Cackle(89)

By the eighth second, I’ll have regained my composure and reunited with the truth.

I’m glad to be rid of him.

“Look at you,” he said, and I didn’t hear it then, but replaying it now, I recognize the hint of condescension.

Condescension, the quiet destroyer. The spot on the lung discovered too late.

“Look at me,” I say, marveling at my reflection. “Look at me.”

I put Ralph in the front pocket of my dress.

“Ready?” I ask him.

He’s got his party hat, his horn. He’s so excited he can’t stop dancing. I shouldn’t have fed him the flies. He’ll go crazy for another half an hour and then pass out cold.

I don’t bother to lock my apartment anymore. I come and go as I please. Lynn has agreed to let me have the downstairs as well, and soon I’ll be able to remodel. I have some ideas. Sophie will help, of course.

The sun is generous in June. It’s high and bright despite the hour. It winks at me.

“Stay up as late as you like,” I tell it. Ralph thinks I’m talking to him. He does a flip inside my pocket.

“Hi, Annie! Happy birthday!” My neighbors all wait for me at the ends of their driveways, waving as I pass by, wishing me a happy birthday. Some of them hold sparklers.

“Thank you,” I tell them. “Thank you so much.”

Strange to think that a year ago I was in some random bar in the city taking tequila shots with Nadia, making a wish on a tea light candle.

What did I wish for?

I wished for happiness.

At the time, I thought that meant I was wishing for Sam. It’s best not to be specific with wishes. Otherwise, you end up getting what you think you want instead of what you really need. How dangerous.

When I get to Main Street, I pass the Good Mug first. Oskar and Erik stand out front. Erik hands me a bag of coffee beans.

“Happy birthday,” he says, smiling. He’s a very handsome kid. He’s going to cause real misery with that face. Obliterate fragile young hearts.

Oskar says nothing. He stands in the shadow of a streetlamp, half of his face in darkness. The visible half is stern.

I stare at him. If I focus for long enough, he’ll be forced to do something.

“Oskar,” I say.

He bows his head slightly. Maybe of his own free will or maybe not.

I wait for him to meet my eye. I wait to see if he looks at me the same way he looks at Sophie. But then Rose begins to sing “Happy Birthday,” and Deirdre is walking toward me with a giant cupcake.

Everyone on the street joins in except for Oskar, and Tom, who is hiding behind a bottle of syrup with a bow on top, which I assume is my present.

The crowd harmonizes in a big finale and then erupts in applause.

“Here you are,” Deirdre says, bestowing me with the cupcake.

“Thank you,” I say. “I don’t want it right now but thank you.”

“I’ll save it for you,” she says. She backs away from me, vaguely flustered. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right,” I tell her. “It was really nice of you to make it for me. I just don’t want to eat it right now.”

There was a time when I would have eaten it anyway, because it seemed the polite thing to do, because I was too afraid of hurting someone’s feelings.

Imagine.

I receive more gifts. The syrup. A book. A necklace. A bottle of wine. A jar of jam. A basket to carry all of my presents.

The crowd continues to clap for me as I make my way to the gazebo.

I cut through the field, which is crowded with empty tents. I follow the sidewalk, pass the playground.

“Annie,” Sophie says, “happy birthday!”

She has decorated the gazebo with thousands of flowers. Roses and peonies and lilacs. Snapdragons and spiral eucalyptus and carnations and thistle. Ranunculus. There are candles and sparkly lights. And she stands in the center of it all, wearing a dress that matches mine. Only hers is dark purple.

“You look beautiful,” she says. “You like the dress?”

“I love it,” I tell her. “Thank you.”

“Come sit. I’ve set us up a little birthday picnic. Bread and cheese and figs and roast chicken and wine. Lots of wine.”

She’s put a table in the middle of the gazebo. It’s covered with a black lace tablecloth. The food is beautifully arranged, and she’s brought glass goblets for the wine. I climb the steps, and she greets me with an embrace.

“It’s fun to celebrate birthdays,” she says. “Make sure you write it down. Otherwise, you’ll forget it eventually.”

“That’s good advice,” I tell her.

I sit on a stool and let Ralph climb out of my pocket and onto my lap.

I try to feed him a bit of chicken, but he’s not hungry. He’s overexcited; he can’t stop fidgeting. I close my hand and summon a compact mirror. I prop it open on the table and lift him up so he can admire himself in his party hat. This should occupy him for a while.

Sophie pours the wine and begins to scoop pomegranate seeds onto her plate, adding slices of bread and cheese.

“Go on, Annie,” she says. “Birthday banquet.”

I tear off a piece of bread and begin to nibble. I don’t have much of an appetite. Maybe I’m overexcited, too. Something tumbles in my gut.