Six

Martha rapped on my door. “Pete, we’re going to have supper.”

“I’m not hungry.” I was lying on my bed, me and my birthday bellyache.

“Up, boy. Gene’s been working for hours on one of his famous gourmet productions.”

I waved her away.

“What can I do to change your mind?”

“Nothing,” I said.

She left, but a few minutes later she was back again holding a huge white frosted cake. “Surprise! You are surprised, aren’t you? I told Gene you didn’t realize what was going on. We’re having a little party for you. This is my contribution.”

“You baked it?”

“Did you ever hear of me baking anything? This is an On the Rise Bakery special. I told them seventeen candles. One for each year and one to grow on. That’s the way we always did it back home.” She slapped my hand away from the frosting. “Come on, comb your hair, tuck in your shirt, and come down. And don’t forget I only bought this cake, but Gene’s been working on this dinner for hours.”

The dining room table was set with Gene’s best stuff. It looked like something out of a magazine. There were even flowers in the middle.

Gene came in from the kitchen carrying the soup tureen in two hands. He was wearing his long blue linen chef’s apron. Too bad I wasn’t hungry. Besides the bouillabaisse, there was asparagus, which I’m a fiend for, especially the way Gene cooks it, bright green and crisp. He has a special asparagus pot and, for serving, a special oval, pale green asparagus plate.

“The bouillabaisse is wonderful,” Martha said. “You’ve outdone yourself, Gene.” She kicked me under the table.

“For fish soup, not half-bad, Uncle G.”

“High praise. Is that all you’re going to eat?”

“Actually, like I told Martha, I’m not all that hungry. I had a little something on the way home.”

“What sort of little something?”

I didn’t want to give Gene a heart attack, so I said, “An ice cream cone.”

“That doesn’t sound like so much.”

“Triple-dip.”

“Too bad you didn’t save your appetite. Didn’t you figure out I’d be making you a dinner? I do it every year.”

“I forgot,” I said. “Anyway,” I added as a diversion, “I thought I was getting a sore throat.”

Gene put down the pepper mill. “What does ice cream have to do with a sore throat?”

“Uncle G! It’s a well-known cure for sore throats.”

Besides the soup and asparagus, there was hot garlicky French bread and a cheese board with Brie and Camembert, all things I really like, but I couldn’t stuff in another anything. I did drink a glass of wine, though.

The cake was last. “Make a wish, Pete,” Martha said.

“I’m getting kind of big for that.”

“Oh, you’re never too old to wish,” Martha said. “I do it every year.”

“Okay.” I wished and blew out the candles.

“What’d you wish for?” Gene asked.

“It’s going to come true because he blew them all out, but he can’t tell,” Martha said, “or he’ll jinx it.” She pushed back her chair. “Cut me a big slice, Pete, I’m really into celebrating your birthday.” She went into the kitchen.

I cut the cake, thinking that for eight years I’d always had the same wish—for my parents to return. But Martha was wrong, my wish wasn’t going to come true. Why this year and not last year? Why not next year? Or the year after?

Martha came back with her arms full of packages. “Happy birthday, Pete, from Gene and me.”

“Wow,” I said like a little kid. “Where’d you hide all this stuff?”

“Us to know and you to wonder.”

“In Martha’s apartment,” Gene said.

“Gene! You gave it away.” She grabbed his shoulders and shook him.

I started opening the packages. From Gene, socks, tee-shirts, underwear, and a Norwegian ski sweater. “I know it’s not the season,” he said, “but it’ll keep till next winter.” There were also two tens folded into a brand-new wallet. And from Martha, a historical atlas, which I’d been wanting, and a Honey in the Rock poster.

I kept saying, “Thank you, thank you.”

“You’re most welcome,” Martha said and gave me a terrific kiss, right on the mouth. “Now you two hug each other,” she ordered. Gene and I sort of pawed each other on the shoulder, then we shook hands.

After that the party went on for another hour or so and I drank a couple more glasses of wine. I knew I was drunk, or high anyway, when I noticed that I was feeling extremely happy.

“Happiness is not my long suit,” I said to Martha. “I am not often happy.” It seemed immensely profound, but Martha laughed.

“Of course you’re happy. Sixteen is the best time of life.”

“When I was sixteen,” Gene said, “I was ready to leave home.”

“For me it was like crossing over the river,” Martha said. “Fifteen was—ugh, I don’t want to even think about it! Miserable all the time. Miserable in that stinky little village of Homers Mills where I lived. But I was made all over, brand new, on my sixteenth birthday. That was when I knew I was going to be an artist.”

When I went up to my room later, I was still buzzed. I threw my presents down on the desk and stood in front of the mirror to see what I could see. I decided to sing a song. “And what do you think I saw? And what do you think I saw? The other side of the mountain, the other side of the mountain, the other side of the MOUNTAIN,” I bellowed.

“Hey, what’s going on up there,” Gene called.

“I’m signing, I mean singing,” I said, sticking my head out of the door. “I’m singing in my magnificent singing voice.” I closed the door. “You are one hell of a singer,” I told myself. “And you are also one hell of a young jackass.” I snorted with jackassy cheer, hee hee hee hee, and fell back on my bed, thinking of the girl with the little gold birds pinned to her ears.