Secrets; I Tried To Keep Us Together, You Were Busy Keeping Secrets

Flags Waving

Hold your head high. That's the very first thing they teach in Color Guard. Keep your chin up, back straight, and throw that flag for all it's worth. If you've done it right, the flag pole will drop right back into your hands, like it's part of you. And if it doesn't, well, you are still holding your head high.

I see him as we round the corner of Main and Beaufort, halfway through the parade, just as I do the overhead horizontal. Dad. Same blonde hair, same square jaw, same way of standing - one hand in a back pocket, the other holding a drink. My hands keep working that flag even though my fingertips buzz. Left, out, swing right. Up, hold, roll out.

He's in front of the bridal shop and just as I pass him, it's flag loop, eyes right and we stare at each other, face to face. Can't tell if he recognizes me, I'm wearing those fake Ray-Bans, but his cup stops halfway to his lips. It's like a tunnel of pure vision between him and me, everything else a blur, and then he's gone, left behind in the crowd as the band swings into God Bless the U.S.A.

In front of me, Emily Sigmon drops her flag during the may-spin. I step right over it and keep marching, making sure my feet don't catch on the glittery red fabric. Never stop to pick up a fallen flag because the band marches on. Tilt up, forward, tip left and roll. Front circle, switch hands, back circle, snap. Left, right, Dad, Dad.

Lord a'mighty, it's hot out. Seems like with a hundred years of Old Soldier's Parade tradition, someone should've figured out that August isn't the best time of year for marching in the sun. We get twenty seconds of blessed shade beneath the oaks in front of the library and I see Mumma with Brian and the baby. I wonder if she knows Dad's here. Overhand circles, two, three, four.

The parade ends at the bank parking lot. It's full of convertibles with poster-board signs. "Harry Needham, Mayor!", "Rose Mackie, Register of Deeds!", "Misty Brunette, Tiny Miss All-American Sweetheart!". The 4H Club climbs off hay bales on the back of Kyle Treadmore's pick-up truck and someone presses a cold can of Sundrop into my hand.

< 2 >

I have to get out of there. Everyone around me is talking but all I can hear is the rattle of my breathing and the roar of my heart. Emily Sigmon is crying and all the girls tell her it's okay, could happen to anyone, but my mind is five blocks back on Main Street. I roll up my flag, put it on the band van, and run to find him. Three whole years since I last saw Dad.

The crowds are still thick, moving toward the big parking lots by Food Lion and Family Dollar, but I cut across the courthouse lawn and zip through the alley behind Main Street. When I come out by the bridal shop I look everywhere, but he's gone. I can't believe it, like he was never there at all. Then, as I wipe sweat out of my eyes, I see him over by Hoyle's Radiator Specialties and call "Dad!" It's no use, there are too many dads in the crowd so I give another yell. "Jesse Lee Yarborough!"

And he turns. Stops where he is, shades his eyes with his hand and looks to see who called. Gives me a smile. A big smile, a good one. "Well, look at you," he says softly when I get to his side. "All grown up."

"Hey," I say, suddenly shy and Dad hugs me, awkwardly with elbows and shoulders banging. Prickly whiskers brush my cheek and I can smell his aftershave and sweat and a little tang of whiskey-touched lemonade. "Hey," I say again.

He looks the same. His eyes are still as blue. Tanned skin stretches tight across his nose and cheekbones, his eyebrows are bleached almost white, and the sun glints off his blonde hair. Golden Boy. Little lines are beginning to show at the corners of his eyes. "I saw you waving your flag," he says. "You looked real fine." He sticks his hands in his jeans pockets and looks around at the crowd. "Huh. This town never changes. Sure brings back a lot of memories."