The friendly lady_at the souvenir desk overheard and answered, ''Not this concert, sir. It's Mr. Fiedler's golden anniversary with the Pops."
''Tlianks, ma'am," said Bob, and then turned to Jean-Claude. ''We might get a little wet, but it could be fun."
"Is it jazz?"
"No. Does it matter?"
"No," said the boy.
1 HEY WALICED BACK ALONG THE RH^R TO Bob's
car and he took out the ancient blanket he always kept in the trunk. Then after a detour to buy submarine sandwiches, they crossed the Harvard Bridge and strolled to the Esplanade, the crescent of green grass which embraced Hatch Shell, the hemispheric shelter for musicians in the rain.
Several thousand diehard fans were camped in defiance of the elements, having improvised tents, tepees, lean-tos and the like. Bob and Jean-Claude spread their blankets as close as possible to the shell.
''If we're gonna have wet bottoms, let's at least get a good view," Bob said, and offered Jean-Claude an enormous sandwich.
"Must I?" asked the boy. "My stomach hurts a little."
"Don't worry," Bob assured him, thinking it was probably nerves. ''Eat what you can."
"Okay," he sighed, and began pecking away desultorily.
About an hour later, a storm of applause drowned out the drizzle. The venerable conductor was striding to the podium. The crowd rose to its feet and shouted, ''We love you, Arthur."
161
Bob explained. *'The man with all the white hair is a big celebrity. He's even more important than the music."
''He looks like F^re Noel/' said the boy.
"Tou're right/' Bob answered, ''but he doesn't just look like Father Christmas. He looks like everybodys father. That's his appeal, I guess."
Then Bob had a curious thought. I've never really looked at Fiedler this close, but there's something about him that reminds me of Dad.
And he remembered the many happy excursions he had taken with his own father. The Phillies games. Saturday matinees with Ormandy and the Philadelphia Orchestra. Camping in the Poconos. Just the two of them. Suddenly he missed his father terribly.
Fiedler raised his baton and the concert began. The opening number was "When Johnny Comes Marching Home."
During the next half hour the rains intensified.
"I think we should go," said Bob.
"Oh, no, please," said the boy.
"Okay,", said Bob with some reluctance. He glanced at his watch. Eight-forty. The plane for Paris was already over the Atlantic.
The finale was the "1812 Overture," complete with pealing church bells and cannon shots from a little howitzer. Jean-Claude was ecstatic, especially when he recognized what melody the brasses were blaring against the swirl of strings.
"It's La Marseillaise/' he shouted, leaping to his feet.
"Yes," said Bob. "It's a surprise for you."
As the music continued, the boy was transported. He was clapping even before it ended, and continued to applaud as the orchestra segued into "Stars and Stripes Forever." Now tlie whole water-
logged crowd rose to its feet, singing, shouting and marching in place. A glorious pandemonium.
Suddenly the sky exploded with lights—red, white, green, yellow, blue.
'"Kegarde, Papa/' cried the boy. "Les feux (Tarti-ficer
Bob picked him up and put him on his shoulder, so he could have a better view of the dazzling fireworks. As he did, he could not help noticing that although the air was cold, the boy seemed strangely warm. Too warm.
''Come on, Jean-Claude, let's go back to the car.*'
Still carrying the boy. Bob began to walk toward the bridge. Jean-Claude's gaze remained transfixed by the multicolored bombs bursting in air.
By the time they reached the MIT parking lot, Jean-Claude was shivering. Bob put his hand to the boy's forehead. It was very hot.
"Let's go up to my office and change you into some dry clothes," he said.
''Okay," said the boy, sounding very subdued.
Bob opened the trunk, grabbed the green valise, and the two of them hurried toward the entrance to his office.
Upstairs, he dried Jean-Claude with paper towels from the men's room. The boy seemed suddenly so small and frail, all bony shoulders and skinny legs. But every limb was blazing.
"Would you like me to get you some tea from the machine?" Bob asked.
"No, I don't want anything," replied Jean-Claude.
Damn, thought Bob, I've given him cramps from junk food and now I've frozen him into a fever. Great father.
And then he realized. I can't take him back to Lexington. I don't know how to handle a sick
child. He put his windbreaker around the boy and, before he lost the nerve, dialed Sheila at the Cape.
''Bob, where are you? It's raining like hell here."
''Here too/' he replied, ''and the fog is terrible. I couldn't let him fly in this weather."