Birthday

This morning I taped a sign on the door for my customers, saying that I had to attend a funeral. Even though Saturdays show my best profit, for the boy's birthday I didn't bother to open the shop. I operate an Italian-style caf‚. I traffic in slow death: buttery eggs, pinguid coffee, and sweets on top of sweets. At first business was slow. People didn't believe a Chinaman could produce a decent cappuccino. I could hardly blame them. I'd shy away, too, from moo shu pork from a Sicilian's pan. Rut I do all right now, and take off when the need comes up.

So I drove over to the man's house, and when I first caught sight of it I was surprised by its size, its thick Greek columns, its funereal cypresses, its imposing terra-cotta roof.

Seated on a white cast-iron love seat by the front door, the man was hunched over a book in which he appeared to be writing. I walked up the long front path, Ranked on both sides by enormous expanses of chipped white stone where there should've been grass. He acted as if I weren't there. He just kept on scribbling. This reminded me of his courtroom manner: done up in a pinstriped suit, he sat at his table, writing feverishly on a yellow legal pad, as if he were an agent of the law.

I hated that time. The boy and his mother stayed downtown in a hotel to be near the court building. Each night my father would call to ask who was winning. Of course he was rooting against us. My mother wanted to know if I was eating rice again, now that the girl was gone. I got so confused talking to them that I moved out of the hoose just to avoid their calls. I set up a cot in the caf‚ storer-oom and slept next to egg cartons, milk crates, and hot exhaust from the refrigerator fan. Those nights I fcll asleep hstening to talk shows on the radio.

They were good company. So much misery on the airwaves, it was a comfort. I heard this one guy complaining about his chronic indigestion, and the radio doctor, without so much as laying a stethoscope on him, diagnosed that the caller had cancer. I listened to too many women with a similar story. The husband's a hitter, they'd say, and in the morning she's ready to hit back, but by then the bum's gone off somewhere, so she smacks the kids instead, and wants to know why she doesn't feel sorry for doing so. We were all half-crazed insomniacs, one big aching family.

I even called a radio psychologist the night of the day the boy's mother left me. The second I got through to the station I realized how desperate I was, and felt pretty silly. But I didn't hang up. I had a conversation with the show's producer. He said my story was too complex. He wanted me to simplify it. He advised me that if I wanted the listeners' sympathy I should consider dropping the "Chinese stuff". Before I listened to another word, I told him that I hoped one day he'd be lonesome and heartbroken in the back roads of China, thousands of miles from Western ears, and the nearest ones carved from stone.

"I've been expecting you," said the man. He motioned for me to sit next to him on the love seat. I held my ground. He crossed his legs and reopened his book to a page marked with a greeting card. "You like poetry?" he asked, then bowed his head and finished copying a poem from the book onto the card. "I read this one back in high school, so I guess it must be good." He handed me the card when he was through. His handwriting looked like ants set end to end, painfully tiny words crawling all over the place.

I said, "Would you mind calling the boy?"

"We should talk," he said, taking back the card and slipping it into a hot-pink envelope. "I don't know you from the Gang of Four, and here you are asking for Welby."

I had braced myself for that. Welby. I can hardly say it. Named the poor kid after a TV doctor. The boy's mother swears it was all the man's doing. Vlhen she comes home, and we're settled, we'11 go to court and have his name changed.

"It's his birthday," I said. "We have plans. The ball game, remember?"

"And don't think he hasn't talked about seeing you," the man said.

"Well then, let's not disappoint the boy." I took a step forward and reached for the doorbell.

"That's not necessary," said the man, rising from his seat. "We're talking now."

He pushed back the cuff of his long-sleeved shirt aod checked his watch. "Can you spare me a few ininotes?" he said and, with a sweep of his hand, invited me to sit again. This time I did.

"The scene opens in a supermarket," he began. "Rows of fruits and vegetables. People, carts fill the aisle. Closeup on Welby; he's about eighteen months old, sitting in the kiddie seat. I go squeeze avocados. Reverse angle: Welby watches as I join the swarm of shoppers. pan of aisle, finally zeroing in on a nice-looking lady, who parks her cart next to mine. Zoom in: she's talking to her own kid, who's too big for the kiddie seat and looks awkward and clumsy in it. His head's bowed, eyes dim and sad. His mother says, 'Here's another little boy,' and she disappears among the shoppers. Zoom in on me in the crowd. I look over at Welby. Cut back to kids. Welby's leaoing across the cart and pats the new boy, nothing rough, just 6nding out what the other kid feels like. Twin shot: big boy freezes, letting Welby do his thing, the way people let meaa dogs sniff all they want, instead of trying to get away, I return to the cart. See the kid's crying, no noise, just these tears on his cheeks. Mom comes back. I apologize. Closeup o n Mom: she's eating a candy bar right in front of her kid's face. You know something's wrong with the picture, but you can't figure out what. It takes a few seconds, but then you realize the kid's blind. Fade out."

"Scene from a new movie?" I asked.

"No, from real life."

"Oh. Look, we have to get going." I stood up and stepped away from the door. "So what's your pointP"

He looked at his watch again. "Look, she left xne, she left you. On that score, we're dead even." He came up behind me and put his hand on my shoulder. "Say, what kind of car you driving?" He gave me the gentlest push, and we started walking up the front path. "You know what Welby thought when he came to live hereP He thought he was being punished fer breaking up our marriage. How do you think that made me feel? We all do things we don't mean, and end up hurting people. I hurt her, she hurt me; now you're hurt."

