Jim, flat on his back beneath what felt like a swarm of spitting, hissing, feral cats, took a moment to realize just what had happened and just where he was. He took another moment to muster a sense of ill use, and a third to summon a swell of outrage, enhanced by the realization that the front of his heretofore immaculate uniform now had several well-outlined footprints on it, and more than a few splashes of blood. He used this as motivation to rise to his feet, attaining the vertical in a single indignant moment, then opened his mouth and gave speech. All right. That‘s ENOUGH.

Mild words, maybe, but given full voice by a pissed-off state trooper in full regalia, they did not fail of effect. The human cannonball resolved into, of course, Suzy Moonin, Bonnie Jeppsen, and a third woman of whose identity he was unaware. The brief lull dissolved when Bonnie slapped Suzy and Suzy slugged the third woman. Jim grabbed Bonnie and Suzy by the scruffs of their necks, lifted them up off their feet, and banged their heads together, one time, hard.

Suzy screamed, Bonnie started to cry, and the third woman took the opportunity to kick Bonnie in the shins and elbow Suzy in the groin. Jim only had two hands and Bonnie and Suzy seemed subdued, at least for the moment, so he dropped them and picked up the third woman by a large handful of jacket, fleece vest, and turtleneck. Lady! Calm down! He shook her once for emphasis.

Her head rocked back hard. She stopped writhing and glared at him. Who the hell are you, anyway? he said.

Tears glittered in her eyes and threatened to fall in floods. My name, she said, her voice trembling, her breast heaving, is Mrs! Randy! Randolph!

He stared at her for a long moment, her feet dangling a good six inches above the ground. Oh hell, he said, and then he dropped her, too.

And on that note, the Park‘s Memorial Day weekend was over.

Eight

FOURTH OF JULY

There was tremendous scope for a fertile imagination in being the sole owner and proprietor of 160 acres in a place where daylight in summer went almost 24/7. Plants avid to exploit the photosynthetic process exploded out of the ground almost before you could step back out of their way. Every year Kate reveled in the act of throwing out a handful of seeds and telling them, Show me what you‘ve got. Sometimes the shrews and the sparrows got to the seeds first, but often enough she was rewarded on her rambles over the homestead by a tiny burst of color on her peripheral vision. A California poppy, say, reaching up through the surrounding grass on a single trembling stem, a triumphant shout in Creamsicle orange. Or she might stumble onto a clump of pink pussytoes curled up next to a tall, elegant delphinium, the deep blue of an Arctic summer solstice sky at midnight. Three years before she‘d planted a Philippe Rivoire peony, mostly because she liked the name. Then a single, six-inch stem with four modest leaves that had cost her $2.49 at Auntie Balasha‘s annual spring garage sale, she‘d stuck it into the ground in a clear spot next to a stand of diamond willow a mile from her cabin and walked away.