Biddy winced, thinking of the game at the field. “Have you set a date?” he said.
Ronnie made a face. “This May. Memorial Day. Which is perfect.”
“Why?”
He shook his head. “Just a joke. Where’s your glove? Want to throw the ball around?”
“I’m gonna go down and see the Blue Angels come over from Long Island.”
“How do you know they’re going to do that?”
“My father told me. They’re filling up at the Grumman plant over there. Doesn’t Cindy want you to hang around?”
Ronnie shrugged and looked up at her. “I’m like you. I’m not too good at this social stuff.”
Biddy looked at his watch. The possibility of Phantom jets, in formation, at Lordship was making him impatient with everything else. “I should go. Mickey’d want to play.”
“I believe it,” Ronnie said. “I surely do believe it.” He leaned around the tree. “Hey psycho. You want to throw it around?” Mickey waved and nodded. “That’s a surprise,” he said, and Biddy left, hurrying toward the blue Sound he could glimpse between the houses.
He didn’t wait long at the bluffs: six black specks spread themselves along the horizon over Long Island, exciting and precise against the broad blue sky, growing in size and detail until he realized the center of the V formation would be coming right over him, and he waited as long as he could, taking in the royal-blue and yellow markings, the underwing detail, the hint of clear orange behind the exhaust, before running up the bluffs and down the street as they flashed over him, huge, seemingly only a few feet above the houses, the sound following behind like an invisible trailer as he ran, trying not to be left behind. He stopped, panting, to watch the six jets, all glowing orange, huge and powerful, commanding the skies, sweep over his house in the distance and drop into the basin of the airport beyond; he ran again only when they disappeared below the trees.
The Blue Angels streaked in low in close formation and flip-flopped and tore the sky apart with their roars, making huge bows in the sky with their vapor trails as they flew upside down. They came together from all directions, so close at the converging point that everyone below swore they were going to collide, and stood on their tails and climbed out of sight, or dove with a gradual building scream until below the houses and trees, and everyone half waited for the crash. The Mustang did loops and spins and participated in a mock dogfight. The helicopters skimmed the tree-tops. The small orange plane trailed orange and blue smoke and cut its engine frequently. And finally, when Dom mentioned while looking for his drink that he didn’t know what they could do to top this, distant brown planes appeared, going over with a far-off buzz, with tiny figures falling away from them. “There’re the parachutists!” his father said, and Biddy watched them spinning away and the chutes spilling out and up, filling square and bright.
“They’re square,” he said to no one in particular.
“All the new chutes are square,” Dom said behind him. “Better control.”
“Look at that guy,” Mickey said. One was floating the opposite way, as if delivering a message. Biddy could smell the hot dogs overcooking. The lone parachutist continued to grow larger, the four others gliding in a diamond pattern down toward the airport tower. They could see the parachutist pulling on one side, the top of the canopy dipping on that side, bobbing. Something there was hanging the wrong way, ragged.
“He ain’t real good, is he?” Dom said, and then added, “You know, Walt, he could be coming here,” and in the general excitement Biddy saw that he could and was, coming in low and hard, still pulling, not floating at all, swooping, and Biddy could see the frustration on his face and the shine on his boots.
“Jesus Christ,” his father said suddenly, and began to herd the women out of the way, and the parachutist dipped lower and swung in fast, on top of them suddenly, and hit the roof, bam, with his big jumping boots and then was pulled off by his chute, his feet dragging and scraping over the TV antenna, snapping it as the canopy caught in the trees and he swung down, twisting to avoid people, catching a TV tray with watermelon on it and kicking it up over the clothesline in a rain of pink chunks and seeds. Some of the women screamed and the men ducked in and out trying to get a grip on the parachutist as he swung by shouting for them to watch out. He swept back and forth in front of Kristi, still in her chair, amazed and grinning.
On a backswing they managed to intercept him and hold on, dragging him back and forth to a stop.
Everyone spoke at once, including the parachutist; Biddy watched his sister, still staring, still grinning, and the only one still silent. Above her on the roof of the Frasers’ garage the scattered pieces of watermelon glinted, wet and ridiculous in the sun.
And that night he thought about the parachutist with all the patches and pockets and buckles and harnesses, and how neat it would be to jump out of a plane and open up your parachute and come down, smash, on somebody’s watermelon and sweep right through their lawn party.
The next morning he stood in the kitchen excited despite himself by the prospect of the first day of school. He was wearing a new white shirt which choked in a pleasant way, new gray pants, and a plaid tie. He was restless and ate little, leaving the table and drifting around the kitchen while his sister pushed a spoon back and forth through her oatmeal. His father bustled by. His mother put together two lunches. He went to the screen door to let Lady out, appreciating the morning light for its clarity.
In class Sister Theresa called the roll, calling the same names she had the year before, calling only the first names, twenty-seven of them. Our Lady of Peace was a small school, of a nice, manageable, personal size, Sister liked to say, serving a small parish. There was little turnover and no growth in the size of the student body. This year one boy had moved away and a new girl, Kathy, was added to the class. She was big and quiet and reminded Biddy vaguely of a horse. Their instructor would be Sister Theresa, the principal, for the second year in a row. They did not consider themselves fortunate.
Books were handed out, new lessons begun, sides for kickball chosen, Mass and milk-money schedules announced, and the day went quickly. He trailed home behind his sister and a friend, who were banging lunch boxes in rhythm as they walked.
In the backyard he found his father hanging half on, half off a ladder.
“Dad!” he called. “Are you all right?”
His father didn’t turn around, spread against the house. “Yes, I’m all right. I know what I’m doing here.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to fix the aerial our paratrooper kicked over.”
“Why don’t you just move the ladder?”
His father stopped and closed his eyes, exasperated. “Because I’m trying to keep a hand on this wire, too.”
“You want help?”
“Not unless you’re taller than you look.”
He went into the house, threw his book bag on the dog’s chair and his lunch box on the counter, and went down the cellar for an ice-cream sandwich. With the freezer open he heard the rattling metallic crash of the ladder.
He bolted up the stairs two at a time and rushed past his sister, who was eating an apple at the kitchen table, and out into the driveway.
His father was high above him swaying back and forth, slowly bending the lateral supports for the antenna downward.
“Dad!” he said. “What happened?”
“What the hell do you think happened? Where is everybody? Didn’t anybody hear me yell?”