The Firework People

There was quite a party back there, jammed into one of those cramped backyards. I hate parties. I considered disappearing now that my new friend had other people to talk to, but somehow it didn’t seem right. Christ Himself went to parties, and that means parties are sacred.

I sent a text to my husband, “I got sidetracked. I’ll be home later.”

I  went to the party.

There were at least six very small children there, and a baby, and a terrified pit bull. There was a tent full of alcohol and several tired men drinking alcohol. There were cigarettes. There was a wonderfully hospitable woman who spoke only in shouts, and introduced herself as “A THIRTY-SIX-YEAR-OLD GRAMMA–” the baby was her grandchild, one of the tired men her son. The thirty-six-year-old Gramma explained that she’d been awake putting this party together since four in the morning and had had five shots already.

Every time another neighbor shot off a firework, Gramma would become jealous. “SHOOT OFF ANOTHER!” she’d demand, and the tired men would obey.

One of the fireworks exploded near the ground with the loudest echoing crack I’ve ever heard. The tiny rectangle of sky between the trees was a kaleidoscope of color. Bright yellow sparks the size of my fist whirled all over the yard. The children screamed and ran; everyone jumped away.

For just a moment, with those seraphic coals flying at my face, I was certain that I was going to die. I was going to burn to death along with twelve people I did not know, on a street that wasn’t mine, in a conflagration from an illegal fireworks display, without the Last Rites, without Holy Communion, without my wallet or any form of identification on me. My last words to my husband would be “I got sidetracked. I’ll be home later.” But it would be a good death, a glorious death, because I’d got it right at last. I was on the side of the angels. I was doing what Christ had done. I was talking to strangers and going to a party.

Then the dust settled. Gramma clapped and cheered. “THIS WAS A PERFECT PARTY!” she cried. “THIS WAS A PERFECT FOURTH OF JULY!”

I clapped as well.

I followed my new friend to two other houses; I cried and prayed with her again as she waited for her best friend to come home. I admired her best friend’s boyfriend’s new tattoo. I watched respectable people walking home from the fireworks cringe from me and my friend, as I had cringed from strange ragged people so many times before. It felt good, like belonging to a secret society.

I confided about my own family, and the terrible things I’d escaped.

We agreed it was much better to be poor and in pain here, in LaBelle, in the Valley of the Shadow of Death, than it was to be in danger somewhere else. We both agreed to stay free this time. No more going back.

We sang “Jesus Loves Me, This I Know.”

When her friend returned, it was nearly midnight. “Will you be okay now?” I asked.

“I’ll be okay.”

“Jesus will be with us. And I’ll see you again soon.”

She asked my name again, and I asked hers.

I walked home in the dark, alone, down the broken sidewalks, intoxicated people wandering home all around, the occasional rocket still going off here and there.

If my life had been demanded of me just then, I wouldn’t have been afraid.