July 4th

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood; Mister Rogers would be proud of the abundant sunshine outside, the bright blue skies with a few puffy white clouds above the treetops. Greg squints at the bucolic scene and tries to reconcile himself to the festivities ahead. They'll be off to the picnic later on, along with the Goldmans and Mandy Faust. One big happy family . . . the very idea gives him hives.

"Drink some coffee, you'll feel better," Roz says. She sits opposite him at the harvest table with a mug in her hands, and watches him with those green eyes of hers. "We don't have to be anywhere for a while. That'll give you some time to wake up."

"This whole day is fucking pointless," he grouses.

"You say that every time, but you end up enjoying yourself anyway." She sips her coffee. "Sarah made muffins."

His interest perks up a bit. "What kind?"

"Does it matter?" At his growl she laughs. "Blueberry with white chocolate. She'll be over shortly. Drink your coffee and go clean up. She'll be here when you're done."

Eventually he takes a last swallow of lukewarm coffee, leaves the mug on the table and shuffles off to the shower. The weather is about to change, so he feels stiff and sore today; there's a faint echo of an ache in his right thigh, enough of a reminder of the bad old days to make him nervous. Stupid, but still true. At least his hands aren't too bad. They shake, but he can get in and out of the shower, towel off and even take clothes out of drawers and not drop things. His fine motor skills are at about eighty percent of capacity, not too bad. He'll be able to play the keyboard for the concert before the fireworks later on this evening.

Slowly he gets dressed—tee shirt, boxers (a concession to old age; he doesn't like his boys chafed by rough denim, the equivalent of a cheese grater in his pants), jeans, trainers. Roz bought him a nice pair of leather flip-flops a couple of weeks ago, and dared him to wear them. So far he hasn't taken her up on the challenge, and he won't do it today. They keep the grass cut at the park, but it's still long enough for ticks and chiggers to be a problem and he'd rather not come down with Lyme or some other disease, thank you very much. He's had enough of chronic problems, more than his share. No point to tempt fate.

While he's there he makes a quick call to the practice. "Test results are in," Norton, the designated drone on duty, says. "Antiphospholipid syndrome, for sure. Now we just need to tease out the other problem."

"Get busy," Greg says, and hangs up, satisfied that at least one person's day will be utter crap. In a good cause, but you can't always get what you want.

When he emerges from the bedroom, he hears Sarah in the kitchen with Roz. She sounds awake and happy. Greg stands in the living room for a moment, and just listens. He's missed her presence more than he'll ever admit. Even with their friendship rapidly on the mend, he still thinks of the distance between them during their weeks apart. He can feel a little of it there yet; she doesn't quite trust him not to hurt her, and is afraid she'll hurt him in turn. Their old easiness hasn't returned in full. He can only hope it will eventually.

As Roz promised, there are indeed muffins when Greg enters the kitchen. "A new recipe," Sarah says, and offers him a smile. Despite her light tone she looks tired. Here's another female who hasn't slept through the night.

"Your hip's bothering you," he says. Her smile fades.

"Yeah, a little. It's the weather." She tilts her head a bit. "You're sore today yourself." It's not an accusation; there's warm concern in her voice now.

"I'll live." He takes a muffin from the container, leans against the counter as he peels the paper case away, and breaks off a chunk. It's loaded with blueberries and little pockets of white chocolate, fragrant with vanilla, butter and brown sugar. He munches and barely stops himself from a yummy sound. "Needs salt," he says when he can speak. Sarah chuckles.

"I can always count on you for recipe advice." She steals a bite from his muffin.

"Hey!" He gives her an indignant glare as she pops the chunk into her mouth and licks her fingers.

"Yeah, could use a little salt," she says, and flashes him a brief grin. Greg rolls his eyes as Roz takes the last piece of muffin, chews it slowly.

"I think it needs more testing," she says, all innocence, and takes another muffin from the container.

