by Ann Tatlock
“Don’t worry, Mom. We’ll be here. I promise.” He leaned over and gave his mother a kiss. He was always surprised at how soft her cheek was.
Once they were out of the car, he grabbed Phoebe’s hand and together they headed for the arcade.
“If Beka’s boyfriend tries to get you to play that game, don’t stop,” Phoebe said.
“Don’t worry, I won’t.”
“You’re going to buy me some cotton candy, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. But not right now.”
“Can we go on some rides?”
“Yeah. Later. Did Mom give you any money?”
“No. She said she spent it all on your birthday present.”
“She did?” Billy stopped walking and smiled widely. He looked at Phoebe. “Did she tell you what it was?”
Phoebe shook her head. “No, she wouldn’t say. She said I couldn’t keep it a secret if I knew.”
“Yeah, Mom was right. Guess I’ll find out Saturday.”
They started up again, moving quickly past the few people milling about the midway. Billy didn’t even notice the games, the carnival barkers, the concession stands. He just wanted to get to the arcade and make sure the nightlight was still there.
Rebekah was behind the counter counting tickets for a couple with a little girl. She glanced up when Billy and Phoebe entered the arcade. She acted as if she didn’t recognize her own brother and sister.
Billy moved right to the spot where the nightlight had been displayed.
“Where is it, Billy?” Phoebe asked, squeezing his hand.
He didn’t answer. A shiver of anxiety slid through him. He let go of his sister’s hand and moved back and forth in front of the glass display case, looking for the nightlight among the items on display.
And then he saw it.
The little girl was clutching the light in her hands, rubbing one dimpled index finger over the lamb.
Billy drew in one sharp breath and looked up at Rebekah. He waited until the girl and her parents moved away from the counter. He didn’t have to say anything. Rebekah knew what he was thinking.
“I’m sorry, Billy,” she said. “They wanted it, and I had to give it to them.”
Billy’s lips trembled. “The last one?” he whispered.
Rebekah nodded.
“Beka,” Phoebe scolded, “you should have hid it so no one else could buy it.”
“I couldn’t do that, Phoeb. You want me to lose my job over a silly nightlight?”
Billy didn’t want to cry in front of his sisters. He didn’t want to cry in front of the other kids playing games in the arcade. He was almost a man now, eighteen in two days, and he didn’t want to cry.
“Listen, Phoeb,” Rebekah said, “why don’t you guys go ride some rides or something.” To Billy, his sister’s voice sounded gentle but far away. He was vaguely aware of her digging around in her jeans pocket. “Here’s a few extra bucks. Go on, hit the midway. No use standing around here gawking. It’s not going to bring the nightlight back.”
Billy felt Phoebe tug at his hand. His feet were as heavy as cinderblocks, but he willed them to move. Grown men don’t cry, he told himself. He wiped his eyes with the back of one hand as his little sister led him out of the arcade.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
A sign was taped to the door of Laughter’s Luncheonette: “Closed for family celebration. Open again at 4:00. Come on back for supper!”
Inside, several tables had been pushed together to accommodate the birthday crowd. Billy sat at the head of the gathering, king of the day, crowned with a festive party hat, the elastic strap digging a trench into his fleshy neck. He didn’t seem to mind. Billy was all smiles.
Andrea, sitting to his right, gazed at her son. How she loved him. So much so that the love was a physical ache in her chest, a good ache.
She felt a hand on her shoulder, a squeeze. She turned to Owen, who said quietly, “You’ve done good.”
“He’s a good boy,” she responded.
“He’s a lucky kid, with you as his mother.”
She raised her hand to his, patted it. “Thanks.”
Owen smiled, his rugged face taking on a tenderness that Andrea always found comforting.
“And thanks for closing the restaurant so we could have the party here,” she added.
“Hey, anything for Billy.” He squeezed her shoulder again, then looked around the table and hollered, “So who wants more spaghetti?”
