Fourth Of July Cerebration

FOURTH OF JULY CEREBRATION

It was barely ten o'clock in the morning and already eleven year old Corey Tilström's palms were sweating with anticipation as he began counting the hours left before the sun would go down. It was Saturday, the 4th of July, and this meant that tonight, if the weather held up, and it looked like it was going to, he'd be able to shoot off the fireworks that he'd been promised. He didn't have them yet, but he was sure that just as soon as the grown-ups finished with the morning chores in the cottage they'd all hop in the car and head for one of the many roadside fireworks stands that he'd seen and remarked about on the way to the cottage.

The cottage was an ideal place for the adults to spend summer weekends. Situated on a tall hill overlooking picturesque Lake Zoar in the valley several miles below, this little retreat provided peace, quiet, fresh air, and sylvan serenity. Things not easily found in the big city

It was small and cozy, designed and built five years ago by Johnny and Bette Whitestone, Corey's parents' best friends. It had one large undivided room that served as a kitchen, living room and bedroom, where two double-sized beds took up most of the room, and a small closed-in section that doubled as a storage area and changing room. Outside the front door there was an airy screened-in porch that was nearly as wide as it was long. There was plenty of room for the large round dining table with its thick, bright red vinyl tablecloth, six unmatched straight-back chairs, a chaise lounge, and a roll-away bed where Corey slept. There was no refrigerator or indoor plumbing just an old ice-box that consumed a twenty pound block of ice daily and a one seater outhouse out back. Corey hated the idea of using the outhouse because it seemed to be a favorite place for bees to build their nests, not to mention the fact that he couldn't stand the smell of the awful thing. Whenever nature would allow, he would wait until the grown-ups decided to make their daily excursion into town to get ice at the gas station and then use the 'sit-down' facilities; this gave him a greater sense of privacy.

Not many people lived year round in this region. It had remained rural New England at its finest, visited mostly by other city-dwellers who had built similar cottages as weekend retreats. The closest neighbors were more than a half mile away, and while this singular fact was without doubt a god-send for the adults; it made things a bit tedious for Corey-there were no other kids his age to play with.

Most of the time this didn't matter a whole lot. Corey was used to being alone. He was not like most other boys his age. He wasn't at all interested in sports, he didn't like rough-house games, he knew little to nothing about cars or hot-rods, and as far as girls were concerned-they were simply people with longer hair. He considered himself more of a naturalist, a collector, a reader and thinker more than a doer. His father often became upset with him and called him a 'sissy' or a 'mamma's boy', especially those times when Corey would come home with a new butterfly for his collection or an old animal skull that he had unearthed and intended to donate to his school's small nature museum. This was the price he had to pay for being different, thought Corey, and it didn't bother him nearly as much now as it once had.

Lars Tilström, Corey's father, was a man of many and diverse talents. He was, even at fifty-five, a big, husky man who loved sports of any kind, particularly boxing and baseball. Time after time he would encourage his son to accompany him to his company's weekly softball game and get a 'feel for it'. But Corey would always have something else he would rather do and decline the invitation. Once in awhile, just to keep peace, Corey would give-in and go with his father to one of the games only to sit quietly bored and feeling out of place, feigning periodic enthusiasm when his father's team scored a run. But he wasn't a convincing actor either, and his father would only look at him in disgust.

But today would be different. He wouldn't do anything to annoy his father.

He got up early and ate the bacon and eggs that Bette had prepared for him. He liked her a great deal and she liked him. They had a special relationship; she took a real interest in the kinds of things that he liked, something Corey found rare in adults. She was a slight woman, standing only about five-two and weighing not more than a hundred pounds and had outrageously curly, short-cropped brown hair. She spoke with a cumbersomely thick German accent that often made her speech very difficult to understand, especially when she became excited.

During breakfast Corey reminded her that it was the Fourth of July and elaborated on how much fun they would all have setting off the fireworks that evening. His manner was enthusiastic and childishly manipulative. She smiled at him knowingly, realizing that she had been appointed his personal advocate to 'work on his father' so that he wouldn't forget about getting the promised payload.

