Ursula was managing to look completely cool in a crisp white blouse and navy skirt. She'd tied a red silk scarf around her neck in honor of the day. A sunshade was clipped to the side of her chair and its resemblance to a parasol lent Mrs. Rowe a timeless air.
“It's a new book, Mother, based on a true story. Two twenty-pound lobsters got caught in a dragger's net and ended up way down in Rhode Island. They were sold to a seafood dealer and eventual y went on display in some fish store in Philadelphia. Somewhere along the line, someone named them Bob and Shirley. Anyway, people got upset seeing them in the tank and wanted the owner to set them free. They were flown back up here and released!”
Ursula was laughing. "I want to read that book! Of course, if they'd been caught in a trap, they would have had to be released right away, since they were oversized. But this way, they got to do some traveling."
“It's starting!" someone cal ed out. The crowd along the parade route had grown considerably. The high school band was playing "It's a Grand Old Flag" and another Sanpere Fourth of July was marching along its invariable course. First came the kids on their decorated bikes. Pix remembered how excited she'd been as a child to thread crepe-paper streamers through the spokes of her Schwinn, then ride grandly with the others at the head of the parade.
Except for the color scheme and crepe paper, today's bikes looked radical y different, although two or three were relics obviously handed down by a previous generation.
After the bikes came the school band.
“Isn't that Arlene's boyfriend?" Sam asked.
Pix nodded. Fred had been completely transformed by his drum major's uniform, gold braid dripping from his shoulders and sparkling in the sun as he solemnly raised and lowered the baton. It was a very important position.
Fred was class president, too.
“Nice kid," John commented. "I guess he'l be the fourth generation to lobster from Ames Cove, although things have certainly changed since his great-great-grandfather used to go out with nothing more than his traps, buoys, a compass, a watch, and a hank of rope with a weight on it to tel him how deep the water was around the ledges."
“It's simpler now," Sam said, `ànd safer, yet some of the romance is gone. I think it every time I see the plastic buoys, instead of the old wooden ones they carved, and the new traps"
“The new traps weigh less, same with the buoys, and both don't require the kind of upkeep as the old ones. But I'm with you, aesthetical y—maybe even practical y. Sonny Prescott told me the other day he's not so sure al the new computers are helping the industry. Makes it too easy, and God knows these waters are being overfished enough."
John seemed to be off and running on a favorite topic and Sam was ready to join him, but Pix didn't feel like hearing about the demise of the island's fishing economy today.
She wanted to enjoy her lobster at the noon Odd Fel ows Lobster Picnic without worrying about the cost of bait and later at the Fish and Fritter Fry she didn't want to think about the growing scarcity of clams. As her friend Faith Fairchild was wont to say, "Denial ain't just a river in Egypt."
“Look at the children. Imagine making al those lobster costumes! Aren't they precious!" The lobster-boat float had to be a major contender for Most Original. The boat itself was a miracle of construction, papier-mâché over chicken wire, and the red-clad children gleeful y wriggled about its hul snapping their "claws" at the parade viewers.
Barton's lumberyard sponsored a huge float with Mother Goose figures and the cannery had opted for Alice in Wonderland. Sonny Prescott drew a big round of applause as Robert McCloskey's Burt Dow, Deep-Water Man, dragging his double-ender, The Tidely Idley, complete with rainbow stripes, set on wheels behind him.
“He must be roasting in al that foul-weather gear; they'l probably give him Most Foolish for that alone," Sam commented.
“More lemonade, Pix?" asked Rebecca.
“Yes, thank you, but let me help you" Suddenly, Pix realized she'd been so intent on the parade, she'd forgotten about Rebecca, who was dispensing lemonade and now cookies in the hot sun. "Does Addie feel any better?”
Before Rebecca could answer, Norman Osgood, coming toward them from the house, beat her to it. "She says she's fine. Just wants to be left in peace—that's a direct quote—and she'l see everybody later." He took the pitcher from Rebecca's hands and started pouring. "I brought your hat," he said, and plunked an old leghorn—her grandmother's?—on Rebecca's head. Handy man to have around, Pix thought. He was beginning to seem more like a member of the family and less like a guest al the time.
“Oh, Norman, thank you," Rebecca gushed. "This is so much better." She turned to Pix. "It's my gardening hat; actual y, it was Mother's. The straw makes it light.”
Pix was off by one generation, yet, who knew where Rebecca's mother had picked it up. Rebecca's garden was one of the showplaces of the island. She did put in some vegetables, at Addie's insistence, but they were behind the house. In front and on the sides were Rebecca's borders, plus an old-fashioned cutting garden. Her roses never suffered from Japanese beetles and her delphinium, in intense blues and lavenders, had been known to stop traffic during the tourist season.
“Look, it's Samantha! Samantha!" Pix cal ed, and was rewarded with a brief acknowledgment. The campers, singing lustily, dressed in immaculate Maine Sail Camp Tshirts and crisp pine tree green shorts marched in perfect synchrony, stopping opposite the judge's platform to flip their cards to form a perfect replica of Old Glory. They then crouched down so the crowd could see and flipped the cards again, displaying for al the message: HAPPY FUCK
OF JULY, SANPERE IS LAND! written on the hul of a sloop with yet another flag for its sail. The prankster had struck again. A gasp went up from the crowd and the judges al stood up simultaneously like puppets on strings, peering down from the roof. The children knew something was wrong, and predictably, Samantha's adorers moved in her direction. Jim, attired like his charges in the camp uniform, except with long pants, was shouting, "Put the cards down! Put the cards down!" Ranks broke and the campers raced for the bank parking lot, parade's end, to the strains of "Anchors Aweigh" as the band played valiantly on.
“I can't believe Duncan would do this. Not after what happened on Monday!"
“Why do you assume Duncan did it?" John asked. Pix was struck by the protective tone in his voice.
“Wel ," she wavered, "he seems to be very angry at his parents and there have been a number of incidents at the camp, unpleasant things happening."
“Yes, I know," John said impatiently, "but that doesn't necessarily mean it's Duncan. Lots of kids fight with their parents and don't chop the heads off mice."
“Whoever did it, it was a horrible thing to do. They've been working on the parade routine for days!”
The old fire engine, bel s ringing and crank-operated siren blaring, was bringing up the rear of the parade. It effectively put an end to any conversation, and Pix, for one, was glad.
She stood up and stretched, trying to recapture the mood of the day. "Anybody going to the children's games?
Why don't we walk up and leave the car here," she added to her husband.
“Darling" He kissed her earlobe. "You don't have any children in the games anymore. We don't have to go and watch our progeny dissolve in tears when the egg rol s off the spoon or the bal oon breaks when they try to catch it and they get soaking wet. There are other things we can do. Things at home. Grown up things.”
Pix blushed. She couldn't help herself. Mother was here.
“I know, sweetheart, but the camp wil be there. I'm sure everyone is quite upset, and Samantha may need help."