As gatherings go, it was a small group. Just the five Sheldons and the four Laughters—Owen, Selene, and their two teenaged sons, Russ and Stuart. And one of Billy’s friends from school, Arthur, and his mother. Arthur, also a child with Down syndrome, was a year younger than Billy and several years farther down the scale in mental age. He didn’t say much, but he grinned constantly and laughed a lot, and Billy liked him. Sitting directly across the table from Andrea, his face was one huge grin now beneath his party hat. His eyes grew large at the mention of more spaghetti.
Billy raised his fork in the air. “More spaghetti for everyone, Uncle Owen! And more meatballs!”
“Coming right up!” Owen lifted a small bell from beside his plate and rang it. In a moment a waitress wearing a party hat showed up with a pitcher of water in one hand, iced tea in the other.
“Hi, Elaine!” Billy hollered at her.
“Hi, Billy. How’s the birthday boy?” She moved around the table, refreshing drinks.
“Still hungry. We all want more spaghetti.”
“I’m on it! Be right back.”
She went to the kitchen and came back with Sally, a young woman who seemed reluctant to make eye contact. She was obviously self-conscious and annoyed by the party hat that sat askew on her head. Each waitress pushed a cart with a large steel pot on it, one with pasta, the other with tomato sauce. Elaine dished up the noodles while Sally followed behind, dipping out large ladles of sauce and meatballs. When finished, they pushed the clanging carts back to the kitchen and disappeared behind the swinging door.
Andrea gazed at the small group of partiers. She felt a rare satisfaction as she watched everyone eating, talking, laughing. John sat at the far end of the long table, opposite Billy. He was having an animated conversation with his nephews Russ and Stuart. Andrea couldn’t hear what they were talking about, though John was obviously enjoying the boys, who had grown into gangly young men while he was away.
Rebekah sat next to her cousin Russ, but she didn’t pay much attention to him. Andrea was surprised to see Rebekah talking quietly with Phoebe instead. She was still grounded, but she’d apparently decided to leave her anger and sullenness at home for once. She almost looked like the Rebekah of several years ago, the pleasant little girl at the tail end of childhood, still innocent and happy. She even occasionally laughed with Phoebe while wiping spaghetti sauce off the child’s face.
Phoebe was the only other person at the table wearing a party hat. The hats had been Phoebe’s idea, along with the noisemakers that had—thankfully—been laid aside when the food was served. Phoebe had blown on her noisemaker so hard the paper had become limp with moisture. She loved a party, and a birthday party for Billy was almost as good as a birthday party for herself. That’s what she’d told Andrea earlier when she was putting on her favorite pink dress. “Because Billy’s the best brother in the world,” she’d said.
Andrea was deep enough in thought that Owen startled her when he hollered, “Enough of the spaghetti and meatballs, huh? It’s time to open your presents, Billy!”
“Bring ’em on!” Billy yelled, waving his fork. “I’m ready!”
Elaine and Sally were summoned back to clear the dirty dishes and make room for the gifts. As the waitresses worked, Billy called down the length of the table, “Hey, Dad, get this! We’re at the restaurant, and we don’t have to bus the table!”
Andrea heard John laugh, but it sounded unnatural. It was a laugh that, for Andrea, forced a crack in the wall of the party and allowed the stress of th
eir daily lives back in. She looked at John and felt the full weight of their strained relationship, as stilted and contrived as John’s laughter.
But she wouldn’t think about that right now. Plenty of time for that later. Right now she wanted to drink in Billy’s joy, his delight at the gifts set before him, a small but irresistible pile of colorful wrapping and ribbons. His face shone with this same excited glow every year, no matter his age.
“What are you waiting for, Billy?” Owen prodded. “A golden engraved invitation?”
Billy looked at his uncle wide-eyed. “It’s just so pretty, Uncle Owen. I hate to mess it up.”
John, from the far end of the table, called out, “Well, if I’d known you just wanted to look at the wrapping paper, I’d have wrapped an empty box and saved myself a ton of dough.” This time his laughter was genuine.
“Open them, you silly goose!” This was from Phoebe, who found a working noisemaker and blew it in Billy’s direction.