Just as Corey was about finished wiping up the nearly dried egg yolks still left on the plate with his toast; he heard his mother cough, a sure sign that she was going to get up. He quickly stuffed the last piece of moist toast into his mouth and announced that he was off, but would be within shouting distance when everyone was ready to go into town.

Christine Tilström walked onto the porch in time to see her son disappear down the gravel path which led into the woods. She looked tired, drawn-out, much older than her forty-nine years and the bright morning sun exaggerated each line and furrow on her face with pitiless honesty.

"Good morning, Chris," said Bette, as she poured a cup of coffee from the Silex. "Sleep well?"

"It got a little chilly during the night. Lars had all the covers on his side of the bed-thought I was going to freeze," said Christine as she stretched and tried to stifle a yawn. "Excuse me."

"Would you like some bacon and eggs? Corey and I had our breakfast already, but I'll be happy to make you some," offered Bette politely.

"The men will be getting up soon. Lars is awake now, but it takes him a few minutes to get going. I don't know about Johnny, he looks like he's still sleeping. For now I'll just have some coffee and eat when they get up. Why don't you just sit there and enjoy your coffee? When Johnny starts stirring I'll make breakfast, you've already done your share," said Christine as she adjusted the belt on her pink terry-cloth robe. "Where's Corey off to so early?"

"Probably off to the frog pond. He didn't really say. He's all excited about getting some firecrackers. Wanted me to make sure that his father didn't forget about stoppin' off at one of the stands. He probably didn't sleep a wink last night thinking about it," noted Bette, her accent thicker than usual.

"Well he could have at least put his bed away rather than leaving it for someone else to do. I've told him about that before."

"Achh! Don't worry about it-it'll only take a minute. I'll take care of it."

"I'd better do it now before Lars comes out and raises hell," said Christine.

The frog pond that Corey visited regularly wasn't really a pond at all. It was more like a large mud puddle formed by the trickling run-off from the small brook that ran behind the cottage and eventually, many tortuous miles later, emptied into Lake Zoar. It was here in his own private wilderness that he would spend many hours catching and then releasing the small leopard frogs that inhabited this tiny pool. He had names for all the frogs; they had become surrogate playmates, looking as forward to being caught, thought Corey, as he did in catching them.

Corey looked at his Timex watch, it was eleven o'clock and still there was no call from the cottage. Surely, he thought, all the grown-ups must be up by now; they're probably sitting around the big table talking about those things that kids aren't supposed to hear. That was okay--they're probably planning a surprise for me.

Corey had learned to act innocent, naive even, particularly when the grown-ups would try and talk above his head like at Christmas or his birthday when they were discussing his presents. He always caught on to what they were talking about, but he didn't let them to know it-he just pretended not to hear. Why spoil their surprise? Besides, the important thing was that he got the gifts, so if it made them feel better to play their games-he could handle it.

As he stood on the large, flat, moss-covered rock under which the frogs would hide; he put his hand into his jeans' pocket to make sure that his three two inch firecrackers were still there. He brought them from the city where he had bought them for ten cents apiece from one of the kids in the neighborhood. The urge to light one was very tempting, it would remind the adults that he was still around and waiting, just in case they had forgotten. He resisted the temptation though, thinking that doing something like that would be too bold. He would just continue to wait for a call, or more likely, a whistle from his father.

All around him the small woods had the aura of a holiday. There was a special peacefulness about summer holidays in the woods; and each one, Memorial Day, the Fourth of July, and Labor Day was unique, having its own personal smells, colors, and sounds. Maybe no one else noticed this, but Corey had learned to distinguish these subtle differences when he was very young. It was like having a sixth sense that allowed him to chronologically file specific events and feelings in his mind. Each feeling was 'time-stamped' with its own set of images never to be forgotten, and then, once properly logged, could be retrieved from his brain with great ease. He often mystified his parents by being able to remember events that occurred years earlier, recollecting flawlessly minor and unimportant details concerning the weather, what the person or people involved were wearing, and in some cases, the exact time and date that the event happened. Once he even won a five dollar bet with his father concerning a license plate number. It was a minor issue, quite trivial; but nonetheless, he did at least once in his short life prove his father to be wrong. It was an exciting and cherished memory. He hoped there would be more.

