fountains. There are two Roman candles … and of course, a package of
firecrackers. But you better set those off tomorrow.”
Uncle Al cast an eye toward the noises coming from the pool.
“Thank you!” Marty was finally able to gasp. “Thank you, Uncle Al!”
“Just keep mum about where you got them,” Uncle Al said. “A nod’s as good as a wink
to a blind horse, right?”
“Right, right,” Marty babbled, although he had no idea what nods, winks, and blind
horses had to do with fireworks. “But are you sure you don’t want them, Uncle Al?”
“I can get more,” Uncle Al said. “I know a guy over in Bridgton. He’ll be doing
business until it gets dark.” He put a hand on Marty’s head. “You keep your Fourth
after everyone else goes to bed. Don’t shoot off any of the noisy ones and wake
them all up.
And for Christ’s sake don’t blow your hand off, or my big sis will
never speak to me again.”
Then Uncle Al laughed and climbed into his car and roared the engine into life. He
raised his hand in a half-salute to Marty and then was gone while Marty was still
trying to stutter his thanks. He sat there for a moment looking after his uncle,
swallowing hard to keep from crying. Then he put the packet of fireworks into his
shirt and buzzed back to the house and his room. In his mind he was already waiting
for night to come and everyone to be asleep.
He is the first one in bed that night. His mother comes in and kisses him goodnight
(brusquely, not looking at his sticklike legs under the sheet). “You okay, Marty?”
“Yes, mom.”
She pauses, as if to say something more, and then gives her head a little shake.
She leaves.
His sister Kate comes in. She doesn’t kiss him; merely leans her head close to his
neck so he can smell the chlorine in her hair and she whispers: “See? you don’t
always get what you want just because you’re a cripple.”
“You might be surprised what I get,” he says softly, and she regards him for a
moment with narrow suspicion before going out.
His father comes in last and sits on the side of Marty’s bed. He speaks in his
booming Big Pal voice. “Everything okay, big guy? You’re off to bed early. Real
early.”
“Just feeling a little tired, daddy.”
“Okay.” He slaps one of Marty’s wasted legs with his big hand, winces
unconsciously, and then gets up in a hurry. “Sorry about the fireworks, but just
wait till next year! Hey, hey! Rootie-patootie!”
Marty smiles a small, secret smile.
So then he begins the waiting for the rest of the house to go to bed. It takes a
long time. The TV runs on and on in the living room, the canned laughtracks often
augmented by Katie’s shrill giggles. The toilet in Granpa’s bedroom goes with a
bang and a flush. His mother chats on the phone, wishes someone a happy Fourth,
says yes, it was a shame the fireworks show had been cancelled, but she thought
that, under the circumstances, everyone understood why it had to be. Yes, Marty had
been disappointed. Once, near the end of her conversation, she laughs, and when she
laughs, she doesn’t sound a bit brusque. She hardly ever laughs around Marty.
Every now and then, as seven-thirty became eight and nine, his hand creeps under
his pillow to make sure the cellophane bag of fireworks is still there. Around
nine-thirty, when the moon gets high enough to peer into his window and flood his
room with silvery light, the house finally begins to wind down.
The TV clicks off. Katie goes to bed, protesting that all her friends got to stay
up late in the summer. After she’s gone, Marty’s folks sit in the parlor awhile
longer, their conversation only murmurs. And…
… and maybe he slept, because when he next touches the wonderful bag of
fireworks, he realizes that the house is totally still and the moon has become even
brighter-bright enough to cast shadows. He takes the bag out along with the book of