Joe Burke's Last Stand Part 48

"How's that Chevy running?" Art asked.

"Good. I just put new tires on her."

"That's a commitment. Love that car. Have you seen it, Amber--a red '52 convertible?"

"Not yet," she said.

G.o.d. Willow brought out the honey walnut loaf. "Anybody hungry?"

"Sure," Martin said. She broke off an end, the best part, and handed it to him.

"Good," he said, chewing.

"Willow can cook!" Art said. People were arriving steadily. It was five o'clock; the heat of the day was easing. A strong looking man in his thirties with a short beard and dark curly hair began to play the piano, his back straight.

"Yo, Angus!" someone called. Martin went for a refill and returned a few minutes later as Willow was looking around the meadow. She couldn't stop herself; every few minutes she checked again.

"Looking for someone?" Martin asked.

"Yeah, a guy I met--Patrick O'Shaunessy."

"Patrick O'Shaunessy?"

"Yes."

"I'll be d.a.m.ned. I met him the other day." Patrick, she thought. Martin reminded her of Patrick; that's who it was. More people arrived. A soprano sax joined the piano. A man with gray hair set up a drum kit.

Joe Burke stood near the piano with a blonde--leggy, like me, Willow thought, but better looking. They came over and sat down. Joe introduced her, his wife, Sally. He reached into a paper bag and handed everyone a sparkler.

"It's the 4th," he said. They lit the sparklers and sat, more or less in a circle, waving them and drinking beer.

"My country 'tis of thee," Amber said.

"Old Glory," Martin added.

"Patriots!" A familiar voice. Patrick had come up behind her.

"Hey, Patrick." Martin stood, waved at Patrick, and wandered toward the kegs. Patrick sat down next to Willow. Joe handed him a sparkler.

Willow leaned back on her elbows. The strains of _St. James Infirmary_ and a heavy beat from the drummer mingled with the smell of burning sparklers and the sweeter smell of marijuana.

"It's good to be a citizen," Patrick said. Willow inspected him for signs of irony. None. They talked briefly about the war which they were all against. It seemed far away, a bad dream. "Maybe we should get active," Patrick suggested, "demonstrate or something." Joe leaned forward.

"You want to watch it," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"I had kind of a shock last week," Joe said. "You know Ox?" He looked at the others.

"Sure," Art said.

"He was in school with us; he's a state trooper," Joe explained. "We've had narcs around for a few years now, busting people for the evil weed."

"s.h.i.+t heads," Art said. "Like we really have a drug problem."

"We spot the narcs," Joe said. "Anyway, I was having a beer with Ox in Buckman's, and he told me to watch my a.s.s. He told me there was a list of radicals at headquarters. Subversives. 'They're watching you; that's all I can say.' " Joe shook his head. "I mean, I'm a veteran, for Christ's sake."

"You're a dropout," Art said.

Joe started to smile. "Look who's talking."

"So, who's watching?" Martin asked.

"Somebody is," Joe said. "Ox wouldn't have told me if he wasn't worried. FBI? CIA?"

"Martin's a commie pinko," Art said. "Is he on the list?"

"Should be," Joe said.

"What about Morgan? And Gino?"

"Subversives for sure. Down the Pentagon!" Joe raised his cup.

"Down the Pentagon!" echoed across the valley.

"O.K., Patrick," Amber said. "You can turn off the tape recorder."

Patrick took a paper bag from his pack and held up a block of cheddar.

He shook it by his ear.

"Wasn't on," he said.

"Might as well eat it, then," Sally said.

They ate and drank and wandered around the meadow. A washtub ba.s.s joined the music. Willow didn't exactly follow Patrick, but she managed to be in his general vicinity. She returned to her blanket and read until the light started to go. There was a book discussion. Patrick talked about a math book that he was reading, and Joe got started on significant digits, of all things. "You understand the principle," he said.

"Natch," Art said, "but here is Morgan, in case anyone needs a refresher." Willow tried to remember high school physics while she watched Morgan sit down deliberately. He had powerful shoulders and a sensitive expression. "Morgan, what are significant digits?"

"Ah," Morgan said, "the concept is that in scientific computation, the result cannot be more accurate than the least accurate quant.i.ty or measurement involved." There was light applause. Morgan drank deeply.

"Just so," said Joe. "And didn't I have a h.e.l.l of a time understanding that? I thought you could make an answer as accurate as you wanted. You want seven decimal places? No problem." Patrick was sitting forward, listening intensely. "I finally got the idea, and I never forgot it,"

Joe went on. "Well, there I was in weather school in the Air Force, and their dew point calculation gave an answer that was more precise than one of the measurements. 'These decimal points are meaningless,' I said to the sergeant. Yeah, right. Next thing you know, I'm in front of the base commander.

"'Burke,' he says, 'you may have a point. But it's a G.o.dd.a.m.n small one.

Are you an airman or a G.o.dd.a.m.n philosopher, Burke?'

"'Airman, SIR,' I said."

"Airman Burke," Art toasted.