After finishing breakfast the adults sat lazily around the table discussing the day's activities. The highlight of the day was to be the annual barbecue consisting of hot dogs, hamburgers, corn on the cob, Bette's homemade German potato salad, and a generous amount of store-bought Boston baked beans. Lars was the self-proclaimed expert on outdoor cooking. Johnny the bartender. The women would stay inside for the most part and take care of the incidental domestic chores that accompany a cook-out and which men believed just happened. Corey's job would be to see to it that the red, white, and blue streamers were attractively draped from the front porch and wound barber-pole fashion around the trunks of the two elms closest to the road, just in case the Whitestone's had unexpected visitors. No mention was made of fireworks.

Once the grocery list had been made, the water from the melted ice boiled so that the dishes could be cleaned and put away, and Christine Tilström returned from her third visit to the outhouse, or honey-house, as she called it; the adults were ready to go into town.

Lars made the first move. He casually made his way out to the expansive front lawn, looked far down into the valley where he could just barely see the northern shore of the lake and listened attentively to the dull buzzing sounds made by speed boats racing up and down the lake. He stretched his arms and looked up at the cloudless summer sky, pure and unblemished unlike that of the city's where dozens of factories, many like his own, each day poured countless thousands of cubic feet of thick, noxious, sulfur and carbon monoxide ridden smoke into the air from looming smokestacks that looked from a distance like skeleton arms appealing to heaven for forgiveness, each one guiltier than its neighbor.

Then, suddenly, his reverie broken, he pursed his lips and whistled a long, shrill whistle. He probably didn't mean it to be so, but it sounded more like he was summoning an errant dog rather than trying to gain his son's attention.

Corey got the message. He hated it when his father did that; it was dehumanizing and embarrassing. Sometimes he would ignore the insult, hoping that his father would get the hint, and try for a change, just calling out his name like other dads did when calling their kids. But now wasn't the time for Corey to be fickle and play hard to get. His response was quick and deliberate. "COMING", he shouted in his loudest soprano voice while at the same time bouncing from one rock to another trying desperately not to lose his balance. Half way up the wooded path his ears pierced with the insult again. "COMING! I'm COMING," he shouted back. This time with a trace of indignation in his voice.

The adults were huddled on the front lawn talking when they came into Corey's view. From a distance they looked cheerful enough-that's a good sign he thought. Even Johnny, who normally didn't seem to come alive until after his second martini, appeared less morose-looking for this time of day than usual. He was dressed in khaki shorts, a plaid shirt, moccasins, and an old derby hat that couldn't have looked more ridiculous sitting on the head of the queen of England.

"Good morning, everybody," said Corey as he came within speaking distance.

"Corey, look at your new sneaks-they're all covered with mud," said his mother with obvious displeasure. "And why are you wearing those pants? It's too hot for long pants. Go inside and put your shorts on."

"Awh Mom, they're okay. Really," replied Corey, noticing for the first time himself that his new Keds were covered with muck from the brook. "Sneakers dry quick. Besides, they don't look good when they're too new anyway."

"Can't catch frogs and keep your shoes clean," said Johnny to Christine. "Isn't that right, Junior?" placing his hand on Corey's shoulder.

"Right!" replied Corey, thankful for Johnny's unsolicited intervention.

"Come on. Let's get going, if we're going," said Lars impatiently, already halfway to where the cars were parked. "We'll take the Lincoln. I need to get gas anyway."

The twenty minute trip into town seemed for Corey to take longer than usual. He sat quietly in the back seat of his father's car between Bette and his mother and listened to the grown-ups talk about unimportant details regarding the cook-out. Whether they should buy fresh corn from a roadside stand and take the chance of it being wormy... or pick some up at the market? How much soda should they get? Was there enough charcoal? What about rolls? How many of each kind? God, thought Corey, and they say kids don't ever know what they want! What do you call this? Organization? Pre-planning?

Finally, when he could no longer stand the barrage of idiotic questions, Corey decided to break grand silence. "You're all forgetting the most important thing."

"What's that?" asked his father, looking directly at him through the rear-view mirror.

