by Greg Johnson
Although Mr. Carson urged Thom to invite his friends over the evening of July Fourth, it turned out that every kid he knew would be gone somewhere with his family. The neighborhood hadn’t been very welcoming to the Carsons, so far; there had been a few polite knocks at the front door once they’d had a chance to “settle in,” as Thorn’s mother put it—of course, she’d been one of the callers, bringing over one of her cherry pies—but most of the neighbors were put off by the Carsons’ harsh Jersey accents, or by Mrs. Carson’s shyness and incomprehension in the face of elaborate Southern manners, or by the way Kit and his parents were always outside, darting this way and that, yelling and laughing to each other like they were all kids with no grown-ups in charge. Verna and Mrs. Sadler had kept up their spying off and on, shaking their heads over Mrs. Carson’s “get-ups” (she favored shorts and tennis shoes and often tied her plain flyaway hair with a bandanna) and all the Carsons’ loud, high voices. Sherwood Forest was a quiet older neighborhood with large manicured front lawns, but the Carsons ran around theirs “like a bunch of monkeys,” Verna said. Since Thorn’s mother was a “Yankee,” too, and since the Sadlers were the only other Catholic family on the block, Thom had thought she might warm to them, but she’d quickly grown jealous of the many hours Thom spent next door.
“Are the Carsons that fascinating?” she would say, when he edged away from the table the minute dinner was over.
He didn’t answer. But to Thom, who often felt lonely during the summer, the answer was simple: Yes, they were. He felt happier next door than he’d ever felt at home, he told himself. Already he’d begun to have treacherous fantasies of being Kit’s brother, Mr. Carson’s second son.
Though he reminded his parents every couple of days that he’d been invited next door for barbecue on the fourth, he almost didn’t get to go. The night before, watching the six o’clock news about the celebration in Lenox Square, Thorn’s mother had abruptly decided they should have a family outing: they could have an early dinner at Houston’s, then see the display at Lenox. Mr. Sadler said something vaguely negative about the crowds, but Thom knew he would agree if his wife insisted. Abby had been the one to save the day.
“But I’m spending the night at Jennifer Treadway’s—remember, Mom? Her mother is taking a bunch of us girls to Stone Mountain.”
“Oh, that’s right,” her mother fretted. Then she said, “Still, I suppose the three of us could…” But she glanced at Thom, who wore such a long face that she relented. Her lips made a little twist. “Oh, that’s right, you’re going next door again, aren’t you? It’s a wonder they don’t start making you pay room and board, you’re over there so much.”
Thom hadn’t said anything. He’d felt his heart pounding, his hands sweating. The idea of missing the barbecue and fireworks at the Carsons’ had the potentially tragic impact you can suffer that keenly only when you are eleven years old. His intense feelings of relief had left him winded.
Mr. Carson had said the “festivities” would start around seven, but by 5:30 Thom was ready, fidgeting in front of the TV set and waiting for time to pass. His father was catching up on work at the office (he loved going in on Sundays and holidays, he said, claiming he got much more work done when it was quiet), and Verna was off and Thorn’s mother had just left with Abby for the Treadways’. Since he’d turned eleven in May, his mother sometimes left him alone for brief periods, having decided he was “responsible,” but only during the day and seldom for more than a couple of hours. Normally, he relished these times and would walk around the empty house proudly, feeling grown-up but also giddy, sometimes shouting out “Hallo-o-o!” and listening with a pleased smile to the echo of his voice, at other times singing some goofy song from the radio and flailing his arms and legs in a little dance, or a parody of dance, then laughing at himself. He liked being alone and was never afraid. He imagined what it would be like if Mr. Carson pulled into his driveway early and Thom went to the front door, as if impersonating his own father, and called out an invitation to come over for a “cocktail.” That’s what his parents called Mr. Sadler’s whiskey sours; Thorn’s mother no longer drank but she used the word, too. Thom thought it sounded silly. Now it was July Fourth, and he went over and snapped off the TV set, where there was some boring “bulletin” about President Ford, and in the sudden silence Thom smiled and said aloud, to his dim reflection in the TV screen, “Would you care for a cocktail?”
