Divine Evil

Clare was explaining to her friends. “Believe me, right about now, it's utter chaos down there. Kids have lost their gloves or their boots. Some are throwing up in the bushes.”
    “Sounds delightful,” Angie commented.
    “Shut up, you jaded New Yorker,” Clare said and swung an arm around her shoulder. “Word is the high school band has a shot at top honors this year.”
    “What about the majorettes?” Angle's husband asked.
    “Dozens of them, Jean-Paul,” Blair assured him. “A veritable bevy of high-stepping, nubile beauties. Pom-pom girls, too.”
    “Ah.”
    “Clare was almost a pom-pom girl.”
    “Blair, do you want to die?”
    “Truly?” Eyes glinting, Jean-Paul studied her. “But
ma chère amie
, you never told me.”
    “That's because when she tried out, she tripped over her shoelaces.”
    “Betty Mesner untied them.” Clare pouted, remembering. “You dumped her, and she took it out on me.”
    “Yeah.” Blair grinned. “Those were the days. Why, hello, Annie.”
    Crazy Annie beamed. Parade day was her favorite day of the year, better even than Christmas or Easter. Alreadyshe'd had a grape snow cone. Her hands were purple and sticky from it.
    “I know you,” she said to Blair.
    “Sure you do. I'm Blair Kimball.”
    “I know you,” she repeated. “You used to play baseball down at the field. I would watch. I know you, too,” she said to Clare.
    “It's nice to see you, Annie. Some of the roses are blooming,” she said, remembering how her father had often given Annie a flower.
    “I like roses the best.” She stared at Clare and saw Jack Kimball in her eyes, in the easy smile. “I'm sorry your daddy's dead,” she said politely, as though it had just happened.
    “Thank you.”
    Annie smiled, pleased she'd remembered to do the right thing. Then she looked at Angie. “I know you, too. You're the black woman who's living with Clare.”
    “This is my friend Angie and her husband, Jean-Paul. They live in New York.”
    “In New York?” Annie studied them with more interest. “Do you know Cliff Huxtable? He's black, too, and he lives in New York. I see him on TV.”
    “No.” Angle's lips curved. “I haven't met him.”
    “You can watch him on the TV. He wears pretty sweaters. I like pretty things.” She eyed Angle's gold panther link necklace. “Where did you find that?”
    “I, ah …” A little uneasy, Angie lifted her hand to the necklace. “In New York.”
    “I find pretty things, right here.” She stuck out her arm, jangling with bracelets. To rescue her friend, Clare took Annie's sticky hand and admired her jewelry.
    “These are very nice.” Curious, she ran a finger over the silver bracelet on which CARLY was engraved.
    “That's my favorite.” She beamed. “A-N-N-I-E. I wear it every day.”
    “It's lovely.” But Clare frowned as some vague memory nearly surfaced.
    “Okay, heads up,” Blair announced. “Here comes the Farm Queen.”
    “I want to see!” Annie scrambled away through the crowd to get a closer view, and Clare lost the memory in the cheers from the sidewalks.
    They watched the slow-moving caravan of convertibles. Listened to the wild cheers. The crowd shifted, rose on toes, hunched down. Young children were hoisted on shoulders. There was a scent of hot dogs grilling, of sweet, sugary drinks, of baby powder. In the distance Clare heard the first rumble of brass and drums. Her eyes filled.
    Girls in glittery leotards turned handsprings, twisted into back bends, tossed silver batons high. If some bounced on the asphalt, the crowd still cheered. Behind them, between them, high-stepping through the town square, came the bands.
    The sun glinted off brass and stunned the eyes. Trumpets, tubas, trombones. It glittered on the silver of flutes and piccolos. Beneath the roar of music was the click, click, click of heels on the roadbed. Drums added their magical rat-a-tat-tat.
    Jean-Paul nearly swooned when a trio of girls in short, shiny skirts executed a snappy routine with white parade rifles.
    The young and the hopeful marched by, in front of their peers, their parents, their grandparents, their teachers, as the young had marched by for generations. They were the lifeblood of the town. The old watched them, knowing.
    Angie slipped an arm around her husband's waist. She'dexpected to be bored, not touched. But she was touched. To her surprise, her blood was pumping to the rhythm of horns and drums. When she watched the Silver Star Junior