by Ann McMan
“David. It’s just a fifteen-minute debate.” Michael tried to placate him. “You’ve been practicing nonstop for days. All you need do is stand up there and read the speech Maddie wrote for you. But . . .” he hesitated. “There is one little bitty, teeny, insignificant thing you might want to reconsider . . .”
“What?” David was bent over the table, using a stainless-steel iced tea pitcher as a mirror. He’d been fussing with his bow tie for the last half hour. Something about it was still not right.
“Well,” Michael continued. “I’ve been giving some thought to that new finale you improvised.”
David glared up at him. “And?”
“I’m not sure ending with that Evita medley is the best idea.”
“What do you mean it’s not a good idea? Are you kidding me with this?” David was apoplectic. “You wait until now, when it’s,” he checked his watch, “ten minutes away to tell me this?” He picked up a stack of napkins and began to fan himself. “I’m going to pass out. I know it. I never should’ve eaten that three-bean salad . . . you know what legumes do to me. Oh, my god, oh, my god . . .”
Michael was stunned when Nadine appeared out of nowhere. She grabbed David by the shoulders, spun him around, and slapped him soundly across the face.
“What the hell is the matter with you, boy?” she demanded. “Nobody in this crowd wants to listen to you standing up there making a damn fool of yourself.”
David was dazed, but at least he’d stopped his tirade.
Nadine stood in front of him, wagging an index finger in front of his face. David’s eyes locked on her finger and watched it sway from side to side like a hypnotist’s medallion.
“I’m only going to say this to you once—so don’t expect me to repeat it.” Nadine leaned in closer. “Nobody—I mean nobody—sings ‘Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina’ but Patti LuPone. Get it? Not Joan Baez. Not that Welsh lounge lizard Tom Jones. Not Andrea damn Bocelli. Not Karen Carpenter. Not Shirley Bassey—and sure as hell not Olivia Newton-John. And before you open that blaspheming mouth of yours, boy—not your precious Madonna, either.”
David blinked. “Nadine? Is that you?” He looked around. “Where am I?”
“You’re in a place where you stand up, read your speech, then sit down and shut up. You leave the damn show tunes on Broadway, where they belong.” She reached out and straightened his bow tie. “Now get outta here and let me straighten up this mess before the fireworks.”
“Okay, Nadine.” David started to walk away, but stopped and turned back to face her. “You really think Patti LuPone was better than Madonna?”
Nadine glowered at him and picked up an iron skillet.
Nadine never seemed to go anyplace without one . . .
“Okay, okay . . .” David held up his hands in a pantomime of surrender and skittered behind Michael. “I just thought I’d ask.”
◊ ◊ ◊
“I wish I had the guts to change my fate.”
Rita was firing up another cigarette. It was her fifth one since she’d come over to sit down next to him. James hadn’t started out intending to count them, but she was burning through them so fast it was hard not to notice.
“Do you maybe want to ease off those a little bit?” he asked.
“Why?” she huffed. “It don’t matter how fast you smoke ’em. They’ll kill you just the same if you take your time.”
“Maybe,” he said. “But what if you change your mind and try to quit again?”
“That ain’t likely.”
“Why do you say that, Rita?”
She looked at him. “Remember what you said to me about when you knew that going back in the army was the right thing for you to do?”
“I’m not really sure,” he admitted.
“Well, I remember. You said it happened late one night while we were drivin’ back together after droppin’ off one of them doublewides in Wheeling. You said you looked out ahead at all those miles of empty road and thought you were seeing a nightmare vision of your future—long, dark and empty.” She took a drag off her cigarette. “That’s what you told me. That’s when you said you knew you needed to make a change.”
“I guess that was true,” he said. “I didn’t mean for it to imply anything about your life, though. I hope you know that.”
She laughed. “Of course, I know that. I don’t know how you made it overseas. You’d be likelier to turn the dang gun around and shoot yourself before you’d hurt anybody else—even one of them terrorists.”
James was embarrassed by her observation—probably because he knew she was right.
“Well, it turned out I didn’t have to shoot anybody. Maybe I got lucky.”
“You think losin’ a leg is lucky?”
He shrugged.
Rita finished her cigarette in silence.
Henry ran over to ask if they wanted to go with him to get more dessert before the fireworks started.
“Uncle David is gonna give his speech—and then we get to go to the river with Maddie and Syd to watch the big explosions,” he said. “Buddy told me they have ten cannons. Come on, Daddy,” Henry grabbed his hand. “Come on Miss Rita. Let’s go get a good spot.”
James got to his feet.
“Come on, Miss Rita.” He held his free hand out to her. “Let’s go watch the show. Who knows? Maybe we can pretend we’re blowing up all the things in our pasts we’d like to forget?”
Rita took her time to think it over, but finally grabbed hold of his hand and stood up. She ground out her cigarette and dropped the butt into the empty Pepsi can she’d been using as an ashtray.
“Way ahead of you, soldier,” she said.
◊ ◊ ◊
“I’m telling you. If you don’t try some of this bread pudding, you’re missing out on one of the two best things in life.”
