Birthday Dinner

by Jeffrey Anderson



  Birthday Dinner

  by

  Jeffrey Anderson

  Copyright 2013 by Jeffrey Anderson

  This story is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  They finally left the stoplights and sleazy, neon-advertised businesses—Tom Cats Massage, Patti’s Pawn and Trade, Aunt Lil’s Readings and Fortunes—at the edge of town and entered a long stretch of dark and largely deserted divided highway that undulated through a mix of fields and scruffy woods barely visible in the glow of the headlights on the overcast January night. Despite the dense dark and the fact that the car’s speed frequently outstripped the headlights’ shine as they rose to the top of one hill after another—an animal or a stalled car just beyond the crest of the hill and they’d be in deep trouble—Becca drove with a relaxed confidence derived from the fact that she knew this highway by heart—so frequently did she travel it, all times of day in all conditions, in transit from her home to school.

  Zach was not nearly so comfortable. He sat up straight on the passenger seat and peered intently into the dark beyond the headlights, hoping to spot any obstacles or hazards before it was too late.

  “So how’s it feel to be twenty-four?” Becca asked. She was treating him to dinner at The Barn, a popular and expensive restaurant in the rural countryside between Shefford and Greensboro, in honor of his birthday.

  “A day older than twenty-three.” He flinched at what he thought was a raccoon along the side of the road, then saw it was only a scrap of rubber from a shredded truck tire.

  “Zach, relax. I know this road and I’m a good driver.”

  “You’re the best driver I know not named Zach, but this dark road and all these hills have me spooked.”

  “Just freaked by your birthday—don’t want to leave twenty-three.”

  “What’s wrong with twenty-three? I liked twenty-three.”

  “Twenty-four will be even better for you—I know it.”

  “Just get us to the restaurant alive. We can worry about the rest of the year later.”

  “Good as there,” she said, driving with the same ease, and at the same high rate of speed, as before.

  Zach finally accepted her assurances and leaned his head back against the seat’s headrest and closed his eyes. Twenty-three had been good—he’d met and befriended Barton, he’d enrolled at Avery, he’d met Becca and they’d fallen in love. Twenty-four was starting out even better—Becca beside him: promise enough. But with that promise, far more to lose—he opened his eyes, sat forward again, and stared out into the dark for any signs of danger.

  Becca finally slowed the car and turned onto a gravel drive beside a poorly lit sign. In front of them, atop a low rise, was a tall red barn with its gable end facing the highway and illuminated by numerous floodlights. Tucked up under the eaves was a closed loft door painted white with a wench arm extending out into the dark. Beneath this door was a large picture window with a dining table covered in a white tablecloth just behind it. That table behind that bright window set in the middle of that lofty red wall acted as a beacon not only to the eye but to the forlorn hearts of anyone passing by in the night, a momentary glimpse into a best hope for comfort and sustenance.

  Becca stopped in the middle of the drive and pointed toward the restaurant. “Look nice?”

  Zach nodded. “Big.”

  “I mean the window, the table there.”

  “Like everyone’s dream of a royal place setting.”

  “For you,” she said. “King for this night.”

  “For me?”

  “That’s our table—reserved for us.”

  “They let people eat there?”

  “If you call far enough ahead, and have a few connections.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say, ‘Let’s go.’”

  “No. I’ll say ‘thank you’ first.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Then, ‘Let’s go.’”

  She smiled and continued up the drive to the parking lot behind the barn.

  The hostess, a handsome woman a few years older than Zach and granddaughter of the restaurant’s founder, led them to that shining table set off in its own alcove at the far front. On the way there they passed hundreds of other diners—the restaurant was full despite the weeknight—and Becca waved to guests at a half-dozen tables. Zach was struck by the incongruity of the restaurant’s décor—hay bales, pitch forks, wagon wheels—with the patrons’ Sunday-best attire—suits and ties, dresses and pearls, even a few evening gowns. He also noted that the tables were all overflowing with food—large slabs of rare-cooked beef, behemoth salads served in wooden troughs, generous side dishes, and chunks of thick-sliced bread. Looking at that abundance, he figured this meal might get him all the way to age twenty-five.

  The hostess sat them at their special table, placed menus the size of small phonebooks in front of each and a wine list the size of the Manhattan phonebook to Zach’s right. She announced that their waitress would be with them shortly and leaned over to Zach and whispered, “Happy Birthday” then added, “but it’s our secret.” She looked at Becca and smiled, then headed back to her station at the front of the restaurant.

  Becca nodded in the direction of the departing hostess. “Her name’s Sam. She was in my brother’s class in high school. I told her about the occasion but not to make a big deal. They do a brisk birthday and anniversary business here, and will play it up big-time if you let them: balloons and singing and lots of candles on a complimentary cake. I figured you’d just as soon skip that.”

  “You guessed right. Thank you.”

  “But the table’s O.K.?”

  “The table’s the best. I feel so special.”

  “You are special, and it’s a special day.”