"That's your story, you stick to it," Sarah says on a laugh, and puts the container on the counter. "We'll be ready to leave in an hour or so, Jason's still waking up." She glances at Greg, her sea-green eyes bright with amusement and affection. "Save some room for lunch."

Sure enough, just as Roz packs the last item in their basket not quite an hour later, Greg catches a glimpse of the Goldmans as they emerge from the back door of their home. Gene and Jason carry coolers and chairs to put in Minnie Lou's flatbed, while Sarah climbs into the cab. She has her walking stick with her, something she doesn't use often. Greg frowns a little at the sight. He doesn't like the reminder of her fragility. Somehow or other, even though she's younger than he is, he's come to see her as something of a parent—a friend, yes, but also a foster mother, more of a real mom than Blythe ever wanted to be . . . He thinks of John's funeral, remembers the roil of anger, confusion, and pain at the idea of his father gone, thinks too of Hawkeye's memorial, and pushes the memories away. They're for another time, not now. Sarah limps a little but she's whole and healthy otherwise, he's made sure of that.

"If you really don't want to do this we don't have to," Roz says. Greg looks down at her.

"I think you say that every other year." He glances out the window again. "The band's playing before the big show tonight. Have to go."

"We could stay home, grill some hamburgers. You don't need to be there until set-up and sound check." It's an honest offer, but he hears the unconscious wistfulness. His wife enjoys these outings. Over the years she's developed friendships with some of the students she teaches, and their parents. She likes to socialize now and then, something he's never learned to do outside of the small circle of people he trusts. Still, he owes her.

"If you don't shut up we'll be late," he says, and takes the basket.

The drive to the park is uneventful, if slower than usual. There are a good number of people on the road, many of whom appear headed in the same direction. The fireworks are a popular feature for summer celebrations here, something Greg has never really understood, but then it's still a small town, and entertainments are relatively hard to come by within village limits.

They reach the parking field and are waved into a spot near the trees by a bored-looking youth in an orange vest. Once Barbarella rests comfortably in the shade, they find a place to set up next to the Goldmans, as they do every year. The Chases are gone—off to the shore, the traitors—and his fellows are as well, as is their prerogative. The usual rituals are observed: blankets and pillows spread, chairs unfolded and placed in the best spots, coolers set out. Greg commandeers a seat, sits down and grabs a cold beer. He pops the top as Gene puts a lawn chair next to his.

"Sound check at seven," he says. "We need to set up at six-thirty."

Greg nods, and Gene goes off to move things around and joke with Roz as they head to the barbecue pit, both of them drawn to the smell of smoke and burnt fat like moths to a hot flame. Sarah claims the chair next to Greg. She uses the walking stick to ease herself into place, and leans back with a quiet sigh.

"When the hell are you gonna get that hip replaced?" he wants to know.

"Aw jeez," she says with eyes closed. "How about I get a day off from people pestering me?"

"I didn't sign any contracts. It's stupid to live in pain when you don't have to," he snaps, distressed and unwilling to admit it.

"I'm working on getting it taken care of," Sarah says. "I wouldn't lie to you because you'll find out and make my life a living hell. Okay? Can we please not talk about this now? It's a holiday. We're supposed to be having fun."

"Keep your delusions to yourself. Who's doing the surgery?"

"I don't know yet."

Greg watches her. She doesn't say anything more. "You should have had this dealt with years ago," he says, unable to stop the words. After a moment Sarah opens her eyes and turns her head. He expects anger and annoyance. Instead she gives him a slow smile.

"Thanks," she says softly. Greg snorts and looks away.

"For what? Pointing out the truth? Just because you're a martyr . . ." He trails the bait in the hope she'll take it and keep him entertained with a good barney, even if that's a dangerous path to tread right now.

"Nice try." Her voice is full of laughter. "Drink your beer and tell me how things are going with Jason at the practice."

"Oh great, now you want me to get in trouble with Goldman's mom."

