Father Knows Death Part 20

"You're getting soft in your pregnancy," I said.

"You should shut up and be nice to me and not make fun of me, husband who is not carrying some alien life form that will not leave the mother ship."

"Duly noted."

"Now, I'm going to go upstairs and put on my hideous green T-shirt and pretend to be happy about marching in this parade in four-hundred-degree temperatures," she said, pushing herself up from the table.

"You're walking in the parade?" I asked. "I thought we agreed you'd ride on the float?"

"That was when I thought your offspring would arrive in a reasonable amount of time," she said. "Walking has been known to spur labor. I would walk to Oklahoma at this point, if I thought it would force this kid out of my stomach."

"You'll still be the most beautiful woman in the parade," I said. "Just like every other year."

"Oh my G.o.d, shut up," she yelled at me, going up the stairs. "If the kid's still in me, you'll get s.e.x."

39.

The 4-H float did not look like an oversize garden to me.

It looked like . . . something else.

The floats were all parked at the south end of Main Street, each group having been a.s.signed a numbered slot in which to park their float and make last-minute adjustments and finishes. People were scurrying around, yelling at one another, yelling for tape and staples and extra hands.

We'd been a.s.signed slot 27, so we were about middle of the pack. As we walked up to the float, Julianne and I in our green shirts, Carly in her tiny corncob outfit, I slowed when we got closer.

"What the h.e.l.l is that?" I whispered to Julianne.

"I have . . . no idea."

I was glad I wasn't the only one confused.

Behind the white pickup truck was a flatbed trailer. On the flatbed trailer were six long . . . things. Three green, three orange. I knew that they were probably supposed to be cuc.u.mbers and carrots, but they looked distinctly like . . .

"Don't even say it," Julianne whispered. "I can see it in your eyes. Do not say it."

"But they look like big, giant . . ."

"Vegetables," Julianne said. "They look like vegetables. Get your mind out of the gutter."

"I can't be the only one that sees this," I said. "Who the h.e.l.l was in charge of the float?"

Julianne grinned at me. "Our pal. Susan."

"And she couldn't see that it looks like they have six big . . ."

"Vegetables," Julianne said, emphasizing the word. "They are vegetables."

"Telling you right now," I said, pointing at the vegetables. "The judges are going to dock our float for being inappropriate."

"Well, take it up with the queen bee," Julianne said. "Because here she comes."

I looked to my right and Susan Blamunski was headed our way, a big fake smile plastered on her face.

"Doesn't it look fabulous?" she gushed, then eyed Julianne. "I know this is your first look at it, since you haven't been to any of our float decorating sessions."

"We were at the first two," Julianne said. "But I don't think you were."

Susan's smile flickered. "I don't recall that."

"Of course you don't," Julianne said. "I'm gonna go help Carly get situated."

"She's a bit touchy," Susan said, once Julianne was out of earshot. "Probably the pregnancy. And the extra weight."

"Saw you at Idol last night," I said, changing the subject.

"Oh, thanks!" she said, mistakenly a.s.suming I was complimenting her performance. "I rehea.r.s.ed for a couple of weeks."

"I take it you and Matilda aren't friends?"

She raised a thin eyebrow at me. "Why would you think that?"

"Just seemed like there was something between the two of you."

She fumbled with a square of tissue paper and started folding it accordion-style. "Oh, I think she's just going through a tough time right now. I feel badly for her. But I like Matilda just fine." The fake smile reappeared. "I need to go pomp that one cuc.u.mber."

"Pomp?"

She held up the tissue paper. "You stick this in the chicken wire." She smiled. "Pomping."

"Ah. Got it."

She hustled off to pomp the . . . cuc.u.mber.

I stood around, looking for something to do, but everything seemed to be covered, so I wandered down the sidewalk to the group in front of us.

And ran into Dorothy.

She seemed startled at first, then just nodded as if she'd expected to run into me. "Oh. Hi."

"Hey."

She peered around me. "Interesting float."

