“Christians,” Krystal corrected her. “That’s our church.” She forced her baby to wave with more gusto, and the baby responded by erupting into tears.
“Does your church have a dress code?” Buley pointed at the cheap black slacks and jean skirts. The children on the float wore the same clothes but did not have the blank piousness on their faces. Instead, their identities were disguised by photocopied lamb heads, sagging with cotton balls, held aloft on Popsicle sticks.
“We’re nondenominational,” said Krystal proudly. “We accept everyone just as they are.” Buley peered down at Krystal’s jean skirt and arched an eyebrow.
Behind Reverend Foote came the ladies from Quinn Lumber Mill, shaking silent chain saws at the crowd. They wore flannel shirts, despite the heat, and Jake appreciated that they stuck to a theme. Unfortunately, instead of candy, they threw sawdust.
Next were the fire trucks, both engines, the volunteer firemen stood on the running boards and clung to ladders. They wore the red baseball caps and regulation polo shirts, and satisfied smirks. They knew they were considered the most fearless citizens of Quinn, Red Mabel notwithstanding. There was no room for Jim Number Three. Since he was the newest, he walked behind the trucks, and Jake could tell he was ashamed. But Jim Number Three was the only fireman who had tucked in his shirt, and Jake hoped that Laverna would give him another chance, points for good grooming. The volunteer firemen threw candy, and occasionally, a smoke alarm. The crowd always loved the firemen the most, because they hosted the only social event of the season, and tonight, they were responsible for the fireworks show. Bucky was not riding with them, and the Chief drove behind the fire engines in his special truck, his wife waving proudly from the passenger seat.
The Shriners followed on their stupid little motorcycles and atrocious little hats. Years ago, Jake had asked his mother what the Shriners did, and Krystal claimed that they worked on finding a cure for cancer. They did not look like scientists to Jake; he’d seen trained bears at the circus in Ellis, and they had exhibited more intelligence and skill than these fat men, wobbling on their tiny bikes. Jake would have given anything for trained bears in this parade. Perhaps the lazy cheerleaders could ride the bears without saddles, and they would be forced to take interest, or risk being clawed.
The Rotary Club was next. The float was intended to resemble a covered wagon. Jake grimaced at the bedsheets draped over a splintery frame of two-by-fours, and the cardboard horse heads duct-taped to the grille of a brand-new truck. If Jake could have the bears, he would also insist on Ronda, shooting real arrows at these ersatz cowpokes. Underneath the bedsheets, the grand marshal sat on a bale of hay, surrounded by mustachioed businessmen in ill-fitting cowboy attire. The grand marshal was Peggy the librarian, and she didn’t even bother waving.
“Why is she the grand marshal?” Rocky didn’t know her; he got all of his Louis L’Amour books at the thrift store.
“I heard she’s retiring,” offered Krystal.
“Overdue,” said Jake, but only Buley got the joke.
Here came the high school pep club’s float, students dressed as knights, in homemade tinfoil costumes, engaging in mock swordfights. Jake groaned aloud.
Behind them, the high school band marched, playing the school fight song. A clarinet squeaked as they passed, and the band sweated profusely in their street clothes, hardly in a tight formation. At least the music drowned out the church singers, still audible, two blocks ahead.
Mrs. Matthis suddenly materialized beside Jake, clutching at her puzzle book and one arm of his lawn chair. She crouched down, weaving side to side. Jake was afraid she would topple them both. He uncrossed his leg and planted both of his feet firmly on the pavement.
She whispered, top lip sweaty, and he fought back the nausea as he leaned closer. She never asked for anything, always too proud, no matter if her breath smelled like vomit. He would help, because the horses arrived, marching behind the Rotary Club. Again, he didn’t understand why they got a spot in the parade—people in Quinn rode horses all the time. The only thing interesting about them was the giant shits they took, and the way the floats behind had to maneuver around the steaming piles.
“Five letters,” whispered Mrs. Matthis. “Princess of Monaco.”
“Get out of here,” commanded Buley. She snapped her fan open and waved away the smell of vomit.
“First letter is ‘K,’?” she whispered. A horse reared up and snorted, and Mrs. Matthis was so frightened that she toppled over, crushing her crossword puzzle book. She seemed surprised to be lying in the hot parking lot, and looked around sheepishly, as she struggled to stand.