She does laugh this time, that full-out sweet sound he hasn't heard in a long time. Some little knotted place deep inside him loosens just a bit, even as he understands this is payback for his nagging. Actually that's a good sign. Maybe she's not as wary as he thought.

"Aside from the fact you're workin' him like a hired hand on a dirt farm, he seems to be doing all right."

"Not my fault he's a man of his word. That's what he gets for being honorable." Greg takes a long swallow of cold beer and savors the clean, bitter taste of malt and hops.

"David's found someone to take his place in a couple of weeks. One of the young guys in the vocational unit graduated this past June. He's looking for a permanent job here."

Of course Greg knows all this. He was the one who dug through the rosters, found the one kid who was a likely candidate, and put a flea in his ear. "He's a loser."

"You sent him to David, so don't bother trying to lie about it." Sarah sips some iced tea. "Nice bit of research."

"Your adopted spawn's travails mean nothing to me," Greg says.

"Uh huh." Sarah reaches out, gives his arm a gentle pat. "Thanks."

They sit in companionable silence for a while and watch everyone else gather in little clusters of talk and laughter, to break up and re-form as new people come in. Little kids run all over the place as they usually do, full of energy and noise, curiosity and silliness. It's all so normal and cute Greg wants to vomit, but then he chose to live here years ago, it's not the fault of the local populace that they're average clueless humans.

"Seriously, who's gonna do the surgery?" he asks after a while.

Sarah sighs. "You aren't gonna stop buggin' me, are you?" She tucks a curl behind her ear. "Gene wants me to go to Rothman in Philadelphia. Beth Freeman does good work."

"Long trip," he says after a moment's silence. "You'd be in rehab an extra week just to get you through the drive back. And you'd have to stay overnight somewhere." He can check the link later for orthos in New York state.

"I'm still thinking about it, and before you start looking up surgeons here and twisting their arms with some blackmail scheme—"

"Moi?" he says, and puts plenty of hurt in his plaintive tone.

"—let me re-emphasize the 'still looking' section of that sentence. Nothing's been decided yet. Okay? There's no need to go into overdrive. Anyway . . ." She glances over at him. "Anyway, if I need help I'll ask you, you have my word. I trust your judgment."

Now that is a pretty compliment, and a sincere one too. Greg feels an absurd pleasure in it. "Sure, you say that now," he says, and Sarah laughs again just as Gene and Roz come back. They reek of smoke and bear platters of grilled hamburgers and hot dogs.

There's a short session of happy confusion while everyone fills up their plates and finds a place to sit. Jason and Mandy show up about halfway through this procedure. It's quite plain the air has been cleared to some extent; Mandy's cried but she doesn't look distressed, just resigned, and Jason wears the blank, impassive expression he uses when he wants to keep his emotions private. Greg is about to comment on this situation when Roz puts her hand on his. She doesn't grip or grab him, but the intent is more than clear. Then she takes it away. It's an old signal, one she's used on rare occasions: watch what you say. Normally he'd consider this unwarranted interference, someone who wants him to 'behave', that word Blythe used at least a dozen times a day during his childhood. Roz is different. This is not about good manners or political correctness. So he keeps his observations to himself, and just observes as the two young people sit side by side in silence as the picnic lunch begins.

Of course this is an enormous spread, as always: burgers, hot dogs, barbecued chicken, potato salad, fruit salad, deviled eggs, cornbread, baked beans, chips, you name it, it's here. Greg piles his plate and enjoys the stark beauty of a juicy seared burger and roasted onions on a grilled bun, accompanied by a fresh beer, taste delights of which he never tires. He'll probably need antacids later, his digestive system is just as old and semi-functional as the rest of him, but that's a small price he's happy to pay. Roz sits on his left and enjoys some potato salad as she, Sarah and Mandy talk back and forth. They don't patronize the younger woman or comfort her in an overt way, and yet Mandy slowly regains a bit of her usual lively manner. The simple act of acceptance and understanding sometimes has healing properties far beyond any physician's scope.

