The Fancy Dancer

had to make the first decisions about how to celebrate the national Bicentennial, Mrs. Shaw had stood up at a town meeting and reminded everybody of how Cottonwood spent half a million dollars on a historical pageant for its own Centennial in 1968 and now had nothing to show for it.
    “Let’s do something to improve the quality of life in Cottonwood,” she had said. “Let’s honor the past by doing something to ensure our future.”
    Everybody had cheered her suggestion. The block of the oldest buildings on Main Street, the Landry block, was falling into decay. The town decided to restore them and attract some new businesses. As a result, construction people in town had gotten some badly needed jobs. This summer, Cottonwood would have its first antique shop, a singles bar and a garden center, plus an elegant little tearoom to compete with the town’s three dingy cafes and two fast-food joints. Mrs. Pawling, who refused to spend a nickel on repairing the church roof, had offered to plant two hundred new young cottonwood trees along Main Street—“It’s getting so there isn’t a cottonwood left in town,” she said. “All the old ones are dying.”
    Shortly after I came to St. Mary’s, Father Vance and I had made our own decision about the Bicentennial. On one of my first parish rounds, I had visited the county old-folks’ home, and was shocked. The building was like a bare bam, with staring sick old men and women in bedrooms like little stalls. I had no trouble persuading Father Vance that we could celebrate God and America by creating a decent home for the aged.
    One of the finest historic Victorian houses in town, the Mathers house, had been taken over by the bank on a mortgage foreclosure. We talked the bank into donating the house to St. Mary’s. One of my very first money-raising assignments had been to get parishioners to donate work and materials.
    The decision that St. Mary’s would also have a float in the Bicentennial parade did, admittedly, have a worldly motivation. But the council members, in their gut, felt they wanted it, and we decided not to spend much money on it. The theme of the float would be the local settlers and the Indians working together to build the church.
    “I’ve put a crew of volunteers to work on the float,” I said. “Jamie is the head of the crew. Jamie, do you want to tell us about it?”
    Jamie’s face lit up as I singled him out. Suddenly, with a rush, I was reminded of talking to him Saturday evening in the sacristy, which reminded me of Vidal. That feeling of giddy frightened joy went over me all over again.
    “Well,” Jamie was saying, “me and three other kids in art class are going to make the thing out of heavy cardboard. We can scrounge the cardboard from Bissell’s—the big boxes they get refrigerators and washing machines in. We’re doing it in our garage, and it’ll be light enough to lift right onto a truck. Mrs. Fulton says we can borrow some canned lilacs from the nursery to stand around it. The costumes will be easy—some paint and feathers and fringes on shirts and pants, and stuff. It shouldn’t cost more’n fifty dollars.”
    Everybody smiled and nodded.
    “Well,” said Mrs. Shaw, “it sounds like we’re moving right along. Does anybody have any more comments before we move on to the next item on the agenda?” “Yes,” said Mrs. Shoup. “No bare chests on the Indians on the float.”
    Suddenly I felt devastated by aloneness, there in that cluttered living room. I was a priest of God, of Divine Love. I should be like a holy high-tension wire, humming with the shock current of love, • carrying love from God to man, and back. But I felt alone, and empty.
    The council discussed a few more pet projects, and I tried hard to pay attention. Mr. DiSaronno had gloomy news about our county job-finding project— the sawmill was planning to lay off fifty men, because of a government decision to stop clear-cutting in the national forests. For us, that meant the Cottonwood, Elk Creek and Helena National Forests.
    Finally Mrs. Shaw asked, “Now are there any new problems that anyone wants to bring up?”
    “Yes,” said Mrs. Shoup.
    My mind snapped back to reality, and I groaned
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    inwardly. She was still smarting from her recent rebuff by the court on the bookstore issue. Now she was looking for a new hotbed of obscenity.
    AH the other members’ eyes fastened on her, a little wearily.
    “The other day I visited the high-school