The Birthday Room (4 page)

Ian coughed. “I know.”

“He sends his love.”

They hadn't moved. The waiting area was emptying. People rushed by, alone and in clusters, colored blurs vanishing down the long hallway. At the fringe of his vision, Ben spotted a joyful reunion with tears and hugs and balloons and flowers and flashing cameras and a banner that read
WELCOME HOME, BUNNY
! Ben hadn't quite pictured that grand a production for his mother and uncle, but he had expected something more than what was happening right now.

“My throat's dry,” said Ben's mother. “I could use some water. I'll be right back.” She left them, walking briskly toward a drinking fountain several yards behind them.

Ben and Ian waited.

Ian shook his head. “You're all grown up.”

“You are, too,” Ben replied automatically. He couldn't believe how stupid he sounded. He blushed, his eyes circling shyly as if a proper response were hanging in the air. “I mean, you're a real person.” The tips of his ears were bright red. Just as stupid, he thought.

“Yes, I am,” said Ian, laughing.

The laughter broke the ice, released tension, and Ben laughed as well.

“What's so funny?” asked Ben's mother as she rejoined them. The corner of her mouth was wet and glistened when she stepped into the light. Her shoulder bag brushed against Ben's arm.

“Oh, nothing,” said Ian.

“Nothing,” echoed Ben.

“Let's get your luggage and head out,” said Ian. “You two must be exhausted.”

The scent of pine laced the air, and the air was clear and cool and very different from the air in Wisconsin. Ben took deep breaths until he was light headed. He shivered.

He shivered again in the car, then sat absolutely still. His mother had nudged him into the front seat, saying, “You'll be able to see better. I'll sit in the back.”

It's night, Ben thought, there isn't much to see.

The dark world out the windshield was open and big. Miles and miles away, a light was moving across the sky. The space inside the car was made smaller by the uncertainty of how things would turn out and by what seemed like shyness to Ben. Shyness all around. But how could a brother and a sister be shy with each other? That made no sense to Ben.

“I—I'm married,” Ian said. “I . . . wanted to tell you that before we got home.” He spoke quietly, not stuttering exactly, but with hesitation. “You'll meet Nina. She's nice.”

A ribbon of excitement shot through Ben. I have an aunt, he thought.

“You're
married?
I can't believe it.” Ben's mother leaned forward, clutching the upholstery, one hand behind Ian's head, the other behind Ben's.

“It's true,” said Ian. “We've been married for about a year, but we've been together for a long time.” He had to smile.

“Congratulations, Ian.”

“Yeah,” said Ben. “That's cool.” His mind stirred. The thought of the possibility of a cousin occurred to him.

“I checked for a wedding ring the minute I spotted you in the airport,” said Ben's mother.

“I put it in my pocket,” Ian explained. “I wanted to tell you before you said something to me.”

Ben was twisting in his seat, watching them. The car's shoulder strap pulled against his neck as he moved. At first, Ben thought his mother was relaxing; she even seemed excited by Ian's news, but silence settled back over them quickly.

Ben pretended to sleep—head against the cold window, eyes darting about behind closed lids—with the intent of giving his mother and uncle some kind of privacy. But they only discussed the weather and the bookstore. After another silence, Ian shared impersonal facts about Nina at Ben's mother's request, both of them speaking in the low, even voices of polite strangers.

So tell me about her
.

What?

Nina. How old is she?

A couple of years younger than me
.

Where is she from?

California originally. That's where we met. We've been in Oregon for a few years now
.

What does she do?

We work together. She paints the furniture I make
.

From time to time Ben opened his eyes to mere slits, only to catch a glimpse of a passing car, seen and gone like a pulse. As the drive wore on, Ben peeked more often and for longer periods of time until he could pretend no longer. He feigned a yawn, then stared out at the Oregon night.

Soon Ian turned off the highway onto a narrow dirt road, hemmed in by a dark wall of trees. The trees thinned, and the road wound past a few outbuildings. Ian's voice found a different pitch. “Here we are,” he announced. “We're home.” The car came to a stop near a rustic cedar-shingled house.

Ben lumbered out of the car, stretched, and looked around.