  They both turned toward the window. They were greeted by their shining reflection. The dark night beyond the glass remained a blank mystery occasionally sliced by the streak of headlights on the highway in the distance. At first Zach was disappointed not to be able to see out the window. But then he realized that the image staring at him in the glass was a far more fortuitous one—Becca smiling in her navy-blue knee-length dress, Zach in his gray suit and rust-colored tie, the two together defining a handsome and happy couple. As pleasant as they were to look at—individually, and even more so together—neither of them was vain or preening. But on this particular occasion in this particular place, Zach thought the image he saw in the glass was one he could hang on the wall of his life—no need to look any further, no better place to go. It was an odd thought for one just turned twenty-four, with maybe two-thirds of his life still in front of him and most of the major milestones—degrees, travel, career, parenthood, success—still to be checked off. But Zach was not a typical twenty-four-year-old. He saw in the reflection his two paramount needs—peace and purpose. And they both resided in the heart of the woman who sat opposite him in the portrait—one emanating as love from that heart, the other delivered as love to it. All other worldly goals were subordinate to these related two. Any other portrait would be a pale shadow to this one.

  Their waitress, an effervescent college student named Shelley, brought them some “nibbles”—a big basket of flatbread crackers, two kinds of house-made cheese spreads in large tubs, and a tray half the size of their table covered with beautifully displayed sliced fresh vegetables, pickles, and olives. After a smiling and chatty greeting, she took their orders and left.

  Zach looked around for the other twenty guests that would help eat these appetizers. Seeing none, he said, “We should cancel our orders and just eat this. It’d save you a lot
of money.”

  “But it wouldn’t be any fun. You can’t come to The Barn and not leave stuffed.”

  “Like one of these olives?”

  “Yes, but a little bigger.”

  Zach shrugged, popped one of those stuffed olives in his mouth, and dove into the two kinds of cheese and their crispy crackers.

  Awhile later, Shelley exchanged their appetizers for mounds of salad delivered in oblong wooden bowls big enough to serve as mangers in a Baptist Christmas pageant, and coated the salad with gobs of dressing—ranch for Zach, French for Becca—ladled from silver bowls in a triangular wooden holder.

  After a few minutes, Zach looked up from his assault on that mountain of greens and asked, “How old do you think I am?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “I know. But how old do I seem to you?”

  Becca thought for a second then said, “Older.”

  “Older than twenty-four?”

  “No, older than our world.”

  “Than college students?”

  “Yes, and what they care about.”

  “Older than you?”

  “Yes.”

  “A little?”

  “Maybe more than the two years on the calendar.”

  “How?”

  “Where you’ve been and what you’ve done. You’ve been married. You’ve worked a job—lots of jobs. You’ve lived on your own and had to make your own decisions and suffer the consequences. You’ve already seen the other side of what most of us are looking at from this side.”

  “And that makes me old?”

  “Older.”

  “I agree with you on the one but not the other.”

  “Which?”

  “That I’m older than our world, but not than you.”

  “How old am I?”

  “Same as me.”

  “How? I haven’t done any of the things you’ve done. I’m still practically living at home.”

  “Your grace and generosity are your maturity.”

  “How?”

  “Age doesn’t bring maturity—you have forty-year-olds acting like kids. Experience doesn’t bring maturity—place a ten-year-old as head of a household, and he’s still a ten-year-old. Maturity comes from inside, understanding what matters. If I’ve got it, that’s where it came from, not from my mostly messed up experiences. And if you’ve got it—and you do—that’s where it comes from, not from where you’ve been or what you’ve done.”

  “You give me too much credit.”

  “You don’t give yourself enough.”

  She looked at him doubtfully. “Sometimes I feel so naïve.”

  “Do you trust my judgment?”

  “Always.”

  “Have I ever treated you as anything but my equal?”

  “No.”

  “Then trust my judgment—we’re the same age, you and me; we just got here by different paths.”

  She smiled. “So what do we do now, birthday boy?”

  He shrugged. “Grow older together.”

  “How about finish our salads first.”

  “That’s good—old-timers need their fiber.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  Try as they might, neither could polish off their mound of greens. Zach wished he could keep his salad to accompany his entrée, but there wouldn’t be enough room on the table. So he reluctantly relinquished the bowl to Shelley when she came to clear the table in advance of their next course.

  She hadn’t been gone thirty seconds when two servers from the kitchen showed up with their bounteous main course. A smiling gray-haired woman in a red apron set a “petite” filet mignon, twice-stuffed potato, and creamed spinach—all on individual plates—in front of Becca. A large black man in a blue apron (an apprentice chef named Gerald) put Zach’s “King-cut” prime rib (a slab of glistening red meat that extended past the edges of the large oval platter), baked potato, and squash casserole to fill his half of the table. After the servers said “Enjoy” in unison and left, Shelley soon followed with a wood cutting board holding half a loaf of thick slices of fresh-baked bread coated in melting butter. She then offered each of them whipped butter, sour cream, bacon bits, or chives for their potatoes, and horseradish sauce for their beef. After Shelley’d made sure they had everything they wanted or needed and left, the wine steward came by with two large wine glasses generously filled with a dark Cabernet, “Compliments of Sam.” After depositing the glasses on their table (needing to condense some of their plates to find room), the dignified gentleman leaned close to Zach and whispered “Happy Birthday” then put a finger to his lips and slipped away in silence.

  Just looking at the feast made Zach feel full (he already was sort of full from the profuse appetizers and salad). He took a couple deep breaths like an athlete prepping for a marathon contest before reaching for his fork and large, wood-handled steak knife.

  Becca watched him the whole time. She’d caught Zach by surprise with the sheer abundance of the meal, her birthday gift to him. She rarely caught Zach by surprise and took a moment to enjoy that reward. Then she cradled the wine glass in her palm and raised it. “To the year ahead, a feast upon this feast.”

  Zach lifted his glass. “And in thanks for the gift.”

  They tapped glasses over the middle of the table, the crystal glittering, the wine like dark blood held aloft by their young fresh hands.