Boomtown Page 9

  Sheriff Ernie attended our church, and in public he was shocked and dismayed over these seemingly random robberies. In private, he was as thrilled as a man could possibly be. After all, the worst thing that ever happened in Boomtown was mailboxes being blown up by teenagers, which, quite frankly, was encouraged. There was an occasional speeding ticket, a few jaywalkers, and the random fire caused by errant fireworks. Other than that, Boomtown was as quiet as a church (not our church, of course) as far as crime was concerned.

  As I turned to the sports section to read about the Slugs’ latest drubbing, a small announcement caught my eye. It listed the date of Boomtown’s upcoming Living Nativity and the names of the ministers who were hosting. My name was listed in the ad.

  As usual, I was the last to know. I’d been thinking about a lovely candlelight service, the choir singing, and a simple sermon about the true meaning of Christmas, that sort of thing. Now, apparently, I was expected to participate in a Nativity pageant, involving lots and lots of fireworks, no doubt. Not something I’d signed up for.

  I got dressed, grabbed my Bible, picked up an umbrella, went to put on my coat—and found it missing. It was always hanging on the hall tree by the front door—it was there just yesterday—but now it was gone.

  What was going on around here? First my lawn mower. Now my coat? Then I noticed something else—what was that? Leading from the back door, through the kitchen and up the stairs—muddy footprints. I followed them into Jonny’s room and found a pile of filthy, muddy clothes thrown in the corner along with a pair of muddy boots. I’d have to talk to that boy when he got home.

  I was in too much of a hurry to hunt for my coat. I pulled on a thick sweater, hunched outside into the misty drizzle, and walked as fast as I could down to the church. As I came up the sidewalk, I saw two men talking to Ingrid at the main door.

  “Reverend Button!” she said, waving to me. “You’re just in time!”

  “Here he is now,” she said to the men. Then to me she said, “Let me introduce you to Reverend Platz from St. Bernard’s and Reverend Tinker from First Presbyterian.”

  I regarded the two gentlemen for a moment, one dressed all in black and the other dressed all in gray, as different from one another as wet is from dry. Reverend Platz was as wide as he was tall, round and red like a ripe tomato, with a circle of white hair crowning his head. He reminded me of Santa Claus, with his red nose, jolly laugh, and firm, happy handshake. His companion, the Reverend Tinker, was the polar opposite: seven feet tall and thin as a beanpole. He had a thin face, gray eyes, black hair, and long bony fingers and arms. He was as white as a snowman and about as talkative. He shivered in the cold and managed a quiet hello before Reverend Platz took charge.

  “Hello! We finally meet at last, Reverend Button. We should have come by the minute you arrived, but we like to see if the new minister at Boomtown Church lasts a month or two before we make our acquaintance.” He chuckled. “Nothing personal, you understand, but Reverend Tinker has buried so many of your pastors over the years it’s almost a full-time sideline, isn’t that right, Terrence?” He giggled and elbowed Reverend Tinker good-naturedly, but his stoic companion pulled his overcoat tighter and didn’t crack a smile.

  “Not that we’re expecting anything like that from you at all,” the jolly Reverend Platz continued, “since you seem so virile and healthy and certainly forewarned, I should say. Keep your eyes open and your head down, that’s good advice! I’m sure you’ll be just fine.”

  “Yes, thank you . . . I think.”

  “Of course, of course. We’re all friends here. All together in the Lord’s work. All playing for the same team. Time to put our heads together and get this Living Nativity off the ground.”

  “Yes, the Living Nativity,” I said. “I came down here as fast as I could when I saw the notice in the paper. I was going to ask Ingrid about it and then contact you.”

  “Wonderful! We’re all on the same track. Running the same race. Reading from the same script! Couldn’t be better. That’s why we’re here. Come along, come along.”

  Before I could say another word, Reverend Platz had me by the arm and was dragging me back down the sidewalk. “Let’s head on down to Mabel’s Diner where we can make our plans. Worst coffee you ever tasted, terrible service, but it’s close by. Hop to it, Terrence! Follow along and keep up. No dawdling. We’ll talk on the way. Get to know one another. Get the lay of the land, so to speak.”

