Our annual Fourth of July block party had gone surprisingly well. Every house on Rainey Avenue was well-represented, and everybody seemed to have fun. Even Billy, the young soldier who had recently returned from Vietnam. My cousin Clarissa and I had spent the morning with him at the parade, but she'd reaped most of his attention since. I tried not to show it, but I was jealous.

Nobody seemed surprised when the wind shifted and storm clouds appeared. The weather in our portion of the Midwest, near Lake Michigan, was notoriously fickle.

"We clean up now," Gram commanded as if she were in her kitchen.

The men scurried to stow away the tables. Daddy and Uncle Frank were carrying ours while Grampa, surprisingly nimble, marched ahead and pointed to the basement door. Soon the street was empty. Only a scattering of bunting and litter remained.

Mr. Hall loped over with a garbage pail and a broom, and I felt it my duty to help him sweep up the debris. When we finished, he tapped me on the shoulder and grinned.

"Get your folks, Micki, and drag 'em to my place. Mildred's got an urn of coffee brewing. We'll drink it on our porch."

"Okay, uh--"

"Yeah, have your cousin come too and bring her boyfriend. I like him a lot. And while you're at it, call over the Singhs. More the merrier."

I couldn't help chuckle as he loped back to his house. Have you ever seen a man about as big and ungainly as a rhino lope?

Who to grab first? I spotted Billy and Clarissa sitting on the church's lawn, almost invisible in the twilight. I trotted down, said what I'd been told to say, and trotted back. Then I saw Dr. Singh standing on his lawn, gazing up at the American flag draped from the eaves of his porch, and shaking his head.

"Forget it, Dr. Singh," I called. "Billy and I will get it down later. The party's moved to Mr. Hall's porch. Bring your wife for coffee."

Dr. Singh turned toward me. I could almost feel a wave of air from his sigh of relief. He smiled tentatively and bowed.

"Yes . . . yes, I . . . we . . . will come . . . soon."

I scampered on to my house and thumped up the steps to Gram's flat. The door was open and I barged in.

"So noisy!" Gram said. She and Grampa were putting away clean dishes in the hutch.

"C'mon, Gram . . . Grampa. Mr. Hall wants us all for coffee on his porch."

"You panting, Michaela. Stop, sit! Catch your air."

"My breath . . . I have, Gram. Take off your apron and come."

"No, no, we--" She paused to point at Grampa. "We too old. This too late for us. Is almost nine o'clock."

"You can sleep in tomorrow."

"No, no! Too much to do then. We must clean this place."

I looked around, knowing "this place" was spotless. I also knew I couldn't change her mind.

"Okay, Gram. You two rest. But Mom and Aunt Margie will go. Okay?"

"Sure, sure. They still young. Your father and uncle, they work tomorrow, yes?"

"Yes, Gram, but you know how they love a party."

"Me, too," chuckled Grampa. "I not so old. I go with you." He sidled toward me, trying to evade Gram as she grabbed at his shirt front. "I be back in hour, Mama."

Grampa didn't use that tone of voice very often, but when he did, Gram listened. She released him and waddled back into the kitchen, shaking her head.

"We go, eh?" he chuckled, his dentures flashing.

I let Grampa tell the others in the kitchen of our plans. Then we went, arm-in-arm, down the front steps and across the street.

The Halls' verandah was wide enough to accommodate all the neighbors if need-be. When Grampa and I arrived, we found the Singhs sitting on a wicker settee, sipping coffee from hefty red, white, and blue mugs. Mr. Hall was nearly poking Dr. Singh in the nose with a silver flask.

"Strong enough, Munesh?" Mr. Hall winked.

"Oh, yes! This very . . . strong. Good, too."

Grampa stared at the black handle on the urn, not sure which direction to push it. I showed him and poured him half a cup. Any more and I knew he wouldn't sleep. Needing an eye-opener, I filled my mug to the rim. When Mr. Hall offered his flask, Grampa shook his head vigorously up and down and grinned. Our host poured in a drop or two. Grampa waved for more. Mr. Hall chortled and kept pouring until Grampa waved him off. I was shown the flask but given only a wink.

Uncle Frank and Daddy came bounding up the steps.

"Now here's two birds that know what makes good java. Grab some mugs off that table, Frank, Rankin. Coffee's in that silver 'traption. Cream and sugar . . . well, you see it."

Daddy poured both cups and added some cream to his. Uncle Frank beamed when he saw the flask and beckoned for a hit.

Mom and Aunt Margie followed shortly and sat on the wide railing with Mrs. Hall. Daddy poured for them, too, but Mr. Hall's flask had magically disappeared.

Soon quiet dialogs began. I vaguely heard the women talking about TV shows. Mary Tyler Moore and her friend Rhoda and that fool Ted Baxter. I turned toward the men and heard something about Hank Aaron hitting 700 homers and Nolan Ryan pitching no-hitters. I was tired of both subjects, but enjoyed the music of their conversation. I knew the sound of our voices must be carrying to other streets, and I wondered if the neighbors on other blocks envied Rainey Avenue,

Clouds threatened to hide the setting sun, but I could see the contentment on the faces of my family and my neighbors. I knew that I, too, was smiling.

