tastes. "Never mind, I'll go get a gallon of mayonnaise
and a jar of pickle relish. Will that do?"
"Yes," she said, looking around a little wildly. "It's
like putting on," she said, "a military campaign."
"Napoleon would be proud of you. Now get out of
here. Just the sight of you is making me nervous, and if
I get distracted I'm likely to mix that relish into sour
cream by mistake."
She looked anxious, then laughed, sounding a little
short of breath. It was touching, really, to see her get
nervous; she was so calm ordinarily, you felt like
checking to make certain that she actually had a blood
pressure.
Watching her go, I was pierced again by the
thought of how much I really didn't want to leave East
port. But then I had to start doing something about
that tartar sauce. So I sent the boys to the IGA, but
when they got back--
--dashing in, depositing the enormous jars of pickles
since the store had run out of relish, and hurrying
away again as it had suddenly occurred to them that
there would be girls at the festival, actual out-of-town
girls whom they did not already know, so Tommy
wanted to wash and wax the jalopy--
--it turned out that running the pickles through
the blender reduced them to green goo. I had to chop
them individually and mix them into the mayonnaise
with a spoon. By the time I was done, my hands smelling
infernally of pickle juice, it was time to leave.
The carnival atmosphere on Water Street was palpable:
craft booths, cotton candy, strolling musicians,
kids on skateboards. In the park behind the library the
barbecue grills were fired up and the scent of woodsmoke
mingled with the tang of the marinade simmering.
The striped tents over the long lunch tables from
the grade school looked festive, people were unloading
trays of food from the backs of pickup trucks, and
everyone seemed happy.
The sky was still bright, though it was now getting
on for three o'clock; the supper began at four. So even
though a sly little breeze had sprung up, riffling in the
napkins and setting the scalloped edges of the tent canvases
fluttering, I was happy too. Eyeing the storm
clouds still keeping their distance like animals who are
not sure whether to attack, I thought we might yet
squeak by in the weather department.
I set the tartar sauce with the rest of the condiments
on the front table near the coffee urns. Mike
Carpentier lugged over yet another jug of lemonade
and one of iced tea. Sneaking a glass of tea, I tasted
fresh mint, and enough sugar and caffeine to power a
jet engine, as Mike and Molly began setting the plastic
jugs into an ice-filled barrel. They must have been preparing
for this for half a year, I realized, saving the jugs
for this occasion.
A couple of men were pitching horseshoes behind
the freshly painted bandstand where the two Sondergards,
Heywood and Marcus, were setting up their instruments.
Then somebody rang the big brass bell that
used to be the Eastport fire alarm, and the crowd
surged:
Local politicians donned aprons and took their
places in the serving line, smiling determinedly even as
a strengthening breeze sent barbecue smoke swirling
into their faces. The Sondergards broke into a rousing
version of "I'll Fly Away" while the food workers began
serving salmon fillets as fast as they could spatula
them off the hot grates; next came baked potatoes,
boiled sweet corn, and blueberry biscuits.
It was going just like clockwork despite a couple of
rain spatters: threatening at first but then slackening as
if taking pity on us. "So far, so fine," Ellie said, appearing
behind me.
I'd been watching Sam and Tommy exchange
Morse-code messages with a pair of penlights. They
seemed to be commenting covertly on a group of young
women from out of town.
"You've done beautifully," I told her, waving at
the crowded tables under the tents. "They're all having
a high old time."
Bob Arnold strolled the lawn casually, a smile on
his face and professional watchfulness in his eyes. I
went up to him.
"Where's Clarissa?"
At the sound of her name he smiled helplessly as he
always did when she was mentioned; petite and darkly
pretty, Clarissa as a lawyer was hard as nails--she'd
been a big-time criminal prosecutor before she came to
Eastport--but she had a soft spot the size of Montana
for Arnold, and he adored her.
"At home, with her feet up. Says she feels like the
Goodyear blimp. Week late, now, but the doctor says
just be patient. ... I hope she's gonna be all right."
I put my hand on his arm. "First babies are late
sometimes." Across the lawn, people who'd grown up
in the area and then moved away were signing the Old
Timers' book, leaving addresses and phone numbers: a
bright idea of Ellie's for next year's fundraising.
Bob brightened. "Yeah, huh?" He glanced at his
squad car, pulled up onto the lawn behind the bandstand.
"I think I'll go call her."
