The Birthday Room (10 page)

“But it was my idea in the first place.”

“Yeah, but you were just distracting them from . . . talking about your finger.”

“We have to tell your grandpa and your parents,” Ben said grimly. “Explain everything.”

“I already did,” Lynnie said.

“And?”

“And my grandpa still thinks it's his fault. And my mom and dad said something like: ‘Kale is Kale,' and ‘You didn't make him climb the tree,' and ‘Accidents happen.' And it doesn't matter what I say to Kale—he's furious that we tricked him. Elka, too.”

Ben nodded.

“Do you want this?” Lynnie asked, holding up the green plastic snippet between her thumb and index finger.

Ben shook his head no.

“Me neither.” She took a long breath and blew hard. The piece of plastic rose and looped through the air like a dark, crazy butterfly, then dropped to the ground. “Will you help me carry the cooler to the house? If I do it myself, I'll have to drag it like a mule would.”

“Sure.”

They each grabbed a handle and set out. It wasn't a heavy load by any means, but because Ben was taller and took bigger steps, the cooler banged into their legs every few feet, making it an awkward trip. They finally found a rhythm and even began to swing the cooler in arcs that grew progressively larger.

“Do you think Kale will forgive us?” Ben asked.

“I don't know,” Lynnie replied. “Eventually. Maybe. We'll see.”

Lynnie's house was old and boxy and pigeon gray with a steep green roof like a pointed hat. Toys of all kinds were scattered about the patchy yard. Scruffy cats—Ben counted five—came out to greet Lynnie from behind or under the temporary shelter of buckets, crates, and an open umbrella.

“They're wild,” said Lynnie. “Barn cats. But I feed them.”

The cats wove in and out of Lynnie's legs, purring. If the cats had been trailing rope, Lynnie's ankles would have been bound together in a tangle.

Lynnie lost her grip on the handle. It slipped out of her hand, her end of the cooler hit the stone slab on which she and Ben were standing, and the cats shot off in all directions.

“Do you need help?” floated a calm voice from within the darkness of the house.

“No, Grandma,” Lynnie called, picking up her handle. “We've got it under control.”

The front door sprang open, as if by magic. But really it was Lynnie's grandmother who had thrust the door open and held it as Ben and Lynnie squeezed through. The grandmother's long, pale arm was stretched across the screen. The fingers on her spidery hand were spread widely, a five-point star. “Rest a minute,” she said.

Ben and Lynnie gently lowered the cooler onto the entryway floor. Ben thought that Lynnie's grandmother looked like a female version of her grandfather. They had similar hair, similar builds, and the same icy blue eyes. More like brother and sister, he thought, than husband and wife.

“Grandma, this is Ben, Ian's nephew,” said Lynnie. She continued the introduction, “Ben—my grandma. She goes with the grandpa you just met. They live across the way, but she's staying here today in case Kale needs anything. My mom and dad are picking.”

“Hello, Ben. Nice to meet you.”

“Hi. Me, too,” said Ben.

“I'm glad your paths crossed this morning,” said Lynnie's grandmother. “I pictured Lynnie lugging that chest alone through the orchards and fields.” She turned to her granddaughter. “Your brother really wants to have that thing upstairs.”

“I'm waiting,” Kale yelled from above.

“Waiting,” Elka echoed.

“Coming,” Lynnie shouted.

The cooler bumped against walls, the railing, and the steps as they ascended the narrow, twisty staircase.

“First door on the left,” Lynnie directed.

“King Kale, your loyal servants have arrived with your treasure chest,” Ben announced from the hall.

“It's mine, too,” Elka said, popping out from behind the door.

Ben and Lynnie entered Kale's room.

The shock of seeing Kale caused Ben's knees to slacken, his cheeks to burn. Kale's small pink face was stitched like a rag doll's and was uneven, swollen in places as if stuffing had bunched up inside. The longest cut on his face was dangerously near his right eye, and Ben sighed, relieved that the eye hadn't been poked out. The cast on Kale's arm was a rigid capital
L
lying on its back; the cast on his leg and foot added so much bulk that his other leg seemed as thin and fragile as an icicle. He sat in bed, propped up on a mountain of pillows. Broken.