  And speak he did, incessantly, nonstop, as he chugged down the street, right on Bang, left on Cave In, right on Nitro, acting as tour guide as we rushed along with the Reverend Tinker bringing up the rear.

  “My compatriot here has been with First Presbyterian for more than forty years now. They say he came with the building. Been marrying and burying folks as long as anyone can remember. And myself, I started at St. Bernard’s nine years ago. Attended all the funerals of your predecessors since I’ve been here, and I’ve been part of the Living Nativity every year. It’s a town favorite, that’s the truth; I wouldn’t miss it.”

  He paused every now and then to point out the holiday decorations that hung from every light post, fence, window, and tree. “The Christmas chickens look especially festive this year. Red and green bows, very nice. Which reminds me, will you be helping with the Hen Grenade and Hotcake Breakfast this year? December 22 at St. Bernard’s. Annual tradition. We can count on you? Wonderful. Oh, my, look at the beautiful frozen cow. Old Boyd has outdone himself this year!”

  There it was. Staring at us over a fence, its sad eyes gazing through a solid block of ice, six feet high, four feet thick—a frozen cow.

  I couldn’t believe my eyes. “It’s a frozen cow!”

  “Well, yes, it most certainly is. Another one of those fantastic Boomtown holiday traditions! Old Boyd’s been doing it ever since the winter of ’39. You remember that, don’t you, Terrence? You were here then, of course.”

  Reverend Tinker had caught up to us by then and opened his mouth to answer, but Reverend Platz cut him off. “Worst winter on record. Started to rain on a Tuesday. Didn’t stop until Thursday; it was Christmas morning, I think. Three days of sleet and freezing temperatures and blizzard winds. Terrible. Just terrible! People trapped inside their homes. Doors frozen shut. Snow piled high as your head. Ice every-where. Old Boyd, there, got his entire herd caught out in the storm; it was too late to bring ’em in from the fields. They froze solid like cow popsicles without the stick. Stayed that way for a month. Then, we had a warm spell in January like you’ve never seen. Those cows thawed out quick as you please. Every last cow survived. To celebrate, Boyd invited everyone over for the biggest barbecue the town has ever seen.

  “He’s been doing it every year since as a way of commemorating the event. He makes a great homemade barbecue sauce, baked potatoes, cole slaw, the works. You’ll love it. Lots of fun. Late January. Sunday afternoon. Bring the whole church.”

  We kept walking and soon reached Mabel’s Diner, pushed open the door, and found a booth by the window. Mabel swooped in from out of nowhere, poured a coffee-like sub-stance into our mugs, and disappeared. Reverend Platz was right. It was the worst coffee I’d ever smelled or tasted. It was blackish, burnt goo. I watched Reverend Tinker, moving as slow as a glacier, carefully pour ten teaspoons of sugar and two packs of creamer into his cup and stir, stir, stir.

  He looked across the table and pushed the cream and sugar at me. I decided to drink water instead.

  Reverend Platz gulped his coffee straight, too busy talking to notice. “So, let’s discuss the Living Nativity. Twenty-seven years and counting. Wonderful tradition. Lovely. Moving. Half the town gathers at Town Square carrying kerosene lamps and candles. We all sing Christmas carols as we march through the snow-covered streets, following Joseph and Mary as they make their way through town. Tebs Olsen and Gerty Capshaw did it last year, and maybe they’ll do it again. The Bouchard brothers—Louis, Maurice, and Jean-Claude—will be the three wise men. Busy Gunderson has pro
mised to be the shepherd. He can get a couple of sheep from Lazy’s farm. Sam Sloan will provide the horse. We’ll fix up a hump and make a camel out of him. Then, of course, the children from all our churches will dress up like angels and sing around the manger. And we’ll finish the festivities with the Lighting of the Santas. It will be fabulous, as always.”

  I interrupted. “Right. I read that in the newspaper. It mentioned the ‘Lighting of the Santas.’ What’s that?”

  “The Lighting of the Santas? The best part! The high­light! The crescendo! People wait all year for the big moment. You’ll see! It’s spectacular! Marvelous! Explosive! Jim Dougherty’s boy, Rocky, took the big prize last time. One hundred and seventy-five feet, who’d have believed it?