Lights were on inside the house, and there were many uncovered windows. The house appeared before them like a lantern, glowing brightly in the middle of a thicket at the end of the world.

“I'll give you a tour of the place tomorrow,” Ian told them, motioning with his head and arm toward the sweep of hills and trees that surrounded them and folded into the night.

They gathered their bags and walked up a stone path to the front door.

Just prior to entering the house, Ben asked his uncle one question: “Do I have a cousin?”

“Not yet,” was the answer.

Ben watched his mother and aunt embrace. He had a hard time directing his eyes away from Nina's belly, despite the fact that looking at her embarrassed him enormously. When she hugged him, he held his breath. It was an awkward hug due to her size.

Nina was wearing a pale orange jumper and all Ben could think was: giant cantaloupe.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Benjamin,” she said.

“Me, too. You can call me Ben,” he added.

“Ben,” she said, nodding. Her skin was pink and smooth, and something about her conveyed the words
welcoming
and
kind
.

Nina had yawned about a dozen times since Ian had introduced her, just minutes earlier. She yawned again. “Excuse me. Exhaustion seems to be a big part of this pregnancy. I'm usually in bed by now, but I wanted to wait up for your arrival. But if I don't go to bed soon, I'm going to fall asleep right here, standing up, like a horse. Good night . . .”

Ben blinked. And she was gone. Blink. Some of the lights had been turned off. Blink. What time was it? How late?

Before it had fully registered with Ben, he was alone downstairs. The greetings were done. The sleeping arrangements were figured out. Ben and his mother had called home to say they had arrived safely. Ian had gone upstairs to join Nina. And Ben's mother had retired to the small upstairs room that would eventually become the new baby's nursery.

Ben had been given a choice—he could either sleep on the sofa or on a cot out on the screened back porch. It was chilly, but the idea of being on the porch appealed to him. He wandered through the rooms, acquainting himself with the house, before he settled in for the night.

The travel and the anticipation had worn him out. He blinked to stay awake. And he blinked as though his eyelids were shutters, his mind a camera, and he was capturing this new place and storing it away. The kitchen with its knotted, wide-planked floor that pitched down toward the sink. The living room with its stone fireplace—round and gaping like the mouth of a lion. And the dining room—each of the four walls had been painted a different color, and one wall, the largest, unbroken one, was covered entirely with photographs. Except for Ian and Nina, Ben didn't recognize anyone in the photographs, but he was too tired to spend much time looking.

Ben guessed that most of the furniture in the house had been made by Ian. He examined one chest of drawers closely. The chest had twelve square drawers, four rows of three. Each drawer had a grooved surface; the grooves were painted in alternating, muted colors—green, blue, gray; green, blue, gray. It reminded Ben of a patchwork quilt. It amazed him to think that his uncle had built it.

The floor creaked as Ben walked quietly to the porch.

As he made himself comfortable under some blankets and a down comforter, he was thinking of his father, home alone. But it was one of the photographs he was picturing as he crossed over to sleep. In the photograph, five children of descending height, dressed in old-fashioned clothes, bent slightly forward, backs to the viewer, were looking through curtained French doors, captivated by the intense white light that shone through. Ben knew they were brothers and sisters. He wondered what that felt like.

 

5

“T
HERE HE IS
,” said a voice.

“There he is,” a slightly higher but similar voice repeated.

The first voice: “I see him.”

The second: “I see him.”

Ben awoke and lifted his head to the sunlight, cocked his head toward the sound of giggling. His eyes focused in time to see two white-haired children running away from the porch and out of sight. Peals of silly laughter trailed behind them through the piney brush.

Ben sat up and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. Had he been dreaming? One, two, three—he sprang from bed, pulled on his jeans and hiking boots, and passed from room to room of the house through bands of light and shadow. He was drawn to the kitchen by the smells of coffee and fresh bakery, and by the soft rumble of conversation.

Ian was standing by the sink, and Ben's mother was across the room, leaning against the counter beside a plate of muffins. Both held mugs of coffee.

“Morning,” Ben called. He was surprised to see his mother up and dressed before he was, when she didn't have to be.