“I'm sorry,” said Ben. “I'm so sorry.”

“I'm mad at you guys,” Kale said sternly. His eyes flashed, then roved like searchlights. “You tricked us.”

“You did,” said Elka, leaning into the footboard of Kale's bed. One of her legs and one of her forearms were wrapped in towels that were secured with rubber bands—imitations of Kale's casts. As a sympathetic gesture, she limped around the room, holding her arm frozen at a right angle. She returned to the bed and clumsily scooted up onto the mattress. She adjusted her towels and rubber bands.

Without realizing it, Ben had let go of the cooler (Lynnie had, too). It sat in the middle of the room, and Ben had worked his way over to the window. “I didn't mean it. To trick you. Or for you to get hurt.”

Kale wiggled the toes on his uninjured foot.

“It's hard to wash with casts on,” Elka stated matter-of-factly, snapping her rubber bands. “And it itches underneath sometimes.”

Ben wished he could shuck his skin off, change his insides, too. Start this trip all over. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Is there something I can do to make it up to you?”

“
We
,” said Lynnie. “Something
we
can do . . .”

Kale and Elka exchanged a glance and shrugged. “Maybe,” Kale replied, considering. “Maybe, if you think of a new gift, I'll forgive you. But it's got to be better than the tree, or at least as good. And it's got to be big.
Like
a tree. Or a house,” he added, regaining some of his spark, but only for a second. He wiggled his toes again.

“Okay,” said Ben. “We'll think of something.” He wanted to leave. He wanted to be outside. The room seemed so small, and growing smaller, and everywhere he looked was Kale with his grave, sewn-up face.

Minutes later, Ben and Lynnie were settled on the steps of the porch, and the wide outdoors rolled on forever. No walls, no ceiling. “We
will
think of something,” Ben told Lynnie, although he hadn't a clue as to what that something might be.

 

11

S
INCE
B
EN AND
his mother would be returning to Wisconsin in just two days, Ben knew there was very little time to come up with a gift that would be satisfactory to Kale. So that first morning after Kale's accident, Ben and Lynnie went right to work. Although they brainstormed for hours, all their ideas were flawed. They were either too easy—a banner made from a bedsheet and hung from Ian's studio; or too grand—the word
BABY
spelled out by a skywriter in letters the size of clouds for everyone to see. (How would they ever find a skywriter? Where? And how could they afford one, even if they located one?)

Ben's idea to plant a young apple tree in honor of the baby struck him as perfect. Not Lynnie. She convinced Ben that Kale would never go for it. It wouldn't be a big gift
now
, she pointed out; it would take years to grow big. He would feel as though he were being tricked again.

They both tried to keep Kale's words in mind: “. . . it's got to be big.
Like
a tree. Or a house.” And so a tree house seemed obvious and logical. But only momentarily. Considering the circumstances, the nature of Kale's accident, they soon decided that a tree house was completely wrong, even ironic.

“Another Valley of the Shadow day,” Lynnie said flatly. She arched her fingertips together, her elbows on her knees.

“Yeah,” replied Ben. “I know what you mean.” He was tired of thinking. His head hurt.

They were still on the porch. The sun had shifted. Now sunlight—fragmented by the trees—dappled their legs, their shoes, their heads.

“I just thought of something weird,” said Lynnie.

“What?” said Ben.

“It's too weird to say.”

“Go ahead. You can say it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, but remember, it's weird.” Lynnie was quiet for a long time, and then she said, “I was thinking again how if you asked me, I'd say that Kale's accident was my fault, and you'd say it was your fault. Grandpa would say it's his. And it's not like there's one right answer. And—this is the weird part—maybe it's the same thing with your hand. Maybe it wasn't only Ian's fault. Maybe . . . I mean, who knows? I mean, you'll never really know, it was so long ago.” She held a finger to her lips, pondering. “Dumb thought,” she added, as if to dismiss everything she had just said.