Dorothy looked up at David.
“What’s the other one?”
He bent down and lowered his voice. “I’ll tell you later, when Michael isn’t around.”
Dorothy sighed. She really couldn’t make up her mind. There were so many kinds of desserts on the table to choose from—more kinds than she’d ever seen in one place before.
“I don’t know which one to pick,” she said.
“Well, that’s not hard to solve.” David grabbed a plastic tray. “Take one of each.”
“One of each?” She looked at him with wonder. “I could never carry all of that.”
“Here’s a news flash,” he said. “I’ll help you.”
Dorothy was dubious.
“No. Really,” David said. “I’m going to be famished when this debate is over. I always eat when I’m anxious. Don’t you?”
“No.” Dorothy shook her head. “I pretty much don’t eat anything when I’m worried about stuff.”
“David,” Michael hissed at him from behind the table. He furiously waved his hand at him, like he was trying to warn him about something.
“Yes, my furry prince?” David asked. He didn’t get to ask anything else because someone grabbed him from behind and yanked him backwards. “Not again,” David began . . .
“You stay away from her,” a voice bellowed.
Dorothy felt her insides cramp. She was afraid she was going to be sick all over the desserts.
“Hey, get your hands off him,” Michael yelled. “You’re messing up his suit.”
“You go to hell,” her father roared. “And you,” he shoved David backwards. “You keep your filthy hands off my daughter.”
Dorothy reached out to try and stop her father from hurting David.
“Papa, please. Don’t do this. He was just helping me pick out a dessert.”
Her father roughly shoved her away. The force of it made her stagger back against the table.
“Hey!” Michael cried. “Stop that—right now!”
Dorothy held her hands up in front of her face, expecting her father to strike her.
“What’s the matter with you?” David stepped forward a
nd grabbed her father by the arm. “You don’t treat a child like that.”
Her father smacked his hand away. “Don’t you dare lay your filthy, perverted hands on me.”
Her father was smaller than David, but a lot angrier. He lunged at him and knocked him off his feet. David staggered back against the table and the whole thing collapsed under his weight.
“Papa,” Dorothy was crying now. “Please stop. Please don’t hurt him. He didn’t do anything.”
Michael was trying to help David to his feet. People were rushing over to see what the fracas was about.
Her father wasn’t backing down—not from any of them. She’d seen it in his eyes. She knew this time, there’d be no calming him down. And no getting away from his wrath.
This time, he was going to keep going until he was finished.
The best she could do was try to get him away from everyone else, and pray that it would be over soon.
More and more people were crowding around. Everyone was talking at once and asking questions about what happened. She saw people she recognized from town. Buddy was there. So was James Lawrence. He stood there at the edge of the crowd with Henry and that woman he worked with at Cougar’s. Even Junior was there. And Mr. Hozbiest.
They kept on coming.
Her father was becoming aware of the crowd now, too. She saw him make an effort to compose himself and straighten his suit.
Michael was helping David back to his feet. He was covered with gooey fruit and icing. He looked different to her—and it was more than how shocked he was from being pushed down by her father. He looked . . . younger. And he looked afraid.
Her father turned around and began to address the crowd.
“This man,” he pointed a long finger at David, “laid hands on my daughter. This man tried to infect her with his twisted ideas and profane instincts. This man,” he raised his voice, “wants to corrupt the lives of all our children. He seeks to lead them astray and lure them onto the same twisted path of sin and aberration that he follows.” He pointed into the crowd of people who were standing there. Most of them were staring at the ground or nervously shifting their weight from foot to foot. It was clear they had no idea what to think or do—and that was what gave her father his edge. “Who among you doesn’t know it? Who among you hasn’t turned a blind eye while this man and his unholy coven have brought filth and dishonor to this once sacred place? Who among you hasn’t made excuses for him because of his connections and his old family name? Who among you now has the courage to stand with me and reject this contemptible lifestyle that is an abomination to God and the laws of man?” He turned to face David, who sagged against his partner. He looked close to tears. “I tell you this much here tonight, Mister Jenkins. I will not sully my oath of office by standing up before the good citizens of this community and debating such a one as you. You are not even fit to be a candidate for the position of trust I now hold.”
He grabbed Dorothy by the arm and roughly yanked her along behind him as he pushed his way through the crowd of people. As he dragged her away, all she could make out was a jumbled mix of shouted orders.
“Somebody go find the Sheriff!”
“Get those children away from here!”
“Go tell Sonny to start up them damn fireworks!”
Then she wasn’t aware of anything—except how hard she was having to run to keep from stumbling. He kept on going, faster and faster, until they were far away from the people and the noise—and all that lay before them was a darkening sky and the distant sound of rushing water.
◊ ◊ ◊
Gerald Watson hurled his daughter down on the bank of rocks and sand that ran along this stretch of river.
They were both out of breath from the wild, frenzied retreat from the pandemonium above.
But one thing was clear. Watson was still mad as hell.
He was striding around like a crazy man, kicking at stones and tearing at loose bits of scraggly, crooked tree limbs that projected from an enormous hunk of driftwood. The thing was so gray and decomposed that it probably had been deposited here decades ago, when the last great flood that consumed the area pushed the water level high enough through here to leave all manner of debris behind when it finally receded.
