Uncle Tinsley had patched the flat tire on the bike he’d ridden as a kid. It was a Schwinn, like Mom’s, only it was a guy’s bike and it was blue, with a headlight and a saddlebag. Liz and I got the bikes out of the garage and rode into town to look for work.
We had forgotten that it was the Fourth of July. A parade was getting under way, and people were lined up along Holladay Avenue, entire families sitting in folding chairs and on the curb, eating Popsicles, shading their eyes against the bright sun, and waving enthusiastically as the Byler High School band marched along in red-and-white uniforms. It was followed by the pom-pom-waving cheerleaders and baton-twirling majorettes, red-coated foxhunters on horseback, a fire truck, and a float with waving women in worn sequined gowns. Finally, a group of older men in a variety of military uniforms turned up the avenue, all of them looking very serious and proud, those in the lead using both hands to hold big American flags out in front of them. Right in the middle of the group was Uncle Clarence, dressed in a green uniform, moving stiffly and looking a little short of breath but keeping pace. As the flags passed, most of the people in the crowd stood up and saluted.
“Here come the patriots,” Liz whispered in that sarcastic tone she’d picked up from Mom.
I kept quiet. Mom, who’d gone to antiwar rallies where protesters burned flags, had been telling us for years about everything wrong with America—the war, the pollution, the discrimination, the violence—but here were all these people, including Uncle Clarence, showing real pride in the flag and the country. Who was right? They both had their points. Were they both right? Was there such a thing as completely right and completely wrong? Liz seemed to think so. I usually had pretty strong opinions, but now I wasn’t so sure. This was complicated.
When the parade passed, the people in the crowd started folding up their chairs and spilling onto Holladay Avenue. We walked along pushing our bikes. Ahead, we saw the Wyatts coming up the street. Joe was carrying Earl, who held a little American flag. Uncle Clarence had medals above the breast pocket of his green uniform, and he wore one of those skinny army caps with patches and pins covering both sides.
“I do love Independence Day,” Aunt Al said after giving us both hugs. “Reminds you how lucky we are to be Americans. When my Truman comes home, he’ll be marching alongside Clarence in that parade.”
“But he’s thinking of reenlisting,” Joe said.
“Why?” Liz asked. “We’re losing the war.”
“We’re losing the war here at home with all these goddamned spoiled draft-dodging protesters,” Uncle Clarence said. “We’re not losing the war over there. Our boys are just trying to figure out how to win. They’re doing a hell of a fine job. Truman himself says so.” He turned on his heel and stalked off.
“I didn’t mean to upset him,” Liz said. “Doesn’t everyone know we’re losing?”
We all started walking up Holladay Avenue toward the hill. “People have different views,” Aunt Al said. “It’s a touchy subject around here. There’s a tradition of service in these parts. You do what your country asks you to do, and you do it with pride.”
“I’m enlisting when I graduate,” Joe said. “Not waiting to be drafted.”
“My Clarence was in Korea,” Aunt Al went on. “So was your daddy, Bean. Got the Silver Star.”
“What’s that?”
“A medal,” Aunt Al said. “Charlie was a hero. He ran out into enemy fire to save a wounded buddy.”
“You’re enlisting?” Liz asked Joe.
“That’s what guys around here do,” Joe said. “I want to fix helicopters and learn to fly them, like Truman.”
Liz stared at him in disbelief, and I was afraid she was going to say something sarcastic, so I changed the subject. “We’re going to go looking for jobs,” I told Aunt Al.
“That’s a tall order,” she said. There was not a lot of work around Byler these days, she explained. The folks on the hill sure didn’t have money to spare. She and Clarence couldn’t even afford a car, and neither could a lot of the neighbors. Over on Davis Street and East Street, where the doctors and the lawyers and the judges and the bankers lived, most people had coloreds who did the cooking and washing and gardening. However, there were retired folks around town who may have the odd job or yard work.
“Sometimes I get little jobs, but I make more money selling fruit and scrap metal,” Joe said.
“Still,” Aunt Al added, “you might land something, God willing and the creek don’t rise.”