Jason is a tougher nut to crack. He sits cross-legged on the blanket with a beer in hand and a plate of food he hasn't touched and listens to the women talk. He looks tired and remote, his dark hair ruffled, as if he's run his fingers through it—a nervous habit he's picked up from both parents. As he sips his beer Gene says "Why don't you go home a little later and pick up your sax? You know all the charts on the list tonight."

Jason looks down at the bottle in his hand. "Haven't played for a while."

"Yeah, it's been a whole month for the rest of us too." Gene nudges Jason with his foot. "Humor your old man."

Jason nods and says nothing more, but after a few moments he picks up his plate and starts to eat.

There's the usual lull after they stuff themselves. Greg stretches out on the blanket with a pillow tucked behind his head, his wife's slender body cradled against his. It's a warm day but not uncomfortable; he looks at the sky through the branches of the tree overhead, with clouds drifting by.

"It's not gonna rain till late," Roz says.

"So now you're psychic."

"I can hear you calculating probabilities. I checked the forecast. Thunderstorms after midnight. Everyone will be home setting off illegal fireworks and getting even more drunk by then, so who cares." She takes his hand in hers and doesn't say anything else. Eventually he slides into a pleasant doze, aided by her touch and a full belly.

They get two hours to relax and digest lunch before Rick stops by. "Pickup game in fifteen minutes," he says, and squints down at Greg. "You in?"

"Yes," Roz says before Greg can answer. Rick nods and looks pleased. Greg is most definitely not pleased.

"It's great that you think I have godlike powers, but making executive decisions based on personal delusions doesn't thrill me," he snaps. Roz sits up to look down at him.

"I know you're a little sore today, but since when has that ever stopped you from doing something you enjoy?" She narrows her eyes. "Or maybe you don't believe I can run bases anymore."

Oh, this is dangerous territory. "Of course I—"

"For your information I can run as far and as fast as I damn please. And you can still hit a ball out of the park. But if you want to sit on the sidelines and let other people win the game, fine."

Okay, that whole speech is suspiciously sanctimonious. Greg takes a closer look at Roz and sees she fizzes with silent laughter; her eyes are moss-green. "You evil little minx," he says, annoyed and vastly entertained.

"I take it that's a yes?"

Greg sighs. "One time at bat, that's it."

Roz nods. "Done."

So they end up on David's team of course, and it's the usual arrangement; Greg will bat and Roz will run for him.

They are third in the lineup and their team starts the inning. Gene is first at bat, to face Rick's oldest boy who's taken over from his old man as pitcher. The kid thinks he can throw sliders past Goldman, but he's wrong on the second try. Gene slams out a nice hit and makes it to second base, and now Jason's up, a substitute for Sarah. Greg remembers the younger man's first time in a pickup game years ago, all awkward, lanky limbs and nervousness. Things are different now. Jason waits for the pitch, and when it comes his way he sends it across the field in a fiery line drive that tells Greg all he needs to know about his protégé's state of mind. Gene makes it to third and Jason's on second.

There's a sizeable crowd now. Greg chooses a bat, steps up to the plate with Roz ready to go. He swings the bat around his shoulders a bit to loosen up, hears the sore spots mutter and grumble in his head. He'll pay for this tomorrow to some extent, especially if the weather is stormy. But then he can extort a massage and a hot, steamy shower out of his wife too, maybe even lay a nice guilt trip on her when he has to take a day off . . . The thought makes him smile just a little. He brings up the bat and steadies for the first pitch. The kid sizes him up and smirks. Greg knows without even having to look that it'll be a knuckleball. Sure enough, the pitch dives right past him into the strike zone. The pitcher sends him a contemptuous look, reminiscent of Rick's original opinion of Greg, before the wind-up and delivery of the next pitch. This time Greg's ready for it. Bat and ball connect, but not in a hard hit; he checks his swing so the ball dribbles away from him. Roz takes off down the first base line while Gene comes thundering in for the first run. Both the pitcher and infielders are scrambling over themselves to pick up the ball as the crowd cheers and yells encouragement to both sides. By the time the ball's back in play, Jason's scored a run and Roz is safe at second.

