movies-but he supposed there could be some kind of crazy guy out there who only
felt the urge to kill when the moon was full. The fireworks have been cancelled
because of their dirty rotten curfew.
In January, sitting in his wheelchair by the french doors and looking out onto the
verandah, watching the wind blow bitter veils of snow across the frozen crust, or
standing by the front door, stiff as a statue in his locked leg-braces, watching
the other kids pull their sleds toward Wright’s Hill, just thinking of the
fireworks made a difference. Thinking of a warm summer night, a cold Coke, of fire-
roses blooming in the dark, and pinwheels,
and an American flag made of Roman
candles.
But now they have cancelled the fireworks … and no matter what anyone says, Marty
feels that it is really the Fourth itself his Fourth-that they have done to death.
Only his Uncle Al, who blew into town late this morning to have the traditional
salmon and fresh peas with the family, had understood. He had listened closely,
standing on the verandah tiles in his dripping bathing suit (the others were
swimming and laughing in the Coslaws’ new pool on the other side of the house)
after lunch.
Marty finished and looked at Uncle Al anxiously.
“Do you see what I mean? Do you get it? It hasn’t got anything to do with being
crippled, like Katie says, or getting the fireworks all mixed up with America, like
Granpa thinks. It’s just not right, when you look forward to something for so long
… it’s not right for Victor Bowle and some dumb town council to come along and
take it away. Not when it’s something you really need. Do you get it?”
There was a long, agonizing pause while Uncle Al considered Marty’s question. Time
enough for Marty to hear the kick-rattle of the diving board at the deep end of the
pool, followed by Dad’s hearty bellow: “Lookin’ good, Kate! Hey, hey! Lookin’
reeeeeel … good!”
Then Uncle Al said quietly: “Sure I get it. And I got something for you, I think.
Maybe you can make your own Fourth.”
“My own Fourth? What do you mean?”
“Come on out to my car, Marty. I’ve got something … well, I’ll show you.” And he
was striding away along the concrete path that circled the house before Marty could
ask him what he meant.
His wheelchair hummed along the path to the driveway, away from the sounds of the
pool-splashes, laughing screams, the kathummmm of the diving board. Away from his
father’s booming Big Pal voice. The sound of his wheelchair was a low, steady hum
that Marty barely heard-all his life that sound, and the clank of his braces, had
been the music of his movement.
Uncle Al’s car was a low-slung Mercedes convertible. Marty knew his parents
disapproved of
it (“Twenty-eight-thousand-dollar deathtrap,” his mother had once
called it with a brusque little sniff), but Marty loved it. Once Uncle Al had taken
him for a ride on some of the back roads that crisscrossed Tarker’s Mills, and he
had driven fast-seventy, maybe eighty. He wouldn’t tell Marty how fast they were
going. “If you don’t know, you won’t be scared,” he had said. But Marty hadn’t been
scared. His belly had been sore the next day from laughing.
Uncle Al took something out of the glove-compartment of his car, and as Marty
rolled up and stopped, he put a bulky cellophane package on the boy’s withered
thighs. “Here you go, kid,” he said. “Happy Fourth of July.”
The first thing Marty saw were exotic Chinese markings on the package’s label. Then
he saw what was inside, and his heart seemed to squeeze up in his chest. The
cellophane package was full of fireworks.
“The ones that look like pyramids are Twizzers,” Uncle Al said.
Marty, absolutely stunned with joy, moved his lips to speak, but nothing came out.
“Light the fuses, set them down, and they spray as many colors as there are on a
dragon’s breath. The tubes with the thin sticks coming out of them are bottle-
rockets. Put them in an empty Coke bottle and up they go. The little ones are