Tim O’Brien - Northern Lights

Harvey’s eye shined. ‘We could last it out in here.’

‘What?’

Harvey shrugged.

Gleaming, the streets were white metal.

Thursday, the last day of July.

There were jeeps and trucks and firefighters, the streets were fizzing with people, everyone was waiting.

It was Harvey’s birthday. Grace held the party on the lawn.

When the sun faded, Perry turned on the spotlights and lit battery-powered lanterns in the trees. Then the guests arrived. Harvey received them in front of his bomb shelter. He drank beer from a paper cup. The sky was changing. Headlights flowed up the lane. Lantern shadows, sky shadows. The wind was changing. The party comers moved like electricity through the night, trooped in bearing gifts and loaves of bread, hot dishes, meat loaves. Old people and young people. Bishop Markham brought his wife and children. Reverend Stenberg brought candlesticks. Hot beans, hot corn, fruit salad, biscuits, burgers, ham and chops, baked potatoes, warm salted butter, pies, a birthday party. The ladies of Damascus Lutheran brought plates and tablecloths, their husbands carried ice. The sky was changing. The headlights kept coming up the lane, new voices. High above, in the highest depths, the sky budded new stars and the patterns developed. Herb Wolff brought his father, pushing him in a wheelchair. The forest was full. Jud Harmor came in his pickup and straw hat and talked about the war and garbage. Addie came alone. Grace was busy and happy. There was potato salad and talk about the dry spell. It was a birthday picnic, and the evening was dark and the lanterns played on the trees. Town shadows flowed about his yard. Addie was there. Now and then he saw her passing by a lantern. ‘Geronimo!’ wailed Jud Harmor. Grace was happy. She served people’s plates and cut the birthday cake. She fixed a smile on the festivities and held Perry’s hand and bustled for paper cups. She was breathless and soft. She kissed him. ‘Isn’t it nice? Everyone’s here.’

‘You invited them. You’re the attraction.’

‘It’s so nice. Is Harvey enjoying it?’

‘I think so,’ Perry said. Harvey was sitting on the bomb shelter with Addie.

There were forms and shadows and the sky was changing.

‘Hey, Paul.’

Perry walked to the shelter, head down.

‘Addie says you have a secret.’

Addie giggled. ‘Hop up here, Paul. It’s a fine place to watch the party.’

‘Tell me the great secret,’ Harvey said.

‘There’s no secret. Tell him, Addie.’

Addie giggled and took his arm. The party seemed far away. The townspeople were silhouettes and old shadows.

‘What’s this great and wonderful secret?’ Harvey demanded.

‘Nothing. I swear. Tell him it’s nothing, Addie.’

‘If we told our secret, we would die and go to hell. That’s what happens when people tell their secrets. People must always keep all their secrets secret, if you follow me.’

‘Tell me,’ Harvey said.

Addie giggled. She still held Perry’s arm. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘But first you tell us your secret, Harvey. Tell us how you hurt your eye, all the gory stuff.’

Again the party poised.

‘Nothing,’ Harvey said softly.

‘Tell us all about the eye, Harvey. And tell us how you were a war hero.’

‘Nothing.’

‘Okay, then I’ll just have to tell you the sad facts,’ Addie laughed. ‘You see, Paul and I are running away together. To the badlands of South Dakota.’

Harvey stared at her. He was a bit drunk.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We’re going to Rapid City or Deadwood. I’ll sell Indian carvings and Paul will … I don’t know what Paul will do. Anyway, that’s the secret. We’ve been planning it for ages.’

‘Rapid City,’ Harvey muttered.

‘Isn’t that a fine secret? Now you promised. Tell us about your eye.’

‘Crap.’

‘What? What’s that? Harvey, now you promised.’

‘This is a bunch of crap.’

‘It’s a fine secret,’ Addie teased.

‘I’m going to Africa,’ he said.

Addie shrugged and giggled. ‘Don’t be a silly. It wouldn’t be the same at all. Who’ll buy Indian carvings in Africa?’ She giggled and there was new movement around them, in the air and woods. It stopped. It became quiet and for the first time Perry felt the transformation. The air was soggy.

‘Wouldn’t touch the badlands,’ Harvey muttered.

‘It’s actually quite clean in the badlands,’ said Addie. ‘Isn’t it?’ She touched Perry’s arm.

‘Sterile,’ he said.

‘See? Ha! Paul’s taking me there.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

Addie moaned. ‘Tell him, Paul.’

‘Never.’

‘Oh, you will. Tell him you will.’

‘I won’t. Let’s go back to the party.’

‘You’re both silly,’ Addie said. She turned to Harvey. ‘I swear he promised.’

‘Never.’

‘Betrayed,’ she giggled.

Perry left them. The new forest motion was back. And there was sound. The groups were mingling. Like compounds forming, electrons splitting and taking new orbits, shared spheres. From somewhere, music was coming on to the lawn, the lanterns were swaying. Bishop Markham was lecturing, Jud Harmor was squinting towards the sky. There was a hum in the forest. Perry wondered if old Jud felt it, or heard it.

He watched Grace move through the crowds. It was a fine big party, she was good at it. She listened to people. She wore dresses; it wasn’t often she wasn’t in a dress: in the garden, walking, combing her hair out. She wormed through the crowd and hooked his arm. ‘Hungry?’ He shook his head. ‘You aren’t drunk?’

‘Nope. Don’t always ask that.’

‘A nice party, isn’t it?’ She was whispering.

‘Yeah. You did a nice job.’

‘Be nice then. Talk to people,’ she whispered.

‘Okay.’

‘You aren’t sick?’

‘I’m fine, hon.’ He pulled free and held a paper plate that leaked potato salad. ‘I’m okay, really. How are all your lovely church friends? How’s the Reverend Stenberg?’

‘Stop that. He’s a nice man.’

‘I know it. I’m sorry.’ He glanced over at the bomb shelter. Some luck, he thought. He rambled the yard and listened while people told him about things.

‘A heat storm.’

‘What?’

It was Jud. His hat was pushed back. ‘A heat storm,’ he said. ‘Just a heat storm.’

People began looking up.

‘Rain,’ said Bishop Markham. ‘It’s rain, all right.’ Bishop was GOP, Jud was Democratic-Farmer-Labour.

‘Shit,’ Jud cackled. He shook his head and winked at Perry. ‘Guess I know a heat storm when I see it.’

The first cool air came in one breath, and a dark splotch in the sky spread out, sliding down and out like a vast sheath or covering or mask. ‘Heat storm,’ said old Jud. He pulled his hat down to settle it. People stood with hands on hips to watch. Lars Nielson hustled his family to the car and drove away.

Others began to leave.

‘It’s a heat storm all right,’ said Jud Harmor. There was a single long wind and the lanterns blew horizontal. Jud’s face was turned up. ‘I can see it,’ he said.

The wind died, turned warm, then turned cold, then turned warm again. Headlights were snapping on.

‘Where’s Harvey?’ Grace was beside him. ‘People are leaving, he should be here.’

The wind whipped the tablecloths.

People rushed for their cars. Jud Harmor stood alone, gazing at the sky with hands on hips. The wind was rushing to Lake Superior. Motors and headlights and opalescent beacons were flaring. Perry carried things inside, rushing, returned for armloads of bottles and cups and plastic forks, papers and bottle openers, party trash, wrappings and containers and leftover birthday cake.