on the back of her right leg. It made me sick to look at it.
Louanne hadn’t been hurt in the crash, but she hadn’t been herself since she found out her parents were separated. Every day she was different—sometimes she was sad, sometimes she was mean.
“It’s too bad it’s not a Halloween parade because then you wouldn’t have to worry about costumes—you could pick up some crutches and go as accident victims,” she said, crossing her arms and smirking. “And how come I have to wear all white? Am I supposed to be your nurse or something? White is not my color; I look all washed out.”
“It’s a good thing you’re not our nurse,” Maggie said, giving her a sad look. “Because you have no compassion.”
Louanne’s eyes watered, and she looked away.
“Louanne, you’ll be beautiful,” I said, smiling. “You’ll look like a lovin’ little angel in your white outfit.”
“You wish,” she said, but she smiled back.
Maggie laughed and ran inside to get the flags just as O’Malley the cop drove into the Millers’ driveway. He parked over by the garage and got out of his car.
“What’s he doing here?” Louanne asked, watching him walk over.
I shrugged.
“Bikes look good,” he said, nodding. “How’re you feeling after yesterday’s crash, Grace?”
“I’m okay,” I said, feeling guilt wash over me now that the law was here. I wouldn’t make a good criminal. I can never remember my sins when I go to confession, but put a uniformed policeman in front of me, and I’ll tell you anything. “But Jimmy broke his wrist; he’s in a cast.”
“He’s tough,” O’Malley said, smiling at me, “just like his old man. He’ll be outta that cast before you know it.”
A picture of Jimmy lying on the couch in his Roy Rogers jammies popped into my mind. He’s tough all right.
“Maggie’s father said you saw Nick Kutter just before your accident?”
I nodded.
“Well,” Louanne said, jumping into the conversation, “we didn’t really see him. He drove up behind us and honked his horn. He scared us half to death. Maggie and Grace crashed into each other, and the boys rolled down the hill.”
Mr. Miller and Maggie came out of the house. Her arms were full of flags and crepe paper.
“Hey, O’Malley,” Mr. Miller said, holding out his hand. “Thanks for coming over. What did Kutter have to say for himself?”
“Nothing much, Ted.” O’Malley pulled a pack of Pall Malls and a lighter out of his pocket.
I poked Louanne, and Maggie nodded.
O’Malley lit up and took a long drag.
“Well, he must’ve said something,” Mr. Miller said impatiently.
“Hold your horses, Ted, no reason to get your dander up,” O’Malley said, checking him out. “He said he recognized two of the kids and honked the horn—just being friendly. He didn’t see them fall.”
“See, Dad, I told you he didn’t mean—” Maggie interrupted.
“I’m not asking you, Missy,” Mr. Miller said in a mean voice.
Maggie looked down and seemed to shrink into herself.
“Let me ask you something, Ted,” O’Malley said. “Did you know Saint Mark’s let Kutter go?”
“Ruth told me last night.”
“Well, the guy’s got it rough,” O’Malley continued in his stern “I’m a policeman” voice. “Honking a horn’s not illegal. I’m sorry the kids took a bad spill, but Kutter didn’t break any laws. Leave it alone.” O’Malley dropped his cigarette on the ground and crushed it with the toe of his shoe. He nodded once and walked back to his car.
CHAPTER 15
At precisely 4:00 p.m. on the Fourth of July, O’Malley the cop revved his engine, turned the siren on, and slowly cruised up Hudson Avenue. This was the official signal that the parade was underway.
People in Stillwater had lined the street to watch. They sat on their front porches or on the curbs, and they filled the sidewalks cheering and clapping when O’Malley drove by. Little kids bounced up and down on their tiptoes, waved their arms, and shouted. Men wearing aprons with deep pockets and carrying big bunches of balloons, flags, and cotton candy weaved their way in and around the crowd, hawking their wares.
The Stillwater High School band, resplendent in their maroon-and-white uniforms, followed O’Malley’s car playing “God Bless America.” They were pretty good this year—except for Greg Simmons, the tuba player.
“All blow and no show,” Maggie said matter-of-factly. “He should be a drummer.”
Next came an old town tradition—the E. I. Wood Steamer antique fire engine pulled by the town’s tow truck because it had been out of commission since the 1930s. The new fire truck followed the old truck, and several volunteer firemen sat up on the top throwing wrapped candy to the kids.
People went wild when a stoic-looking Mortie the mortician drove by in Stillwater’s long black hearse, which did double duty as the town ambulance. He waved his black top hat at the people, and they screamed, “Mortie! Mortie! Mortie!”
