Henry stood in the hallway, looking at his brother. Gerald looked at him and smiled. “Wrong number,” he said, and hung up.
“Mommy, the cat likes it here,” Laurel said, skipping to the bathroom door. “It didn’t go home or anything.”
The birthday cake was on the kitchen table, sitting on top of a paper doily on top of a footed cake stand—a tall chocolate cake, with “Happy Birthday” written in loopy white icing. A packet of candles and a book of matches lay beside it, ready for the occasion. Henry tapped out some candles and began to press the little wicks upright, stiffening them between his thumb and forefinger.
“Mommy, that cat has a real short tail,” Laurel said.
The telephone rang, and Henry picked it up.
“Gerald?” a woman said.
“No. This is Henry.”
“Henry—it’s Cora. Is Gerald there?”
“Did you just call?” he said.
“Yes.”
“I think he’s had a few drinks. Maybe you ought to call back later.”
“I should have known better. I’m at the emergency room, waiting to have a broken ankle set. I fell off a damned stone wall. I called to see if he had that card with the insurance-policy number on it.”
“Do you want me to go get him?” Henry said.
“No,” she said. “I just remembered that even on the rare occasions when I can communicate with him it’s never worth the price.” She hung up.
Laurel walked on her heels through the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “Mommy said I could play with the cat.” Henry heard the door slam. He continued to push wicks upright. Then he arranged the candles in two concentric circles. Sally had been in the bathroom too long. He went to the bathroom door.
“Sally,” he said.
“What?” she said.
“After we have the cake, let’s leave, O.K.?”
“This is the way families turn out,” she said.
“No, it isn’t,” he said.
“Rick got remarried this week. To that woman with the kid that we ran into on Sixth Avenue. Laurel hates the kid. She’s going to have to spend July with them.”
He put his fingertips to the door. “It’s only June,” he said.
Sally laughed.
“Sally,” he said.
“I don’t know how to act around your parents,” she said. “I’m not doing anything right.”
“You do more things right than anybody I can think of,” he said.
She sniffled. She had been crying. “What if I was really going to the bathroom? It would be embarrassing, with you standing right up against the door.”
“Nothing’s changed between us,” he said. “This is one day. My father’s in a bad mood. My brother’s nuts. I told you about my brother.”
“I have to pee,” she said. “Please get away from the door.”
Laurel was sitting on a chair in the kitchen, facing the table and the cake. “I wish I could have that cat,” she said.
Out the window Henry saw his father and brother wrestling. Verna was still on the bench, sipping champagne. The cat, standing by a tree, seemed to be watching what was going on. Henry saw Verna’s face turn stony; she put her mug on the table and smacked her hands. The cat ran away, taking high leaps like a rabbit moving through tall grass. He picked up more candles and poked them into the inner circle of the cake.
“I’m not afraid of matches,” Laurel said.
The birthday cake had gotten her attention. She swung her feet back and forth, eyes riveted on it. Her barrette had slipped; it was clamped below her ear, holding only a few strands of hair. Laurel picked up the book of matches. “Light one and give it to me,” she said.
He struck a match and held it out to her. For a second, her fingers touched his. They were so thin that it didn’t seem she could hold anything heavier than a match. He watched her, intent on seeing that she didn’t burn her fingers—so intent that the whole ring was aflame and the match blown out before he realized the problem. The inner circle of candles was unlit, and now there was no way to light them. She knew it, too. “What should I do?” she said softly.
“Hurry up,” he said, putting his hand on her back, tilting her forward. “Blow them out. Start again.”
Laurel took a deep breath and blew out half the candles. She sucked in her breath and blew again. The others went out, and a little blue cloud rose above the cake. When the candles didn’t flare up again—when he saw that this time they weren’t those joke candles that somehow reignite themselves after a few seconds—he crouched and put his arm around Laurel. Outside, the light had almost disappeared. No one was coming toward the house yet, but things wouldn’t stay the way they were much longer.
Heaven on a Summer Night
