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NINE

A Heartstone PD patrol car rolled onto the field and pulled across the running track.

“This just in, folks,” Lizzie said, holding an imaginary microphone to her mouth. “The cops have finally caught up with the bizarre biker gang who have been terrorizing the neighborhood. They’re setting up a roadblock now.”

Two uniformed police officers stepped out of the car, and as Dad sped around the track for the umpteenth time, they flagged him down.

He skidded to a stop.

Lizzie killed the music. “Quick, Magpie,” she said. “Bail out before they spot you. I don’t care if I get busted, but it will look bad for the president of the senior class to be caught playing DJ while her parents destroy school property.”

“Thanks for the offer,” I said, “but right now I’m not the president of anything. I’m the daughter of that crazy Irishman, and if they throw him in jail, they can lock me up too.”

The two cops walked over to the bike. One was blond and in her midtwenties. I’d never seen her before. But I recognized the older one. Kip Montgomery had known my parents since high school. And when Kip, his wife, and their three kids came into the restaurant for dinner, Dad would always send over dessert on the house.

I was about thirty yards away, but it looked like he gave both Mom and Dad a friendly small-town police officer hello. Then Dad got off the bike, and he and Kip walked off to talk in private. Dad did most of the talking. Finally, Kip took out his radio.

“This is serious, folks,” Lizzie said. “Officer Montgomery is calling for backup.”

“Shut up,” I said. “Dad’s coming.”

My father ambled over; a grin spread across his face. “Get back in the car and hang tight,” he said.

“Excuse me, sir,” Lizzie said, thrusting the fantasy microphone in his face. “Elizabeth McCormick, Heartstone Crier . Can you tell our viewers what the bleep is going on?”

Dad belly-laughed. “Don’t worry, kiddos. It’s all good.”

He walked back to Mom, and the two of them powwowed. Then he scanned the gathering crowd of gawkers, spotted a trio of twelve-year-old boys on bicycles, and signaled them to come over.

The kids responded with a classic “ Who us, mister ?” look on their faces. But he beckoned again, and they decided to find out what he wanted. Pretty soon their heads were nodding vigorously. Dad reached into his pocket, dug some cash out of his wallet, handed it to them, and they raced off.

“Ma’am,” the inquiring reporter said. “Can you tell our audience what the hell that was all about?”

“It’s Dad,” I said. “Don’t ask.”

Five minutes later, two motorcycle cops and two more squad cars joined the group. Dad revved up the Harley, rolled over to us, and said, “Follow me.”

“Where are we going?” I said.

“That’s up to your mother,” he said. “But wherever it is, we’ve got ourselves a police escort.”

The turret lights on all three cop cars went on, flashing red and blue against the graying sky. And with the biker cops clearing the traffic along the way, the motorcade moved out smartly.

First stop on the journey was St. Cecilia’s, where my parents got married. The three kids on bicycles must have been the advance team, because by the time we pulled up to the church Father Connelly was standing outside, along with two of the younger priests, and some of the staff from the rectory. There were hugs, kisses, and blessings, and then off we went again.

The convoy proceeded along High Street at a leisurely pace—about twenty miles an hour. Mom, who’d had her thrill ride for the day, didn’t complain.

“Next stop, Main Street,” Lizzie said.

She was wrong. The procession hung a left on MacDougal, a two-lane thoroughfare that skirts the business district and is peppered with gas stations, fast-food outlets, chain drugstores, car dealerships, and not much else.

“What the hell is here?” Lizzie said.

I had no idea. And then one of the motorcycle cops stopped traffic, and the entourage crossed the road and turned into a strip mall.

“Holy shit,” I said, looking at the Chinese restaurant nestled between a Staples and the Sew Rite fabric store. “Dragon Heart.”

Lizzie gave me a blank stare.

“It’s where Mom and Dad were having dinner when her water broke, and she went into labor with me. They never got to finish dinner, so Mr. and Mrs. Lum delivered it to the hospital the day after I was born.”

A white-haired Chinese couple was outside waiting for us. Mrs. Lum had a silver tray with an assortment of appetizers on it. Dad popped a dumpling in his mouth. Mom took a mini egg roll, thanked the Lums profusely, and held on to it. I was sure she’d pass it to Dad as soon as we were out of sight.

“Next stop has got to be Main Street,” Lizzie said.

It was. And from the reception we got, our three young town criers had done their job well. It was as if all of Heartstone had dropped what they were doing so they could make way for the lady in the pink nightgown. Cars pulled over and honked their horns as we rode by. People shouted from windows, and almost everyone at the outdoor cafés that lined the block stood up and gave us a standing ovation.

We drove past the firehouse, where a dozen firefighters hooted and saluted as their electronic message board flashed HFD loves Kate McCormick .

And then we turned onto Pine Street, where the sidewalk in front of McCormick’s was packed with customers, waiters, and kitchen staff. In the middle of them all was Grandpa Mike, arms high, a flag in each hand—one red, white, and blue; the other green, white, and orange.

Loud pipes howled as twenty of Dad’s biker buddies roared out of the parking lot to join the celebration, and the caravan, which had started out with a single motorcycle and a chase car and was now a joyous mob, wended its way to Crystal Avenue, where the whole neighborhood was there to welcome us home.

Someone set off a string of firecrackers, which may have been for Mom, or it might just have been some kid getting a jump on the Fourth of July. People who knew our family well called out her name, pumped their fists in the air, and many of them—big, strapping men included—dabbed at their eyes.

Our police escort stopped just past our house, and the cops got out of their cars and off their bikes as Dad pulled into the driveway.

He lifted Mom off the Harley and turned her to the crowd. She looked exhausted, but exhilarated. She waved, threw kisses, said thank you over and over, and finally, Dad carried her inside the house and upstairs to her bed.

She kissed us all, told us she loved us, went to sleep, and never woke up.