He glanced hopefully at the brass clock on the fireplace mantel, expecting it must be past six o’clock. Only 5:45. Why was time so slow when you wanted it to hurry?
The idea and its execution came at about the same moment. He went into the dining room, opened the buffet cabinet, found the whiskey bottle and prepared liquid mix (greenish and hideous, Thom always thought) his mother bought each week at Kroger’s. As he’d seen his father do countless times, he poured one inch of the bourbon and two inches of the mix, then took the glass into the kitchen and added ice cubes until the glass was full. His father used a spoon, but Thom stuck his forefinger in and stirred, then touched his fingertip to his tongue. He wrinkled his nose.
“Would you care for one of our disgusting cocktails?” he said aloud, in imitation of a mincing Southern hostess. He put the glass to his mouth, his nose touching an ice cube, and stuck his tongue doglike into the drink for a taste.
It was pretty awful, but tolerable. He sat at the kitchen table, where he had a view of the driveway through a side window. If he saw his mother’s car or, less likely, his father’s, he could pour the drink down the drain and rinse the glass and stick it in the dishwasher before the car had even stopped. He’d remembered to put the two bottles back in the cabinet, even turning the labels to face exactly as he’d found them. He hadn’t thought of himself as sneaky, but he guessed he was. The thought pleased him.
He took a second sip and a third. He didn’t feel anything. He’d seen adults get loud and boisterous when they drank—especially his father’s younger brother, Joel, who stopped by sometimes to complain how much money his wife spent for clothes—and though his father had only one or two drinks by himself in the evening, he sometimes had more when company came, and even he would get livelier, his cheeks flushing. Lately when Thom went next door, he felt tongue-tied, especially when Mr. Carson focused his grinning attention directly on him, saying he bet Thom was “a lady-killer” at school and making Thom blush. He wished he could act suave and sophisticated like the actors he saw on TV or try to be funny like Mr. Carson himself. Yes, I’ve killed a few ladies in my day, he’d thought later, in bed, but at the time he’d just grinned a lopsided silly kid’s grin and looked down. He knew that Mr. Carson liked him and probably appreciated that he wasn’t a motor-mouth like Kit, but Thom knew he wasn’t really impressive, which was what he most wanted to be. Abby had gone next door with him one day and had bragged that Thom made all A’s in school the previous term, and Mr. Carson had looked at him in a new way, as if surprised, and had said, “That’s impressive, Thom.” Thorn’s blood had glowed and his heart had convulsed with pleasure. Yet he knew from Mr. Carson’s surprised reaction that he must not look impressive, which pained him.
He thought about these things idly as he sat at the kitchen table sipping his whiskey sour, his bare legs dangling from the chair.
He couldn’t finish the drink; it was just too foul-tasting. He poured the rest out and put away the glass, glancing at the oven clock—only 6:10, he’d thought it must be 6:30 at least!—and said, “Thanks so much for the delightful cocktail, Mr. Sadler!” “Why don’t mention it, Mr. Carson,” he answered. “We don’t see nearly enough of you. Please do come back.”
He wandered into the bathroom and stared for a minute at his face in the mirror. The same bony, ordinary kid’s face with its bush of dark hair, but he took his comb from his back pocket, wet it, and combed his hair again. Tonight he wanted to look nice. He’d put on a clean pair of khaki shorts, not cut-offs, and the red knit shirt his Aunt Millicent in Philadelphia had
sent him, with the little alligator sewn onto the chest. This was the first time he had worn it. He guessed he looked all right. Tired of worrying about it, he raised his eyebrows and said, again in that silly voice, “Why, you’re looking well this evening, Mr. Sadler!” “Why thank you, I’ve just combed my hair for the fifth time, and I’m so glad you noticed. Do you like it?” “Oh yes, I do. It’s most becoming.”
That’s when he felt a little dizzy. He grabbed the edge of the sink and noticed in the mirror he looked pale. Then the wave of dizziness passed. He felt OK. He knew he couldn’t be drunk because he’d had only a few sips, but his stomach did feel queasy. Once when he’d gotten sick, his mother had said to put his head between his legs and to take deep breaths, so now he sat on the toilet and tried it, then stood back up. It seemed to work. He felt fine.