After that came the veterans—the brave heroes we honored in all our parades. They were wearing their military uniforms, and they marched to the music like they were still on active duty.
Mr. Walters led the Boy Scout troops. Two of the oldest, tallest Eagle Scouts carried a “Boyhaven” banner—the name of their summer camp at Saratoga Lake.
“I love courageous men in uniform,” Louanne shouted as they passed. “Can I visit Boyhaven?”
Mr. Walters turned around and glared at her.
We giggled, and she yelled, “Three cheers for Boyhaven! Hip hip hooray!”
The plucky 4-Hers marched—well, wandered, actually—behind the Boy Scouts, waving little American flags.
Then came my favorite part: about thirty kids riding bikes, each one decorated to the hilt. The older kids had attached playing cards to their back tires with clothespins so their bikes would sound like motorcycles. Nobody was fooled, but I gave them an A for effort.
Jimmy and Denny rode in the front of the pack. The Amazing Jimbo had decorated his cast with bright yellow stars and blue stripes, and he proudly held it up like he was the Statue of Liberty. Denny’s eyes sparkled, and he couldn’t stop grinning. His new blue Dodger cap set the red-white-and-blue streamers on his bike off nicely; he loved riding in parades.
Louanne, Maggie, and I rode down the center of Hudson Avenue side by side—just like the stripes in the American flag. I was wearing red shorts and a red-and-white-striped long-sleeved T-shirt; Maggie had on her blue slacks and a blue-and-white gingham blouse. We looked good, but Louanne looked sensational. She rode between Maggie and me dressed all in white—a white lacy shirt, white pedal pushers, and new white sandals.
“You were right, Grace,” Louanne said, waving at the crowd. “We’re definitely the most original bike riders in the parade. Nobody else comes close.”
People clapped and whistled at us. My mother and Doc waved their flags and stood up and cheered when we rode by. Mr. and Mrs. Nelson did too, and Sylvia made us stop so she could take our picture with her new Brownie camera.
Most of the crowd stepped into the street the moment we passed. There was some good-natured pushing and shoving as the townspeople followed the parade to the veterans’ monument in the small park on the edge of town. Gun salutes boomed, and the little kids covered their ears; some of them screamed bloody murder. Mr. Martin played “Taps” on his bugle, and Louanne brushed away a few tears—her father had been in the service when she was little. The mayor said a few uplifting words about how important the veterans were to our country and how grateful everyone was for their service, and the jubilant crowd went wild. The band struck up “God Bless America,” and everyone sang their hearts out.
After the ceremony, most people trooped over to the American Legion Hall for beer, burgers, and ice cream. Vinnie the butcher supervised the barbeque, and he gave the three of us the biggest hamburgers on the grill.
We ate outside on an old picnic table behind the building. Vinnie’s hamburgers were so g
ood that we gobbled them down and went back for seconds. We ate so much we couldn’t finish our hot fudge sundaes. It was too early to go home, so we wandered out of the hall to the baseball field, where some kids were starting a baseball game.
“I’ll be umpire,” Jimmy volunteered. “I can’t play ’cause of my cast.”
It was getting dark, but there was enough light for an inning or two. My team was up first. We had two outs, and Louanne had made it to third base when I hit a line drive hard enough to bring us both home. I rounded second base and noticed Uncle Tony and Gabriel over by the woods watching the game. When I reached home plate, I looked again, but they’d disappeared.
“Hey, I saw Tony Dodd,” Jimmy said, running over to Maggie. “Take me home.”
“Don’t be a baby,” Louanne said, sighing heavily. “There’s no law against him watching us play ball. Why are you afraid?”
“Because he’s a nut,” Gary Cannon yelled from the pitcher’s mound. “Stick up for your crazy uncle, Louanne! Whose house is he gonna burn down next?”
Gary Cannon was my next-door neighbor. He was a year older than me, and he hated girls. We didn’t much like him either.
Louanne threw her mitt down and raced over to the pitcher’s mound. “Take it back, you no-good wiener!”
To my utter amazement, she punched him hard in the stomach. He doubled over, his feet flew out from under him, and he hit the ground with a thud. He was taller and heavier than Louanne, but she’d taken him by surprise. Before he could fight back, she threw herself on top of him, punched him in the ribs, and yelled, “Take it back! You take that back.”
“Lou!” Maggie screamed, running over to them. “Stop; you’ll get hurt.”
The twinnies were over by first base yelling, “Fight! Fight!”
Lou had Gary pinned, and he kept trying to push her off. They wrestled around in the grass—each one trying to hurt the other one.
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