The Birthday Room (5 page)

“Great room,” said Ben, expecting to hear an echo.

Ian nodded. “Thank you. I like it.”

Ben's mother passed her hand along the edge of the workbench. “Our new attic rooms I was telling you about are minuscule in comparison to this,” she said.

“This is the first big studio I've had,” Ian said, gazing out one of the large windows.

Ben wondered what had happened to the chair Ian had been finishing when the accident occurred. It struck Ben that he wouldn't recognize the chair if he saw it; he knew nothing about it, except that it must be small, made for a two-year-old. “What are you working on?”

“Nothing right now,” Ian answered. “I've got a show in New York next month, and all my new pieces have already been shipped to the gallery. I always take a break after I send off the new work for a show. And I couldn't have planned things better if I tried—I had intended to take a long break around the time of the baby's due date, anyway.” Ian laced his fingers together. “Would you like to see a catalog for the show? They just arrived.”

“Sure,” said Ben.

Ian walked to a file cabinet in the corner of the studio and pulled two catalogs off the top of a tall stack. He handed one each to Ben and his mother.

Ben's mother flipped through hers quickly and returned it to the stack.

Ben paged through his slowly, reading the titles of the pieces, studying the photographs of the chests and cabinets, trying to picture them in three dimensions.

“You may keep that,” said Ian, fiddling about with his keys. He moved closer and closer to the door, as if he were trying, in a subtle way, to get them to leave.

“Thanks,” said Ben. He snapped the catalog shut, and at the same moment the door swung open.

The two children Ben had seen earlier blew into the room, all elbows and knees. Knobby little things. Directly behind them was a girl approximately Ben's age, out of breath and apologetic.

“I'm sorry, Ian,” said the girl, puffing. “They got away from me. Again.” She snatched the children's hands. “You guys know the studio's off-limits. Come on,” she demanded, pulling them outside.

In the open air, they all gathered together along with Nina, who had just arrived, forming a loose, lopsided ring, half in sun, half in shade.

“I found the twins on my walk,” said Nina. “And they really wanted to meet Ben. And they are
fast
.”

The twins became shy all of a sudden. They scrambled in back of Nina. First their fists, and then their towheads, peeked out from behind Nina's tentlike dress, which was patterned with pale blue forget-me-nots.

“We're the Deeters,” said the older girl. “I'm Lynnie, and these are the twi—”

“I'm Kale!” the boy piped.

“I'm Elka!” chirped the girl.

“We're five years old—a whole hand,” Kale told Ben, thrusting his hand at him, the grimy fingers splayed. “Lynnie's thirteen.”

Ian tapped Ben's shoulder, lightly and briefly. “This is my nephew, Ben, and his mother, my sister, Julie. They live in Wisconsin.”

“We knew you were coming,” said Kale.

“We did,” said Elka. “Ian told us.”

“We saw you on the porch.”

“We did. You were sleeping.”

Lynnie rolled her eyes and hiked up her shoulders, as if to say: I know they're annoying. Forgive me.

Her name repeated in Ben's mind, ruining his concentration.
Lynnie Deeter. Lynnie Deeter
. . .

“Kale, Elka, and Lynnie live over in the apple orchard,” Ian told Ben and his mother. “Very near where we just walked. Their parents, grandparents, and uncle own the apple orchard. The peach and pear orchards, as well.”

“They're
mine
, too,” said Kale, poking himself in the chest.

“Living in an orchard sounds romantic,” said Ben's mother. “Like something out of a novel.”

“It's mostly hard and dirty work,” Lynnie said shyly. “You should smell my dad at the end of the day.”

Giggles.

After a few questions for Ben, asked urgently with wide, curious eyes—“How old are you? Are you moving here? Do you like apples?”—Kale and Elka got squirmy. They pulled at Lynnie.

“Come on,” insisted Kale. “We have to work on the baby present.”

“It's
really
big,” Elka volunteered, spreading her bony arms as far apart as she could. “Way too big to wrap.”

“Shhh,” hissed Kale. He was so close to Elka, his nose grazed her cheek. “Lynnie, we don't have much time left.” He pushed out his lower lip, waiting.

“You have about four weeks,” said Nina, looking downward, a sweet expression on her face. “Don't worry; take your time.” A staccato breeze rippled her dress, and, for the first time, Ben thought of the actual baby inside her, swimming and floating.

