7:00 AM, Saturday morning, a five man crew met at the municipal yard over on Mersey Avenue. All of them griping about working the Saturday. Most had planned on being at the fair grounds for the festival, or at least sleeping off Friday night’s drunk. The griping ended when Joe Keefe pulled into the yard with coffee and a box of donuts. Handing out the cups, Keefe thanked his crew for working the day and told them he’d be providing lunch. The mood of the bleary-eyed men lifted and they asked what this ‘special job’ was all about.
Keefe told them it was an emergency road resurfacing and got the crew moving. He told Davie to bring around the dumptruck, the old Mac, not the big tri-axle. Hook up the small trailer and load up the small backhoe. He tossed keys at Reggie, said they’d swing by Third Line Road to pick the grader where they’d left it at the last jobsite.
Tools were loaded into the pickup and, as always, no one could locate the orange vests they were required to wear on all jobs. Keefe loaded two coolers of chipped ice and bottled water into the box. The day’s forecast was hot and sticky with a chance of thunderstorms on towards evening. It was going to get worse before it got better.
The convoy rolled out of the yard onto Harvester Road and then north on the Orange Line Road. The yellow crewcab eating dust from Keefe’s shiny F10. The dumptruck rumbling after them, hauling the backhoe on a float. Reggie hopped out on 3rd Line and fired up the grader. The convoy continued on up 3rd Line road and swung west on the next road. Keefe pulled over at the intersection while the crew rumbled on. Once the grader had followed the turn, Keefe pulled pylons from the box and planted three of them at the entrance to the road, blocking access to the old Roman Line.
The festival began at noon. Constable Ray Bauer, along with a handful of volunteers from the fire department and Knights of Columbus, closed down Galway Road for the parade route. Melissa and Charles did a quick head count of the gathered masses. Almost seventy people turned out to the official start here at the war memorial west of the river. The air was already steaming and the Black Guard Pipers wilted in their kilts waiting for their cue.
Kate gave a short speech about celebrating their community and how a proud sense of history and accomplishments of the past built a foundation to move boldly into the future. Rather than cutting a ribbon, Kate produced a bottle of champagne to break over the corner of the granite war memorial. That honour was given to old Johnny Dinsmore, Pennyluck’s oldest war veteran. Johnny Reb to his friends. A permanent, if foul-mouthed, fixture of the Legion Hall, branch 540. Johnny had fought his way through Italy as an infantryman in the 48th Highlanders, losing two fingers in the bloodbath of Ortona. Weighed under by his medals, the champagne bottle slipped from Johnny’s grip on the first try and rolled in the grass. He muttered something about ‘fucking Fritz’ and then smashed the bottle good and proper on the second attempt. A cheer went up. Pipe Major Bob Wills mistook the cheer for his cue and ordered his pipers to fire up and roll out. A small bit of confusion as Kate’s wrap up speech was culled under the blast of the band and old Johnny was almost trampled under the juggernaut of marching kilts.
Charles and Melissa scrambled as the proceedings went to hell, brandishing their timetables at the marching bagpipers. Kate told them to just run with it and to get Johnny out of the way before he was run over by the tartan marchers.
The miscue in the itinerary threw off the volunteers on the parade route. Jake Walton, pissed at the blocked access to the main drag, drove down one alley and then another to sneak back onto Galway. Slipping past the volunteers, Walton swung east and came bumper to knee with the pipers.
“Holy Jesus,” he said.
Pipe Major Bob shot him a dirty look and swung around the vehicle. Walton sat cowed and shamefaced behind the wheel as the parade flowed around him like a current against a rock, the cacophony of the pipes splitting his ears.
The pipers paraded smartly down Galway and snaked down Newcastle to the fair grounds. Pennyluckers lined the sidewalks, waving. They laughed and jeered at the idiot Walton caught in the middle of the marchers. Kate, the few councilmen in attendance and the rest of the crowd fell in line behind the marching band.
Travis straddled his bike at the corner of Galway and Blackthorn, watching the pipers. Given the day off from his chores, he’d been allowed to pedal into town to see the parade. Not an easy thing given his condition. His parents would meet him later that afternoon. His friends, Owen and Felix, said they’d show up later to cruise the fair grounds on their bikes. With any luck, Brenna would be there too. Travis leaned over the handle bars as the band blasted away. A flash of colour caught his eyes on the other side of the parade and his balls shrivelled up. Brant Coogan sat atop a mail box, huffing a cigarette and sneering at the pipers. He flicked his smoke at the marchers, slipped down and disappeared.
Travis’s knees went numb but his fingers dug into a pocket and slipped free the object hidden there. He slid the brass knuckles on and made a fist and then hid the tooth-smasher away again. God willing, he’d get a chance to try them out on that dickless bastard.
Marching rearguard of the pipers, Kate waved at the droll mugs on the sidewalk. She fanned her face with a program, the heat of the day already coming on and the humidity rising. It was going to be a gorgeous day. A reception awaited them at the bandstand with coffee and donuts provided by the Murdy family’s bakery. A full day of events and ceremonies were planned for the fair grounds and here along Pennyluck’s main drag. It was going to be glorious.
