Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos(2)

Not that I complained, usually; the results were always spectacular. But at the moment, I'd have traded spectacular for available to help. I wrestled an eight-foot trellis into position and sat back, panting.

„Maybe I will wait until he gets here to finish this,“ I said.

„But Mrs. Waterston wants us all set up by ten!“ Eileen said. She rummaged in the wicker basket she was using instead of a purse, then shot a guilty glance back at me before pulling out her wristwatch.

„It's 9:30 already,“ she said, thrusting the watch back out of sight beneath the red- and white-checked fabric lining the basket. Familiar gestures already: the furtive glance to see if anyone who cared – like me, theoretically – was looking before someone pulled out a necessary but forbidden modern object. And then the hasty concealment. Eileen should have figured out by now that as long as nobody else spotted her, I didn't give a damn.

Then again, we'd found out this morning that Mrs. Waterston had enlisted a dozen assistants, whom she'd dubbed „the Town Watch.“ In theory, the watchmen were under my orders, available to help with crowd control and prevent shoplifting. In practice, they were the reason I was running late. I'd spent all morning trying to stop them from harassing various frantic craftspeople about using modern tools to set up, and keeping them from confiscating various items they'd decided were „not in period.“ The crafters had started calling them „the Anachronism Police.“

„I'm nearly finished with my side,“ Eileen said. „If you like, I could – “

A loud boom interrupted her, seeming to shake the very ground. Both of us jumped; Eileen shrieked; and her pottery rattled alarmingly. We could hear more shrieks and oaths from nearby booths.

„What on Earth!“ Eileen exclaimed, racing over to her table to make sure none of her ethereally delicate cups and vases had broken.

„Oh, Lord,“ I muttered. „I thought she was kidding.“

„Kidding about what?“ Eileen asked.

„What the hell was that, a sonic boom?“ shouted Amanda, the African American weaver in the booth across the aisle.

„The artillery,“ I shouted back.

„Artillery?“ Eileen echoed.

„The what?“ Amanda asked, dropping a braided rug and trotting over to our booth.

„Artillery,“ I repeated. „For the Siege of Yorktown. That's what this whole thing is celebrating, you know – “

„Yeah, I know,“ Amanda said. „October 19, 1781. The British finally throw in the towel and surrender to George Washington and the Revolutionary War is over. Whoopty-do. Let freedom ring, except for my people, who had to wait another eighty years. So what's with the sound effects?“

„Another of Mrs. Waterston's brainstorms,“ I said. „She hired a bunch of guys to fire a replica cannon to add to the authenticity of the event.“

„You mean, like a starter's gun to open the fair?“ Amanda asked.

„Demonstrations for the tourists, maybe,“ Eileen suggested.

„Actually…“ I said.

Another thunderous boom shook the encampment. This time we heard fewer shrieks and more angry yells.

„Actually,“ I began again, „she's going to have them firing continuously, to simulate the siege. Washington's troops shelled the British nonstop for a couple of weeks before attacking their entrenchments.“

„She's going to have them doing that all day?“ Eileen asked.

„Probably all night, too, unless someone can find an obscure county ordinance to stop it.“ Someone like me, probably. I'd already promised half a dozen townspeople who'd seen the artillery setting up that I'd find a way to silence the cannons at bedtime. Now that the shelling had actually begun, I'd be swamped with complainers any second – and no matter how irate they were, none of them wanted to tackle Mrs. Waterston directly.

„Bunch of loonies,“ Amanda muttered.

No argument from me.

„Bad enough I have to dress up like Aunt Jemima,“ she said, as she returned to her own booth. „And now this.“

„Oh, but you look… wonderful,“ Eileen called. „So authentic!“

Amanda looked down at her homespun dress and snorted. She was right, unfortunately. I'd always envied Amanda's stylish urban wardrobe, with its vivid colors and offbeat but sophisticated cuts. I'd never before realized how well her chic outfits camouflaged a slightly plump figure. And when you threw in the cultural associations an African American woman raised in Richmond, Virginia, was bound to have with colonial-era clothing…

„Oh, dear,“ Eileen murmured. From the sudden crease in her normally smooth forehead, I could tell that the last point had just dawned on her. „This must be awful for poor Amanda! Do you think we should – “