"The fireworks. Where do you want to get them?"

"Don't worry about that now," chirped his father. "You want to eat, don't you?" That was it. The Great One had spoken. As it is written, so shall it be done .

The silence that ensued was deafening, even the car's factory installed air conditioner suddenly became silent. "Damn that thing. Just had the son-of-a-bitch fixed last week-cost me eighty-five bucks," complained Lars bitterly.

Johnny Whitestone looked at his long time friend sitting behind the wheel, tipped his derby respectfully, offered a wan smile, and then opened his window. "Anyone for cricket?" he asked playfully.

The grocery shopping took less than an hour.

Afterwards Lars inquired at the gas station, where they got ice, if the attendant could do anything about getting the air conditioner back into working order, but the attendant reminded him that it was a holiday and the mechanic was off duty. He suggested that the car be brought back on Monday and then they would see what could be done. Lars sarcastically thanked him for his help, paid for the gas and ice and then got back in the car. Johnny was busy re-arranging the groceries in the trunk and sculpting the ice block so that it would fit into the badly dented galvanized bucket. Christine and Corey were still using the facilities. Bette, who didn't get out of the car, reminded Lars that the volunteer fire department was having some sort of all day shin-dig and that if he wanted to, it might be a good idea to stop by, since she was almost sure that they would be selling fireworks.

"We'll see," said Lars, scrutinizing his watch as though time had now become a major consideration. "Can't waste too much time. That ice isn't going to last forever in a hot trunk."

"Just a suggestion," replied Bette as she casually lit up a Pall Mall.

On the return trip Lars took an alternate route that brought them by the lumber yard and adjoining volunteer fire department. A crowd of fifty to seventy-five people were milling around the yard eating hot dogs, drinking soda pop and beer from plastic cups, and examining the ancient fire truck that had been spit-polished to a glistening luster just for the occasion. Several young boys of about Corey's age, each wearing a red plastic fireman's hat, were climbing all over the truck, alternately ringing its bell and making convincing siren-like noises with their pre-pubescent voices. On the far side of the yard a make-shift bandstand had been set up, garishly decorated with streamers and American flags, and where a half dozen or so musicians sat, in between sets, drinking bottled beer and wiping their sweaty necks and faces.

"Ya wanna' stop here?" cried Corey from the back seat where he had changed positions so that Lars couldn't keep an eye on him through the rear view mirror. "Looks like as good a place as any to get the fireworks. Right, Dad?"

"Why don't we, Lars? Just for a few minutes," added Christine with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. Christine disliked crowds; they made her nervous and caused her stomach to become upset, sometimes to the point where she couldn't eat for an entire day. She didn't much care for the heat either, but she loved a good old-fashion band concert.

"What do you say, Bette?" asked Corey, nudging her a little.

"Fine with me-but I'm not the one who's driving," she said with a calculated air of diplomacy in her voice.

"Great!" exclaimed Corey. "That makes three. How about you, Johnny? How do you vote?"

Johnny smiled broadly, exposing his gold-capped incisor; ceremoniously removed his hat and announced in his best Winston Churchill parody available on such short a notice, "How could we dare neglect to pay our respects to America-with her overwhelming pow'r, on this, her one-hundred and eighty-third birthday?" And then snickered at his own cleverness.

"Well, Winston, if you put it that way," said Lars, who was now also grinning; "Far be it from me to incite another Revolution." And promptly proceeded to find a parking spot under one of the few shade trees still available.

Corey was out the rear door before Lars had the keys out of the ignition. Immediately he walked over to where the fire truck was on display. He didn't care a bit about the truck but it was a good place to get lost in the crowd. Here he could survey the scene, find out where the fireworks stand was, casually walk over to it, pick out what he wanted, and still not look too obvious.

Trying to appear somewhat interested in the engine he looked on passively as one of the volunteer firemen demonstrated, with alacrity, how they connected the pumper to the tanker. One fat kid, who was scarfing down a hot dog, stood next to Corey and kept interrupting the fireman by asking stupid questions like: How fast can it go? What happens when you run out of water? How old do you have to be to drive? Questions the fireman tried to answer as politely as he could, but everyone could tell that he was beginning to lose his patience. Finally the kid left and headed in the direction of the ice cream wagon. Corey watched the kid wattle through the crowd until his eyes caught sight of a small green tent.

