As the day of the party drew closer,
Father and Aunt Claire became very quiet—even secretive—about what was going to
happen. I’d told them what I wanted for
food. No surprises there—yellow cake
with chocolate frosting, red Kool-Aid, fresh sweet corn, hamburgers and hot
dogs grilled outside (one of Father’s great skills), potato salad. As you can see, I’ve sort of listed things in
the order of liking, not in the order of eating.
The party was not going to be on my
actual birthday—30 August—because it was on Wednesday that year, and we had
already started school. Instead, Father
had planned it for Saturday, 2 September.
At noon. I didn’t realize until
later the significance of the time.
Jane, Matilda, and Elena arrived
together, just a few minutes after lunch.
I heard someone’s mother at the front door talking with Aunt Claire, who
then brought the three girls into the living room. They looked nervous. And I knew why: I’d basically never spoken
much to any of them. (I wasn’t rude,
just not too talkative.) Not one of them
had ever been in our house—in fact, I was surprised they even knew where I
lived. I had no idea where their houses were.
They were dressed casually—as
Harriet and I were. (She’d been at my
house most of the morning, helping out, sneaking fingertips of chocolate icing
from the bowl and beaters.) All of us
would probably run around outside for a while, something that never interested
me too much. But I knew: This is a party. So … get ready to run around …
Father must have heard the
arrivals, for he came into the room. I introduced the girls to him, and they
all called him “Mr. Stone,” very politely, smiling all the while like … well,
like six-year-old girls who don’t know what to do.
“Why don’t you all just wait in
here,” suggested my father, “until the food’s ready?” He seemed uncertain what to do a little kids’
party. Which is exactly how I felt. I was starting to wish that I had the
mumps. Right now. I reached up to feel my neck … no, no swelling.
When he left, the girls and I stared
at one another for a month before they started looking around at all the books.
They were surprised at how many we had, the way most adult visitors are, too. The three of them went over to the shelves
and began fingering and handling the books as if they were museum artifacts or
something. Elena turned to me. “Do you have any about horses?”
We did. Father had books about most everything
because you never knew, he said, when you had to write about something in the newspaper. I showed her The Encyclopedia of the Horse, which she carried over to a chair,
where she sat happily, ignoring the rest of us, paging through the book.[i] I was starting to like Elena.
Jane was looking at books, too, and
finally found a world atlas, a heavy book that she hauled over to another chair
to examine. “You probably won’t find
Franconia in there,” I told her. Then
wondered immediately why I would say something like that. Something discouraging.
“Oh, I know,” she said. “I just like looking at other countries. And the oceans.” I did too, actually. And was starting to like Jane now, too.
Harriet was a big help with Matilda,
who read books at school only when she absolutely had to, and soon she and
Harriet were chattering away like a couple of frisky birds on a branch. I was grateful.
And I was also grateful that, so
far, there was no sign of Blue Boyle.
Maybe Harriet was right. Maybe he
wouldn’t show up. I knew when I’d seen
him at school during the week that he must have gotten the invitation that
Father had mailed to his house. But he
showed no sign of it. Nothing.
He did nothing but ignore me. Which was the way I liked it. Harriet told me he hadn’t said anything to
her, either.
After some slow minutes crept by,
Father came back. “Why don’t we head outside
now?” he suggested. “It’s about time to
start grilling.”
Elena and Jane looked sad. But they both their books down carefully. Harriet and Matilda ran on ahead, eager to
get out, like escaping prisoners. But I
walked out with Elena and Jane. “Good
books?” I asked.
“The best,” said Elena. “The very best.” And Jane added an “Ummmmm.”
I wasn’t really sure what that meant.
Outside, Father had set up a picnic
table, and Aunt Claire was there, trying to make sure none of the paper plates
and napkins blew away in the gusting breeze.
She put dishes and glasses and jars of mustard and ketchup on them the
keep them from flying off. It was a nice
day, warm and humid, so humid that I was pretty sure it would rain later. Maybe it would storm. Maybe everyone would have to go home
early. That sweet possibility sat in my
mind like a chocolate chip in a cookie.
Father had started the grill a bit
earlier, and it was ready to go, its smoke drifting off down the street. He lifted the lid and plopped on the hot dogs
and burgers, which sizzled immediately and sweetened the smoke. The girls, led by Harriet, had fistfuls of
potato chips and sat all on one side of the table, leaving no room for me.
I sat down on the other side and
looked at them, wondering what in the world we could talk about. Father, partly hidden by swirls of smoke over
by the grill, was useless. But Aunt
Claire swopped in to help out. She got
the girls to say their names. To talk
about their families. About what they
liked to do. I was in awe.
And then—just at the moment Father
was crying out, “The food is ready!”—a pickup truck pulled in the
driveway. All heads turned that
way. The sun’s glare on the windshield kept
us from seeing who it was. The truck
just sat there a minute, idling loudly, smoke boiling out from the tailpipe in
foul clouds.
And then the passenger door
opened. Someone got out, walked around
the front of the truck.
Blue Boyle.
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