Billy held up a hand. “All right! All right! Which one should I open first?”
“Mine!” Phoebe said.
“Open mine last, Billy.”
All eyes turned to Rebekah as Billy asked, “How come, Beka?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I just want you to.”
“All right. Which one is yours, Phoebe?”
The next few moments were a tangle of ripping paper and shouts of glee as Billy tore through his gifts. From Phoebe, a hand-drawn picture of Billy and Phoebe together. “Looks just like us, Phoeb!” From Arthur, a box of assorted chocolates. “Hey, Artie, you know what I like!” From Aunt Selene and the cousins, an electric razor and a bottle of English Leather cologne. “Now I’ll smell good for the ladies!” From Uncle Owen, a framed Certificate of Honorary Ownership of Laughter’s Luncheonette. “Wow, Uncle Owen, you mean it? I’m honorary owner? Now I’m a businessman! I’m a real businessman!”
Andrea felt a small thrill run through her as Billy’s hand touched the gift from her and John. The item was small, no larger than his hand, but she suspected it would leave him feeling like he owned the world. She watched his face as he tore through paper, ribbon, and tape to expose the thing inside.
When he saw what it was, Billy jumped, knocking the table with his knees. “It’s a cell phone!” he cried. “It’s a cell phone. Look, I have a cell phone just like Rebekah’s. I can call people! I can take pictures!” He held the phone up and waved it in a circle around the table for everyone to see. Then he stopped, as though something had suddenly occurred to him. He looked at Andrea. “Does it work?”
“Of course it works,” Andrea said. “Give it a try.”
“Who should I call?”
“Anyone you want.”
Billy smiled, flipped open the phone, punched some numbers. Seconds later Owen’s pocket rang.
Owen smiled, shifted, dug out the phone. He feigned a serious expression. “Owen Laughter here. State your business.”
“It’s me, Uncle Owen! I’m calling you!”
“So you are! Happy birthday, Billy!”
Andrea joined in the laughter. The phone was an extra expense that they could little afford, but her son was as happy as she had hoped, and that made it worthwhile.
“Thanks, Mom! Thanks, Dad!” Billy hollered.
Andrea, still gazing at Billy, heard John say, “You’re welcome, son. Every grown man needs a cell phone, huh?”
“Yeah! And I’m a grown man now.”
“That you are, son.”
Billy held out a hand to her, and Andrea gripped it tightly. She wanted never to let go. Here was her strength, right here, the joy of her life.
“You’re the best, Mom.”
“Happy birthday, Billy. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
They shared a smile before Billy pulled away. “Hey, Beka,” he said, “can you show me how to take pictures with this thing?”
“Yeah.” She nodded. “It’s easy.”
“Speaking of Beka,” John said, “don’t you have one more present, Billy?”
Billy looked up from the phone, smiled again. “Oh yeah! I didn’t open Beka’s gift yet.”
Rebekah’s face remained passive, Andrea noticed, as Billy put the phone aside and sifted through the piles of scattered wrapping paper to find her gift. It too was a small package, neatly wrapped in the same paper Andrea had used. Andrea scarcely had time to wonder what it was before it was there, unwrapped and cradled in Billy’s hands, but still, she couldn’t quite make it out. She knew only that it rendered Billy as motionless as stone, his brow furrowed, his eyes misty.
Slowly he looked up at his sister. “You said that little girl got the last one.”
Rebekah gave one small nod. “She did. But I had already bought this one for you and put it aside.”
Billy cupped it to his heart, shut his eyes. “It’s the best gift ever, Beka,” he whispered.
“I’m glad you like it, Billy.”
Andrea held out her hand, and Billy laid the gift in her palm. It was the nightlight Billy had told her about, the one with the picture of a little lamb painted on the front.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
She was studying him; John knew that. He could feel her gaze crawling over his skin, warm and inviting.
John shifted his position restlessly in the folding chair in the basement of Grace Chapel. He glanced up at the face of Larry Gunther, Whiskey Priest. Larry was talking about something. John didn’t know what.