But not for long.

The men launched into a discussion of politics.

"Senate hearings on the TV! Who ever heard of such a thing?" Mr. Hall was speaking, his voice more strident than usual, perhaps because of whatever was in that flask.

"It's novel," said my father quietly.

"It's--it's almost blasphemous! The things they are saying about our president. That man Dean claiming there's a cover-up. The man's a liar covering his own ass."

I knew the women were listening now as both Aunt Margie and Mom were glaring at Mr. Hall.

Again my father spoke quietly. "If he's proven correct, Nixon could be impeached."

"Impeached? What do you mean?" blustered Mr. Hall.

"If Nixon's found to be lying about what happened at Watergate, the Senate could try him. If the vote goes against him, he would be forced to resign."

"Who said?" blurted Uncle Frank, not wanting to go unheard.

"It's in the Constitution." Daddy's voice was almost a monotone.

"He's our president. They would not do that," spoke Grampa, surprising everyone. He sat facing me, and I could see tears in his eyes.

"They could," replied Daddy. Standing tall in the shadows, he reminded me of Abe Lincoln, especially the sad look in his eyes.

"No, no!" cried Dr. Singh. He almost knocked over his mug while flailing his arms. "This I do not believe. Our president--Mr. Nixon--lie to us, his people?"

I looked down at the floor of the porch, not wanting to make eye contact with Dr. Singh or anyone else. No one spoke for a long time. Then I heard pounding footfalls up the porch steps.

When I looked up, there was Billy with a grimace on his face.

"Rain's comin'! We gotta take down that flag!"

"Yes, yes! Before rain fall on it!" yelped Dr. Singh. As he leaped to his feet, his mug flew out of his hands and onto the floor. Coffee splashed on Billy's shoes, but the mug remained intact.

Billy flew off the porch and raced to Dr. Singh's yard.

Dr. Singh, yelling, sprinted after him. "Wait there while I get ladder."

Then I was on my feet and racing after them both.

I stood waiting on Mr. Singh's lawn with Billy, listening to the rumble of thunder in the distance. Suddenly, a jagged streak of lightning lit up the dome of the Village Hall across the tracks. A clap of thunder exploded overhead, louder than any fireworks display. Moments later several huge rain drops pelted the sidewalk. I got slapped in the forehead with another.

"Oh, shit!" groaned Billy.

Dr. Singh appeared with his aluminum ladder as the deluge began.

"You two get out of this!" Billy yelled, his order barely audible above the steady roll of thunder.

Dr. Singh obeyed, scurrying to his front porch, but I stayed.

"Nothing you can do, Mick, except drown out here. It's a one man job!"

Another bolt of lightning above the church convinced me. I joined Dr. Singh. Poor Billy, his hair hanging like strands of a wet mop, was getting soaked, and the ladder wasn't cooperating. Hearing him curse, I left my shelter to help.

It was pitch black except for flashes of lightning. Torrents of rain filled the gutters and rolled off the roof on to Billy.

Suddenly, Mr. Chaney, Billy's step-father, appeared, looking like a hideous ghoul in the flickering light.

He yelled, "Get down, you fool! That ladder's like a lightning rod. You'll get zapped!"

Billy ignored him and clambered up the ladder, rain spilling from his nose and chin. Moments later he had the flag unhooked. As he descended, he tried desperately to keep a corner of the gigantic banner from touching earth.

I leaped to help him and gathered the folds of the flag in my arms.

When Mr. Chaney reached out to help, Billy swatted away his hand.

"Don't you touch it!" he roared.

Mr. Chaney dropped his hand and his head. Not looking at any of us, he trudged across flooding Rainey Avenue. I didn't see him reach his house, but I heard his front door slam.

By now I was drenched, and so was the flag I carried to Dr. Singh. He and I did our best to fold it, but it was too waterlogged to do much with. We left it curled around a railing under the protection of an overhanging eave.

Bedraggled and soaked to the skin, Billy stood away from the ladder, letting the rain continue to pound him. Overhead, lightning flashed repeatedly. Thunder roared. He did not move.

I left the porch and walked slowly toward him, shoving tendrils of wet hair aside so i could see him. He didn't swat away the hand I reached out to him, but grabbed my fingers and squeezed them tightly.

"Oh, God," he sobbed. "Why can't it ever be over?"

"What, Billy? The War" I wanted to ask but couldn't. Maybe he'd tell me someday. More likely Clarissa.

Sensing his need to be alone, I left him, my soldier, standing in the rain.

Plodding through the river of water racing down my sidewalk, I went home. When I reached our stoop, I gazed around at every house on Rainey Avenue, pleased to see a warn glow in each front window. I was cold and wet, but unlike Billy, not alone. So why was I sobbing?