To cool things down, Brickie played one slow, dreamy song after the other—“You Send Me,” the Platters’ “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,” “Mona Lisa.” He claimed Elena with an eager smile, and all the dancers clung together, seemingly in slow motion and love, swaying to the romantic songs. Watching, I felt like Ivan and I had become the square adults, chaperoning teenagers at a sock hop. The toddlers, Zariya, and Gellert threw themselves down on a blanket clutching their cake prizes, faces stained with Popsicles and blue icing, and passed out. Tim was now dancing with both Maari and Liz in a clumsy bear hug.
Elena plopped back down with us. “I believe it is a successful Fabulous Family Fiesta,” she said softly. “Maybe you boys will win the Nobel Peace Prize.” We were paralyzed with happiness and rum, so glad her date hadn’t come. Max and Beatriz returned, and we all drew nearer to Elena. She bent over Ivan, hugging him to her, whispering in his ear, and gave him something that he pocketed. She checked her watch again.
Darkness wasn’t far off. The light was gloamy and otherworldly, the grass and trees an incandescent green, the tall clouds the luscious pastel of orange Creamsicles. The opening strains of “The Twelfth of Never” floated out into the hot and surreally still evening air, Johnny Mathis’s honeyed voice putting us all in a sweaty reverie. “Oh, this song!” cried Elena. “Listen!” She began singing along.
Tears welled up in Elena’s eyes, but she laughed at the schmaltzy moment as she sang the refrain.
“Isn’t it just the loveliest song?”
Max just had to say, though apologetically, “It’s kind of corny, Elena.” She laughed again, wiping her eyes. Ivan looked like he might cry, or throw up, but he did neither, snuggling against her. I wanted to, too. Elena kept singing, rocking slightly from side to side with her big baby.
Then things began to happen fast. From down the lane came the roar of something that wasn’t a car. The boys and I rose to our knees to see what it was. A man on a motorcycle big as a pony pulled up at the Goncharoffs’ gate and idled there. The rider had long, curly hair and a scraggly beard that managed not to obscure his handsome face. Despite the heat, the man wore a green military jacket and heavy boots. The dancers stopped, all eyes on the street.
“Damn,” Tim said, coming forward. “Not a beatnik.” The man spotted Elena, lifting his bearded chin to acknowledge her.
Elena stood, shouldering her big bag, and said, “Goodbye, my precious darlings.” She kissed us all, then whispered again to Ivan, who looked stricken. She walked quickly across the lawn. At the street, she climbed onto the back of the motorcycle, calling out, “Thank you for a lovely party!”
Max said darkly, “That’s not a baseball player.”
Mr. Shreve turned to my grandfather and said loudly, “Jesus Christ, is that Camilo?”
“I’m afraid it might be,” said Brickie, his face as grim as I’d ever seen it. “You’d better call in.”
Josef strode across the lawn, his face twisted and red, shouting in Spanish, but the man gunned his engine, laughing. “Vas bien, Fidel!” he called. He and Elena roared off. Josef hurled a beer bottle that smashed explosively in the street.
“You barbudos bastard!” Mr. Shreve yelled, fiddling with the walkie-talkie thing on his belt. Elena did not look back, but raised a hand and waved slowly, like Queen Elizabeth at her coronation. Her scarf blew off, and her hair whipped wildly around her.
For a moment there was only Johnny Mathis. The neighbors stood silently, confused and stunned, not having any idea what was happening, but understanding that it was something terrible. The Andersens and the Chappaquas said their goodbyes and rushed off.
Then a deafening boom rattled my bones, followed by a huge flash. Then staccato blasts. “Gunfire!” yelled Tim. Everybody shrieked.
Max screamed, “A mushroom cloud! A mushroom cloud!” We all looked up. Above the trees loomed an enormous thunderhead, its double anvil shape roiling toward us, now glowing a radioactive pink in the dying sun. More blasts. There was a babble of languages and shouts of “God help us!” “Run!” The music stopped with a painful, ripping screech.
I shouted, “Duck and cover!” and we three scrambled under the tables, peeking out fearfully. More blasts went off. Ivan cried, and Beatriz was crying as she and her parents gathered Zariya and ran down the lane. Mr. Friedmann called out, “Max! Max! Come home!” and he and Mrs. Friedmann stumbled off. Gellert’s family hurried away. Dimma and Josephine struggled to get the Pond Lady and the Advice Lady into the house, the Advice Lady squawking, “I knew this day would come! We’re all doomed!” Tim’s truck zoomed off, and Maria grabbed the twins and ran across the lane. There was another hair-raising crack, another flash, and rain began pouring down. The air went dark and biblical. The General stood on the steps, calling out, “Mijn God! Het is als Rotterdam 1940!” and lurched off with his family. Brickie shoved his Magnavox inside the door, yelling, “Stay calm! It’s not a bomb! It’s just a storm! Everyone stay calm!” but by then almost everybody was gone. Mr. Shreve and Josef stood out in the lane in the deluge, Josef still in a rage, Mr. Shreve using his walkie-talkie. Mr. Shreve went home, leaving Josef, soaked, looking like a horror-movie maniac, clutching Elena’s blue scarf in one hand, the other clutching his heart.
Thunder boomed again, but farther off. More lightning. We crawled out from under the table, splattered with spilled salsa. From around the back of our house came Beau and D.L., running backward toward home, throwing one more cherry bomb and laughing hysterically. D.L. shouted, “Ha ha! We got your Harmon Killebrew card, too!”
Liz was trying to carry food platters inside. “God!” she shrieked. “It was those hick morons with their cherry bombs!” She stomped into the house. We stood in the downpour and flashes—I wasn’t even thinking about black lightning, only Elena.
Ivan still cried, looking off down the lane where Elena had disappeared. Brickie stuck his head out the door and said, “You boys break it up now. Time to be home—you have school tomorrow.” I went straight to bed in my damp, dirty clothes. I guess Dimma was too drunk, or too busy dealing with the old ladies, to make me bathe and change.
13
I woke up with a headache, sweat soaking my sheets. The day was overcast, but I could tell by the heat that it was not early. Why hadn’t anybody gotten me up for school? The house seemed oddly quiet, no sounds coming up from the kitchen or my grandparents’ room. Maybe Dimma and Brickie were still drunk. I lay there for a moment, thinking about the night before: the Fiesta, the great music and dancing, Elena riding off on the motorcycle, the crazy, apocalyptic conclusion to the party, and whether any of it meant anything new. I heard noise from the street, adults talking, and car doors slamming, and guessed that maybe the grown-ups were out there cleaning up the party mess, which was supposed to be our job after school.