Carly stared at Nellie, suddenly seeing her in an entirely new light. “Did he? Really, Nellie? Did you say yes?” Although Clarence had been around for a long time, talking to Nellie when there was an opportunity, blushing madly and smiling his toothy smile, it had never occurred to Carly to think of him and Nellie in romantic terms. One naturally thought of Lila that way—Lila and her Johnny and scenes from forbidden, doomed romances like Romeo and Juliet and Wuthering Heights and Lorna Doone. But when one thought of Nellie the things that came to mind first were worried frowns and lectures. And then, of course, those sudden hugs and kisses—and cookies—and hems taken up and wrinkled crowns straightened.
Feeling guilty, Carly poked Nellie’s shoulder and asked again in her most enthusiastic tone of voice, “Did you tell him you would? That’s so exciting. I think that’s very exciting.” She wasn’t just pretending either. After all, there was no doubt that sitting with a young man at the Fourth of July picnic instead of with your family was a fairly romantic event—even if the man was only Clarence Buford.
Nellie’s smile was teasing but also, somehow, sad. “I was still deciding,” she said. “And now I don’t have to. Perhaps it’s all for the best.”
On the night before the Fourth, Carly had trouble sleeping. She tossed and turned until her nightgown was wrapped around her body like swaddling clothes and she had to stand up in bed to straighten herself out. Then she got back under the covers and tossed and turned some more. At last she got up and went downstairs for Tiger.
Strictly speaking, Tiger wasn’t allowed in the house because Mama was an Elliot. The Elliots, Mama’s family back in Maine, didn’t approve of having animals in the house and Mama still felt the same way. So Carly only let Tiger in when she really needed him—and when nobody was looking. But ever since she first got Tiger, right after she’d come to live at the ranch house, she sometimes needed him to help her sleep. Nobody else knew about it. It was her secret, and Tiger’s.
Tiger knew it was a secret. No matter how quietly she opened the back door he always heard, and he’d be at the door in a second, wagging his tail like crazy but not making a sound. She’d pick him up then, because his toenails on the stairs were too noisy, and tiptoe upstairs. Usually Tiger yipped when he was excited, but he never did on the way to Carly’s room, even though he was absolutely vibrating with happiness and excitement. Instead he only made a tiny growling sound almost like a cat purring and licked Carly’s cheek or ear or whatever else he could reach. Back in her room, with Tiger cuddled up beside her on top of the blankets, she usually went right to sleep and didn’t wake up until it was time to tiptoe him back downstairs before Nellie went down to the kitchen.
It worked again that night. With Tiger beside her Carly slept peacefully until dawn, when she got up to let him out—and to start preparing to be the Statue of Liberty. In spite of having to wash her hair to get out the braid crinkles, Carly was, for once, the one who was ready on time. Robed and crowned and with her slightly damp hair hanging loose on her shoulders, she fretted nervously while her brothers took forever to eat and dress, and Lila and Nellie fussed endlessly over the food they were taking to the picnic. By the time Arthur brought the surrey to the front steps, and Charles, in his slow, uncertain way, loaded and shifted and reloaded the baskets of picnic supplies, Carly was almost beside herself.
All the way into town behind poky old Prince, she worried and fussed, certain that the parade would be under way by the time they arrived, and she would have missed forever her opportunity to be a patriotic symbol. But although it was already five minutes past nine when Arthur finally reined to a stop at the assembly area near the end of First Street, the milling mob had only begun to form itself into a marching column.
“They’re still there,” Carly squealed, bouncing in excitement. “They didn’t leave without me, after all.”
Chapter 18
THE MOMENT THE surrey stopped, Carly leapt to the ground, Grecian robe flying. Behind her she could hear Nellie scolding and Arthur and Charles laughing as she straightened her crown and started off at a run around a team of bays hitched to a buckboard decorated with red, white, and blue streamers.