  He’s looking good again this year. My money’s on him. Or maybe Guenther’s boy—he came in a close second. Too top heavy, I think.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Santa Shooters, old boy! Reindeer Rockets. Exploding Elves. We’re talking fireworks, son. Fireworks!”

  “Fireworks on Christmas?”

  “Of course, of course! Got to have fireworks. This whole town was built around fireworks and gunpowder. That’s how it got its name. Every holiday. Christmas, New Year’s, Groundhog Day, St. Patrick’s, Easter, May Day, the Fourth of July. The bigger, the better.”

  “But Reindeer Rockets? And Santa Shooters?”

  “And don’t forget the Exploding Elves. Those are some of my favorites.”

  I looked at Reverend Tinker. He just shrugged.

  “Right now, as we speak, the older school kids are working on their end-of-the-year project. You’ve got a son at the Boomtown School, don’t you? Hasn’t he mentioned it? He better get busy if he wants a chance at the prize.”

  “What prize?”

  “The team that wins first place gets to ride in the lead float in the Fourth of July parade. Then they get to light off the first rocket, the one that sets off all the others during the big fireworks extravaganza in the park. Big fun. A great honor.”

  “You mean to tell me that right now, my son is building a rocket? In class, during school time?”

  “Oh, most certainly. Absolutely. It’s a big part of their science grade. Don’t worry, it’s all perfectly safe and supervised. No problem. There is the occasional mishap, of course, but nothing serious. No deaths. Some damage. The reports are exaggerated, I’m sure.”

  “Nothing serious?” I couldn’t believe it. There was no way I was going to let Jonny build a rocket. It just wasn’t safe! I jumped up from my seat, threw fifty cents on the table, grabbed my umbrella, and headed for the door.

  “No need to panic! Everything will be fine. What about the Nativity? Reverend? Come back!”

  I made it back to the church at a run, found Janice hanging evergreen swags in the foyer, and told her what I’d found out. Then we both jumped in the car and drove to the Boomtown School. We pounded through the front door and charged past the principal’s office. Janice turned left to go check on Sarah. I shot straight down the hall and burst into Mr. O’Malley’s eighth-grade science class. It was right in the middle of his demonstration of how to add ammonium to black powder as a binding agent.

  “Mr. O’Malley! What in heaven’s name is going on here?”

  “Excuse me? Oh, you must be Reverend Button! Welcome!” He walked over and shook my hand. “Pleased to meet you. I’d love to stop and talk, but now isn’t a good time. We’re right in the middle of a lesson.”

  “Yes. I know. I just found out that you’re building rockets in here!”

  “Oh, I see. You’re new in town. Someone should have told you sooner. Entirely my fault. Would you like to stay and observe?”

  “Observe? I don’t think so! I came to take Jonny out of here!”

  “Dad! No! What are you doing?”

  I turned to see Jonny at the back table with a group of boys, a mixing bowl in front of him, and a spoon in his hand. He was humiliated by my intrusion, I could tell, but I was too upset to back down.

  “Look, son, this is dangerous.”

  “No, it isn’t. Mr. O’Malley has taught us all about it. The ingredients are stable. You have to put a match to it—and there aren’t any matches allowed in here.”

  I walked over to him and lowered my voice. “But Jonny, these are explosives. You’re learning how to blow things up in eighth grade!”

  “That’s nothing, Dad. Most of my friends here learned how to do that in kindergarten. This is Boomtown, Dad. Boomtown. This is what people do here.”

  “But . . .”

  “Dad, look at what we made. We’re going to enter the contest, and we could win! This is Rocky. His team took first place last year. He’s our team leader. Just look at our rocket! Isn’t it great?”

  In the corner stood a paper maché Santa Claus, arms stretched over its head like Superman, painted bright red, with black boots, glued-on paper strips for a beard, and a pointy hat. He had on a pair of airmen’s goggles over his eyes and a yellow comet painted on his hat and the words You Better Watch Out painted on his chest.

  “You see, Dad, his hat comes off like this, so you can pack rocket propellant down this tube inside the body. The fuse comes out here at the bottom. It’s a really long fuse. You light it and run away. You got lots of time before he takes off. And when the fuel burns up to his head—BOOM! A big ol’ ball of fire. Our burst is going to have red and green trailers with gold sparklers in it. Isn’t it super?”

