"Sure," Martin said. She broke off an end, the best part, and handed it
to him.
"Good," he said, chewing.
"Willow can cook!" Art said. People were arriving steadily. It was five
o'clock; the heat of the day was easing. A strong looking man in his
thirties with a short beard and dark curly hair began to play the
piano, his back straight.
"Yo, Angus!" someone called. Martin went for a refill and returned a
few minutes later as Willow was looking around the meadow. She couldn't
stop herself; every few minutes she checked again.
"Looking for someone?" Martin asked.
"Yeah, a guy I met--Patrick O'Shaunessy."
"Patrick O'Shaunessy?"
"Yes."
"I'll be damned. I met him the other day." Patrick, she thought. Martin
reminded her of Patrick; that's who it was. More people arrived. A
soprano sax joined the piano. A man with gray hair set up a drum kit.
Joe Burke stood near the piano with a blonde--leggy, like me, Willow
thought, but better looking. They came over and sat down. Joe
introduced her, his wife, Sally. He reached into a paper bag and handed
everyone a sparkler.
"It's the 4th," he said. They lit the sparklers and sat, more or less
in a circle, waving them and drinking beer.
"My country 'tis of thee," Amber said.
"Old Glory," Martin added.
"Patriots!" A familiar voice. Patrick had come up behind her.
"Hey, Patrick." Martin stood, waved at Patrick, and wandered toward the
kegs. Patrick sat down next to Willow. Joe handed him a sparkler.
Willow leaned back on her elbows. The strains of _St. James Infirmary_
and a heavy beat from the drummer mingled with the smell of burning
sparklers and the sweeter smell of marijuana.
"It's good to be a citizen," Patrick said. Willow inspected him for
signs of irony. None. They talked briefly about the war which they were
all against. It seemed far away, a bad dream. "Maybe we should get
active," Patrick suggested, "demonstrate or something." Joe leaned
forward.
"You want to watch it," he said.
"What do you mean?"
"I had kind of a shock last week," Joe said. "You know Ox?" He looked
at the others.
"Sure," Art said.
"He was in school with us; he's a state trooper," Joe explained. "We've
had narcs around for a few years now, busting people for the evil
weed."
"Shit heads," Art said. "Like we really have a drug problem."
"We spot the narcs," Joe said. "Anyway, I was having a beer with Ox in
Buckman's, and he told me to watch my ass. He told me there was a list
of radicals at headquarters. Subversives. 'They're watching you; that's
all I can say.' " Joe shook his head. "I mean, I'm a veteran, for
Christ's sake."
"You're a dropout," Art said.