"You do that," I laughed, hoping Clarissa had the
portable phone by her side; Bob would be calling her
every fifteen minutes for the rest of the afternoon, I
could tell.
Then I saw Willow Prettymore in one of the food
tents, her hair piled today in a gleaming chignon. With
her were the apelike man I'd seen the night before and
a pair of young teenaged children: identical blond
twins, one boy, one girl.
Together they looked like a political poster extolling
the virtues of the good old-fashioned nuclear family,
except that when the father of the family walked,
his knuckles practically brushed the ground. Willow
caught me eyeing her, got up, and stalked from the
table coldly.
Just then the Sondergards flew into an old Dillard
tune called "Biggest Whatever," the subject of which
was--
"... forty feet high, had a gleam in its eye, and a
big purple patch on its craw ..."
It was, naturally, the biggest whatever that anybody
ever saw; Marcus sang the story of the creature in
his fine, accurate baritone, managing not to break into
laughter. And Heywood ...
Well, Heywood Sondergard rocked. White hair flying,
blue eyes flashing, in the chambray shirt with the
pearl buttons and the belt with the silver rose-ofSharon
buckle on it, he played that old guitar as if he
had been born to do it.
Which, I realized belatedly, he had. Heywood was
a natural showman. "Oh," I said faintly, and Ellie nodded.
"None of us kids in his youth group cared much
about the Bible stories," she said reminiscently. "But
we liked the music. He had that same belt back then,
with the rose-and-cross buckle. Funny the things you
remember."
I looked around. "Where'd Willow go?"
Leaving Ellie to dish out seconds of the potatoes
and sweet corn, I scanned the crowd as I moved away
from the tent toward the bandstand. Marcus left Hey
wood to take a solo, came down from the platform,
and headed for the drinks, wiping his forehead.
I kept looking: no Willow. Nearby, I heard one of
the girls Sam and Tommy had been scoping out--close
up, they were older than I had thought--telling Sam
about a boat-design job that she wanted at a firm in
Newport, Rhode Island.
She was very pretty, with dark eyes and glossy
chestnut hair. And she wore the kind of clothes Sam
likes to see on girls: tailored jeans, navy cableknit
sweater with a small red collar peeping out at the top
like a little danger flag, plain leather shoes on her small
feet.
"Of course," she was saying loftily to him as I approached,
"I'll have to finish college first. You can't get
anywhere good in the boat-design business without a
degree, and maybe even a master's degree. I'm also majoring
in engineering."
Sam's face fell. Then I saw his brain kick in. His
shoulders squared, and he tipped his head seriously at
her.
They hadn't noticed my approach. "Where," he
asked the girl, "are you getting these degrees? In nautical
design, and fine art, and engineering? And how
much does it cost?"
Hey, you can listen to your parents all you want.
But if you really want the scoop on something, ask
some kid your own age.
On the other hand, I'd have sent him to canine
obedience school if I'd thought it would make him
happy. Another spatter of rain fell chillingly, pattering
on the tent roofs. I left Sam to plan his future on the
advice of a perfect stranger, squinted around for Willow
again, spotted her blond hair for an instant, then
lost her once more as someone else came up behind me.
It was Terence Oscard, dressed in a white knit polo
shirt, tan slacks, and deck shoes. A white cardigan was
tied by its sleeves around his shoulders. He wore the
clothes well, but the look on his face didn't match the
casual outfit. Also, he was carrying a parcel wrapped in
brown paper and addressed in Magic Marker, which
struck me as odd: it was prepared for mailing but there
were no post-office hours on Sunday.
"Jacobia, can we talk for a minute?" He paused,
then rushed on urgently. "I don't care what Paddy
thinks of this, or how mad he gets. There's something
I've got to tell you."
We sat on the library steps, looking out over the
street. There was a clown juggling oranges, a magician
producing quarters from behind children's ears. Mike
Carpentier went by with Molly, the child looking coltishly
pre-teen in shorts and a T-shirt but still carrying a
rag doll. Then Terence was speaking, and what he said
sent all other thoughts out of my head.
"Reuben didn't just threaten Paddy the other
night. He tried to kill him. Put his hands right around
his throat, Paddy had to fight him off. And I know how
stupid this sounds, but it seems to me that Reuben's
still trying."
I looked hard at him. He was pale, and even thinner
than I'd last seen him. The Ace bandage he'd worn
a few days earlier was gone, replaced by a smaller, less