No one believed America was winning the war anymore; even on Coronado Island, among the conservative, wealthy, Republican elite, doubt was expanding. “We need to be done with this,” Frankie often heard her father say to his friends, as if the war were an expensive vacation gone bad.
When her mother was improved enough to drive and be alone, Frankie was forced to reach for a life of her own, at least a semblance of one. She took a job at the medical center hospital. Her education and experience landed her a surgical nurse job on the day shift, and once again nursing gave her life purpose and structure, both of which she desperately needed. She made sure to keep busy; she wrote endless letters and manned the League of Families booth when she could, and worked long, grueling shifts in the OR. Anything that would occupy her mind and make her tired enough to sleep.
But she knew that none of it would help tonight.
The Fourth of July.
Frankie dreaded the holiday. In the past few years, she’d remained cloistered inside on the Fourth of July, with the music cranked up loud, just trying to make it through the loudness of the night. Barb and Ethel had always allowed her to hide out in Virginia, and last year her mother hadn’t felt well enough to host their annual party. This year was a different story.
A party at her parents’ house was the last thing Frankie wanted to attend, but she had no choice. Following fifteen months of therapy and hard work, her mother was finally set to make her glorious return to Coronado’s social life, and Frankie’s attendance was mandatory.
I’m fine. I can do this.
She dressed in purple hot pants and a filmy white blouse, pulled down off her shoulders, then ironed her now-long hair down from a center part, and put on makeup. All of it a camouflage.
At dusk, she left the bungalow and walked on the beach toward her parents’ house, toward the iconic red roof of the Hotel del Coronado. Lights twinkled from its eaves, lighting the way.
All around her, life went on. Families, kids, dogs. Shouting and screaming, people splashing in the waves.
She stayed on the sand for as long as possible, then crossed Ocean Boulevard, which was buzzing with activity on this warm evening: drivers looking for parking spaces, men unpacking trunks, women herding dogs and children to the beach, looking for a place to set up their chairs.
The Tudor house loomed above the brick privacy wall, its mullioned windows glittering with light. Lanterns hung from the branches of the live oak tree. Red, white, and blue bunting decorated the food table and outdoor bar. Frankie closed the gate behind her.
Independence Day had always been her father’s favorite holiday. The family celebrated it in the way they did every social event. Full tilt. An “Americana” buffet was set up on the patio—trays of barbecued ribs and juicy hamburgers, buttered corn on the cob, potato salad, and, of course, a tricolor cake with ice cream for dessert. Everyone brought something to the party, and the women of Coronado sought to outdo one another.
The guests had obviously been here for a while; the volume of their voices hinted at copious alcohol consumption. She heard a man boom out, “Who does Jane Fonda think she is? Anti-American, I’d say.”
Off to the left, a three-piece band was playing a bad version of “Little Deuce Coupe.”
Taped to the patio walls was a sign that read GOD BLESS AMERICA AND OUR TROOPS.
“As long as they’re men,” Frankie muttered.
She released a slow breath, trying not to be mad. Or hurt.
If only Barb and Ethel were here. Frankie hadn’t seen her friends in too long. Ethel and Noah had recently welcomed their daughter, Cecily, into the world, and Barb was marching somewhere this weekend, gearing up for some top-secret VVAW “event” that so far she’d only hinted about.
Frankie moved through the crowd, offering a fake smile to the people she knew. She heard snippets of conversation, well-dressed men talking about “soldiers, hopped up on heroin, bombing villages,” and women in brightly hued dresses shivering at the thought of Charles Manson being kept alive: “… lock our doors now. They ought to have put him to death. Darn liberals.”
Frankie concentrated on her breathing, trying to stay calm, until she reached the bar. “Gin on the rocks with a twist.”
As she was handed her drink, her father peeled away from the crowd. He commanded attention with ease, as he always had. He flicked his wrist and the band stopped playing. Frankie saw his million-dollar smile, the one that had returned with his wife’s recovery. But there was a new shadow in him, too, a realization that money couldn’t buy good health or safety from its opposite. He wore striped pants with a wide belt and a polyester shirt with large lapels. In the past year he’d grown out his wide sideburns, which were coming in gray, and let his curly black hair grow long enough to comb over to one side. His new glasses were big and square. “I want to thank you all for coming. As you know, our Independence Day party is a tradition here on Coronado. We first invited our friends to celebrate America’s independence in 1956, back when Elvis’s moves were a scandal.”
The crowd laughed at the sweet memory of a different world.
“I don’t think my childr … my daughter remembers a life before the McGrath Fourth of July party.” He paused, seemed to struggle. “But last year, we sent out no invitations. You all know why. And I thank you all for your letters and flowers. It was a difficult time for us, after Bette’s stroke.”
Mom appeared at the patio doors, her back straight, her chin held high. She had begun dyeing her hair to conceal the new white streaks in it, and that had led her to cut her hair short in perhaps the trendiest fashion choice of her life. With her flawless makeup and fashionable pantsuit, she looked as stunning as ever. She stepped cautiously over the threshold. Only someone who knew her well would see the slight frown in her forehead or the hesitation in her step.
Dad turned, reached back, took hold of her hand to steady her.
Mom smiled at her guests. “It’s been a long road back, and I can’t express how much you all encouraged me. Millicent, your casseroles were lifesavers. Joanne, I still don’t understand mah-jongg, but the steadying sound of your voice stays with me. Dr. Kenworth, thank you for saving my life, pure and simple. And Connor.” Here she looked at Dad, then looked out to the crowd again. “And Frances.”
She saw Frankie and waved.
“You two were my rocks.”
Frankie saw the way Dad tightened his hold on her hand, then kissed her cheek.
The guests applauded; someone yelled, “Hear, hear!”
“One last thing,” Dad said. “Before we eat and drink and dance, I’d like to welcome home Lieutenant Commander Leo Stall. He’s just home from Vietnam and Walter Reed.” He lifted a glass. “To the men who serve! From a grateful nation.”
Frankie slammed her empty glass on the bar. “Another one,” she said as the band struck up again, playing “American Pie” so slowly it was barely recognizable.
The men who serve. A grateful nation.
She felt a surge of anger, downed her second drink, and looked back at the gate.
Could she leave yet?
Would anyone notice?
Her hand was shaking as she lit up a cigarette. A grateful nation.
“We’ve got to stop meeting this way,” a voice said.
Frankie turned quickly, almost stumbled into the man who stood beside her.
He caught her.
“Henry Acevedo,” she said, looking up at him.
His hair had changed: he still wore it long and layered, but the night’s humidity had given it volume. He had obviously shaved for the party; there was no five o’clock shadow darkening his jawline. Long sideburns narrowed his face.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, easing a step back, trying to steady herself. “This is hardly your crowd.”
“Your mother and her Junior League friends spearheaded a fundraising effort for the hospital’s new therapeutic drug and alcohol treatment center. She invited several of us board members tonight.” He shrugged, smiled.
“You don’t look like a board member of anything. And that’s a compliment.”
“It was either this party or my sister’s out-of-control family in the suburbs.”