Ben took this in. He lifted his head and squinted directly at the sun. This possibility had never occurred to him before. Heat seeped through his eyelids. When he lowered his head, his expression read: Who cares? Although he did care, of course. And then, all at once, he leaped off the porch. “I should go check in with my family,” he said.

“Okay, but come back as soon as possible,” said Lynnie, rising from what looked like a comfortable, miserable slouch and grabbing onto the porch railing.

“Okay,” replied Ben in a surprisingly deep voice.

“Okay,” said Lynnie, imitating Ben, making a kind of a joke.

“Okay,” Ben repeated, smiling.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

They continued their exchange—calling, calling, like two unusual birds—until Ben was lost to the trees and neither could see nor hear the other.

Word of Kale's mishap had traveled, and Ian and Nina asked Ben how Kale looked, how he seemed. Ben answered their questions and told what he knew, except for the part about the green plastic leaf. He didn't lie; he just didn't fill in each and every detail.

Ben intended to return to Lynnie's right after lunch, but he wasn't the only one with a plan.

“Since we won't be making it to the ocean or the mountains,” said Ian, “how about a trip to the post office? It's not exactly in the same category, I admit.”

Because Ben's mother was clearly within earshot and didn't react, Ben assumed that she must have already granted permission. “Yes,” he said.

“Great,” said Ian.

They said good-bye and drove away.

Stones hit the bottom of the car and dust rose in its wake until they reached the highway. Then they picked up speed. Traffic was light. Ben looked at everything around him. The somber hills. The mountain peaks—far off, wrinkled, like tissue paper glued to the sky. Sheep. The occasional logging truck. Stands of fir trees that surely were older than any person he had ever met.

“Kale is a funny kid,” said Ian. “A good kid. I'm glad nothing more serious happened. I picture him scaling Everest someday, or sailing around the world solo. It's interesting how you can tell already what he'll be like as an adult. It's not so obvious with everyone. Some people . . . with some people it's harder to know.”

Ben laughed, a half laugh. It was comforting to hear someone talk about Kale without dwelling on the accident.

“The last time I saw
you
,” said Ian, “you were too little for me to know very well. I never saw you enough.”

“Yeah.”

“I've been trying to spend more time with the Deeters, to learn about kids. Practice for being a parent.”

Ben nodded.

They passed a sign that read
OCEAN BEACHES
. The sign had an arrow indicating a turn to the left, but no indication as to how many miles separated them from the sea. Ben guessed one hundred.

“The, uh, the reason,” Ian said stiffly, “
one
of the reasons I invited you for this visit was so that I could see you before we have the baby.” He swallowed, and his Adam's apple bobbed. It looked as if a large grape were lodged inside his throat. “I needed to know that you were okay, that I hadn't ruined your life.”

“You didn't,” Ben said, surprised. He rolled his window up and down, changing the air inside the car. “Really.”

Ian was wearing sunglasses. For the most part, he kept his head fixed straight ahead, his eyes pinned to the road. “I'm sorry,” he said, his eyes darting to the side.

“It's okay,” said Ben. “No problem.” He continued to play with the window. “You know, I heard that we don't really need our pinkies anyway. And that maybe in a couple hundred years or so, people won't even be born with them. We'll lose them, evolutionarily. An anthropologist said so on National Public Radio, so it must be true.”

Ian chuckled.

“I don't just sit around and listen to NPR,” Ben explained. “Mom and Dad have it on in the bookstore. That's where I heard it.”

Ian sighed an enormous sigh, then smiled. He was gripping the steering wheel with one hand and tapping it with the other. “You are one of the most okay people I've ever known.” He sighed again. Dark trees sped by. “After the accident,” he said, “I vowed I'd never have kids of my own. I was afraid of them, couldn't even hold one. So when I found out that Nina was going to have a baby, I panicked. In April, I took off for a couple of weeks to be alone, to think. I was so . . . I don't know—worried, I guess. Worried about what kind of parent I'd be, because of what I'd done to you.”

It was almost as if Ian were talking to himself.

“I camped up in the mountains,” Ian continued, “seeing how little I could get by on. Bread, cheese, water, fruit. And one very cold, starry night, I decided I wanted to see you. I decided that that was what it would take. . . .”