She eventually scores a run as well, and comes to Greg sweaty and dirty but full of smug satisfaction. "Told you," she says, "told you it would be worth it," and kisses him in full view of everyone else. Greg returns the kiss, aware his heart pumps, blood sings in his veins, his muscles sore but a-tingle in the best of ways, and his hands barely shake at all. It's good to be alive.

He gets cleaned up in the old pumphouse, and goes to the stage to help set up for the rehearsal and sound check. The smell of the barbecue pit drifts across the field, mingled with the sound of the occasional cheer from the ball game, which is in its last inning. It won't be too much longer before everyone gathers for a second round of food, and then the concert and fireworks.

Gene and Jason are in the final stages of placement and plug-ins, and Jay checks the amps and instruments. As Greg climbs the steps Gene says "Nice fake out. They were expecting you to hit it out of the park."

"So why didn't you?" Jason says, and sets his sax case next to a chair. "People are gonna think you can't do it anymore."

"Your dad said it. Everyone expected a big line drive." Greg takes the cover off the keyboard. "I don't do what people expect me to, I do what needs to be done."

"Strategy over ego," Jason says. He glances at Greg as he moves a mike.

"If you want to win." Greg flips the switch, sets it to electric piano mode, and checks the sound level as Singh shows up, out of breath but beaming.

"Nice work on the playing field," he tells them. "You're all wasted on baseball though. Come to the dark side and play cricket at our house sometime."

Once everyone's set up they run through the opening song, get the levels adjusted. Greg agrees to keep watch on the equipment. Why not? He's got a comfortable chair. "Only if I get a cold beer," he says.

Five minutes later Roz shows up with the beer as well as a plate of food. She offers both and sits next to him and munches some chips. "Ready to play tonight?"

"Considering the alcohol intake of the crowd, don't think it really matters." He bites into a snappy hot dog and enjoys the crunch of the half-carbonized crust.

"So play for yourselves, and your family." She polishes off a chip. "We'll enjoy it."

"How'd you get so smart?"

Roz flashes a smile at him. "Always have been."

They share the beer and she steals a bite of his burger, while they indulge in desultory talk of inconsequential things. The afternoon advances as long shadows begin their stealthy move across the grass, and clouds gather; the air grows more sultry.

"It's gonna rain," Greg says.

"After midnight," Roz counters with absolute confidence. "You'll see."

It isn't too much longer before people begin to congregate on the field in front of the stage. The other band members show up and get ready to play. There's a pleasant buzz of excitement and anticipation; little kids run around with the modern equivalent of sparklers, bright buzzy lights on a stick inside a biodegradable transparent sphere. Greg remembers the perils of the old-fashioned kind, and the incredulous delight of real fire and explosives. He'd burned his fingers and gotten sparks on his skin, and loved every moment.

Soon enough it's the appointed time. Gene glances at Greg, who nods and begins a quiet riff on the piano. "Is everybody ready?" Gene intones, and the crowd gives an enthusiastic cheer. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to our July fourth celebration!"

They start off with 'America the Beautiful', done Ray Charles style. That's for the veterans in the crowd, something Gene requested. He sings it simple and slow, and the feeling in his words shines through.

Of course the next song has to be 'U.S. Blues', another favorite of the vets, who get the sarcasm even if no one else does. Greg doubts half the people in the crowd know the Grateful Dead from the Beach Boys, but that's their loss.

After that opening they wait until Sarah joins them onstage, then play Bruce Springsteen's 'American Land', a barn-burner of a song that has everyone up to dance. Singh pounds out the rhythm to a roar of approval as Sarah moves to the mike. Of course she's the one to sing it in her sweet, Irish-inflected voice, and she whoops it up in true Celtic style. It's her family's story, and she knows how to tell it.

there's diamonds in the sidewalk

there's gutters lined in song

dear I hear that beer flows

through the faucets all night long

there's treasure for the taking

for any hard working man

who will make his home in the American land

They make her sing it again, and the whole place on their feet by the end.

