People are already lining the sidewalk in folding lawn chairs when we park behind Ernie’s ice cream parlor. Out front they’ve got a table and a giant silver can of root beer on tap. We pull up a patch of sidewalk right alongside it and a boy in a white paper hat fills us paper cups of dark, foamy soda for five cents.
I can see the blazing red metal of the fire trucks assembling down at the church. They always go first in the parade, with the New Shiloh High School marching band coming after in their brown and gold and white uniforms. Then it’s a whole mess of floats from all different kinds of organizations: the Lions Club, the Knights of Columbus, and the New Shiloh Historical Association. Last to come will be the veterans. They are all ages, from a whole bunch of different wars. The oldest is a man who fought in the Spanish-American War. He walks every year despite being ninety years old and having not one tooth left in his head.
Will leaves to hunt for Anna May and her family somewhere along Main Street. Dad and Pete start for Hudspeth’s Barbershop. I spy them going and figure on getting Frankie and me some gumballs.
“Cherry, right?” I ask him.
“Right,” he says.
I leave him and Ma and needle my way through the crowd after them.
It’s red, white, and blue banners and flags everywhere I look: stitched into people’s clothes, on their hats, in the tiny American flags they hold and wave. There’s a man in a kilt playing a bagpipe at the corner, though why he’s doing that on the Fourth of July I don’t know.
The sidewalk fills up. The parade will start soon. I dodge out of the way of a group of kids who come running by, ice cream cones dripping in their hands. One of them crashes into a woman holding a red-and-white-striped paper bag of popcorn. That corn goes flying every which way. The kid loses his ice cream cone and starts crying as the pigeons scuttle across the pavement for the spilled corn.
Down Main Street, one of those fire engines gives a blast on its horn. A cheer goes up from the crowd. The parade is starting. I dash across the street and through that barbershop door that’s tied open by a string and into the cool dark. Right away I smell aftershave and newsprint, but it’s a moment before my sight comes back.
The barbershop is packed with men. Men smoking; men laughing. I don’t see Dad and Pete just yet. Gumball machine’s in the back, but I don’t have any change so I wander between the forest of creased trouser legs and big bellies and make my way toward the counter, looking for them.
Suddenly, I hear Dad’s voice. “Can I have everyone’s attention, please?”
Everybody’s talk dies down. I don’t see him just yet, but then a man in front of me steps aside and a hole opens up in the crowd. Through it I see Dad and Pete standing at the counter, Mr. Hudspeth leaning over his cash register behind them. Outside the shop, the first fire truck is rolling by, but nobody pays it any mind. All eyes are on my father and Pete.
“There’s something I’d like you all to know,” Dad says, putting a hand on Pete’s shoulder. “But I’m going to let my son be the one to tell you.”
I smile. Dad’s letting Pete break the news to all his friends that we beat nasty old Kemper at the council meeting. That’s just like my father. I stand on my tiptoes so I can see them better as behind me the fire truck gives a honk on its horn.
Dad looks at Pete. “Go ahead,” he says, softly. “Tell them.”
Outside, the crowd cheers for the fire engines, but it’s quiet inside that barbershop. Overhead, the ceiling fan hums, that metal cord clinking as it does its little dance.
Pete stands up straight and tall. He looks at the men and says:
“I signed up for the Marines this morning. Soon, I’ll ship out for Parris Island.”
My heart stops.
The fire engine gives a shattering blast of its horn.
“Gene’s boy enlisted!” someone cries. A cheer goes up.
Pete grins. When the men keep cheering, he waves. Dad’s hand on his shoulder tightens, and suddenly all the men move to Pete. They fall upon him, shaking his hand, clapping him on the back, tousling his hair.
I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I just stare.
Pete keeps right on smiling and shaking their hands and thanking each one of them, and now all the men are turning to Dad and they do the same to him, only they say, “Congratulations, Gene!” and “That’s three generations now!” and “Chip off the old block!”
Outside on the street, the fire trucks have rolled past. The band starts up. I hear it like I’m underwater. All I can do is stare at my brother.
Another hole opens up in that crowd, and through it, my brother sees me. For an instant, his grin slips. He calls out to me, lifts his hand to wave me over.
Next thing I know I’m running. But not to Pete. To the door and the blazing day beyond it. I burst from the shop and nearly crash into Will and Anna May. The street is packed with people, people cheering, waving, laughing. The band marches past us in perfect step.
“There you are!” Will says. “Where you—hey!”
I rush past them, into the crowd, into the bumping bodies and the heat and the noise.
There’s no need for Uncle Sam to draft Pete now. He’s signed up.
My brother is going to Vietnam.
I turn and run down the alley between the barbershop and the shoe-repair store, past dirty red bricks and crumpled balls of wax paper with mustard smears. Under a rickety fire escape I surrender to my sobbing and look back the way I’ve come. At the alley’s far end the parade streams on, topped with rippling flags on long poles, speckled with reflections of bright sun on brass instruments. The drums are beating. Kids in uniform march in step.
A shape appears in front of that slice of blazing color, the shape of a boy coming down the alley: Will. He trots to where I’ve stopped under the fire escape.
“Jack, where you going?” he asks. “Come on back here. You’re missing the parade.”
“I don’t want to see any stupid parade!” I shout as hot tears run down my cheeks.
“Don’t be a fool. You love the Fourth of July parade.”
“Not anymore I don’t!”
He stops. “What’s wrong?” He looks at me. “Is it about Pete? About him . . . getting drafted?”
“No!” I shout. “It’s not about him getting drafted. It’s about him signing up!”
Will goes still. “What?”
“He signed up for the Marines this morning! He’s leaving us, Will! He signed up and he’s leaving us. He wants to go.” Fresh sobs rack my chest. Snot bubbles out my nose. “After all Frankie and me done to keep him here. After all we done to keep him safe. He goes and signs up!”
Will stares at the bricks like he can’t hardly believe it. Behind him those drums beat and keep on beating.
“He signed up . . . ,” Will says quietly to himself. “He signed up . . .”
Hot lava rises in my stomach. “If he wants to go, then fine! I don’t care what happens to him anymore!”
That’s not true, but I’m so mad at Pete for joining up I can’t help myself. My whole body is trembling.
Will looks down the alley at the parade going by us. It’s all the soldiers from wars past streaming along now. An old and glorious line of men in uniform walking slow and somber, faces set like rock as all the people cheer and cheer. Will watches them a long time, and when he turns back to me he looks so sad I think he’s about to cry too.
He kneels down in front of me. Puts his hands on my shoulders.
“Hey, Jack,” he says, real gentle and slow. “Do you know anybody, and I mean anybody, who can run faster than our brother Pete?”
His question don’t make no sense. Time like this and he’s asking me about Pete’s running. But I think for a minute, and then I shake my head.
In a voice that’s barely a whisper he asks, “You know anybody who can swim faster than him?”
I shake my head again.
Tears brim in Will’s eyes. “In the whole world, is there any boy tougher or stronger or smarter than our brother Pete?”
I sniff and shake my head.
Will nods. “That’s right. There ain’t. And so you don’t have to worry about Pete going to Vietnam and getting killed. He’ll be just fine. And he’s gonna come back home just fine too.”