Chapter 9 – Giving Back
“Are you sure you’re not going to need more water with that?”
Irene Wilson shook her head. “I’ll be fine, Ralph. It’s only pain medicine.”
Ralph Sampson thought the pill resting in Irene’s palm looked too large for human consumption, but Irene pitched her chin back and downed the medicine with hardly more than a swallow from the chilled bottle of water Ralph carried to her. Ralph had considered most everything regarding the new world beyond his community as frivolous and vain, and nothing was to him more asinine in modern life than water marketed and sold in plastic bottles. But he was happy for the cooler of water that Sheriff Abner had brought back from his trip down that highway to find hydrogen for their balloon bomb. Few trusted the drinking water supplied by the municipal water system, and many complained of something foul, something tainted, that lingered upon the tongue after sipping from what poured from their home faucets. Ralph supposed there had been too many years of neglect to the water pipes snaking beneath their crumbling streets, and he doubted his town would ever find the resources or will to build any of it back to how it had all once been.
Thus those plastic bottles of water were a welcome procurement when the early Saturday afternoon already bubbled with heat and humidity. Ralph was thankful that the pain never settled too deeply into his old legs, thankful that his stride remained strong, and so he took it upon himself to carry chilled, plastic bottles of water throughout the remains of the village park to help insure every elder citizen remained hydrated. His neighbors thanked Ralph for his efforts and did their best to ask him questions aimed for light conversation. But no one made a comment about the way the weeds overtook the park, nor how the picnic tables turned to rot and splinters, nor how the concrete of the old tennis courts cracked and how the net frayed and slouched in the middle. Pointing out such deficiencies did no one any good. Pointing out the park’s disrepair only reminded them all of how things once had been, of how their children and grandchildren had once enjoyed the swings before the chains rusted. Laughing children was not the memory that motivated them to sit in what shade the leaning pavilion still provided.
They came to the park to watch the launching of the balloon bomb, and so they set thick quilts on the best plots of turf and covered the rough picnic tables with cloth. They brought casseroles of chicken and rice, slow cookers of miniature hot dogs bathed in ketchup sauce, dips for chips and cheeses for crackers. They arranged plastic dining ware on colorful, paper napkins and plates. They brought mason jars of homemade, grape wine. They played games of penny Rummy as they waited, the cards dealt from automatic card-shuffling machines. Some even brought old cigars, saved too long for expected occasions that never arrived. Those of the community had not had a reason to gather and enjoy one another’s company for a very long time, and so they brought to that park all of the items they recalled needed for celebration – heavy horseshoes for tossing, guitars for strumming, lawn chairs for comfort.
Irene smiled at Ralph. “You played a lovely trumpet last night.”
Ralph was moved, and he gently, briefly clasped Irene’s hand. “Thank you for saying so. I hate to admit that it’s not so easy for these fingers to dance up and down anymore. But it’s not hard playing good music as long as Leroy’s squeezing his accordion right next to you.”
“Well, your trumpet was lovely all the same. The parade was splendid.”
Irene’s opinion was a common one throughout the park. The parade had not lasted long. It had only marched the three blocks of empty, brick buildings that constituted downtown. But it lasted long enough to make those who gathered on the sidewalks smile. That procession had been short, but it reminded the community that it still had reason to feel proud. Jack Altadonna’s vintage convertible provided an elegant car to place at the point of that parade, and Sam Crocker, again dressed in his military uniform, waved from the backseat, signs on the car doors proclaiming that aged veteran to be the master of ceremony. Sheriff Conrad coasted his patrol car right behind that convertible, and he silently spun his lights to throw strange shadows off of the brick buildings on either side of the street. Victor Muench and Stan Elliot took the town’s aging fire engine out of the municipal garage, and they made the mistake of blaring its horn before the pain that screamed through hearing aids screeched that such volume was no more acceptable to aging ears.
Those whose hands played a part in the balloon bomb’s restoration followed that fire engine. Kurt Peters sat upon his restored tractor and pulled the church quilting club atop the wagon that several decades ago he had used for autumn hayrides. Everyone along the roadside applauded when Kylie Hollenkamp slowly pedaled her bicycle behind those ladies of the quilting club. No one would forget that it was Kylie’s brush that painted such lovely shapes and stripes upon those small bombs that gave their balloon its purpose. Anyone who owned any role at all in the balloon’s repair had a place in that parade. Some walked, but most rolled comfortably along in the comfort of their cars to save their joints from too much pain. And there was no one gathered along the sidewalk who felt that anyone in that street did not deserve their place in the parade.
The balloon was of course the parade’s greatest attraction. Filled with the perfect amount of hydrogen, it bobbed softly above Hank Reverman’s flatbed, its moorings keeping the balloon centered on the trailer, safe from any sudden breeze that might attempt to send those glistening bombs dangerously close to those who whistled and cheered upon the sidewalks. People gaped in admiration of the balloon’s beauty. It was a thing of color. No longer was it a wrinkled and mottled relic of age and ruin. The balloon was no longer trapped in a lost age. The balloon was again young, and its decoration sparkled in the sun. Those little bombs fastened upon that ring suspended by the balloon’s new ropes did not look frightening, painted as they were like Easter eggs ready for a new spring. The stars and stripes were found everywhere on the balloon’s canvas, and everyone was happy to live in a village that still possessed the skill to bring such an old weapon back to life. Everyone was proud to count themselves members of a community who recognized the wisdom of giving that balloon bomb new life.