Kale and Elka were shifting from foot to foot and hopping in place and generally acting like popcorn popping.

Lynnie let out a sigh. “Well, I guess I'd better go,” she said. “I'm getting paid to watch them.” She wrinkled her mouth and nose at her siblings.

“Lynnie,” said Ian, “ask your parents if the three of you can come by for dinner tonight. That way Ben won't have to spend the entire evening with stuffy adults.”

Nina jabbed at him. “Stuffy? Speak for yourself.”

“Yes,” Ben's mother agreed.

“Great. I'll ask,” said Lynnie. “What time?”

“Oh, how about six?”

“Okay,” Lynnie replied over her shoulder, already on her way. “And thank you.”

“Bye,” Ben called, watching them run down the hilly path. The twins were on either side of Lynnie, their fingers hooked through her belt loops; like determined little tugboats, they steered her over the gentle risings.

Ben's mother, Nina, and Ian headed back toward the house. Ben lagged behind, fanning himself with Ian's catalog. He noticed that Nina was now the person in between, just as he had been. As he ran to catch up with them, he heard his mother laugh—a real laugh, a throaty one, void of nervousness or hesitancy, the first real laugh he'd heard from her since the arrival of Ian's letter. He took it as a good sign.

 

6

T
HEY HAD A PLEASANT
, low-keyed lunch, during which Ben learned things.

He learned that although Nina had spent most of her childhood in northern California, her family had lived on a houseboat on Puget Sound the year she was ten. He learned that she had an older sister, a brother-in-law, and two nephews, and that they all—her parents included—lived in San Diego now.

He learned that Ian was still a Milwaukee Brewers fan, even though the Seattle Mariners, his home team, were playing much better than the Brewers. Ian vaguely recalled when the Braves were still in Milwaukee, and brought out a toddler-size T-shirt printed with the logo to prove it. He placed the faded shirt on the table between the dishes, never letting go of the unraveling bottom hem. “God, I remember that shirt,” Ben's mother whispered, idly touching the sleeve, forming a connection.

He learned that Ian and Nina had gotten married in Ian's studio on a wet October afternoon with only a handful of friends and a judge present. Ian said, “With the big windows showing a watery sky, it felt as if we were under the sea.” Nina said, “We had to wait for a lull in the rain to say our vows, because the drumming on the roof was so loud no one could hear us.”

Ben wasn't particularly interested in wedding details, but he listened intently to everything said and joined in when it felt right. By degrees, he was getting to know this new part of his family.

After lunch, Ben found a sketchbook propped against his backpack on the screened porch. The sketchbook was bound in dimpled black leather, and had a red ribbon bookmark attached at the spine. He opened it and riffled through it to see if there were any clues as to who had placed it there. No card or note had been tucked into the thickness of pages; there was no inscription.

With the sketchbook under his arm, he marched into the kitchen. But before he could hold it up and ask, “Does anyone know anything about this?” Ian said, “Oh, that's from me. An artist should never be without a sketchbook. I slipped it onto the porch by your things while you and Nina were clearing the dishes.”

“Thanks,” Ben said readily. It was much easier to accept a sketchbook than it was to accept a room.

“Sometimes I go through one of those in a week.”

“You do? But you make furniture.”

“Well, I work out all my design ideas on paper before I start with wood. But I'm constantly sketching—anything and everything. Mostly I'm inspired by forms in nature—trees, rocks, leaves. And by the textures of those things—bark, for example. I have two sketchbooks completely filled with drawings of bark. I did a series of chests a few years ago in which the surfaces were carved to look like bark. All my sketching came in handy. Sketching keeps me—oh, aware.”

“Hmm.” Ben transferred the sketchbook from hand to hand. Sweat darkened the leather.

“Am I preaching? Sorry.”

“No.”

“Yes, you are,” said Nina in a cheerful singsong. She and Ben's mother were hunched over the sink, separating a basketful of flowers into several unruly bouquets and wrestling the bouquets into vases. Ben noticed a white petal caught in his aunt's hair. “Ben, your uncle once gave me a sketchbook and a speech to go with it, but I—”

“Disappointed him sorely,” Ian cut in, “by using it for telephone messages and grocery lists, ripping out the pages one by one.”

