A Northern Light(79)

The kitchen door banged open again, startling me. "For pete's sake, Mattie, Cook wants you! Come on!" Fran ordered.

I put down the napkin I was holding. The lump in my throat got bigger. It was unfair that I was in trouble for something I hadn't even done. And on my birthday, too. I opened the kitchen door expecting the rough edge of Cook's tongue, and instead I got the shock of my life when twenty people yelled "Surprise!" at the top of their lungs.

Then there was singing and Cook emerged from the pantry bearing a white sheet cake with a candle stuck into it and HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MATTIE written on it. I grinned ear to ear and thanked everyone and made a wish, and then there was ice cream and lemonade to go along with the cake, and a bouquet of wildflowers that the girls had picked.

Cook called for a toast and Mike Bouchard said he'd do it. "Dear Mattie," he began, holding up his lemonade, "I love you much, I love you mighty, I wish my pajamas were next to your nightie. Now don't get mad at what I said, I meant on the clothesline and not in the bed." I turned beet red. Everyone hooted and laughed except Cook. She slapped the side of Mike's head and made him go sit on the back steps. Ada and Fran teased me and told me what a hangdog face I'd had all day, then said how clever they were for keeping the surprise a secret.

After the little party, Cook bawled at everyone to get back to work and Mrs. Morrison handed me a sugar sack. "Your father left it with the milk this morning," she said.

Inside the sack was a tiny painting of my house with the yard around it and the pines and maples and the garden and cornfields at the back. It was beautiful and made me feel yearny for home. The note inside it read: "My ma made this for you. Happy Birthday. Tommy Hubbard." There was a homemade card in the sack, too, decorated with pressed flowers and hand-drawn hearts. My sisters had all written nice messages on the card except Lou, who told me I lived in the zoo, smelled like a monkey, and looked like one, too. There was a small tin of butterscotch candies from my aunt Josie and uncle Vernon. And under all that, wrapped up in the same sort of brown paper I recognized from Mr. Eckler's boat, was a thin, flat package. I opened it. It was a brand-new composition book. There was no inscription, but I knew it was from my pa. It was a nice thing for him to do and it should've made me happy, but instead it made me want to cry.

"Oh, Mattie, you've got a visitor," Fran said in a singsong.

I looked up and saw Royal in the doorway, looking as awkward as a hog on stilts. I was partly glad to see him, partly worried. I wondered if he was still angry about our falling-out and had come to get his ring back.

"Why, Royal Loomis!" Cook said. "You here to bring me more of those nice strawberries?"

"Uh, no ... no, ma'am. I ... uh, brought this"—he held up a package—"for Matt."

"Well, I'll want some tomorrow morning, then. And mind you come here first, not Burdick's. I don't want anyone's leavings."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Like some cake? There's a few slices left over from Mattie's party. Mattie, get your guest some cake. Get him some ice cream and a glass of lemonade. Sit down for a spell, Royal."

Cook was a dreadful shameless flirt. I fixed some refreshments for Royal and sat down next to him. He pushed his package across the tabletop. "For you. Its a book," he said.

I couldn't believe it. He might as well have said it was a diamond necklace.

"Is it really?" I whispered.

He shrugged, pleased by my reaction but trying not to show it. "I know you like books."

My heart lifted. It soared! Martha was wrong about Royal. I was wrong about Royal. He did care enough to look down inside of me. He didn't like me for my pa's land; he liked me for me. He did! To think that Royal had gone to a store—maybe to O'Hara's in Inlet or Cohen's in Old Forge—and picked this out. Just for me. My fingers trembled as I undid the string. What had he chosen for me? What could it be? An Austen or a Bronte? Maybe a Zola or a Hardy?

I opened the paper and saw that it was a Farmer. Fannie Farmer. A cookbook.

Royal leaned forward. "Thought you might be needing that soon."

I opened it. Someone else's name was written on the title page. I flipped through the pages. A few were stained.

"It ain't new, only secondhand. Got it at Turtle's. It's got different sections, see? Meats and poultry ... baked things..."

I could see in his eyes he wanted me to like it. I could see that he'd tried and it only made it worse.

"Why, Mattie, isn't that a nice gift?" Cook said, poking me in the back. "So thoughtful. And practical, too. Girls nowadays do not know how to cook. I hope you told him thank you..."

"Thank you, Royal," I said, smiling so hard my face hurt. "Thank you so very much."





a ? busion


"I heard Royal came by last night," Weaver said.

It was ten o'clock. Breakfast was over. We were shelling peas on the back steps.

"Yes, he did."

"Heard he got you a book for your birthday."

"Yes, he did."

"Novel?"

I didn't answer.

"Huh."

"Huh what, Weaver? What's the huh for?"

"I was just wondering..."