What We're Writing Week - Out of Season with AT MIDNIGHT COMES THE CRY

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: Happy Independence Day, everyone. It's a strange, sober sort of Fourth for most of us; no BBQs, no parades, no concerts, no block parties, no fireworks. (Or at least, no official fireworks.) One of my family's cherished traditions is watching the movie Independence Day on the afternoon of the Fourth, often between a small-town parade in the morning and a house party at a friend's. I have to admit, it's a little anti-climactic to actually be in a global emergency and discover instead of flying jet fighters toward an alien ship, we need to fight by wearing masks, staying six feet apart, and washing hands.

But the real message of the movie - in addition to "don't forget to regularly update your security software" -  is "No one makes it alone." The characters in the film survive and triumph by joining together, by helping each other, and by working together as a community. Which is how we're going to get past Covid-19.


I've written scenes set on the Fourth of July before, in Fountain Filled With Blood and One Was A Soldier. I wish I had a new one to share with you now, but instead, I'm going way out of season, since my work in progress, At Midnight Comes the Cry, takes place in December. It does, however, start with a parade.

The trouble started, as it so often does, behind the manure spreader. The Greenwich Annual Lighted Tractor parade was in full swing, and this particular spreader, scrubbed until not a molucule of offending odor could cling to its metal, was brilliant with twining, interlaced lights – the publicity for the parade had promised a million, and the owners of the heavy-duty machine were doing their part. The tractor pulling the trailer was equally festooned, and in addition sported a banner, lit by a spotlight, that proclaimed, “Spreading Christmas Cheer!” 

 

“Who needs the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade?” PJ Adams asked. The animal control officer for the nearby town of Millers Kill, PJ held a yearly open house for the Greenwich event. Her 200-year old Georgian home was stuffed with friends, family and fellow municipal employees, some inside keeping company around the groaning buffet board, some warming themselves by a roaring fire pit in the yard, and some, like the Rev. Clare Fergusson and her husband, clustered together on a low side porch lit with hanging paper lanterns. 

 

Russ Van Alstyne huffed a laugh into his mug of hot cider. At his feet, Oscar, their lab mix, made the same sound. At the Adams house, everyone was welcome: kids, cats, dogs and, Clare thought gratefully, unemployed ex-police chiefs. She shifted their seven-month old to her other hip, tugging his hat into place. Ethan's eyes remained fixed on the whirling illumination of the parade passing by. Between the party, the lights, and the Christmas carols booming from the floats Clare figured he'd either be so overstimulated he wouldn't sleep for a week, or he'd conk out the minute they loaded his car seat into the truck.

“Janie! Janie!” The woman standing on Russ's other side leaned over the railing and called to her daughter, standing with a group of tweens by the fire. “They're handing out candy! Go get some!” The group behind the manure spreader was, indeed, tossing candy into the crowds along the sidewalk, boosting excitement for their otherwise less-than-impressive float: a single tractor sporting chicken-wire frames winging out on either side. There were plenty of lights, though, wrapped around the chassis and hanging from the frames, although from her angle, Clare couldn't see the design. 

 

“What organization is it?” she asked. There were kids involved, walking along the edge of the street, handing out sheets of paper. The candy-tossers, she could see now, were all women. “A daycare?”

Janie returned, stepping carelessly on the frozen soil of PJ's border garden, and handed one of the papers up to her mother. “Look at this. It's weird.”

“Oh my God.” The woman held it at arm's length for the rest of them to read. In the dim glow from the lanterns, Clare could make out WHITE FAMILIES UNITE! BLOOD AND SOIL ARE OUR HERITAGE! DIVERSITY IS A CODE WORD FOR WHITE GENOCIDE!

I hope it whets your appetite for more in '21, dear readers! And tell us in the comments if you're finding any small, quiet ways to mark our nation's birthday.