Ian and Nina shared a knowing glance, and laughed.

“Speaking of grocery lists,” said Nina. “Someone needs to go to town—to the store—before dinner. The list we made earlier is on the fridge.”

“I'll go,” said Ian.

“I'll go with you,” Ben's mother said instantly.

Nina moved her hands in concentric circles around her belly. “Good,” she said. “Then I'll take my nap.”

Ian looked at his nephew. “Ben?”

Ben was thinking, deciding.

“You can stay here, if you want,” his mother told him. “Right? Ian? Nina?”

“Sure,” said Nina.

“Of course,” said Ian.

“Do whatever you want, Ben,” said his mother. “You're on vacation.”

Because she had said yes to going so quickly, it seemed to Ben that his mother wanted to drive to town with Ian alone. “I'll stay here,” he finally said. “Maybe I'll sketch.”

He did. Or at least he tried to. After his mother and uncle drove away, he grabbed the sketchbook and a pencil and went outside. He walked straight to the orchards. He roamed the orchards; his eyes roamed, too. Looking. For something to draw? For the Deeters?

Several times he began a drawing—a cluster of ripening peaches, a gnarled apple tree, an explosion of clouds—but his heart wasn't in it, and so he gave up.

He wandered on. He avoided a small group of apple pickers. The pickers worked silently and diligently, using ladders that tapered and sacks that hung from their shoulders and sagged in front, big as his pregnant aunt. At one point, he heard talking and laughter, and followed the sounds. As he closed in on the noises, he caught glimpses of the Deeters through the leaves—flashes of Kale and Elka's bright T-shirts, flickers of Lynnie's white one.

Something held him exactly where he was. Kept him from approaching, kept him from leaving. He stood still for quite a while.

I'll see them later, he thought. Soon. And he walked back to the house to wait for his family.

Ben, who had been watching from the window, saw the Deeters coming, and opened the door for them. Kale and Elka sprang into the house in crazy leaps, their arms flapping, their voices piercing the air: “Boing, boing, boing!” Lynnie, carrying a plastic bucket of peaches, twisted past Ben, and as she did, their elbows knocked.

Lynnie's nearly invisible blond eyebrows jumped and settled. “Oops,” she said.

“Sorry,” said Ben, rubbing the spot, not because it smarted but because his hand was drawn to it instinctively. He could feel himself redden.

Lynnie smiled, her lips latched tightly. “For you,” she said, offering the peaches. “For all of you guys.”

“Thank you,” Nina said from behind them, while Ben was still trying to get the words out.

“Yeah,” Ben murmured. He took the peaches and gave them to Nina.

“They're beautiful,” Nina commented as she led the way to the kitchen. “We'll have them for dessert, with ice cream.” She raised the bucket, lowered her head, and inhaled. “Mmm.” In the kitchen, she hunted for a place on the table to put the bucket, finally making room by shoving aside a pile of dinner plates and a brown paper bag filled with corn husks. “Lynnie, what kind are they? I like the different names of all the fruits.”

Ben knew that there were different kinds of apples, but he just assumed that a peach was a peach.

“These are called Harmony,” said Lynnie, with a certain pride. “The first of the Suncrests should be ready next week.”

“Harmony,” Nina repeated. “I like that. It sounds portentous.”

Ben didn't know what portentous meant, but judging by the way he felt and the way all the food looked and smelled and the smile dividing Nina's face, it had to be something good.

The food was delicious, and there was so much of it. Grilled salmon, sweet corn, pasta, salad, corn muffins, iced tea, and, for dessert, cookies, and, of course, peaches and ice cream. They ate outside. In the west, banks of clouds extended upward from the horizon like batting from a ripped seam. In the east, the clouds were puffy and constantly changing.

Ben ate more than he should have, but he had a hard time stopping, he was so caught up in the atmosphere. Somehow, the combination of people, food, and weather—the chemistry among them—had turned the picnic table and the surrounding yard into a big, sunny room of arrested time, into something as huge as the sky. He was so relaxed, he even told a joke, leaning into the table and using his hands for emphasis. Everyone laughed, but still, he sensed the eagerness in his own voice, and rather than tell another, he folded back into himself. He relaxed again. He ate a third ear of corn.