Northern Lights by Tim O’Brien Page B

her. He was a bit drunk.
    “Yes,” she said. “We’re going to Rapid City or Deadwood. I’ll sell Indian carvings and Paul will … I don’t know what Paul will do. Anyway, that’s the secret. We’ve been planning it for ages.”
    “Rapid City,” Harvey muttered.
    “Isn’t that a fine secret? Now you promised. Tell us about your eye.”
    “Crap.”
    “What? What’s that? Harvey, now you promised.”
    “This is a bunch of crap.”
    “It’s a fine secret,” Addie teased.
    “I’m going to Africa,” he said.
    Addie shrugged and giggled. “Don’t be a silly. It wouldn’t be the same at all. Who’ll buy Indian carvings in Africa?” She giggled and there was new movement around them, in the air and woods. It stopped. It became quiet and for the first time Perry felt the transformation. The air was soggy.
    “Wouldn’t touch the badlands,” Harvey muttered.
    “It’s actually quite clean in the badlands,” said Addie. “Isn’t it” She touched Perry’s arm.
    “Sterile,” he said.
    “See? Ha! Paul’s taking me there.”
    “I don’t believe it.”
    Addie moaned. “Tell him, Paul.”
    “Never.”
    “Oh, you will. Tell him you will.”
    “I won’t. Let’s go back to the party.”
    “You’re both silly,” Addie said. She turned to Harvey. “I swear he promised.”
    “Never.”
    “Betrayed,” she giggled.
    Perry left them. The new forest motion was back. And there was sound. The groups were mingling. Like compounds forming, electrons splitting and taking new orbits, shared spheres. From somewhere, music was coming on to the lawn, the lanterns were swaying. Bishop Markham was lecturing, Jud Harmor was squinting towards the sky. There was a hum in the forest. Perry wondered if old Jud felt it, or heard it.
    He watched Grace move through the crowds. It was a fine big party, she was good at it. She listened to people. She wore dresses; it wasn’t often she wasn’t in a dress: in the garden, walking, combing her hair out. She wormed through the crowd and hooked his arm. “Hungry?” He shook his head. “You aren’t drunk?”
    “Nope. Don’t always ask that.”
    “A nice party, isn’t it?” She was whispering.
    “Yeah. You did a nice job.”
    “Be nice then. Talk to people,” she whispered.
    “Okay.”
    “You aren’t sick?”
    “I’m fine, hon.” He pulled free and held a paper plate that leaked potato salad. “I’m okay, really. How are all your lovely church friends? How’s the Reverend Stenberg?”
    “Stop that. He’s a nice man.”
    “I know it. I’m sorry.” He glanced over at the bomb shelter. Some luck, he thought. He rambled the yard and listened while people told him about things.
    “A heat storm.”
    “What?”
    It was Jud. His hat was pushed back. “A heat storm,” he said. “Just a heat storm.”
    People began looking up.
    “Rain,” said Bishop Markham. “It’s rain, all right.” Bishop was GOP, Jud was Democratic-Farmer-Labor.
    “Shit,” Jud cackled. He shook his head and winked at Perry. “Guess I know a heat storm when I see it.”
    The first cool air came in one breath, and a dark splotch in the sky spread out, sliding down and out like a vast sheath or covering or mask. “Heat storm,” said old Jud. He pulled his hat down to settle it. People stood with hands on hips to watch. Lars Nielson hustled his family to the car and drove away.
    Others began to leave.
    “It’s a heat storm all right,” said Jud Harmor. There was a single long wind and the lanterns blew horizontal. Jud’s face was turned up. “I can see it,” he said.
    The wind died, turned warm, then turned cold, then turned warm again. Headlights were snapping on.
    “Where’s Harvey?” Grace was beside him. “People are leaving, he should be here.”
    The wind whipped the tablecloths.
    People rushed for their cars. Jud Harmor stood alone, gazing at the sky with hands on hips. The wind was rushing to Lake Superior. Motors and headlights and opalescent beacons were