Near the buckboard a group of Women’s Club ladies, dressed in colonial costumes, waited as Mr. Hamilton and his grown-up son, Sam, struggled to get Mrs. Hamilton up onto the wagon bed. Mrs. Clara Hamilton, who was president of the Women’s Club, was wearing across her broad bosom a red ribbon with BETSY ROSS printed on it. On the wagon a copy of the original American flag was draped over a quilting frame, and around it the club ladies would represent Betsy Ross and her sewing circle, stitching up the famous first flag.
Ducking around Betsy Ross and her friends, Carly found herself in the midst of the Community Marching Band. In red and white uniforms decorated with lots of gold braid, the men and boys of the band were forming ranks and warming up their instruments, Carly dodged between tootling cornets and throbbing tubas and, a few yards beyond the band, finally arrived at the Presbyterian Church’s entry—the “Symbols of Patriotism.”
The Presbyterian float was an enormous freight wagon pulled by the Quigleys’ famous matched team, a pair of high-stepping dapple-grays, so light as to be almost white. When Carly arrived, all the other Symbols of Patriotism were already arranged around the bed of the wagon amid huge potted ferns and a number of small latticework trellises covered with real roses. Carly thought she had never seen anything so beautiful in her whole life.
“There she is. Our little Miss Liberty has arrived.” Reverend Mapes’s loud preacher’s voice boomed out from somewhere among the trellises. At least it sounded like Reverend Mapes, but when he leaned down over the driver’s seat, holding out his hand, for just a moment she wasn’t sure. Looking up against the bright sunlight, she hardly recognized the man in the bushy white wig, three-cornered hat, enormous frock coat, and unnaturally jovial smile. But once up on the wagon bed she saw that it was indeed the preacher, amazingly transformed by his elaborate costume.
Having never seen a preacher’s legs before, Carly was looking with interest at the Reverend Mapes’s hefty calves encased in tight white stockings, when he suddenly roared again, this time right in her ear.
“Welcome, Miss Liberty, to our illustrious ranks. Captain John Smith here, and may I introduce the lovely Princess Pocahontas.” A little guiltily Carly shifted her gaze from the fat white legs to the sweeping gesture that indicated Mrs. Mapes, who was wearing long braids of black yarn and an Indian maiden’s dress made from quite a lot of embroidered gunny sacks.
Carly curtsied to the Princess and then followed the Captain between trellises and potted ferns as he introduced her to the other lucky Symbols of Patriotism. The winners from the other Sunday School competitions were sixteen-year-old Ralph Bodger from the young people’s class as George Washington, Tommy Fenner from the infants’ class as a very small and roly-poly Uncle Sam, and George Freebody, representing the adult class, who was supposed to be the president himself, Mr. Theodore Roosevelt, dressed for safari in a hunting jacket and Panama hat. Nobody scolded Carly for being late and everyone, except for little Tommy, said hello and told her she made a lovely Statue of Liberty, and even Tommy stopped scratching under his Uncle Sam beard long enough to wave his fingers and grin.
By the time Reverend Mapes had assigned everyone a background trellis and found a box for Uncle Sam to stand on so he could be seen over the potted ferns, Betsy Ross and her ladies had moved into the line of march, the band had formed ranks and begun to play, and the parade was under way.
Framed in her rose-covered trellis, Carly braced herself against the jolting of the wagon and shivered with excitement. Just ahead of her in the driver’s seat a lanky, sharp-faced man who worked for the Quigleys tightened the reins and shouted at the dapple-grays. “Easy there. Easy now,” he shouted, as the spirited horses, spooked by the noise of the band, tossed their heads and plunged against their collars.
The blare and beat of the band, the high-stepping g
race of the dapple-grays, the lurching roll of the wagon as it went over the bumpy ground of the vacant lot and down into the street, and the sight of the long, glittering procession stretching out up First Street turned Carly’s shiver into a permanent tremble that quivered up and down her legs and out her arms to the tips of her fingers.
The shiver was unexpected, and unexpectedly exciting. I’m trembling, she thought. I must be terrified. I don’t think I’ve ever been so terrified before. It was an interesting idea. Concentrating on being terrified on the inside but calm on the outside, she raised her tissue-paper torch and smiled a bravely dignified smile at the first group of parade watchers on the corner of First and Palm.