Ralph’s trumpet and Leroy’s accordion had followed the balloon to compose what band their community could muster, stringing together notes patriotic and hopeful. Though Xavier Beumont battled skin cancer, he dressed his last, old horse in the finest tack still in his possession and walked next to that animal at the very rear of the parade.
“Irene, would you happen to have an extra pain pill?”
“Of course, Ralph. I made sure to bring plenty with me.”
The parade lasted only three blocks, and yet everyone the next day felt the celebration’s effects. Those who walked during the previous night’s march listened to their joints and feet bark. Many had tasted too freely from the drinks Jack had offered from his bar following the parade, and the humidity and heat cruelly treated their hangovers. Yet no one considered retreating back into his or her homes, nor to the temptation of their air conditioners. The balloon deserved their presence in the park. After all their effort to lift that balloon back in the air, sweating was a discomfort happily born in order to witness that weapon’s second launch.
Ralph tossed the pain pill into his mouth and nearly choked as he washed it down with the help of another plastic bottle of water. How did Irene so routinely and casually take such pills? Sharing such medicine gave Ralph a deeper appreciation for his neighbor. It didn’t take long for Ralph to feel the effects, for the pill was strong in order to soothe Irene’s chronic pain. Warmth gathered in his knees, swirled in his belly, lifted up his back to settle in his spine.
“Where do you think the balloon will go?”
Irene’s question centered Ralph’s thoughts just as they drifted. “Come to think of it, Irene, I hadn’t considered it.”
Irene nodded. “I understand. I haven’t thought about it either. Seemed more important to stitch that balloon back together. Now that
it’s floating in front of us, seems only right we should consider where the wind might take it.”
“I hope the wind takes it someplace nice,” spoke Ralph. “It would be a shame if no one else got the chance to admire that balloon after we all worked so hard to put it back together.”
“Yeah, Ralph, it would just be terrible if that balloon floated off to nowhere.”
The balloon floated above Hank Reverman’s flatbed in the weed-infested parking lot of the abandoned and empty public pool. Sheriff Conrad had given the balloon more rope that morning, confident from the weather report that the humid day foreswore the strong winds that might threaten the balloon if too much rope was given to their gale. Thus, the balloon had more room than before to float above that trailer, and its patchwork colors and red, white and blue streamers looked more splendid than ever from such a height. It was easy to imagine mooring that balloon permanently above the park, where it might serve as a marker for their community in much the same way many a water tower marked villages similar in size. Perhaps, their community might have chosen to do just that in some earlier age. Only, those who remained to the village still didn’t care to be rediscovered. It wasn’t important for the outer world to recall the people living in their aging town. What mattered was that the balloon wouldn’t be forgotten.
Besides, Ralph thought it would be unfair to tie that balloon to their town. That balloon was designed for the wind. It had been built to drift. Keeping that balloon from its purpose to Ralph felt like a terrible and cruel thing to do.
Irene smiled. “Here comes Sam Crocker.”
Mary Lou’s car drifted into the parking lot. It took Mary Lou a little time to step out from the car, a little longer still to help her uncle from the passenger side. Sam Crocker once more wore his proud military uniform, still without a wrinkle or stain, but the way the old soldier winced as he shuffled upon his cane kept no secret that the recent movement was having an impact on his body.
Sam lifted a hand, and a handful of men including Dan Blankenship and Sheriff Conrad righted themselves from their lawn chairs and gripped the various hunting rifles they brought that day to the park. Those men and their weapons assembled in a line in front of Hank’s flatbed. Sam waited for each of the men to load their guns before lifting his hand to instruct them to lift their weapons’ barrels. Sam counted, and when he dropped his arm to his side, the men opened fire with their guns to send cracking rapports of gunfire bouncing about the park. The sheriff barked a count until they sufficiently fired those rifles for a proper salute. Once those weapons turned quiet and lowered, those seated beneath the pavilion applauded.
Hank Reverman then withdrew his best knife from his pocket and cut the balloon free of the ropes that moored it to his flatbed. The balloon lifted very slowly at first, as if it was somehow hesitant to leave that community that had shown it such welcome and care, no matter how that balloon was first crafted by an old enemy that no longer existed. The women of the quilting club sobbed as they watched the balloon climb higher and higher. The balloon’s rise tempted the wind, and a breeze cut through the humidity to push the balloon further from those assembled to witness its departure. It seemed to move so slowly, and yet everyone of that community thought it took little time before the balloon was only a speck surrounded by an expanse of blue sky.
Irene cleared her throat. “You don’t think anything bad will happen, do you Ralph? I mean, the balloon still holds all those…”
“Nothing bad is going to happen,” interrupted Ralph. “That balloon’s been around for a very long time. Nothing bad happened then. Nothing bad is going to happen now.”
The balloon vanished, and the energy that had lifted that community to the restoration of a balloon bomb disappeared along with it. The full measure of everyone’s pain returned. Sam Crocker sat again in the wheelchair that Mary Lou pushed to him. The heat and humidity felt heavier than it had a minute before. Without a word for conversation, everyone gathered their blankets and coolers, their paper plates and plastic silverware, and quickly returned to their cars. Soon, they all again sat in the comfortable air-conditioning of their homes. Soon, they all silently sat behind the seclusion of their walls. The balloon had blessed them with its presence for a short time. The balloon had given them a reason for parade. But that time was as fleeting as anything other era those in the community knew. Once more, those who called that community home waited to finally be forgotten.
But they could hope that the balloon bomb, now given new life and strength, would find a new community. They could hope that the balloon bomb they cared for might provide another town with a little hope and celebration just as it had given to them.
* * * * *
Floating the Balloon Bombs Page 10
