Act of God

away, then an abrupt choking sound, the hand in front of the mouth, followed by a sidelong glance and a deep, strong laugh.
    “Staunch of you, Nance.”
    “Oh, John... I’m sorry... but... Loni?”
    “Your smiles.”
    “You’re not kidding.”
    “I’m not.”
    “John Cuddy, the things you see in people.”
    At that moment, another couple came out and asked if they could join us. We kicked introductions around, they from a nice suburb named Sudbury and having spent an hour trying to park “the Volvo.” She knew Norm because of the real estate business, he ran a bookstore in Framingham . We left them to the view. As we walked back through the master bedroom, I heard her say to him. “From the street, you’d expect there’d be more roof-decks.”
    We took Norm’s suggestion and milled around, spending a lot of time with Elie and his date, a woman who worked with the severely retarded. We spent a little less time with a sculptor and his poet girlfriend, a police commander Nancy knew slightly and his wife, a school principal, and a gay couple who owned an art gallery on Newbury Street where probably nobody in the room except Norm could afford to shop. Noshing from the buffet, we spent considerably less time with a stockbroker and her husband, a retailing executive who kept eyeing two fashion models in their early twenties, and the models themselves, Nancy’s hold on my hand and forearm becoming stronger the longer we were with them.
    Norm asked everybody for their attention, and I realized that it was dark outside, the lights from the MIT buildings across the river twinkling through the glass.
    He said, “Only a few minutes now. I’m going to put the concert on simulcast. When the fireworks start, the balcony should hold most of us, but please, no stamping of your feet, Specially not in time to the music.”
    Nancy leaned up to my ear. “Why not?”
    “The force of all those feet could weaken the thing structurally.”
    “Really?”
    “It’s why when you march soldiers across a bridge, you tell them to go route step, meaning not in rhythm with each other.”
    “Otherwise the bridge would fall down?”
    “Been known to happen. Remember that hotel thing out in—”
    “Oh, yeah.”
    We grabbed some drinks and moved onto the balcony. The Hatch Shell looked like a miniature scallop, all lit up. The crowd was barely distinguishable, only the occasional flashlight or lantern showing you people in its beam. There were so many boats on the river around the fireworks barge, it looked like a flubbed special effect. Twenty- to forty-footers stem-lashed together. Little black commando dinghies riding the endless chop next to canoes and even a few kayaks. The music from the Hatch Shell was barely audible, the stereo inside the living room really letting you know where the orchestra was on its way to the 1812 Overture.
    When John Williams signaled his people to strike that first chord from the overture, there was a swelling roar from the crowd. More lights appeared on the barge, and the voice level on the balcony rose as well. People dah-dahed toward the crescendo, and when it came, the fireworks display began.
    Norm’s building was positioned so that the fireworks were shot toward us, their trajectory bringing the exploding flowers into our faces like a 3-D movie. The first time it happened, I gripped Nancy’s hand so tightly she had to say, “John, that hurts a little.”
    “Sorry.”
    She had a touch of concern on her face. “Remind you of something?”
    “Only for a second. I’m enjoying it now.”
    It was hard not to. The crowd went nuts over both the music and the display, the latter building itself to a thundering peak of teardrop colors in impossible combinations and blinding white flashes and explosions that pushed every other sensation of any kind to the side.
    When it finally died, there was a grayish-blue cloud over the river and the smell of cordite in the air. We applauded and whistled and cheered with everyone else, Nancy hanging back on the balcony as the rest went in to freshen drinks and compare notes.
    Nancy looked up at me, but without the half-smile this time. “John, can I ask you a question?”
    “Sure.”
    “It’s something I never ask you about.”
    “That’s okay.”
    She took my right hand in both of hers. “The fireworks. What did they remind you of?”
    I shrugged and looked away, trying not to breathe too deeply the cordite smell. “The war.”
    “But what