There it was! Finally! It wasn't as big as he had hoped, but nevertheless, it was a fireworks stand.

When he got over there, Corey was surprised to see Johnny and his father already picking and pawing over the few remaining fireworks that were left. He heard the man behind the counter tell his father that most of the good stuff was sold out by eleven that morning and that the only things left were what they saw on the table-a few sparklers, a dozen rolls of caps, and smoke bombs-Roman candles and sky-rockets-well if he had more of them, why he could have made a fortune. Sorry.

"Well, son," said Lars. "Looks like we're a little too late. But don't worry. I'll take care of things."

"How?" asked Corey innocently.

"Don't you worry-you just leave things up to me," said Lars reassuringly. "The trunk's already filled with enough gun powder and rockets to light up the sky for two nights."

"Why didn't you tell me that?" asked Corey enthusiastically. "Wow! Let me see them. When did you get them?"

"Not now," said Lars. "Later. Tonight."

"All right-but..."

"Come on. Let's find the ladies. I think your mom wants to hear that band. Then we've got to get going. We've got a cook out to go to. Right, Winston?"

Johnny Whitestone once again removed his derby, painted a doleful expression on his face, and recited in an almost whisper, "Remember England in her darkest hour--For there shall always be an England, so long as there is an America." This time however, Johnny did not laugh; he remained somber.

They caught up with the women who were standing near the bandstand, stayed for two John Phillip Sousa marches, both of which were horribly out of tempo, and then made their way back to the car.

In less than forty-five minutes after their return to the cottage Corey had completed his assigned chores. The women were busy inside preparing the salad and doctoring up the four cans of baked beans while a large pot of water slowly came to a boil on the two element hot plate. Johnny had made up a large pitcher of extra dry martinis which he served in Waterford crystal to the adults. Lars busied himself cleaning the rusted grate on the field stone barbecue with a wire brush as he sipped his martini and unconsciously whistled some monotonous tune that played through his brain.

Two pitchers of martinis later, their appetites having been properly whetted, the adults were ready to sit down an enjoy the fruits of their labor. Corey, whose appetite was formidable for a boy his age, couldn't understand why it was necessary for the adults to 'loosen up', as they put it, before they could eat. For him, just the wonderful aroma of the savory smoke wafting through the air tickling his nostrils and the sound of the meat hissing and sizzling on the grill caused his digestive juices to flow liberally, unabashed.

Adults are funny people, he thought. Why do they always have to make everything so difficult for themselves? He would never be like that when he grew up-No. His would be a life of simplicity, always saying what he meant to say--and always meaning what he said. He wouldn't rely on a bottle of gin served in a fancy glass to either form or interpret his thoughts. He would forever be his own person.

Everyone raved about Bette's potato salad, saying that it was the best she had ever made. She smiled graciously at the compliments but confessed that it needed just a tad more vinegar and a little less salt. She would remember that when it came time to make it again at the Labor Day outing. She got up from her chair and walked over to the picnic table where the uncovered food had by now attracted a small but aggressive swarm of flies. "Anyone want some more? There's enough here to feed an army," she said as she shooed away the pests with a paper plate. Everyone declined saying that they were full. But when Johnny asked if anyone needed another drink the response was in the affirmative, including that of an unexpected but not unfamiliar voice. It was old Frank Sutter, full time farmer and resident alcoholic making his way sheepishly across the lawn.

"Hi Frank," shouted Johnny and waved the old man welcome. "Just about to have a drink. Can I get you one?" asked Johnny, knowing full well the answer before he even asked the question.

"Oh yeah. Might as well. If it ain't no trouble that is," replied the old man anxiously spying the nearly empty pitcher of martinis. "Hot day, isn't it?", he remarked as he approached his hosts.

"Must be four o'clock," said Bette. "I could set my watch by your daily walk up the hill."

