That Saturday, Main Street bustled when kids from three to twenty-three spilled on to her from every avenue. The weekly pilgrimage to the afternoon movie matinee took our parade down Main Street, past folks sitting on porches, some calling out greetings to us. With Daniel beside me, and my siblings hooked up with buddies, it was a carefree, ebullient time, when being villagers was our magical, shimmering common bond. For an afternoon, at least, the enchanted silver screen melted us into sterling camaraderie where toleration for even stinkos like Buck Edmonds abounded. Today, Tack Turner, an older twenty-something, accompanied Francine, who now mysteriously had money for whatever appetite flared, whether cigarettes, movies, lipstick, or candy bars. It shamed me to know that Tack furnished her funds. Francine, however, had no such qualms; did, in fact, feel entitled. Tack, tall and crane-thin, sprouted a shock of walnut-hued hair, abundant except on top. His regular features were too cynical and brooding to be called handsome but his attitude took up the slack.