Next door, the Carsons were putting paper plates and napkins on the picnic table, and near the back door Thom saw that the silver-painted grill, made out of a barrel, had wisps of smoke fuming out the sides. Mr. Carson wore a long red-stained apron that had “Kiss the Cook” written across the front. The smell of the cooking meat gave Thom another wave of dizziness, and he felt an unpleasant tingling at the back of his throat; the last thing he wanted was to eat, but he’d smiled and opened his mouth to compliment Mr. Carson on the aroma when Kit came whirring out the back door carrying a plastic bag.
“Hey, Thom, wait’ll you see these firecrackers, they’re twice as big as the ones we used last year! We’ve got three different kinds of Roman and we bought these humongous sparklers, too, come see, come see!”
Kit’s parents looked over at Thom, smiling; Mrs. Carson had glanced at her watch.
“But not until after dinner, guys,” Kit’s father said. “It’s still too light.” He pointed up to the sky. “You want that pretty deep-blue dusk for fireworks, don’t you?”
“God, I can hardly wait!” Kit said.
Thom felt awkward standing there with his hands in his pockets. His stomach was aching a little. He wished he’d worn his usual summertime T-shirt and cut-offs, since that’s what Kit was wearing, and even his parents had on shorts and sandals. All dressed up, he felt like a geek.
Mrs. Carson smiled her shy, crinkly smile. “You look nice, Thom. Did you and your family go visiting today?”
“No ma’am,” Thom said. He hoped Mr. Carson wouldn’t say anything about Thorn’s being a lady-killer.
For the next half-hour, Kit showed him the fireworks and reminisced about last year’s July Fourth back in Jersey. They had big-ass Roman candles but one went over into this shitty neighbor’s yard and he called the police who came out but when Dad was talking to them you could tell they were on Dad’s side and not the old neighbor’s, it was really super, and then Dad invited the neighbor over for some barbecue and at first he said no but Dad kept talking and then he came over and turned out to be nice after all, and he even helped set off a few more Roman candles after that! Thom was shocked by some of Kit’s language, but it didn’t seem to faze his parents, who seldom reprimanded him for anything except once in a while to “settle down” when he talked too fast, little red streaks glowing along his cheeks.
“You and your dad ever do fireworks, Thom?” Mr. Carson asked. Holding a long pair of tongs in one hand, he’d lifted the top half of the silver barrel and instantly was swathed in billows of whitish smoke.
Thom started to lie because he didn’t want his father to sound boring, but he said, “No, sir, never. We’ve watched the displays, though.”
Mr. Carson laughed. “Well, we won’t have much of a display, but at least we’ll get to set them off ourselves. That sounds like more fun, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” Thom said. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Finally, Mrs. Carson brought out a jug of sweet tea and said everything was ready whenever “the cook” was finished with the barbecue, and a few minutes later the four of them were sitting at the picnic table, Kit and Thom on one side and Kit’s parents on the other, just as if Thom were a member of the family. The only problem was that Thorn’s stomach was cramping a little, nothing he couldn’t handle, but he was afraid if he took one bite of food he would throw up, and the Carsons would send him home to bed and he would miss the fireworks. But Mr. Carson was so animated, talking and gesturing, and Mrs. Carson stayed so busy going in and out of the house fetching things and taking things back again, that neither noticed that Thom was only pretending to eat, picking at the bun with his fingers, lifting the sandwich to his mouth (holding his breath to avoid the smell of cooked meat which he was afraid might be enough to make him puke) and making chewing motions, smiling if anyone glanced his way. He shoved the baked beans and potato salad around with his plastic fork to give the illusion he was eating. Once when the adults’ attention was on Kit—he’d spilled some barbecue sauce onto his shirt—Thom took half his sandwich and swiftly tossed it into the bag Mrs. Carson was using for trash.