That first burst of terror had smoothed itself down into a pleasant tingling excitement by the corner of Second Street, where, amid small clumps of waving spectators, Carly spotted Aunt M. and Woo Ying. Aunt M.’s face, under her broad-brimmed hat, was a wreath of smiles and even Woo Ying, whose public face was always solemnly calm, was grinning broadly. Overcome by delight, Carly forgot to be statuelike and jumped up and down, waving her torch wildly.
The wagon rolled on and Carly lost sight of Aunt M. and Woo Ying. Up ahead, in front of the Olympic Hotel, a solid mass of humanity waited, waving and cheering. Quivering with excitement, Carly regained her dignity and posed herself carefully with her torch held high. Then, just as the Quigley grays pranced grandly into the Main Street turn, a string of powerful firecrackers exploded almost under their hooves. As the deafening explosions echoed and reechoed, the terrified horses reared and then plunged forward in a headlong run. And the Presbyterian float turned into a lurching, tumbling, screaming madhouse.
Chapter 19
AT THE FIRST wild forward plunge of the runaway float Carly’s rose trellis tipped over on top of her, pinning her to the bed of the wagon. A moment later little Tommy Fenner flew off the box he’d been standing on and landed across her legs, where he stuck like a leech, clinging to her ankles and screaming his head off. It wasn’t at all comfortable, bouncing around on the rough wagon bed under Tommy and the trellis, but it all happened so quickly that Carly’s astonishment was just beginning to turn into fear when it was over. The wagon lurched violently one last time and came to a sudden stop. Feeling dazed and hurting a little from splinters and rose thorns, Carly detached Tommy and crawled out from under the trellis and looked around her.
People were running toward the wagon from all directions. Voices were shouting, Tommy was still screaming, and the Quigley grays were snorting and stomping as three or four men clung tightly to their bridles. As she began to get her bearings, Carly could see that the wagon had traveled two blocks down Main Street while she was under the trellis. And during that time a great deal had happened.
The Community Band, which had been in the middle of “The Washington Post March” when the team bolted, had managed to scramble out of the way. Except for a lot of torn and scattered sheet music and one badly trampled trombone, there were no serious casualties in the band.
The Betsy Ross float had come off pretty well too. Afterward Sammy Hamilton, the driver, was hailed as a hero. He had, as he told everyone forever afterward, looked back quickly when he heard the firecrackers, immediately saw what was going to happen, and by reacting instantly was able to get his team to the side of the street in time to avoid the runaway Presbyterians and what might have been a terrible collision.
It was a good thing there was no collision, because even without one, what happened on the church float was bad enough. Reverend Mapes, trying to support his wife, lost his balance and fell, pulling her over on top of him. A very large potted fern rolled over George Freebody’s foot, and Ralph Bodger jumped or fell out of the wagon, taking a fern and two trellises with him.
But the worst part was that the parade was over—at least for the Presbyterians. Carly didn’t think it was fair, or necessary. She herself was fine, except for a crushed torch and a slightly bent crown, not to mention—and she carefully didn’t—a few slivers and thorn pricks. And no one could find anything wrong with Tommy, either, once they got him to stop screaming. So the float still had a Statue of Liberty and an Uncle Sam. But President Roosevelt had some smashed toes and John Smith had a badly wrenched back, and worst of all, George Washington had sprained his ankle when he jumped overboard. So the float was taken out of the parade and Carly was heartbroken—at least for a while.
For those first few minutes she could think only that her wonderful day was over and done with, but before long she realized that she was now not only the Statue of Liberty but also a heroine. By the time the parade was finally under way again, the story of what had happened was all over Santa Luisa, and everyone, even people who had not been present at the corner of Palm and Main, knew what had happened. Carly had hardly given up on the float and started to walk down Main Street when she was surrounded by dozens of excited people who wanted to hug and pat her and even cry a little as they praised God for having spared her life. The main parade might have gone on without her, but Carly in her torn and rumpled robe and lopsided crown had become the center of a small personal parade by the time she found the rest of her family.
