And Condors Danced (12 page)

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.

T
HE 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 Ralphie 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.

“No,” Carly told her sympathetic listeners, “I guess I wasn’t looking in the right direction. I didn’t see anyone throw them, and after the trellis fell on me, I couldn’t see anything at all.”

It seemed that none of the parade spectators had seen the firecrackers thrown either. And Arthur, who was determined to find the guilty party, had learned that neither had any of the other Symbols of Patriotism on the Presbyterian float.

“It was almost as if those firecrackers came right down from the blue,” Mrs. Jenkins said before she patted Carly’s cheek for the third time and hurried off to get some more of her own famous corn soufflé before it was all gone.

Carly was as baffled as everyone else, and it wasn’t until some time later, as she was finishing her apple pie and ice cream, that she just happened to recall something that seemed like an important clue. The clue had come from Brother Tupper’s sermon.

Thinking, as she was, about parades and explosions, she suddenly remembered what Brother Tupper had said about bombs—bombs that had been thrown during meetings and rallys and
parades
. According to Brother Tupper the bombs had been thrown by atheists and were a part of their last-days attack on the innocent and the righteous. And while Brother Tupper hadn’t specifically mentioned throwing firecrackers at Presbyterians, there certainly were some similarities.

It was a fascinating idea. With her spoon hand frozen halfway to her mouth, Carly went over the evidence—and came to a conclusion. The conclusion was that what was needed was an investigation by Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson—and the sooner the better. Quickly scooping up the last spoonful of ice cream, she stood up and looked around for Matt.

He couldn’t have gone far. Carly had seen him only a few minutes earlier at the dessert table. In fact, she’d seen him at the dessert table at least three times. But now, when she needed him, it seemed that he’d finally had enough to eat and gone elsewhere. She would have to go looking for him—and quickly, before somebody made other plans for her.

By leaning to one side she could just see the empty spot at the hitching rack where the Hartwick surrey had been until poor Nellie left for home. That had been almost an hour ago. At any time one might expect to hear the clop and jingle of the returning horse and rig—announcing Father’s arrival. The investigation, if there was to be one, would have to begin immediately.

Getting up from the table with what she hoped was a casual, unhurried air, Carly looked around for the best avenue of escape. In one direction Aunt M. was busy talking to Elvira Hopper of Elvira’s Hat Shop, and in the other Lila was picking daintily at a piece of berry pie. Both Charles and Arthur had already finished eating and disappeared. Carly moved to the end of the table, put her plate and utensils in one of Nellie’s baskets, and then kept moving.

Making her way down the row of serving tables, she pretended to be scanning the remaining food, as if she were looking for something more to eat. But once past the dessert table, covered now with almost empty tins and plates, she turned sharply to the left and ducked into the crowd around the horseshoe pits. Old Grundy Appleton was throwing against Grandpa, and most of the spectators were nearly as old as the contestants. She stopped for a moment to watch Grandpa Díaz pitch a shoe that missed being a dead ringer by no more than two inches.

“By jingo! Would you look at that,” someone said. “Blind as a bat and he durn near throws two ringers in a row. What would the old coot do if he could see?”

“Wahoo! Go to it, Grandpa,” someone else shouted, and others chimed in. “Hurrah for Grandpa!”

Excited by the general enthusiasm, Carly joined in the cheering, and her “Hurrah for Grandpa” carried unexpectedly over the deep rumble of old men’s voices. Some of the men looked at her and laughed and she ducked her head and blushed, and then, encouraged by their friendly smiles, she cheered again. She liked the excitement of the match and the comfortable companionship of the crowd, with its familiar homey old-man smell of wool and starch and tobacco. She wanted to stay long enough to see if Grundy would do as well as Grandpa Díaz, but it took him so long to smooth out his pitching stand, spit on his hands, and wind himself up that she decided she couldn’t wait. She ducked through the horseshoe spectators and began to run.

She would try the racing field next. Matt was a fast runner and he liked to enter races. Squeezing through a tightly packed crowd at the starting line, she checked out the runners lining up for the next race. It was a gunnysack race and the contestants were boys, all right, but too young—first and second graders. Nearby a group of young ladies, high school girls mostly, were practicing carrying potatoes on soup spoons. The starting gun went off, the little boys bounced off down the track holding the gunnysacks up under their armpits, and the young ladies moved up to the starting line.

Carly waited until the gunnysack boys had finished and been awarded their ribbons, and the young ladies had started down the track. They looked very lovely, she decided, gliding gracefully in their long skirts and frilly shirtwaists with their potato spoons carefully balanced before them. Not as beautiful as Lila would have looked, of course, if she had entered. Carly wondered why she hadn’t.

Everyone laughed and cheered, and then gasped with sympathy when Edna Purvis’s potato bounced out of her spoon and she left the race, wrinkling her freckled nose in disgust. Carly watched until tall, lanky Emily Stone came in first and was awarded the blue ribbon. Then, still picturing Lila receiving the ribbon—Lila, smiling her small perfect smile, her lovely head with its heavy load of hair held proudly erect—Carly left the field and moved on. She would go next to the ball field. Matt liked baseball a lot too. It was likely that he would be at the game. As it happened, Matt wasn’t—but Lila was. And so was Johnny Díaz.

T
HE MOMENT CARLY
came out of the sycamore trees that grew around the millpond, she saw Lila near the stands, with Johnny right beside her. They weren’t talking to each other, at least not that Carly saw, but as she got nearer they glanced at each other and then turned away, and in a moment looked back again. It was a quick secret look, but Carly knew what it meant.

She had known the secret for a long time, ever since the warm spring night more than two years ago when she sat down by Lila on the front steps and asked her why she looked so sad—and to her surprise Lila had answered. With her chin in her hands, her face a gleaming ivory cameo in the soft moonlight, Lila began to talk, not so much to Carly as to the wide night sky. Slowly, almost as if she were talking in her sleep, she went on and on reciting every tiniest detail of the day when Johnny Díaz had told her that he loved her. Johnny had been seven years old at the time and Lila was only six, but she had been in love ever since.