Free The German by Lee Thomas Page B

she’d make it through the day’s heat. Her face had been powdered heavily and it reminded me of the sugar cookies waiting at home, and her lips were the color of blood. She clasped her church hat to her head and waddled rapidly, talking to Ma a mile a minute about her evening at the Lonestar Tavern and a nice gentleman she was meeting at the lake that evening so they could “trade recipes.”
    Ma shot me a concerned glance and then smiled at her friend and said, “That will be nice.”
    The two women spoke, and my mind drifted. I thought about Ma, the way she’d seemed particularly fidgety this morning, how she’d been in constant motion since I’d woken; but mostly I thought about my daddy, walking on ground so far away I had no real understanding of the distance. When I pictured him in battle my mind placed him into scenes from the movies, settings and situations Hollywood had created, so of course I saw him as a hero, the star of the motion picture, not one of the anonymous actors surrounding him, whose characters fell, dramatically clutching their chests as the battle raged on. In my mind war was neat and orderly, played out in shades of gray on vaguely unreal-looking fields. Nameless, faceless actors fell, but the star always lived to see his girl again, and Daddy would too.
    By the time we reached the fairgrounds, the field was already swarming with people. Tents framed the north and east sides, and the odors of mesquite smoke, sausages, barbecue sauce and fried dough scented the air. Mr. Carlson’s brass band played marching songs from the bandstand, and I saw Bum’s uncle Reggie pumping his trombone with gusto as he stomped his foot on the stage. Ma and Rita sat at a bench, but I was eager to find Bum and explore the different tents. She told me to have fun and to stay out of trouble, and I promised before setting off.
    Wandering over the hard packed dirt I saw friends from school, and teachers, and neighbors, and everyone smiled. I’d hoped to see Mr. Lang among the crowd, but if he was there I didn’t see him. Eventually I found Bum with his family sitting at a bench on the southwest side of the fairgrounds.
    Clay Craddick, Bum’s daddy, stood behind the bench and several feet away, talking with a group of men that included Burl Jones, the barber Harvey Milton, and Deputy Walter Long. Jones seemed particularly agitated, though all of the men looked angry and perplexed like cowboys whose herd had suddenly vanished. Bum’s ma sat on the bench, holding a small umbrella above her Sunday bonnet, shielding herself from the sun. She smiled warmly as if in love with everything that crossed her line of sight. On the bench next to her, Bum’s brother Fatty, as dull faced as a cow, chomped on a piece of gum. Bum saw me and leapt from the bench, racing forward to intercept me. He’d never been proud of his family, and he kept me a good distance from them whenever he could.
    “Morning, Timmy,” Mrs. Craddick said, waving languidly. “Such a nice day.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” I agreed.
    Bum grabbed my arm and spun me around, leading me back into the throng of Barnard’s gathered population. Behind us Burl Jones shouted, “Horseshit,” before the other men shushed him and told him to keep his tone civil.
    “Daddy’s got himself all worked up,” Bum said. “All morning they’ve been talking about the men Sheriff Rabbit questioned, all those Germans, and they’re thinking they should do some questioning of their own.”
    “You think they will?”
    “Nah, it’s just hot air,” Bum said. “But a lot of folks are talking the same way.”
    We emerged through a pack of women who had gathered in the center of the fairgrounds, and I saw Mr. Lang standing by himself next to a scraggly looking pecan tree which was wrapped in a red, white, and blue banner. It struck me as odd that he should be alone with so many people around, so I pulled Bum to a stop and suggested we go say hello, but my friend shook his