“Let them walk together, Jack.” Frankie puts a hand on my shoulder.
“But it’s crowded and hot back there,” I tell him, whining now. “And I’m tired of political talk.”
“Then we’ll sit outside,” he says. “And maybe Pete left us some pie.”
Reluctantly, I follow my cousin back to where the light from Stairways falls in soft, yellow squares on the grass. Fireflies begin to wink at each other in the yard. The Glattfelders are leaving, waving goodbye. Mr. Madliner is climbing into his truck, and he doesn’t bother. Good riddance.
Dad, Mr. Halleck, and old Sam are still on the porch, still talking. I overhear Mr. Halleck again:
“Who can say if they’ll agree, but it’s worth a try.”
“Tomorrow then,” Dad replies. “I think I know where we can find them.”
Sam leaks brown tobacco juice over the rail in agreement.
Frankie and me don’t pay any more attention to it. Instead, we go find a place in the yard and sit down in the sweet-smelling grass. Pete finds us there, and I see Frankie was right: he’s brought us a slice of blueberry pie and three spoons.
“Last one.” My brother drops down beside us and we take turns scooping up pie while the fireflies spread their glowing quilt across the meadow. It ain’t long before Butch appears, his sniffer pulling him right for our plate of pie. We let him lick the plate when we’re through, and lean back in the yard to watch the stars.
Frankie plucks a stalk of onion grass and sets it in his teeth.
Looking at him, barefoot with that stalk in his mouth, it strikes me.
“You know something, Frankie?”
“What’s that?”
“Aunt Effie and Uncle Leone might not recognize their boy when he gets back home. He’s looking mighty country right about now.”
When all our guests but Pastor Fenton have left, we decide to play kick-the-can in the driveway. I get the old coffee can from the barn and we’ve gone two rounds when, from the field of bobbing fireflies, Will and Anna May walk out, holding hands.
“Mind if we join?” Will asks. He steps over the coffee can and stands with his knees wide, arms out.
“Does Anna May know how?” I ask.
“Just because I’m a townie doesn’t mean I’ve never played kick-the-can before,” she says.
“I’ll give you fair warning,” Will tells her. “We can play a little rough.”
Fast as a whip, Anna May springs forward and kicks one of her long legs out from under her skirt. Before Will can even blink, that old coffee can clatters away across the drive.
The rest of us bust out laughing. Will’s too surprised to be embarrassed. I run and grab the can again. We play a couple rounds, laughing, forgetting everything bad—the war, the riots, the fires, the floods. Eventually Pastor Fenton comes off the porch and calls his daughter; it’s time for them to leave too.
Anna May kisses Will on the cheek, ignoring our ribbing, and dashes across the driveway.
We watch their red taillights fade through the trees. “Man,” I say. “She’s pretty good for a girl.”
Will just sighs.
“John Thomas!”
Ma’s voice. Turning, I see her framed in the doorway.
“You know you’re not supposed to be playing outside! You’re still sick! Get on in here right now!”
This time, it’s Frankie who gets woken up by an idea.
He shakes me awake, whispering fiercely in my ear.
“Jack, I’ve got an idea!”
I’m half-awake and struggling to bring the other half around as he goes on. “I know how we can still make Pete famous and keep him from getting drafted.”
That does it. I sit bolt upright, shooting a glance to where my brothers are both sawing logs in their bunk.
“The barn,” I whisper.
We take the gutter to the porch roof. Roof to the yard. Up damp flagstones, two at a time. There Frankie finds the book of matches he’s hidden over by the sewing table that doubles as his writing desk.
He lights the candle.
“We need to make Pete famous, right?”
“Right.”
“And you figured finding that old fighter jet would do it, right?”
“Right again.”
“I been thinking about it all night,” Frankie says, “and this council vote is an even bigger story than that fighter jet.”
“How so?”
“Because it affects everybody,” Frankie tells me. “The people in town and the people who live outside it. Everybody has a reason to read the article.”
“But how does Pete play in?”
Frankie smiles. “Easy. We’ll get a quote from him at the council meeting. Then I’ll put that quote in the story. And we’ll have it!”
“Frankie, you’re a genius! Now we just need to win that council vote.”
“Mr. Halleck said all we had to do was persuade two council members to switch their votes,” Frankie says. “And how hard can that be, really?”
Chapter 19
STORM CLOUDS
Early and dark in the barn. The wax spills down our little candle and runs in cooling currents across the top of Grandma Elliot’s sewing table as Frankie types.
His fingers jab the keys, sending those little metal arms snapping out faster than I can see. They look like the antennae of some giant metal insect.
Outside, daylight is just beginning to paint its pale brushstrokes on the sky behind the pines. We been here all night.
“How’s it coming?” I ask through a yawn.
He frowns and shakes his head, and I understand that means I’m not supposed to talk.
Frankie had the idea to begin writing the story before the council’s vote and just leave space enough for whatever Pete will say and how close the final vote was.
I hope it ain’t even close. I want us to knock Kemper right out of the ring.
I shift again on the upturned pail that’s been my seat for the last few hours and go back to brooding. Pleased as I am with Frankie’s idea, there’s something about this whole council vote makes me nervous.
It’s a good plan, Gene, but it won’t be enough. Mr. Halleck’s words to Dad and Sam last night on our porch. Mr. Halleck knows more about councils and votes than anybody else. If he’s worried, that makes me worried.
“Ain’t there something I can do?” I finally ask.
“Yes, there is,” Frankie says. “And it’s a very important thing. Something critical. And it’ll be the hardest thing you’ve ever done, Jack.”
“What is it?” I ask, sitting up.
“You can keep quiet and not say one single word until I get this finished.”
That metal insect goes back to snapping its metal arms across the page.
I go back to being quiet.
It must be nearly five o’clock in the morning. Early yet. And so I am surprised to hear a car turn off Hopkins Road and come up our lane. Peering through the barn’s cobwebby window, I see Sam’s truck cough its way into our drive. Dad comes out of the house, climbs in. Sam backs down the drive, and within moments the two of them are gone, the sounds of Sam’s tires eating gravel fading through the trees.
“Now, where do you think they’re going?” I ask.
Frankie looks at me.
“Sorry. I forgot.”
Frankie goes back to typing.
I go back to fretting.
All day long Ma is on the phone. She goes through each page of her address book and Christmas card list, calling friends and neighbors, telling each about the council vote. She keeps a pad of paper on her lap; she writes down the name of everyone who promises to come.
She barely looks up when Frankie and me come in from the barn.
“Orange juice in the fridge,” she says, placing a hand over the receiver.
Frankie and me are both too tired to eat. We climb those spiral stairs for bed, and we’re surprised to meet Pete and Will halfway. My brothers are bleary eyed, but I can smell the excitement on them.
“It’s barely six o’clock in the morning. What is everybody awake for?” I blurt.
Pete don’t answer me. “Get your shoes on and come with us.”
“But, Pete, we’re tired. Where we going and what for?”
“Town,” Will answers as my brothers brush on by. As they round the corner below, he adds: “We’re going shopping.”
“Shopping?”
“Meet us out front in two minutes!” Pete calls.
I look at Frankie. Dark circles ring dark eyes.