Debbie put on her red velvet Christmas dress for the party and zipped it up the side all by herself. Then she put on her white socks with the lace around the tops, and her black Mary Janes. She looked in the mirror. She looked very good. She opened the stair gate and closed it and locked it, then went down, holding the railing just in case Timmy came along and pushed her. At the bottom of the stairs, she opened the gate and closed it. The clock on the mantel said six o’clock. She was the only girl in her kindergarten who could tell the time every time the teacher asked. Even though he was a year and a half older than Debbie, Timmy said that he could not tell the time or recite the alphabet, but Debbie knew that he could.
When the doorbell rang, Daddy came in from the dining room, called out, “Just a minute,” then kissed her on the forehead. She gave him her hand, and they went to the door. Daddy opened it. Outside, in the cold, the Meyers were standing on the step, the two boys behind them, their mom and dad. Their mom said, “Oh, Arthur! You look ready to have a good time!”
Daddy said, “Mary! Darling girl! Step right in! Hi, boys! Lillian and Tina are holding court in the dining room so that you warriors can use the living room for your battles.” Debbie mouthed the name “Mary.” Four girls in her first-grade class were called Mary.
This was how it went for a long time. The doorbell rang and they went to the door, and people came in, and most of the time they handed Daddy a bottle and handed Debbie a wrapped present, and said, “So — where’s the birthday girl?”
The birthday girl was standing in her playpen, and as each set of guests brought in their present, Debbie arranged the stack in front of her.
Soon, all the parents were laughing and talking very loudly, and the other kids were running from room to room, playing tag. Timmy loved tag — he was always It. If he tagged you, you had to sit down in the nearest chair and pretend you were dead. The last child to get tagged would get a prize, but the prize was just an old toy cowboy or something like that.
Finally, Mommy came over and said, “Deb, I need your help with the cake.” Debbie followed her to the back hall, and then Mommy told her to hold out her hands, and into them she placed the yellow cake with pink frosting they had made the night before. “Happy Birthday Tina” was written across the cake in green letters. The cake was only one layer, and not heavy. Debbie carried it carefully on its silver platter into the dining room, and all the children and parents started clapping.
Daddy had gotten Tina out of the playpen and stood her on a chair at the head of the table. She had a big white napkin tied around her neck, and her hair was sticking out all over her head. Debbie set the cake in front of her on the table. Everyone sang “Happy Birthday,” and Tina stared all around for a moment, and then, right when they got to “dear Tina,” she flopped forward like a rag doll and put her face in the cake. When she stood up again, she had cake in her hair and on her chin. Mommy said, “What a clown!” and everybody laughed much more than Debbie thought they should.
At that very moment, Debbie decided that she did not want any of the pigs-in-a-blanket she had helped make, or the carrot-raisin salad, or the other cake, the two-layer one meant for eating. She backed away, slipped through the living room, unlocked the gate, locked it again, and tiptoed up the stairs. In her room, her dolls were quiet on her bed. She got out of her red velvet dress and put on her Minnie Mouse pajamas.
In the morning, the whole downstairs was a mess — all of the ashtrays were full of cigarette butts, and where the glasses were not tipped over, they, too, had butts dropped into them. Tina’s presents had been unwrapped and piled in a stack in the playpen. Mommy and Daddy were at the kitchen table with Tina, who was eating zwieback. Daddy said, “Here she is!”
Mommy said, “Oh, my head hurts. How did so many people get here?”
Debbie said, “I didn’t like that party.”
“Out of the mouths of babes,” said Daddy.
“I’m surprised there are any secrets at all,” said Mommy, “given the level of the drinking.”
“There aren’t any secrets,” said Daddy, “but, thankfully, no one can remember what they heard once they’re sober again.”
Debbie went to the refrigerator and found an egg in the door. Mommy groaned, but she did get up and find a pot. Poached were Debbie’s favorite.
—
ROSANNA, who was watching Annie while Joe was out plowing and Lois was in town, saw him sitting on the front porch railing. His stoop and his sidelong glance told her it was Roland Frederick, looking about a hundred years old. She opened the door and said, “Roland! We thought you were dead!” His eyes bloodshot the way they always got when a man had given himself over to drink.
He said, “Well, I ain’t.”
How long had he been gone? Years, anyway. He was Minnie and Lois’s father. Maybe they had all assumed he was dead. But this was his house, wasn’t it? Annie was upstairs, napping. Rosanna picked up the sock she was knitting. Four needles, eight points; she grasped them tightly and kept her hand beside her waist. You never knew with a drunk. An angry drunk especially, of course. She said, “So you must have some travels to tell about.”
“Could be,” said Roland.
His mouth dropped open a little as he looked around, and there were plenty of teeth missing. Roland Frederick had been a handsome man and a handsomer boy — he and his father, Grafton, had driven around town with a matched pair of grays when Rosanna was — what? — twelve or fourteen, and they sat up square every moment — never rolled about on the seat, laughing and making fools of themselves, like her own Augsberger uncles. Roland had disappeared during the war — too overwhelmed by his wife, Lorene’s, terrible stroke to stick around and do his job. No one had been surprised, maybe least of all Minnie, though she hadn’t talked about it. Rosanna said, “Would you like a glass of water, Roland, or a cup of tea?”
He stared at her, then said, “Your Frank married into this house here?”
Rosanna laughed. “Heavens, no. Frank’s off making a million somewhere. Joe is married to Lois. They have a little girl. Let me get you something. Lois made some biscuits just this morning, and there are shortbread cookies, too. Come on into the kitchen, and tell me what you’ve been up to.”
He allowed himself to be led, but kept looking around, as if he found the place strange. He said, “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, I come over. My house is a little lonely now. Since Walter died.” She didn’t think it was a good idea to mention Annie.
“When was that?” He spoke abruptly, as if insulted.
“Just over a year ago. Heart.”
She set a plate in front of him on the table, a biscuit with some butter and cherry jam, two little square cookies. She had left her knitting on the dining-room table, but she knew where the knives were. However, inside the house, Roland seemed harmless.
“Walter always thought he knew everything.”
Rosanna felt herself prickle. “Well, I don’t know about that, but he always admired this farm you had, Roland.”
“Wanted to get his hands on it, I’ll be bound.”
“I think Walter knew his hands were full.”
“Who planted that north field out there?”
“My son Joe, and also my brother John.” She made her voice clear and bright. You never knew what a drunk could remember. She went into the pantry to find the tea.
She hadn’t thought of Roland Frederick as having a point of view. He was an efficient farmer with a beautiful farm, and then he wasn’t. He had the most beautiful house and the most admirable wife; everyone in the neighborhood had thought of them as Mr. and Mrs. Frederick, never Roland and Lorene. When Mrs. Frederick had her stroke it had been an impersonal drama, tragic but wordless, the sort of drama that farm country abounded in. Now, looking at Roland, Rosanna knew that he had a story, too, something howling and painful that could make a claim on her, on Joe, on Lois, on Minnie. On Annie. Whatever Minnie said, this was his farm. Rosanna poured out a cup of tea and pushed it toward him, but he stopped it with his hand, so she took it back and folded her own hands around it. She said, “Well, I wish you’d tell me some of the places you’ve visited.”