Nine
[On such a sunny summer's day, mom's gone around and raised the sashes on all the windows to let in the breeze. Steven helps hang up the colorful buntings with a hammer and nails. Dad will put out the lawn furniture and Shilo will put a red-white-and-blue dishcloth over top of the lemonade pitcher so no roving bumblebees will spoil the fun. Fourth of July is the best holiday out of the whole year, except Christmas, because there'll be cake and bottle-rockets in the driveway. Papa-- no, dad-- Dad will tell stories about the war and bring down the photo album with its sticky plastic covers from the coat closet and they'll all look at pictures of smiling men in uniform, smiling men at dances with women, smiling men looking brave. It looks like a lot of fun, fighting to defend your country.]
Action A (hardware store)
[Over the course of his time in Mayfield Basini's scraped together quite a bit of money, at least in his eyes. American dollars are friendly and colorful and his drone father before this one didn't seem to mind how many times he "forgot" to give allowance and then made up for it with interest. He'd rather die than spend it ordinarily, of course, but this is an errand of critical importance.
Trembling with exertion and somewhat out of breath, he presses several larger bills to the countertop at the hardware store.]
Hey, mister! I would like to see your fireworks selection, please.
Action B
[Steven sits shaking and stunned beneath the trapdoor that leads up to the attic. The nice dreamy feeling of the day -- the proud patriotic glow -- has been punctured and it's all spoiled and gone away.
A memory of another place crept up on him, not an attic but tight and dusty and crowded and confined. Reiting with the smoke sweetly wreathing his face, wearing an expression like a sphinx. Beineberg was talking, but Reiting's eyes were like black beads, like wet pitch in the dark. The walls were all hung in red like the inside chambers of a heart.
The memory is harsh and obtrusive in colorful Mayfield, sharp-cornered. It was an image from a bad dream, or maybe a movie, the black-and-white confused by the red velvet of the theater seats. A war movie. Maybe he hit his head when he fell from the ladder. That's all it is.]
Action A (hardware store)
[Over the course of his time in Mayfield Basini's scraped together quite a bit of money, at least in his eyes. American dollars are friendly and colorful and his drone father before this one didn't seem to mind how many times he "forgot" to give allowance and then made up for it with interest. He'd rather die than spend it ordinarily, of course, but this is an errand of critical importance.
Trembling with exertion and somewhat out of breath, he presses several larger bills to the countertop at the hardware store.]
Hey, mister! I would like to see your fireworks selection, please.
Action B
[Steven sits shaking and stunned beneath the trapdoor that leads up to the attic. The nice dreamy feeling of the day -- the proud patriotic glow -- has been punctured and it's all spoiled and gone away.
A memory of another place crept up on him, not an attic but tight and dusty and crowded and confined. Reiting with the smoke sweetly wreathing his face, wearing an expression like a sphinx. Beineberg was talking, but Reiting's eyes were like black beads, like wet pitch in the dark. The walls were all hung in red like the inside chambers of a heart.
The memory is harsh and obtrusive in colorful Mayfield, sharp-cornered. It was an image from a bad dream, or maybe a movie, the black-and-white confused by the red velvet of the theater seats. A war movie. Maybe he hit his head when he fell from the ladder. That's all it is.]