of logging trucks, strung with Christmas lights. This was how the parade always began, and it was stultifying.
“I’ve never understood that,” said Jake, shouting to be heard over the engines. “Why do they always get to go first?” Jake was a sucker for pageantry, and believed every parade should begin with a marching band and cheerleaders. In Quinn, the cheerleaders did not twirl batons, or do much of anything. They didn’t even hold pom-poms correctly—dropping their elbows and let them hang limply. Cruel-mouthed, slouchy, and disinterested, Jake could not wait to befriend them in high school. Alas, the bad-postured cheerleaders and the marching band in street clothes would come in the middle of the pack. Thirty logging trucks, creeping in their lowest gear, and Jake was already exhausted. To make matters worse, the logging trucks were completely loaded, reeking of pine sap and diesel fuel.
The people of Quinn loved their logging trucks, stuck fingers in their mouths to unleash whistles, drowned out by the big rigs.
Buley smiled at Jake wryly. “The people of Quinn do love a parade,” she said.
“The people of Quinn love ranch dressing,” added Jake. “That doesn’t make it right.”
The first float finally approached. It was Reverend Foote and New Life Evangelical, stuffed full of identically dressed parishioners Jake recognized from the wedding. The float wasn’t that special—a butcher-paper banner, children dressed like lambs. They sang, and Mrs. Reverend Foote banged on a tambourine. Krystal snatched the baby away from Rocky, and forced her tiny hand into a wave.
Buley was not aware of the new church in town; she was the type of woman who isolated herself out of disgust, another reason why Jake loved her. She stared at the float quizzically.
“Moonies,” she pronounced. “I bet they had a mass wedding in the football field.”
“Christians,” Krystal corrected her. “That’s our church.” She forced her baby to wave with more gusto, and the baby responded by erupting into tears.
“Does your church have a dress code?” Buley pointed at the cheap black slacks and jean skirts. The children on the float wore the same clothes but did not have the blank piousness on their faces. Instead, their identities were disguised by photocopied lamb heads, sagging with cotton balls, held aloft on Popsicle sticks.
“We’re nondenominational,” said Krystal proudly. “We accept everyone just as they are.” Buley peered down at Krystal’s jean skirt and arched an eyebrow.
Behind Reverend Foote came the ladies from Quinn Lumber Mill, shaking silent chain saws at the crowd. They wore flannel shirts, despite the heat, and Jake appreciated that they stuck to a theme. Unfortunately, instead of candy, they threw sawdust.
Next were the fire trucks, both engines, the volunteer firemen stood on the running boards and clung to ladders. They wore the red baseball caps and regulation polo shirts, and satisfied smirks. They knew they were considered the most fearless citizens of Quinn, Red Mabel notwithstanding. There was no room for Jim Number Three. Since he was the newest, he walked behind the trucks, and Jake could tell he was ashamed. But Jim Number Three was the only fireman who had tucked in his shirt, and Jake hoped that Laverna would give him another chance, points for good grooming. The volunteer firemen threw candy, and occasionally, a smoke alarm. The crowd always loved the firemen the most, because they hosted the only social event of the season, and tonight, they were responsible for the fireworks show. Bucky was not riding with them, and the Chief drove behind the fire engines in his special truck, his wife waving proudly from the passenger seat.
The Shriners followed on their stupid little motorcycles and atrocious little hats. Years ago, Jake had asked his mother what the Shriners did, and Krystal claimed that they worked on finding a cure for cancer. They did not look like scientists to Jake; he’d seen trained bears at the circus in Ellis, and they had exhibited more intelligence and skill than these fat men, wobbling on their tiny bikes. Jake would have given anything for trained bears in this parade. Perhaps the lazy cheerleaders could ride the bears without saddles, and they would be forced to take interest, or risk being clawed.
The Rotary Club was next. The float was intended to resemble a covered wagon. Jake grimaced at the bedsheets draped over a splintery frame of two-by-fours, and the cardboard horse heads duct-taped to the grille of a brand-new truck. If Jake could have the bears, he would also insist on Ronda, shooting real arrows