Next up is 'Red Solo Cup'. Jay does the spoken-word lyrics, as the entire band chimes in on the chorus. At the end they lift up the cups in question and get a huge ovation as many in the crowd do the same.

'Saturday in the Park' is a natural choice for the list, since it's a Saturday as well as the Fourth. It also gives Jason a chance to shine, since he's taken the place of the horn section. While he's still warmed up they slide right into 'Born To Run,' always a popular choice with the audience. Jason does full justice to Clarence's big sax solo, and Gene does a credible Springsteen imitation. Greg won't admit he loves that precipitous, climactic slide down the scale into the final verse.

The last song is offered up to balance out the New Jersey influence: 'New York State of Mind'. Greg plays the initial piano riff, puts lots of soul into it, and is a little surprised to find it's not a fake, he really feels it. In some way he can't fathom, this backwater village has become home, or what comes closest to it for someone like him. His family is here, his work, and now he's learned, his heart too. Maybe it's not a bad thing, after all.

it comes down to reality

and it's fine with me 'cause I've let it slide

don't care if it's Chinatown or on Riverside

I don't have any reasons

I've left them all behind

I'm in a New York state of mind

The audience demands an encore and they get it, with a beautiful solo from Jason, who plays like he's practiced eight hours a day. The skill and raw emotion in the notes send chills up Greg's back.

When the song's done they play the national anthem, and vacate the stage—well, everyone but Jason, who's agreed to stay with the equipment. As he leaves Greg sees Mandy climb up the steps on the other side and take a seat next to Goldman. They'll watch the fireworks together from here.

Roz waits for him, along with Sarah and Chitra Singh. He settles on the blanket with her, brings her close. Gene and Sandesh are not too far behind. Soon everyone is paired up and ready for the big finale. It's nearly time now, as the last rays of sun fade from the edge of the mountains.

The first boom always takes everyone by surprise. The night sky fills with sudden fire, offers glimpses of rapturous, upturned faces in shades of flickering gold, red, green. Roz moves closer to Greg, slips her arm around him, rests her head on his shoulder as they watch the show overhead. The world narrows to the two of them and the brilliant splashes of sparks that cascade through the velvet darkness, a celebration of light, and life.

Eventually it all comes to an end. Everything is packed up amid promises to meet for coffee, for dinner, for a movie; a chorus of goodbyes, and they're on their way home, and the Goldmans lead the way.

"I'm gonna watch the game," Greg says when they get home. Roz nods as she starts to unpack the cooler.

"I'll join you."

When she comes into the living room, she has two bowls of ice cream. They're tin roofs the way he likes them, with salted redskin peanuts and plenty of chocolate sauce. She settles in next to him and offers a bowl. They watch the game together, and when she steals a peanut he takes a spoonful of ice cream in retaliation, just to hear her soft laugh.

It's late when they go to bed, tired but full of the day's events. Hellboy follows them in, jumps up on the foot of the bed, and claims his spot. It's a warm night, but the box fan keeps enough air on the move to make it comfortable. Greg relaxes into the sheets with a sigh, turns toward Roz and drapes an arm over her hip. She takes his hand in hers, holds it with gentle firmness. He feels her drift into sleep as her fingers relax and her breath deepens. He follows her quickly.

When he wakes in the night, her warm, slender body is spooned close to his, secure and comforting. Slowly he falls asleep once more to the sound of rain as it falls on soft grass.

'America the Beautiful', Ray Charles

'U.S. Blues', The Grateful Dead

'American Land', Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band

'Red Solo Cup', Toby Keith

'Saturday in the Park,' Chicago

'Born To Run,' Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band

'New York State of Mind,' Billy Joel