Fourth of July

We arrive to the party late, having spent the day relaxing and moving my editing equipment into the empty house we will be calling our office for the next couple weeks.

The party is a large one—with an impressive line of cars stretching up the hill in front of the house. The sun is setting over Cherry Valley and the view of the village nestled in the small valley below is quite impressive.

There is a perfect number of clouds in the sky for a sunset and they lend dark red puffy shapes to the darkening blue sky.

I am introduced to folks at the party as the editor of the Candy Darling documentary that Jamie is directing. They all know Jamie and have heard about the project.

“We are up for a few weeks to work on the current cut of the film.”

“How’s it going?” they all ask.

“Pretty well,” I answer, which seems to satisfy most of them. For fear of launching into a lecture about Candy Darling and the filmmaking process, I always err on the side of saying too little whenever anyone asks me about the movie.

Kids run loudly through the party, laughing and shrieking. They seem like they are having a blast and for a moment, forgetting my age, I have to resist the instinct to run and join them. I see myself charging into the pack, falling into the game of tag as if I’d played it yesterday. Chasing after them up into the tree house and jumping on the trampoline.

“Did you get some food?” I am snapped out of my fantasy. “You showed up pretty late—earlier there was quite the spread.”

It was Jamie’s next door neighbors, a mother-and-daughter combination who I often wave to when I see them walking their dog past his porch where I have taken to sitting. I’ve never seen them apart and their resemblance is strangely captivating, like looking at two versions of the same person 30 years apart.

“I might nibble on something in a little bit, I’ve been snacking all day.”

“You ate before you came?” they say in perfect unison and complete shock and disbelief.

“Yeah, well, Jamie made some egg salad.”

“Jamie should know better.”

I grin, but as my eyes scan from one to the other and find them both totally serious, the grin fades from my lips.

Not knowing whether to apologize or to feign ignorance, I politely excuse my self.

Up further into the backyard is a familiar pond with a familiar bon fire. Three kids run by with sparklers as the last of the sunset reflected in the pond disappears beneath the large dark trees.

The fireworks that follow are impressive. Exploding high in the sky.

A young girl, perhaps 12 going on 13, cringes in front of me at a particularly loud blast. She holds a lit sparkler in her hand.

“You can put these out on your tongue, right?” she says to her friend. “Like those trick birthday candles?”

“Yeah,” her friend says, totally focused on the fireworks. I stand in anticipation and am torn between watching and stopping her and then she does it.

She doesn’t make a sound but I can see her body tighten. The unlit sparkler drops silently to the ground, silhouetted by the reflection of an explosion of red and blue.

The crowd cheers. I can practically hear her tongue singeing through the “oohs” and “ahhs.”

“You know that actually hurt a little,” the young girl says to her friend, tears in her eyes.

“You’ll be okay,” the friend offers.

“I know,” the young girl says. And I quietly agree.

“She’s got spunk,” my friend would say, after I recounted the story to her on the phone the next day.

“She does indeed,” I would say, feeling the twinge of the scar on my middle and forefinger from a similar incident at a similar party.

My only regret is that I didn’t have the guts to put it out on my tongue, and now, unfortunately, know better.

- Zachary Stuart-Pontier