The Same Sky by Amanda Eyre Ward Page B

and a 4-H float—lumbered down Main Street, leaving confetti, candy wrappers, and sunburned spectators in its wake. Jane’s kids ran home by themselves, their pockets full of Jolly Rancher candies and plastic beads, while we folded the camp chairs and hauled them up Oak Street. The altitude (or maybe the festivity) was making me tired. “Remember when we used to have a float?” I said.
    My dad laughed. “Your mom loved that sort of stuff,” he said.
    “What? Parades?” I asked.
    “She loved using a glue gun,” said my father.
    “Who doesn’t?” said Jane.
    “She loved pasting crepe paper onto poster boards,”said my father. Jane and I exchanged glances: it was rare for our dad to talk about our mom.
    “She did?” I prompted.
    “She loved modeling clay,” he said. He nodded soberly, then said, “Well, see you later. Told Bill I’d stop in for coffee.” He turned on his heel and strode away from us, toward the Episcopal church, raising his arm in farewell.
    “Who’s Bill?” I said.
    “The new pastor. He’s young,” said Jane. “How come I don’t remember Mom using modeling clay?”
    “She’d make us snakes, little snakes out of clay,” I said. “And she’d make those signs for the store. Remember? ‘Fresh Strawberries’ or ‘Ortega Taco Shells Half Price—Have a Fiesta Tonight!’ ”
    “Have a fiesta tonight?” said Jane.
    I nodded. Jane looked teary. “Come on,” I said, taking her folding chair and carrying it up Oak Street. “Come on, Jane. Life’s a fiesta.”
    She smiled, but it was fake. I was her sister, and could tell.
    Late that afternoon, we returned to town for the Fire Hose Fights. Jane, the younger kids, and I piled into the apartment over Hill’s Market to watch the action from the front window. This year, Dennis and their oldest son, Rick, had formed a team. “We’re going to win, Aunt Alice,” Rick, a towering fourteen-year-old and star of the tiny high school’s basketball team, had said the night before. “It’s all about leaning into the water.”
    “Maybe I should try,” said Jake.
    Rick let loose a rude laugh, then caught himself and said politely, “I’m sorry, Uncle Jake. But it’s too late to enter.” He didn’t say that Jake was out of shape and hated to be cold or uncomfortable in any way. Jane had taught him manners, it seemed.
    We opened beers as the teams faced each other along Main Street, readying themselves to be battered by water shooting from a fire hose. Dennis and Rick wore football helmets and pads covered by foul-weather coats and pants. Some wore motorcycle helmets or bulletproof vests.
    “I really shouldn’t,” commented Jane, taking a large sip of a beer, then putting it aside. Benjamin knocked over a chair and began to wail.
    “It never stops,” murmured Jake. I met his gaze and grimaced playfully. Though I’d always wanted children, Jane and Dennis’s life did seem hellish. Our lazy days in Austin seemed like a distant, wonderful dream: crossword puzzles, afternoon siestas. But Jake did not wink in response, or smile. His face was nakedly, painfully sad.
    “Oh, have another beer,” I told him, annoyed. He shook his head and looked away. I knew what he wanted from me: sadness equal to his, wallowing, maybe tears. But I was not that sort of woman. I turned my attention from him—he was an adult, after all, and could take care of himself. Though I realized it wasn’t fair or even right, I despised him for his weakness. After all, he was the one who had decided to stop trying for a baby! I had told him a thousand times that taking action was the way to move past sorrow. But perhaps everyone needs to learn this lessonfor themselves. I’d grown impatient waiting for him to figure it out.
    “Ow!” shrieked Gilmer, who seemed to have pulled the bathroom shower curtain down and become entangled.
    “Oh my God,” said Jane. She pressed her fingers to her eyes.
    “What can I do to help?” I said, settling into a chair to