  I just stood there with my mouth open. What could I say? Jonny had never been this excited about school. He did well enough, but nothing ever sparked his interest like this. I was impressed—but I didn’t want to let on. Should I be encouraging this?

  “Dad, we’re learning about chemistry, propulsion, physics, flight patterns, wind dynamics, all the math and stuff that goes along with it. It’s the best thing I’ve ever done in school. I’m learning a lot! Please, please don’t make me go home.”

  Mr. O’Malley came up behind me and put his hand on my shoulder. “Trust me, Reverend. I haven’t lost a single student yet. And besides, when you see fifteen paper mâché Santas exploding into brilliant colors in the sky, you’ll change your mind forever. It’s a sight you’re not going to want to miss.”

  So I didn’t. Two weeks later at the Living Nativity, Janice and I marched along with all the other townfolk as we sang carols and sipped hot cider, following Mary and Joseph and the wise men and the shepherd and the sheep and the horse dressed like a camel. We marched past the frozen cow and the festive Christmas chickens out to the play-field at the Boomtown School. I stood shoulder to shoulder with Reverend Platz and Reverend Tinker as we prayed with our people, thanking God for another blessed year, remembering the heroes who fought in the war, and asking the Lord for another safe launch.

  Did I mention that Tebs and Gerty were not Joseph and Mary that year? Nope. It was my own Ruth and Waldo Wainwright, dressed in robes, riding on the “camel” and leading the parade. And who was it marching in front of the choir of angels? It was none other than my very own Sarah.

  “Sarah, as an angel?” I whispered to Janice as she went by.

  “That’s quite a stretch, don’t you think?”

  “Don’t be an old poop, Mr. Button,” Janice replied.

  “Just look at her! She’s having the time of her life!”

  Sarah was definitely making the most of it. She marched along in front as the other angel girls sang “O Little Town of Bethlehem” and “Hark! the Herald Angels Sing.” In one hand, she carried a huge sparkler on a pole, representing the Christmas Star. With her other hand, she waved to the crowd as she passed by, clearly enjoying all the attention.

  Once we got to the school playfield it was time for fire-works. First came the Exploding Elves, with long fuses sticking up out of their pointy hats. Boom! Off with their heads! Then eight tiny Reindeer Rockets with Rudolph leading the way. Woosh! Then the climax of the evening—all the science classes lit their Santa Shooter
s. Sheriff Burton Ernie was the official judge.

  “We want to thank Mr. O’Malley for his fine work with our kids again this year. We also want to thank the folks from Big Bang Explosives for donating the rocket fuel.

  “We’re also excited to be able to welcome Jonny Button to a team this year, led by last year’s winner, Rocky Dougherty. We’re expecting big things from that team—isn’t that right, Reverend?”

  “I certainly hope not!” I shouted back. Everyone laughed and applauded.

  Once the laughter subsided, Burton said, “Okay, then, if everybody’s ready to go, without any further ado, let’s fire ’em up!”

  The teams took turns shooting off their Santas. A few of them did pretty well; estimates ranged from fifty feet to as much as one hundred twenty-five feet. Each of the Santas exploded as expected, in lovely blooms of brilliant color, except for one that crash-landed on the roof of the school. Too bad it was a dud. It had actually traveled the farthest distance.

  Then it was Jonny’s turn. His team lined up their rocket while I watched the shining eyes of my son. I listened to his excited chatter as he lit the fuse, ran for cover, and yelled in triumph as their Santa rocket soared fifty, one hundred, one hundred fifty, two hundred feet and more into the air—right into the record books! Then I watched as his wonderful Santa rocket, caught in a winter gust of wind, made a graceful one-hundred- eighty-degree U-turn and plunged straight back toward earth, straight into the ground in the exact spot where I was standing—just before it blew me over the fence.

  I woke up about twenty minutes later surrounded by a circle of concerned faces. Janice was feeling my forehead. Doctor Goldberg was checking my pulse. Jonny was accepting congratulations from his team members. Reverend Tinker was working on a rough draft for my eulogy. He gave a huge sigh of relief when he saw my eyes open. He tore up his notes and declared, “He’ll live!”