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years or so, he expected to switch his story to Vietnam. Verisimilitude had never been a problem;
Grampa was a military history buff.
Sinatra Park was jammed. Most folks were silent, but some wept. Apron Annie and Black-Eyed Sue
helped in this respect; both were able to cry on demand. The others put on suitable expressions of
sorrow, solemnity, and amazement.
Basically, the True Knot fit right in. It was how they rolled.
Spectators came and went, but the True stayed for most of the day, which was cloudless and
beautiful (except for the thick billows of dreck rising in Lower Manhattan, that is). They stood at the
iron rail, not talking among themselves, just watching. And taking long slow deep breaths, like
tourists from the Midwest standing for the first time on Pemaquid Point or Quoddy Head in Maine,
breathing deep of the fresh sea air. As a sign of respect, Rose took off her tophat and held it by her
side.
At four o’clock they trooped back to their encampment in the parking lot, invigorated. They would
return the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. They would return until the good
steam was exhausted, and then they would move on again.
By then, Grampa Flick’s white hair would have become iron gray, and he would no longer need the
wheelchair.