We were still walking toward the curb, The man nudged me whenever my feet slowed down.

"Frank, look, thanks for the talk."

"Sure," he said. "It's about time we had a man-to-man." He touched me on the shoulder again.

"But you're forgetting something -- where's Welby? We really should hit the road. I promised him batting practice."

"Say, that reminds me, what kind of tickets you buy? I'll reimburse you for them."

We reached the curb. He opened the driver-side door and rolled down the window. "The ballpark express," he said, sweeping his hand past the opening, like a model on a game show showing off a prize.

I slid in behind the wheel. "Okay. Now call Welby."

He shut the door and crouched, his big forearms resting against the bottom of the window. "Listen to me," Frank said. "To Welby, you're big time. You're like a living, breathing video game. There've been times I couldn't stand being around hirn. He'd tell sr.oriCS. 'C)nc day me and Wallace Wong' did this, did that. I'm never in any of his stories." The man looked into the side-view mirror and fixed his hair. "But I'm his father, right? Come on, give me a chance. Leave us alone, okay? He's starting to get used to me."

It was obvious he wasn't going to hand the boy over

So I proposed a trade: I'd do what he wanted, but in exchange I'd get the boy for the afternoon. We'd have so much fun, the man would need all of geologic time to chase those nine innings from the boy's memory.

He drummed his fingers against the doer and looked at his watch. "It's late," he said. "You better get rol1ing." He reached across my body and pointed at the ignition switch.

My equal and opposite reaction: I leaned on the horn. I got in two long blasts before he stopped my hand. "The people in this neighborhood are still sleeping," he said. "Now listen up, friend, I'm telling you for your own good -- you don't want to be here."

"So get the boy," I said. I brought my fist down on the dashboard to show I meant business. The glove compartment f lew open. Things spilled onto the passenger seat.

"Hey, my radio," said the man.

"Your what? What do you mean, your radieP" I had brought it along so we could listen to the play-by-play in the stands.

"That's her. Zenith eight transistor with a crack in back where the battery goes."

I shook my head.

"Don't be that way," he said. "I know all about it. Sylvie told me she made you steal it."

"She what?"

"Sylvie always was a touch toco en la cabeza." He tapped his finger against his temple. "She always had funny ideas, don't you think so?"

"Here," I said, "take the radio."

"No, you keep her."

"I don't want it. I never did."

"No, keep her," he said. "Must feel like she belongs to you now anyway."

He stood up from his crouch and checked the time. "We need to stop fooling around. I have an appointment in a few minutes with someone. So, if you don't mind --"

"You mean like a date, Frank? You have a girlfriendP"

He didn't answer.

"Well, don't let me stand in the way of romance. Just call the boy, and we'11 be ofE Think of me as his sitter. Then you two will have the whole afternoon free to yourselves."

The man put his hands on his hips and arched his back. "Nothing's clicking with you, is it? Come with me," he said. "I have something to show you."

We walked up the front path, and I followed him into the kitchen. "Smell that?" he said. "Welby's birthday cake. My first ever, and I'm doing it frorp scratch. Fudge swirl topped with chocolate mousse frosting." He caught my eye and grinned. He was proud of his achievement. The place was a mess -- bowls, spoons, measuring cups, cookbook, batter, eggshells, flour scattered and smeared everywhere. The cake layers were cooling on racks. "I'm trying my best," he said.

I was standing in an archway that separated the kitchen from the dining area. Past the round glass table, the wall of glass bricks, the giant earthenware horse, just to the left of the dwarf lemon tree, I spotted the staircase to the second floor. I had a clear path, an easy dash, and I'd be upstairs where the boy was waiting for me.

"Say, you cook in a restaurant," he said, picking the cookbook oE'the counter. "Maybe you can help. What do they mean by fold egg mixture into the chocolateP" he asked. "Am I supposed to pour the whole thing out and fold it with my hands?" He had his nose in the book and reread the passage.

I didn't hang around to give my expert advice.

The boy's room was the second off the hallway, I 1oeked the door. Why there was a lock on the boy's, dqor, I'll never know. But I was glad it was there. At Eirst, I thought I had the wrong room. It didn't look like a child's room. At least not one the boy's age. The walls were covered with posters of TV starlets. So much cleavage and bare thigh couldn't be good for someone that young. I wondered what a social worker would think if I sent one up here.

The man knocked on the door. "Can't you s'ee,." he said, "Welby's not home? I sent him to a friend's for the night so I can bake his cake. It's a surprise."

It was my surprise. "He has to come home sometime," I said.

"Get out of there." he shouted. "You can still make the game if you leave now."

I didn't answer. The man then started to pound, on the door. I went over and inspected the boy's toy shelvcs. I couldn't tell if the boy had chosen the toys or, like the posters, they were a reflection of the man's tastes. There was such an emphasis on angles, gadgetry, and intimidation. Very high-tech stuff. Mostly robots, rockets, and spaceguns. So much plastic and chrome. Do kids instinctively gravitate to these materials? Whatever. happened 4o animal love, the considerate petting of fur? I searched for the stuffed rabbit I had given him back in the goed times It was nowhere in sight. I wanted to belicve it h accompanied him on the overnight but. knew that wasn't likely. Then I tried to imagine the boy playing with these contraptions. I tried to hear the accompanying narrative as he sailed the toys through outer space. But I couldn't remember his voice. It was lost to me, just as my own boyhood voice is forever gone, tumbling across light-years and, like radio signals, bouncing off the four corners of the universe.

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