The green balloon rose through the tree. Hendrick remembered thinking some kid his age must have let the string slip through his fingers; distracted by the puppet show or the clog dancers or some other event at the park fair, so the balloon had escaped. Hendrick remembered how the balloon made its way upward through the tree, climbing dextrously from limb to limb like a gymnast or a monkey in a zoo. Each bump against a branch, any contact with a leaf twig could have punctured the thin skin, but the balloon remained a perfect oval, rising higher and higher as if guided by some intelligence on the ground; perhaps, by the boy or girl who had let it slip away.

Or maybe he had done the trick, willing the balloon its safe journey, maybe making a bet with the powers that govern such things: that if the balloon did not burst, then this day would come out all right. He would not do anything dumb or silly to embarrass his father during the park fair and the day would come out all right. He had held his breath as the balloon bounced against the maple's canopy once, twice and then again, blindly feeling for an opening and then, suddenly, it slipped through the leaves and into the uncluttered air. Free.

"Where have you been, Skippy, I've been looking for you?" His father had appeared, and the question was snapped toward him as the older man made his rounds, as a shortstop might whip the ball over to Musial at first base. Hendrick had fallen in, almost running, taking three steps to his father's one stride. "You're my right hand. Did you deliver that message to the Dixie Doodles?"

"Yessir."