Rounding the turn at Newcastle, Kate caught sight of the only fly in the ointment. He stood on a flower box, plastering one of his damn flyers to the brick side of Fisher’s Pro Sports shop. As if psychic, Corrigan turned and narrowed his gaze directly at her. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted something at her that she could not make out. She ignored him, waving to people on the other side of the street. When she turned back, he was gone.
Will Corrigan held no love for the bagpipes. No swelling of the heart at their music, no tug of nostalgic reverie at their blast. An instrument fit for devils and sloe-eyed dullards by his reckoning. Scots, in fact.
Once the cacophony of evil had passed, he steered his FJ over to the farmers co-op and pinned up one last flyer to the community corkboard. It wouldn’t last long up there. Some halfwit would tear it down and crush it into a ball in moral outrage. Ah well.
He loaded groceries into the back, along with seven bags of ice and a new cooler. One last stop at the Beer Store, then back home. Today he’d go all out. When the tourists arrived for the Corrigan Horrorshow, he’d treat them to a barbecue under the shade of the willow trees. Burgers and corn on the cob. Ice tubs of beer and soda. Popsicles for the kids. Best of all were the little Canadian flags he’d bought. A hundred of them, planted into the ground on little sticks, marking out the path from the house out to the graves. It was almost perverse and the thought of it made him laugh.
Travelling back up Clapton towards home, he saw the dust cloud rising over the tree line. Then the yellow pickup parked on his road, a skinny kid snoozing on the tailgate. Three orange pylons blocking access to the Roman Line.
“Jesus on a pogo stick, what now.”
Corrigan turned onto his road and took out as many pylons as he could, knocking one into the ditch and crushing the others under his tires. The kid in the truck snapped awake and hopped down, swinging his little stop sign.
Corrigan climbed out. Further up the road, he could see the grader skimming off the road surface, the beeping dumptruck as it reversed. The kid was hollering at him, something about the road being closed for maintenance. No one in or out.
Corrigan wanted to know why he wasn’t notified and who ordered this bullshit. The kid didn’t know, he was just the flagman. Corrigan clocked the crew truck and the company logo on the door. Keefe’s Konstruction.
Crafty, he had to admit. They had pulled out the big guns and choked off his entire road to prevent anyone from coming to the day’s tour. A sly play, trotting out all this heavy equipment to close him down.
The kid was still yammering on, telling him he’d have to turn back and, Jesus, look at those crushed pylons. What was he gonna tell his boss? Corrigan snatched the little stop sign from the boy’s hand and hurled it into the weeds. “You tell your boss,” he said, “to get the fuck off my road.”
Back into his vehicle, Corrigan bombed up the road towards the crew. Laying on the horn, forcing the grader to stop, weaving past it. The crew cursed him blue, barking at the stupid bastard to turn around. Corrigan stuck his hand out the window and rather than flip the bird, he waved cheerfully at the men like they were old friends and drove on. Laughing and watching them in the rearview, he wondered if they’d park the grader and the backhoe overnight. If they did, then there would be one hell of a bonfire on the Roman Line tonight.
It was almost dusk before Jim and Emma drove into town. The parking lot at the fair grounds was full, cars banked along the grass all the way back to the road. “It’s a tailgate party,” Jim said. Emma spotted a car pulling out and Jim swung in, backing his dusty pickup between an immaculately restored ‘56 Thunderbird and a tricked out chopper.
Emma listed off the out-of-province plates as they walked through the lot. New York, Quebec, Michigan, Manitoba. “All these people, all the way to our little town.”
They stopped at the grass to take it all in. A Ferris Wheel spun slowly above them. Not a huge one, but an honest to God Ferris Wheel. A Tilt-a-Whirl and a Crazy Octopus ride clanged and spun, all twinkly lights and giggling teenagers. Larmet’s barbecue pit threw up woodsmoke, mixing with the cloying aroma of cotton candy and homemade baking. Puddycombe had set up a beer garden and another tent offered wine from Ontario and Quebec. There were midway games and a shooting gallery. A bouncy castle jostled and teetered with squealing tots. Patio lights were strung along the pathway and stitched from tree to tree. Set against the twilight of a burnt orange sky, it was pure magic.
They strolled the path, pointing at everything and couldn’t decide what to do first. Jim felt her hand slip into his. The afternoon had been a rough one. Him fessing up what he’d done and her furious for putting them all at risk in a fight that wasn’t theirs. The argument back and forth, a tug of war push and pull until they’d met somewhere in the middle. The ride into town was quiet, emotions still scraped raw but here in the dewy grass that rawness lifted, dissipating under the lights and tinny music.
He gave her hand a squeeze. Emma’s face was lit up so big he almost didn’t recognize her. He must have had a smile like hers too, the way his jaw muscles were stretching. They almost blushed together but looked away, Jim pointing out some other distraction to break the spell. He wished he hadn’t. When was the last time he’d seen that smile? Her eyes lit up like that in… what? Joy.
They walked on, palms sweaty but neither letting go, keeping some small part of the spell intact. When had they become so serious, so dour? He had fallen in love with Emma in high school and it was that smile that had sealed the deal. The way her eyes fired up and maybe it was a cliché or he just wasn’t smart enough to put it some other way but Emma beamed. So bright and warm it could guide lost ships back to shore.
