Starfrosted balloons at the parade nudged the sidewalk people who'd drawn up bare knees like grasshoppers. The man in the white suit and the red vest raised his swizzle stick. He commanded his platoon of cymbals, trumpets and arms with full authority, except over Frieda. The parade marshalls turned the corner slowly, seated on top of their car in a successful campaign to outdignify the white lace umbrella with red and blue ribbons and the Rolex float; because it was one of those idealized beach days when the fences smelled like lemon wax; it was the emancipated day when the majority in their united wisdom emerged from double-garaged houses hidden behind roses to exercise their rights and interests — nay, vested rights, imperious mandates! — exercised them to the full amount of their recognizance, subject to the well-poised consent of the legislature. That was why the pink car with pigears rolled slowly, conveying the senator and his lovely wife. Next came the bagpipers, strutting, whirling their sticks, stern and solemn, staring straight ahead. Benign red faces in kilts beat the tattoo of liberty under liberty, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the city councilman in the skyblue car with the two American flags who led the seablue car followed by the horses and other well-intentioned persons; the councilman had read the manual on how to attain and lose happiness.
The councilman leaned down and half whispered to his chauffeur: You know what Frieda kept saying?
The chauffeur coughed politely.
Frieda and Priscilla had come that morning when the councilman was inexpertly ironing his necktie. (At that moment the chauffeur was still playing catch with his son.)
Is there any luggage that I can help you with? the councilman said.
No, said Priscilla. Can't you see that we didn't bring anything?
He showed them upstairs to the guestroom where Priscilla used to sleep when she was little. On the wall hung an old stick-figure drawing of Frieda's which Emily had framed. Priscilla turned it to the wall. Frieda got the bunk bed. It was the first time he'd seen Frieda since the bad thing before the other bad thing had happened.
I really appreciate this, Frieda said. Especially right before the parade and all. You know, I got into some sort of strange circumstances or I wouldn't be here.
Oh, sure, said the councilman heartily.
Are you going to wear a
Well, now, Frieda, I guess that depends.
The necktie was ready. Priscilla came into his room as he was tying it. It was red, white and blue.
That looks really stupid, she said.
I'm trying to get votes, he explained.
I want you to watch Frieda for half an hour while I fill a prescription for her, said Priscilla. And listen for the phone. She'll try to call one of two places — either the cemetery office, or else a cab to go there.
The cemetery office!
Priscilla was turning the picture face-out again.
Do you mean where Emily is buried?
Look, I wouldn't be here if it wasn't an emergency, Priscilla said.
I could unplug the phone, the councilman offered, determined to disregard her spitefulness, there being, after all, no victory that he could gain over her anymore except the one, by definition unacknowledged, of self-restraint.
Would you be so good as to do that? Priscilla said very formally.
Even as a child she'd been both severe and pompous. Closing his eyes, he saw Emily helping the small girl into a new white dress, trying not to smile while the girl gave her a lecture on how to fasten buttons. She'd loved Priscilla, who now went into the bathroom. The councilman checked his necktie again in the hallway mirror and, sighing, stepped into Frieda's room. That sad individual was biting her nails. A traffic helicopter overflew the house, so that the windowpanes buzzed, and Frieda began to laugh, her face still in her hands.
Do you have an ashtray? she said abrupdy. I have a headache. My mind has been hurting for a long time.
How long? said the councilman very agreeably, watching the summer morning pour down the sides of buildings.
Three eons. Since before Auntie died. That's why I want to work on my writing now. On my scientific theories.
Oh, said the councilman.
They're cosmic, she said, rather defensively. They're about darkness.
The councilman went to the bathroom to comb his hair one more time and make sure that he still looked good because the chauffeur was coming. Then he thought about Emily. He did not care to think about her right now. He did not want to think about Priscilla or Frieda or the parade, either, but he had to. He closed the door.
Priscilla was knocking. He hated her. He took off his glasses, wiped his eyes, put his glasses on, checked his tie in the mirror, and opened the door.
Where's Frieda? Priscilla said.
She's not in her bed?
No.
They went into the other room and stood looking at the empty bunk. The window was open.
She must have gone down the fire escape, said the councilman. Is she suicidal?