Corey referred again to his Timex. She was right, it was four o'clock. He recalled from previous visits how differently the adults had acted when Frank stopped by on his way back home from the field, in hopes of getting a free drink or two. On those occasions they perceived him as an intruder, and how they frantically hid their drinks so that he wouldn't see them. Corey wondered if they really felt this way again today, only this time old Frank had caught them with the goods-it would be fun to see what happened.

"Better make up a fresh pitcher there, Winston, old boy. Looks like the marines have landed," said Lars playfully.

"Just what I had in mind, Sire. Why don't you come inside and help me open the new jar of olives? We may need fortifications." Johnny looked around for an empty glass in which to pour Frank's drink. "The only clean glass around, Frank, is one of these plastic doodads for soft drinks."

"Oh don't worry about that," said Frank. "A drink is like a book. Ya' can't judge it by its cover. It's what's inside that counts." The old farmer graciously accepted the drink with calloused, soil-stained, quivering hands. In an unconscious gesture resulting from years of habit Frank turned his head to the side and expelled a thick, slimy stream of tobacco stained saliva that missed hitting Christine Tilström's lawn chair by mere inches. He raised his glass as if proposing a silent toast and then downed its contents in one gulp. "First one is always the hardest," he said, wiping his mouth with his soiled shirt sleeve.

Lars and Johnny looked at each other in amazement. "Tell me Frank," inquired Lars. "Do you absorb the contents of books as quickly?"

"Nope. Just look at their covers," retorted Frank, feeling proud knowing that his dry Yankee wit was still intact.

Christine tossed Bette an anguished look; she was utterly taken back by Frank's indiscretion. Bette only rolled her eyes, smiled wryly and mumbled something in German.

For nearly three hours Corey sat and listened as the men drank and talked idly, discussing more subjects, he thought, than were in his encyclopedia. The women had long ago decided to clean up the leftovers, since it was obvious that Frank's idea of a cookout had little to do with the quality or quantity of food available. Corey sipped his root beer and observed with growing concern a decidedly ugly and cruel side of his father that surfaced. He twice rejected requests from his mother to come inside and join in on a game of canasta. For some reason that Corey did not understand his father was determined to make the old farmer feel inadequate, inferior-making him the blunt of some pretty scathing remarks which even Johnny didn't find amusing.

He had often been present when Johnny and his father sat and talked for hours about the old days while nursing two or three martinis. There was nothing unusual about that. But in the past, the conversations had always been up-beat and friendly, each man alternately offering some piece of long-forgotten nostalgia that would somehow or other always turn into a joke, causing the other to break out into a fit of raucous laughter. They were like school-boys telling each other off-color, sinister little stories in the washroom, safely out of the teacher's earshot. Corey felt uncomfortable with the situation but he remained there hoping that his presence would act as a reminder to his father that there was still some unfinished business to be taken care of. So far- it hadn't.

At seven-thirty the last rays of the bright July sun struggled through the tall trees behind the cottage and embroidered on the lawn a delicate lattice-work of shadows. In the distance the muffled sound of cherry-bombs exploding could be heard, probably originating from the valley below; it was hard to tell, since the wind had changed direction. Corey did not miss the cue.

"Maybe you'd like to stay for the fireworks, Mr. Sutter?" encouraged Corey. "We're just about to get started and you've got one of the best seats in the house," he continued, pointing out a large granite rock on the edge of the property that would act as the staging area.

"No-I don't think so," interjected Lars sharply. "I'm sure Frank has more important things to do at home. Isn't that right, Frank?"

"Yeah-I'd better be gettin' on home now, son," replied Frank, trying to make it sound like it was his own idea. "Farming is a tough job, ya' know, seven days a week, up by dawn, to bed by dusk," slurred the old man as he finished his drink, leaving behind the half dozen olives that occupied the bottom of his glass.

Johnny stood up abruptly to shake the old farmer's hand and thanked him repeatedly for stopping by, telling him that he was welcome to visit any time he saw the car in the driveway. "Don't be a stranger. We generally have a little something here to get the dust out of your throat," chuckled Johnny, hoping in some way that the insincerity of the invitation would pass by Frank unnoticed.

