They Dragged Them through the Streets: A Novel

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45 S The heat was dangerous. I must have said this too many times because Ford gave me a look. We’d heard there were a quarter of a million people coming. This is what Viv had said when we left her in a square near the business district, a paved park with a statue of a minister, his stone paunch lichening. From there we walked four blocks east to get to the march. Viv wouldn’t come, she was still recovering. I had said to her that morning: The heat will be dangerous. And who knows what the crowd will be like. You know I’m already not coming, she’d said. The four of us said goodbye to Viv and headed across the park. Around us a street theater troupe was gathering, in red, white, and blue spandex and sequins. A man fanned himself with a sequined cardboard top hat. They began a skit, shouting the names of defense contractors, lists of statistics I couldn’t make sense of. It was so hot it was hard to hear. I wish we were one of those groups that rolled signs from 46 the tops of buildings, I said, looking up at the cool dark windows . Hot air rises, Ford said. As we turned the corner I looked back to see Viv talking to one of the theater troupe, a teenager in a red cape on rollerblades . He looked shy before her, who wouldn’t be? The sidewalks then the street thickened with people. Police stood in rows next to the parking meters, sweating. Fake coffins wrapped in flags were bobbing down the street. There’ll be a thousand of them, the guy on the end of one said when Ford asked him. There were eight or ten visible on this street, wobbling a little, the butt of one almost hitting a cop car. We’re meeting a few blocks down, the guy said, From above, it’ll be unbelievable. He pointed up as though to show us. There were no news helicopters yet. A was looking up at the sun flashing off the high windows. The guy shrugged the coffin back up his shoulders and the flag slipped; Ford grabbed a fistful as it slid and pinned it back into the cheap plywood. You don’t let that touch the ground, Ford said. The guy nodded. We walked toward the march. It was hard even to get in, people were already pushed to the barrier, too close to each other. Excuse us, sorry, A said, angling through the crowd. She liked to be in the thick of it. Z’s hand was on the inside of my elbow, surprising me. Nice little show of nationalism back there, Z said to Ford. Ford turned to reply but the people next to us started singing . Old protest songs—two generations’ wars come together, I thought, feeling the sweat of a man’s arm, middle-aged and furry, against mine. I’m gonna lay down my sword and shield, he sang. 47 He had a good voice, a church baritone. The front of his T-shirt was already damp. A group of kids dressed all in black pressed by us, holding up signs, No meat No murder No war No abortion! Z smiled. One kid paused so close I could have slid a pinky through the plug in his ear. Lifted and shook him. The march didn’t move forward. We were a mile from the destination, but we weren’t going anywhere. Viv had said: The permit was only for ten thousand, but they say it’s a quarter of a million already. Good, A said. It’s going to be fucking uncomfortable, Viv had said, looking at us doubtfully. The heat is dangerous, I said again. And it was. Around us people jostled each other to take out their water bottles. A woman pushed past us, leading a child by the hand, so small she could have been lost among hips, calves, feet. Is there a bathroom, do you know? she asked A, who said something and pointed. There were no bathrooms, though, no water. A coffin pushed through, sharp-cornered. Ahead of us there was a float, blood-colored, and people were singing. We stopped, we took small steps forward, stopped again. Someone hit Z in the face with a sign; a thin paper cut opened along...