“Travis!”
The boy zipped past on his bike, flashing between the tents and then disappearing again. Jim’s bark was involuntary, a parental instinct to holler at his kid, and he immediately regretted it. It snapped the mood and the light in his wife’s eyes dialled back to a dull glow of motherly responsibility.
“Where did he go?” Emma watched the shooting gallery tent, where she expected Travis to scoot out from. No one appeared. “He was just there.”
“We’ll find him..” He squeezed her hand, pumping oxygen back into their little magic but the moment was cold. They had all night, he told himself. They’d get it back.
Emma chewed her bottom lip. “Maybe we should have gotten him that cell he’s always asking for.”
“No thirteen-year old needs a phone.”
She fanned her face. “Wanna get something cold to drink?”
“Let’s go on a ride.” He pulled her hand to the Ferris Wheel. Three people waiting in line. She craned her neck up at all those twinkling lights going round and round. “God. When was the last time we were on one of these?”
“Lord knows. Come on, I bet the view’s great.”
The wheel slowed and they paid, climbed aboard. The tattooed operator clicked the bar over their laps, his hands grimed with grease. The wheel lurched up and their stomachs dropped and they looked out over the tree tops. The lights of town across the creek.
Emma squealed and when she looked at him, the beaming smile was back. “Ninety-four!” she shouted over the clanking gears.
“Ninety-four what?”
“The last time we were on a Ferris Wheel,” she said. “Spring of ninety-four, at that midway in Sarnia. Kurt Cobain had just died. Remember?”
Whammo. It all rushed back with a bang. Their third or fourth date. A little drunk, giggling on a rattletrap Ferris that clanked and moaned like it would snap from its moorings and roll away through the cornfield. Emma wore glasses back then. Not real ones, just thick-rimmed falsies she thought framed her face well. The brainy look contrasted with the band T-shirts she always wore. She had a hundred of them. Sebadoh, Pixies, P.J. Harvey.
“Mazzy Star,” he said.
“What?”
“The t-shirt you were wearing. That hypno-druggie band you used to like.”
Emma laughed, the detail shaking loose a few memories of that night. She slid closer to him as the bucket tilted backwards on the down run.
“You want some?”
Brenna stood backlit in the shaft of light of a tent, a bag of tiny donuts in her hand. The paper translucent with grease. She popped another one in her mouth and licked her fingers clean.
Travis took one, wolfed it down. “Cinnamon. The best.”
He had ridden through the fair grounds a bazillion times, wondering if she’d show. And when she did, she had a bag of greasy treats. Relieved and grateful. Not only had she’d shown, but the donuts provided conversation. Most times, he felt tongue-tied and stupid around her.
Brenna wasn’t his girlfriend. That was just a lie he told sometimes. Most days she barely seemed to know he existed. In a way, it was almost easier. The few times he managed to be around her, Travis felt his brain go blank and stutter for something, anything, to say. But here they were, just the two of them standing in the wattage between tents.
Cinnamon sugar speckled her lips. It was distracting. “You go on any rides yet?”
“All of them.” She slapped his hand when he reached for another. “Easy piggo.”
A shrug. “This stuff’s like crack.” He didn’t know where to put his eyes. Everything sort of fell out of his brain if he looked at her eyes too long but then his gaze drifted down to her bare shoulders in that little tank top. Her legs were bare and a thin wedge of belly showed where her top rode up. He turned away until his brain cooled.
“Looking for somebody?” She followed his gaze.
“Nah.”
But he should have. Brenna stepped back, eyes sharp to something behind him. “Watch out,” she said. Just as he turned, something smacked the back of his head, hard and sharp. Clocked by an elbow.
Brant flew past on his bike. “Faggot!”
Travis ground his teeth together, anger so hot and fast he felt his eyes tear up in humiliation. Brenna standing right there.
“Are you okay?” She reached out to touch his hair.
If he spoke, he’d blubber. He grabbed his bike and shot after the asshole. He heard Brenna call his name but didn’t look back.
Brant had stopped near the bandstand. Straddling his bike, elbows leaning on the handlebars. Talking to some girl over the sound of the band sawing out a tune onstage. Brant was bigger than he was, stronger too. Travis didn’t care anymore. He dropped his bike, reached into his pocket and came up behind the bastard. His footsteps masked under the drum beat, letting him get close.
The girl glanced at him then Brant swung his stupid head around and Travis gave him everything he had. The brass smashed his nose with a crack. Brant pitched over, feet caught in the bike, and keeled to the grass.
Travis landed hard on the asshole’s chest, pinning his arms. Twisting a handful of hair with his left hand, Travis went to town with his fist. Cracking that stupid fucking face with the brass again and again.
The girl was screeching and then everyone was yelling. The band stopped playing. Hands slammed onto him, yanking him up by the collar. Travis was thrown to the ground and someone dropped their knees to his chest. He didn’t care. Craning his neck, he clocked Brant still under the bike. He wasn’t moving. Travis looked at his hand, fingers swelling in the rings. The brass slick with blood.