He was aware only of Pamela, that she was there, looking lovely, gazing intently, tormenting him.
John glanced at his watch, then realized that his right foot was tapping the concrete floor nervously. Smiling apologetically at the guy next to him, he slid his foot under the chair, willed it to stop.
He tried to tune in to the evening program. “So we’re here by popular demand tonight,” he heard Larry say, “even though it’s the Fourth of July. Thanks for your commitment and for wanting to meet. We’ll be sure to wrap this up on time so you can get home and enjoy the fireworks with your families.”
With that, John left again, turning inward to take stock of his family. He realized there would be no one at the cottage when he got home. Andrea, Billy, and Phoebe had gone over to Owen’s for a barbecue dinner with his family and a bunch of their friends. Rebekah, no longer grounded, was working at the amusement park and afterward was going to spend the night with her friend Lena Barrett.
“Let’s begin,” Larry said, “with the Serenity Prayer.”
John looked at his hands, already clenched together in his lap. The air was warm and close in the windowless room, and he found it difficult to breathe. He mouthed the words while thinking of Andrea. She’d invited him to join them at Owen’s after the meeting. “You can get there in plenty of time for the fireworks show,” she’d said. He’d hedged, saying he might just go on home and turn in early. The truth was, he didn’t want to go. He didn’t like being with Owen at the restaurant, and he sure didn’t want to be with him outside of the restaurant if he could help it. Owen never said much to him—but then, maybe that was the problem. His brother-in-law’s aloofness let John know he was not an appreciated member of the family.
When the prayer was finished, John told himself to go on praying. He had done little enough of that since leaving prison. He had brought his Bible home in the bottom of that plastic bag and left it in the drawer of his bedside table, unopened. It had been his very lifeline in prison, and now he never reached for it.
He remembered what Rebekah had said at dinner his first night home: “He got that jailhouse religion. . . . Of course, it only lasts till they get out.”
He didn’t want her to be right. Wouldn’t let her be right. God, he thought, help me. Help all of us. Show me how I can bring my family back together. Show me how to be a husband and a father. And . . . Lord, I . . .
John looked up. A man whose name he didn’t know was reading from the Big Book, and Pamela seemed to be listening. Her f
ace was passive, though, her expression one of disinterest. John wanted to return to his prayer, but when the image of first Andrea and then Rebekah rose in his mind, he had no idea what to say. Words were too small to touch the helplessness he felt at the thought of his wife and daughter.
He tried to pull his gaze away from Pamela, but slowly, before he could succeed, she turned her head, saw him staring. She smiled. No one else would have known it was a smile, but he knew.
Dear God, he thought. But the words were weightless, an aborted prayer, vanishing almost before the words were formed in that region of the mind where prayers are birthed.
He got through the meeting by latching on to the speaker, feigning interest, hanging on every word without comprehending a single one. He was there and not there all at once, hopelessly divided, pulled in two directions.
Afterward, as he walked home through the twilight, he breathed deeply of the warm, moist air. Only now—now that he had escaped the church basement—did his heart begin to settle, his thoughts to quiet. He wanted the woman he had left behind, but he didn’t want to want her. He’d slipped out during Larry’s closing comments to avoid her. She could only complicate things—everything he had dreamed of and lived for while in prison. He had made careful plans, had made promises to himself, had wanted somehow to make a life with the family that was waiting for him back home.
He strode forward, keeping close to the edge of the road to avoid the occasional traffic. He didn’t have far to go when a car slowed down, easing itself parallel to him, its wheels barely turning. It was a Mustang convertible, and she was behind the wheel.
“Can I give you a lift, John?” she called.
He stopped. The car stopped. She was waiting for his response.
“Uh, thanks,” he said, “but I live just down the road from here.” He pointed with a thumb. “Not far. It’s real close. I can walk.”
Pamela seemed not to notice his bumbling response but instead leaned over and opened the passenger-side door. For a fraction of a second he thought of the stranger he had picked up the night of the accident.