She’d gotten as far as the fire station before her sisters and brothers came running up the street. Nellie was in tears and even Lila might almost have been. It was hard to tell with Lila, whose face never wrinkled up and got ugly when she cried, as other people’s did. Charles was flushed and stammering and Arthur kept saying just wait until he got his hands on the murderer who’d thrown those firecrackers. Then Aunt M. arrived with Woo Ying, and before they had finished fussing, the Fenners came up carrying little Tommy.
It was Tommy who started the heroine business. He had told his parents that Carly had saved him when the horses bolted. At first she tried to protest, but nobody listened, and when Tommy wanted to hug and kiss her to thank her for saving his life, she quit arguing. It was true, in a way, she decided. After all, he could have been badly hurt if she hadn’t been there for him to land on when he fell off his box. So she hugged him back and told him he was very welcome. And then the Fenners went off and Carly stayed in front of the fire station with her family until the parade was over and it was time to go to the picnic grounds.
Chapter 20
THE HUGE FOURTH of July picnic at Oak Park had always been one of Carly’s favorite events. There were, of course, other large group picnics in Santa Luisa. All through the spring and summer, and well into the fall, there were church and lodge and family reunion picnics at Oak Park, as well as the many state picnics when Ohioans and Missourians and Iowans got together with others who had come to California from their home states.
But the Fourth of July picnic was for everybody, and that in itself made it different and much more interesting. On that one day you could expect to meet people you weren’t related to, and who didn’t attend your school or church. Now and then you might even meet people you’d never seen before. That possibility in itself was intriguing. Particularly for someone who lived out in the country and who had a father who felt that most social activities were a waste of time.
There were always a great many social activities at the Fourth of July picnic. After everyone had eaten all they possibly could, there were speeches and musical offerings and a great many games and races and contests. The celebration lasted all through the day and at night there was more music, the kind that people dance to. That is, some people danced, like Catholics and free-thinkers, not to mention a few of the more worldly Presbyterians and people like Henrietta Spotsworth, who was a fallen-away Baptist. And of course there were the fireworks that went off continually between and during all the other activities, all day long and far into the night.
But the scheduled events were not the best part of the day. In Carly’s experience the best things were the ones that nobody could plan or predict. Just like firecrackers those best things always seemed to happen when you least expected it.
There had been the time, for instance, that Ral
phie Rasmussen and Ernest Robinson tied in the hundred-yard dash and got into a fistfight over the blue ribbon. And Ralph senior punched Andy Robinson, who was Ernie’s uncle, and a Rasmussen hired man punched one of the Robinsons’, and it was all terribly exciting for a while until somebody called Sheriff Simms.
And then, just last year, little Billy Purvis ate too much and went to sleep under a table, and his mother put up an awful fuss. Everybody thought he’d been drowned in the mill run or maybe kidnapped, and the whole picnic broke up into search parties. That had been the most exciting picnic ever—until the Fourth of July in 1907.
Of course in 1907 the holiday had gotten off to a really extraordinary start with the runaway float, and afterward at the picnic things continued to be unusually exciting, at least for Carly. As she helped carry the Hartwick picnic baskets from the surrey to the tables, and then joined in the feasting, she was still the center of attention. Nearly everybody she knew stopped by to tell her how sorry they were about the firecracker thrower and the runaway float, and how glad they were that she hadn’t been injured.
Dressed now in her new blue percale dress with the square white collar and wide polka-dot sash at the dropped waistline and a hair ribbon to match, Carly sat between Lila and Aunt M. and tried to eat and answer questions at the same time. Between mouthfuls of cold fried chicken and potato salad and corn on the cob, she talked to a great many people, thanking them for their concern and answering their questions, at least the ones she could answer.
But there was one question that nobody could answer, and that was, Who had thrown the string of firecrackers under the hooves of the Quigley grays? Everyone agreed that it had been a criminally irresponsible thing to do, and whoever had done it should be caught and severely punished, and they also agreed that it was very strange that the guilty party had managed to go entirely unseen.
And Condors Danced Page 9