"I had nothing to do with it." I looked past her. A group of about twenty people surrounded a simple pickup truck with a ma.s.sive paper-mache structure, which looked like the earth, in the back of it. They were all wearing bright orange shirts with "C.A.K.E." emblazoned across the front and a picture of Earth on the back. "I like the earth," I said.

"So do we," she said. "That's why we do what we do. The planet is in danger."

"I meant the one in the back of the truck."

She looked at me, puzzled, then shrugged. "Oh. Right. Yeah, it's pretty cool."

Scarecrow approached us, looking at me nervously. "What's going on?"

"I was just admiring your float," I said.

He looked at Dorothy. "Everything cool?"

She nodded but didn't say anything.

"Relax," I said. "The cops aren't going to jump out of the bushes."

They both glanced at the hedges for a long moment.

"You were right about George," I said. "He did know some things."

Scarecrow nodded and Dorothy muttered, "Told you."

"And he was going to do the right thing," I said. "At least, I think he was. But I just thought you both should know that."

They looked at each other, unsure what to say. They shuffled their feet and looked around for a moment.

"We miss George," Dorothy finally said. "We're going to make him proud."

"Make him proud?"

She pursed her lips and both of them began backing up toward their float.

"You'll see," she said. "You'll see."

40.

The roar of motorcycles filled the air behind the 4-H float and it took me a moment to realize it was the Petal Dawgs in the ready stall behind ours. I walked past our float and Butch waved a hand at me from atop his ma.s.sive bike.

He flipped up his goggles. "Hey, Deuce. Looks like we're following you today."

"Looks like it."

"We'll try not to run you over," he said, chuckling. Then he gestured at the float. "Those things on your float? They look like . . ."

"Cuc.u.mbers," I said. "They're cuc.u.mbers and carrots."

He stared for a long moment. "Ohhhhhhh. Okay. Sure."

A clattering and sc.r.a.ping drew our attention to the other side of the street. A motorcycle was on its side and a guy was squirming beneath it like a trapped snake.

"Be right back," Butch said, jumping off his bike, jamming the stand down, and hustling over to help.

A group gathered around the trapped man and helped to lift the bike off of him. He stood and brushed off his jeans, looking embarra.s.sed. He adjusted the bright red bandanna on his head, tugged on the leather vest with the dog paw on the back and nodded all around.

Butch walked back over. "Some of these guys, the bikes are still new to them."

"You don't say."

"Archie there, the guy that took the spill, he's a doctor over in Argyle," he said. "He bought the bike a few months ago, but hasn't been able to ride it much. He's usually in surgery when we go out riding."

"Unlucky."

"We encourage everyone to take safety courses, but sometimes they don't have the time," Butch said, frowning. "And some of these guys, they just don't understand how heavy these things can be."

"You've had yours awhile?"

"Oh, I've been riding since I was a kid," he said, smiling. "My pop was a mechanic and used to buy 'em, fix 'em up, and sell 'em. I'd take 'em on test runs before we gave 'em back. One of the reasons I became an accountant was so I'd have enough money to indulge." He patted the bike. "I've got a couple more at home in the garage."

"Cool," I said. "I've never ridden."

"I'd be happy to take you out if you're ever interested," he said. "Of course, not on a group ride. That's against the rules."

I looked around at the Petal Dawgs. They were white collar guys living out their weekend fantasies. Most of them moved awkwardly around their bikes, more comfortable looking at them and showing them off than actually sitting on them.

"Maybe," I said. "Thanks for the offer." I gestured at his group. "You mentioned the other night that you were planning something? In George's honor?"

Butch's face grew serious. "Right. We are."

"Can I ask what it is?"

"Sorry. It's a surprise," he said. "Nothing disruptive. But we want everyone to remember George."

"Fair enough," I said.

"You learn anything new?"

I thought for a moment. "I think I've got some pieces of the puzzle. Just not sure how they all fit together."

He lowered his head. "You need any muscle, you can count on us."

"Muscle?"