Dorothy cowered on the ground and watched him in that deathly quiet way of hers—that way that no child should ever know.
Finally, he stopped his mad pacing. With eerie and terrifying calm, he took off his jacket and folded it before laying it over a dry pile of rocks.
“You made me do that,” he said to her. “You made me lose my temper, and look what happened.”
He walked closer to where she lay, now curled into a fetal position.
“Goddamn you. Look at me when I talk to you.” He kicked at her feet. “I am still your father.”
She looked up at him with eyes like a frightened doe.
“I’m sorry, Papa.”
“You’re sorry? You’re sorry?” He scoffed at her. “Well I am sure glad to know you’re sorry.”
He unfastened his belt and pulled it free from the loops of his trousers.
“How about you count the ways for me? How about you give me one ‘sorry’ for every lash?” He wrapped the end of the belt around his hand and raised his arm.
Dorothy raised her arms to cover her face.
An earsplitting sound rang out. It was shrill and deafening—like the screech of a deranged fox.
Watson was startled by the sound—long enough for Dorothy to scramble to her feet and try to get away from him. She made a frantic dash for the water, but he chased her into the shallows and caught hold of her by the hair. He slapped her and half-dragged, half-carried her back to the sandy bank.
The earsplitting whistle sounded again—closer this time. The girl seemed to recognize it.
Dorothy saw him first.
“Buddy, no!” She cried out. “Buddy, go back. Don’t do this—you can’t help me.”
Watson saw him now, too.
He sneered at the gentle intruder, who stood, uncertainly but calmly on the rocks, clutching his metal whistle.
“What are you doing here, you fucking moron?” he seethed.
“No place for hate,” Buddy said. “Goldenrod won’t be free until hate goes away.”
“Oh, is that right?” Watson shook Dorothy off and surged toward Buddy, who raised his whistle to his mouth and blew it again.
“Papa, no!” Dorothy screamed. She scrambled to her feet. “Don’t hurt him. Don’t hurt him.”
Watson raised his leg and kicked Buddy hard on the shin. Buddy cried out and fell to the ground, clutching his leg. His swanee whistle lay discarded on the ground beside him. He was rocking and chanting, “No place for hate. No place for hate. The canons are finished. Goldenrod will be redeemed.”
“I’ll show you redeemed, you worthless piece of shit.”
Watson lifted his foot to kick Buddy again, but this time something stopped him. His body pitched forward and he crumpled to the ground, writhing and clutching his head.
Dorothy stood behind him holding a jagged hunk of driftwood.
“Get up,” she shouted at Buddy. “Get up—now.”
Buddy slowly rolled into a sitting position beside Watson, who was lying on his back muttering and holding a hand against the side of his head. There was blood seeping out between his fingers.
“Buddy,” Dorothy demanded. “Get over here, now. We have to get out of here—we have to run before he gets back up.”
Watson made a feeble effort to sit up, but failed and fell back against the dry ground.
Dorothy dropped the piece of driftwood beside her father’s prone figure and extended a hand to Buddy. “Come on. We have to go. We have to go, now.”
Buddy looked up at her with his clear eyes—just like he had that day at Junior’s, when he was painting the banners. Then he reached for her hand and let her help him up to a standing position.
“Goldenrod is redeemed,” he said.
> “Come on,” she said. “Come on. We have to get help.”
He leaned on her as they slowly backed away from where her father lay.
Watson had stopped moaning. His eyes were still open, but he wasn’t trying to sit up. The fingers on his right hand twitched against the dirt.
Dorothy and Buddy retreated from the river as quickly as Buddy’s leg would allow them to travel.
Just as they began their climb up the steep trail that led back to the safety of the picnic grounds, the first explosive volley of fireworks lit up the cloudless night sky, and threw everything along the river into bold relief. Watson lay on his back several feet from the water’s edge. His unmoving figure cast a distorted shadow along the rocks as the sky overhead erupted.
The earsplitting booms and accompanying flashes of brilliant light went on and on—raining down along the persistent and slow-moving river that had taken thousands of years to push its patient way through these ancient and all-knowing hills.
◊ ◊ ◊
“I found him.”
Maddie was kneeling in the water near the river’s edge.
The staccato booms and flashes from the fireworks finale were making it hard to hear, and even harder to see. Everything had a dizzying, surreal quality—like being trapped inside a strobe light. They’d been looking around down here for a while now. She only saw him because of the way the blue light reflected off his white shirt.
It was Watson.
And she could only be sure of two things.
He was face down in the shallow water. And he was dead.
Byron waded over to where she knelt beside Watson’s body.
“Is it him?” he asked.
“Yeah.” Maddie stood up. “He’s got a pretty nasty gash on the side of his head. He can’t have been here long.”
“No.” Byron sighed. “Not likely.”
He looked over the area where they stood. They were only a couple of feet from dry land.
The lights from the fireworks continued to flash and illuminate everything around them. He squinted at something. “Do you see that?”
