the only ones here yet?” she demanded. “Honestly, I don’t know what’s gotten into people these days. It used to be an honor and a privilege to have a part in the Celebration.”
“We don’t know that nobody else is here yet,” Cara Hutchinson said. “We haven’t looked into the auditorium.”
“We don’t have to look into the auditorium,” Candy said. “There aren’t any other coats here.”
Cara whipped around, contemptuous. “What does it matter if there aren’t any coats here? They could have brought them with them into the auditorium and left them on the seats. They could be wearing them. It’s cold in here.”
“Oh,” Candy said, flushing. “Yeah. Well.”
“Don’t say ‘yeah,’ ” Mrs. Johnson said automatically. “It makes you sound cheap.”
Cara Hutchinson coughed. “Well,” she said with false brightness. “I’ve just been talking to Candy here about Tisha Verek. Have you heard about Tisha Verek, Mrs. Johnson?”
“Everybody in town’s heard about Tisha Verek,” Mrs. Johnson said. “Benjy Warren called Franklin Morrison and Franklin called Peter Callisher and everybody at the newspaper overheard it. Lord, but isn’t this just like that piece of baggage. Doesn’t even have the decency to hide behind her man. Just goes right out and does it on her own, and sits back and waits for the rest of us to applaud.”
“Does what?” Candy asked, confused.
“It’s about Tisha Verek,” Cara said slowly, as if she were talking to a mental defective. “You know Mrs. Verek? Who’s married to that artist who lives out at the end of the Delaford Road?”
“I know Mrs. Verek,” Candy said stiffly.
“Well, Mrs. Verek is going to court to sue the town about the Celebration,” Cara said, slowing her voice down, making any word of more than a single syllable take long seconds to get out. “That’s because there’s this law, called the Bill of Rights—”
“The Bill of Rights isn’t a law,” Candy said sharply. “It’s part of the Constitution. I know what the Constitution is, Cara.”
“Oh. Well. I’m sorry. I didn’t think that was the kind of thing you were interested in.”
“Who cares what she’s interested in?” Mrs. Johnson demanded. “I’ll tell her what it’s all about and I’ll do it in less time, too. What you’re going on about, Cara, is beyond me. It’s all that freedom-of-religion business, like the reason we can’t pray anymore in school. Tisha Verek is going to the federal court and saying that our Celebration keeps her from having freedom of religion, and that the court ought to make us stop.”
“Going?” Candy shot a quick look at the clock, bewildered.
“She’s supposed to leave at nine-thirty,” Cara put in. “At least, that’s what she seems to have told everybody. Camber Hartnell’s going with her. They’re going to try to get an injunction to shut the Celebration down. Maybe it won’t matter that we’ve done all this rehearsing. Maybe we’ll just have to fold our tents and go home.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” Mrs. Johnson said. “Peter Callisher was absolutely positive that there wouldn’t be anything like that, this year at least. He told Betty Heath that Tisha Verek had waited far too long, and now it would be at least a year before she could get the Celebration shut down. If she can get it shut down at all.”
Cara Hutchinson shrugged. “Maybe,” she said, “but if you ask me, it all depends on the kind of judge they get down there in Montpelier, and with all the flatlanders we’ve got here now and that woman in the governor’s mansion, you can’t tell how things are going to turn out. I’m going to be ready no matter what. I think it’s the only sensible thing.”
“I think getting your name in the paper has gone to your head,” Mrs. Johnson said. “Nobody’s going to shut down the Celebration. If you’re using this as a way to excuse not knowing your lines—”
“I always know my lines,”
“We don’t know that nobody else is here yet,” Cara Hutchinson said. “We haven’t looked into the auditorium.”
“We don’t have to look into the auditorium,” Candy said. “There aren’t any other coats here.”
Cara whipped around, contemptuous. “What does it matter if there aren’t any coats here? They could have brought them with them into the auditorium and left them on the seats. They could be wearing them. It’s cold in here.”
“Oh,” Candy said, flushing. “Yeah. Well.”
“Don’t say ‘yeah,’ ” Mrs. Johnson said automatically. “It makes you sound cheap.”
Cara Hutchinson coughed. “Well,” she said with false brightness. “I’ve just been talking to Candy here about Tisha Verek. Have you heard about Tisha Verek, Mrs. Johnson?”
“Everybody in town’s heard about Tisha Verek,” Mrs. Johnson said. “Benjy Warren called Franklin Morrison and Franklin called Peter Callisher and everybody at the newspaper overheard it. Lord, but isn’t this just like that piece of baggage. Doesn’t even have the decency to hide behind her man. Just goes right out and does it on her own, and sits back and waits for the rest of us to applaud.”
“Does what?” Candy asked, confused.
“It’s about Tisha Verek,” Cara said slowly, as if she were talking to a mental defective. “You know Mrs. Verek? Who’s married to that artist who lives out at the end of the Delaford Road?”
“I know Mrs. Verek,” Candy said stiffly.
“Well, Mrs. Verek is going to court to sue the town about the Celebration,” Cara said, slowing her voice down, making any word of more than a single syllable take long seconds to get out. “That’s because there’s this law, called the Bill of Rights—”
“The Bill of Rights isn’t a law,” Candy said sharply. “It’s part of the Constitution. I know what the Constitution is, Cara.”
“Oh. Well. I’m sorry. I didn’t think that was the kind of thing you were interested in.”
“Who cares what she’s interested in?” Mrs. Johnson demanded. “I’ll tell her what it’s all about and I’ll do it in less time, too. What you’re going on about, Cara, is beyond me. It’s all that freedom-of-religion business, like the reason we can’t pray anymore in school. Tisha Verek is going to the federal court and saying that our Celebration keeps her from having freedom of religion, and that the court ought to make us stop.”
“Going?” Candy shot a quick look at the clock, bewildered.
“She’s supposed to leave at nine-thirty,” Cara put in. “At least, that’s what she seems to have told everybody. Camber Hartnell’s going with her. They’re going to try to get an injunction to shut the Celebration down. Maybe it won’t matter that we’ve done all this rehearsing. Maybe we’ll just have to fold our tents and go home.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” Mrs. Johnson said. “Peter Callisher was absolutely positive that there wouldn’t be anything like that, this year at least. He told Betty Heath that Tisha Verek had waited far too long, and now it would be at least a year before she could get the Celebration shut down. If she can get it shut down at all.”
Cara Hutchinson shrugged. “Maybe,” she said, “but if you ask me, it all depends on the kind of judge they get down there in Montpelier, and with all the flatlanders we’ve got here now and that woman in the governor’s mansion, you can’t tell how things are going to turn out. I’m going to be ready no matter what. I think it’s the only sensible thing.”
“I think getting your name in the paper has gone to your head,” Mrs. Johnson said. “Nobody’s going to shut down the Celebration. If you’re using this as a way to excuse not knowing your lines—”
“I always know my lines,”
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