Do you have any brothers and sisters?” Lucky asks.
“Nope. Only me.”
“Me too. Only me.” Lucky jumps into my lap for a hug. I peek at Bobby, glad she’s out of earshot. I don’t want her to hear Lucky talk about being an only child. I wonder how often she thinks of her stolen baby girl? Hopefully, not today. Today is her birthday. She made us promise: no “happy birthday” song, no candles, no cards, and no gift-wrapped presents (and no booze).
Lucky and I spent the afternoon gathering wood lilies and lady’s tresses for a birthday bouquet. At the edge of the field, we found a long tangle of thimbleberry shrubs. I ate a few berries before giving Lucky the okay to eat some himself. “Only the black ones. The reds aren’t ready,” I told him. We used the folded bottoms of our T-shirts as baskets and carried home as many berries as we could. Rose said she’d serve them with ice-cream cake after dinner.
Hal is grilling rabbit over one of the empty campsite fire pits. Two large metal bowls full of rabbit bits and oil and garlic salt sit on the picnic table. “Pull the kidneys off them rabbit legs. They keep falling in the fire,” Hal shouts through a billow of smoke. Immediately, Bobby and Rose are at the table. Their fingers work the oily lumps of rabbit meat. I ask them to teach me. Bobby shows me the dark round kidneys and how to peel the membranes away. “We’ll fry ’em up later with bacon and onions,” she says.
“My ma never taught me to cook,” I blurt. Bobby gives me side eye, shakes her head. “Totally serious, she hates sharing her kitchen, would yell Vai! Vai!”
“It means scram,” Rose explains to Bobby.
“Did you get hit with a wooden spoon? I had an Italian lady for a foster mom once. She always hit us with a wooden spoon.” Rose and I frown at each other, sinking our hands back into the rabbit meat.
Campers frequently wander up and linger awhile. At first, I let myself believe it’s the gamey smell of grilled rabbits that’s attracting onlookers. But, of course, each one wears a pleading expression on their face. They are waiting for me to return to the gazebo. I can’t look at them. If I do, I know I’ll be drawn out to perform whatever it is Etta might fancy this evening. I need some time in the human world. Human’s night out! I maintain firm eye contact with Bobby, Rose, and Lucky. We speak loudly to each other. All of us are unwilling to be disrupted.
Hal smells like charcoal by the time he sits down. Rose set the picnic tables with real tablecloths and melamine dinnerware that I bet was a wedding gift in the 1950s. We are a party of eight: Dolores, Rose, Leanne the bus driver, Hal, Moustache, Bobby, Lucky, and me. “I never had this many people come to my birthday,” Bobby tells us.
“Best thirty-fifth birthday ever,” Hal teases. They kiss, and not their usual half-a-second long peck, but a kiss that goes on long enough for Dolores and Leanne to click their plastic utensils against their glasses. “To my beautiful wife.” Hal raises his glass of lemonade. “And all our friends come’d to celebrate her.”
Bobby stands too. The sun splits through the trees and onto her face like a spotlight. Her eyes flash gold and brown. “I never understood in the moment, and maybe it’s because I’m getting older, but I haven’t felt like I have a gang of friends for a long time. So, thank you all for showing up for me. For sharing food and looking after Lucky and being pretty good people.”
“Fine toasts,” says Rose. “Who needs wine when the company is this good?” She bangs her glass on the picnic table to scare the evil eye away from our feast. Old village superstition—there have been too many compliments paid at this table. “Benzadeus.”
Dolores stands, clears her throat emphatically, cracks her knuckles. “‘Friendship’ is kind of a word I save for special occasions. Since it’s your birthday, I guess I may as well admit it. I’m glad to call you a friend.” Dolores and Bobby smirk at each other.
“Last winter, you remember when that bad snowstorm hit?” Rose stands now. I guess she’s over being superstitious. “Worst winter of my life, without my Ricky. So Bobby, she packed us all into my car, and I never let anyone drive my car, and she drove to the Tim Hortons, and after we all got our Double Doubles and Timbits, Bobby spun donuts in the parking lot. You know that parking lot’s mostly gravel. I was scared half to death. And that was the moment I realized … I realized that life would go on without my son.” Rose raises her lemonade glass again. “Thank you, Bobby. And I’ll never let you drive my car again.”
When the cake comes out, we clap and stomp our feet. Dolores and Leanne have to carry the cake out together—it’s practically big enough for someone to pop out of, decorated with Smarties and mini Crunchie Bars, and thimbleberries scattered around the cake tray. “That’s a Dairy Queen cake all the way from Saint Catharines. Angel money paid for that cake,” announces Dolores. The “Happy Birthday” song seems to be poised at the tips of our tongues. Or maybe “For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow”? Lucky feels the pending music; he start to hum. “I don’t wanna set the word on fire …” he stands and sings.
Swift as thought, Bobby yanks him down again. “Don’t you sing that song.” She throws me a dreadful glance. She knows! She knows that song is connected to Etta and that Etta is getting in Lucky’s head. “How about you sing me ‘Twinkle, Twinkle,’” Bobby redirects him.
Not here. I close my eyes. She hears me. I can tell by my sudden headache. You better not be here.
Come meet me on the dance floor. I’m dying of loneliness.
My jaw starts clacking and I clap my hand over my mouth. An ache rips into my ears and throat, like a rapid infection.
“You’re not going to finish dinner?” Bobby says as I wriggle away from the table. She stands as I stand. My movements are drunken, hers are sharp. “You draw her away from my son,” she whispers in my ear as she gives me a spiky hug. “Keep her clear away from him.”
I want to say “sorry” or “I promise she won’t harm Lucky” but I’m afraid of what my voice sounds like right now. I nod mechanically.
“Wait,” she grabs me by the arm. “You being hurt?”
I’m not sure anyone has ever asked me that before. Gravity seesaws between a cruel pull and weightlessness. I understand that I’m speaking, but I can’t feel my teeth or tongue. “You’re a good mom, Bobby. Good mother. Good woman.”
My arms thrash at my sides as I walk away, as I try to manage a goodbye wave.
Etta waits for me on the gazebo steps.