After twenty minutes of noisy conversation the meal was concluded, and Thom had successfully avoided eating a single bite. Thom was relieved when Mrs. Carson said the dessert she’d prepared—peach pie with ice cream—could wait until after they’d finished with the fireworks, and he’d felt grateful that Mrs. Carson, unlike other women he knew, hadn’t pestered him with complaints that he didn’t eat enough. She’d simply taken his plate and tossed it with the others into the trash. Thorn’s stomach had settled, too. He felt a little warm, but the temperature had reached the nineties that day and the air was still muggy. There wasn’t much of a breeze.
Before they did the fireworks, Mr. Carson said, Thom needed to come inside a minute. He had already put mosquito repellent on himself and Kit, but Thom was getting bitten. It was true: he’d been scratching absentmindedly at the back of his knee, his earlobe. Thom followed Mr. Carson into the kitchen and down a dimmed hallway and through the big bedroom where he and his wife slept; the spray was in the “master bathroom,” he said. Thom went inside, and Mr. Carson shut the door and sprayed both his arms, slowly lifting up his shirt and spraying his back and stomach, too. The spray felt cool and pleasant. It smelled like pine needles.
“You like that?” Mr. Carson said. Slowly, he rubbed the spray into Thorn’s skin.
Thom nodded, his head swimming. He liked anything Mr. Carson did, didn’t he?
When they came back outside awhile later, Kit was sitting on the porch step, his arms folded; he looked grumpy. But when Mr. Carson said, “All right, all right then—let’s do it,” he jumped up. Kit’s father made the “festivities,” as he kept calling them, even more exciting than Thom might have thought. First, he sat on the back porch with one of the boys on each side and went through the bag, explaining the fireworks one by one, and how to use them safely. The rhythm of Mr. Carson’s voice was deep-pitched yet boyish. He talked to them as if he were a boy, too, not in the half-scolding, know-it-all way some of the fathers of Thorn’s friends used when they spoke to kids. Thom didn’t really focus on Mr. Carson’s words but on his voice, and his strong fingers with their freckles and small reddish hairs, and his long arms with their ropy muscle, the biceps rippling smoothly beneath the skin as he handled the fireworks. When he clapped his hands and said, “So, you boys ready?” Thom understood that he hadn’t listened to a word Mr. Carson said.
He decided just to watch Kit, who wanted to do most of the fireworks anyway. Mr. Carson admonished him to let Thom have his turns, but Thom said quickly he didn’t mind, he’d rather just watch. He kept his eyes on Mr. Carson’s as he spoke, but the man’s grinning, crinkling eyes didn’t quite meet his. Kit was digging eagerly through the plastic bag and pulling out fireworks of all shapes and sizes, some evidently left over from last year, some new in clear cellophane wrappers. There were Sonic Screamers and Glow Worms and Ribbon Rockets; there were plain Black Jack firecrackers and extra-large crimson Red Devils the size of Mr. Carson’s thumb; there were Shooting Star Rockets and Glowing Candles and Golden Showers and Screaming Meemies. They
laughed at the silly names, but Kit was too eager to play around for long, and once Mr. Carson had performed the “safety procedures”—a phrase he intoned with an ironic twist of his lips—of filling a bucket with sand and insisting the boys not forget “the way to hold a firecracker or any other type of—” his son interrupted, “All right, Dad, we got it!”
Mr. Carson laughed and handed Kit a long yellow tube and seconds later Thorn’s face was lifted skyward, watching in a warm dazed stupor as Kit and his dad began shooting the sparkling rockets and bursting candles, exclaiming at the showering cones and blossoms of neon yellow and phosphorescent cobalt and searing bright green, the fierce bullets of light arcing and whistling and exploding and then shimmering down before the hunched acquiescent ridge of massed and darkened trees.
Kit’s high yipping cries filled the air—“Look at that one, Dad, look at that. Hey, Mom, did you see!”—but Thom watched in silence, his tongue dry, his head swimming in a feverish joy and his vision swathed in hot mist. Ten minutes passed, or half an hour, or a small lifetime as Thom watched and watched, his head and body aching, his heart bursting upward like these explosions of light in a trance of yearning.