“Hey, here's the artist,” said Ian cheerfully.

Ben stopped and slipped his mother an angry look. “Mom?”

“What?” said his mother. “I was just telling Ian about your art prizes. He's an artist—I thought it would interest him.”

Ben rolled his eyes.

“It does,” said Ian. “Congratulations. That's terrific. At your age, I was doing nothing but wasting time. I'd love to see your paintings someday. Your mother says you're very good.”

“I'm okay—at art—I guess,” he told Ian. Then he faced his mother. “Mom, didn't you know it's impolite to talk about someone behind his back?”

Ian squared his shoulders. “Don't blame your mother. I was asking questions about you. And . . . well, it's easier to talk about you than it is to talk about us—your mother and me.” His right eyebrow arched as he said it.

His mother averted her eyes and ran her finger around the rim of her mug. She shrugged. “True,” she whispered.

For a second, Ben felt uncomfortable, as though he were an adult and the adults were children. “Where's Aunt Nina?” he thought to ask.

“She's off on her morning walk,” said Ian.

“And she's already baked these muffins,” said Ben's mother. “They're delicious. I know—I've had two.”

“Why don't
we
go for a walk?” suggested Ian. “Grab a muffin, Ben, and let me get a coffee refill. Maybe we'll bump into Nina. If nothing else, you'll get to see the place. Julie, you, too? You can work off your breakfast.”

Ben saw them scowl at each other, and he couldn't tell if the scowls were meant to be playful or not.

They walked and walked, taking a twisty course toward the border of Ian and Nina's land. At the property line, they began a circle, following a well-worn path that ran along the fringe of the woods, and, for a good stretch, edged sweet-smelling orchards—peach and apple. The distant hills were tawny with a nap, and perfectly shaped, like upside-down bowls. The circle halfway completed, the three of them cut back to the house and the cluster of outbuildings by threading through growths of scruffy trees.

Ian's short, descriptive comments about the trees and the land were spaced by lengthy pauses. During the pauses, Ben meant to ask about the children he had glimpsed as he awoke, but remained silent, eating two of Nina's muffins and watching his mother and uncle.

Throughout the walk, Ben continually found himself between them. Even if he slowed down and parted some branches to look at something that had caught his eye, or jogged ahead to peer around a bend to check for Nina, they would slow down or speed up, too, and shuffle about to let him back in place, separating them.

Ian pointed out the long shed in which Nina painted the furniture. “It used to be a broken-down chicken coop,” he explained. “I fixed it up.” One would never sense the shed's former incarnation. It looked immaculate now, brand-new. “And that's where I store some of ray wood,” he told them, indicating a sturdy box of a building, covered in vines.

Gesturing toward the remaining building in the grouping, Ben's mother said, “Then that must be your studio.” The building was very much like the house. It was nearly the same size as the house, and had the same cedar-shingled exterior, same silver-gray roof, and numerous windows. But, unlike the house's windows, these were so tall they reached up two stories, mirroring an expanse of sky. “Do we get to see it?”

“Do you want to see it?” Ian said softly.

“I wouldn't have asked if I didn't,” she replied.

Ben nodded.

Ian led them to the studio via a trampled footway. He flung the remains of his coffee into a wave of wildflowers and set his mug down in a patch of high grass near the wide front door. He unlocked the door and opened it without a sound. They stepped into a sunny room that was as clean and carefully organized as a museum.

“You never used to be so neat,” said Ben's mother.

Ian shrugged. “Live and learn.”

A massive, thick, wooden workbench was an island in the room around which everything else orbited. Hand tools—chisels, mallets, gouges, hammers, clamps, planes, and saws—hung from the walls. Screws and other hardware were stored like specimens, in glass jars, in rows on narrow shelves. Ben saw sanders, different kinds of drills, and some power tools and machines he couldn't name. The table saw was covered with a black plastic tarp. There didn't seem to be sawdust or wool shavings anywhere, no works in progress, but the good smell of wood was present. The stillness, the shrouded table saw, the openness of the space, and the shafts of sunlight dramatically streaming down made Ben feel as though he were standing in the nave of a church.