"Well thank you. Thank you very much. Appreciate that. I really enjoyed myself. Nice Afternoon," replied Frank. He waved to the ladies playing cards on the porch and wished them a nice evening. "Hope you enjoy the fireworks-it should be a nice night for them," he remarked as he stumbled toward the road.

As soon as Frank was out of sight Bette and Christine came back out on the lawn. "He sure is a long-winded old bird," said Bette. "I thought he would never leave."

"Oh he's okay," mused Johnny. "He's just a lonely old man with no body to talk to, ever since his wife died. I kind of feel sorry for the old coot."

"He drinks too much," said Lars. "He'd better be careful or his liver will give out. Probably has more money stashed away than all of us could ever spend. You'd think a man like that would retire, sell his land and move to Florida or something. Can't understand why people work themselves into the ground. Who's he going to leave all his money to anyway? The state will probably get it-what a waste! I tried to tell him but..."

"You tried to tell him a lot," said Corey trying hard not to sound sarcastic. "But people miss a lot when they've been drinking-and they forget about things too."

"Oh that may be true for some people," replied Lars. "If a man's going to drink like old Frank does he's got to be sure that he can hold his liquor, and if he can't-well, he's got to be willing to face the consequences. I was just trying to give him some sound business advice. Wasn't my fault that his pickled brain couldn't keep up. Let me tell you son, in this world you've got to keep on top of things if you're ever going to be anybody. Time and tide wait for no man. You've heard that saying before, haven't you?"

"Yeah, I've heard it before," answered Corey politely. "But I wasn't only talking about Frank, Dad."

"I think the boy's referring to the fireworks you promised him earlier this afternoon," said Johnny soberly as he poured the last water-downed martini into his glass. "Seems like a good time to get started setting things up-while there's still some sunlight left. What do you say, Junior?"

"ALL RIGHT!" cried out Corey. His spirits once again lifted. Johnny had come through for him once again, saying for him what he himself could not say. Children, as he had been told repeatedly, were to be seen and not heard; speaking only to adults when first spoken to. It was the Scandinavian way of child rearing. Good old Johnny. Thank God he wasn't Danish too.

"What fireworks?" inquired Christine innocently. "I didn't think you were able to get any. Didn't you say that they were all sold out?"

Lars' alcohol induced crimson after-glow vanished with all the rapidity of a spent Roman candle as Christine spoke. His face grew pale and maudlin. His quick wit, dulled like Frank's from the effects of the martinis, failed him miserably. He didn't know what to say or how to say it. He felt stupid. Trapped.

Christine asked if he was feeling all right. He wasn't-but he certainly wasn't going to admit it. Lars wanted to vomit but couldn't. After a few moments of tense silence Corey asked if there was anything that he could do and Bette told him to go into the cottage and get a cold washcloth.

"What's the problem, Lars?" asked Christine. "You drank too much didn't you?"

"That's part of it; I"m sure," said Johnny addressing Christine. "But there's another, larger problem. This afternoon, down at the firehouse, he told Junior that the trunk of the car was full of fireworks. I knew then it wasn't. I would have seen them when I put the ice in the trunk." Johnny paused for a moment and shook his head sadly. "Sorry, Sire. Don't mean to put you in a spot like this but I have to bring this thing to a head. I can't let you toy with the boy's feelings like you did with Frank's. I don't know what you had in mind when you told him that..."

"I was going to slip out this afternoon and buy some," said Lars defensively. "But when Frank stopped by-well, you know, one thing led to another-and-I forgot. That's all. I'll make it up to him. The boy's too sensitive anyway--he's got to learn that things aren't always what they appear. Half the time the kid lives in some sort of fantasy world. It ain't good for him."

"Lars, I can't believe you did that," said Christine angrily.

"I can," said Bette as she headed toward the cottage. "This isn't the first time something like this has happened. We can talk, him and me. I'll try to help him understand."

Much later that night as Corey tossed and turned in his roll-away bed; he listened attentively to the familiar rasping snores that came from the grown-ups inside. Two thoughts played through his mind again and again.

The first--he hadn't cried and carried on, making a fool of himself like his father expected. He could chalk up another small victory.

The second--he still had the three firecrackers that he brought with him from the city. Maybe now would be just the right time to celebrate!



END