Birthday

Iwatch the man coming toward the house. I hear him climb the stairs. He goes past my room. Then, a few minutes later, he knocks at my door. "You're in there now," he says. "So stay put. Got itP" He hurries downstairs. I go to the window. He's in a sports coat now, as he jogs to the curb. In one hand is a bunch of flowers wrapped in pink paper, in the other the greeting card. I don't know what to think. First killer robots and now poetry and roses?

The man runs oR the curb. He surveys the sun-washed street, checks his watch once more, and then looks back at me.

Soon a car pulls up behind mine. I look for the boy in the backseat. If I do seventy all the way, we can still catch the first pitch.

The driver gets out: a woman with coral-red hair, cropped close to her scalp, earrings like a set of handcuEs, and miles of doodads around her neck. She's wearing a sleeveless purple jumpsuit that shifts like leather. I try my best to see into the car. But there's no sign of life.

The woman adjusts her sunglasses and throws her arms around the man. He crushes the Rowers against the small of her back. I had forgotten about her coming. Quite a change from the boy's mother. But that's none of my business.

I return to the little table and look at what I've drawn. I wish I had some talent. At least a bit of imagination. On the page is a flock of animals, ones the boy used to ask me to draw. "How about a horse," he'd say, handing me a crayon. And no matter how the drawing turned out, I'd say, "That's a horse," and he'd generously say, "That's a horse."

I don't know if he'11 still be so generous, now that he's abandoned rabbits for ray guns, but he'll know who did the drawings. It troubles me, though, that I haven't said what I want to say, that no matter how hard I try, I'm stuck doing the same old things in the same old ways. What have I accomplished but a page full of nouns -- a camel, a dog, a cat, a cow, a bird, and my famous horse. Sure, I can try adopting a new vocabulary, sketch in a rocket ship, a rectangle, and a few well-placed triangles. That shouldn't be too hard. But that's not how he knows me. Ours was a simpler world. He must be a different boy now. The universe he knows has expanded, just as his palette broadened during our time together. This is inevitable. But in this expansion have I been eclipsedP Am I like a rattle, once a favorite toy, then -- not so much discarded, but neglected with the discovery of blocks and things with wheels? I wish there was some way for me to know what he's up to, the way my father came home one day from Sears with a bat and ball and glove for me. There he was, son of China's great famines, who knew nothing of earned-run averages or the number of homers Mantle hit in '56, but somehow he anticipated my next step. With the boy, I didn't know what to think. Will the drawings delight him? That's what I mean -- I should know.

I look out at the street. The trunk of the woman's car is open, and there's a ton of luggage stacked on the sidewalk. She must be here on an extended visit or else she's moving in. None of that's my business either, but she better not think she can take the boy's mother's place.

The woman goes over to my car. It's just an old VW square-back, but she's really checking it over. She does a lap around it, then sticks her head in the driver's window. She holds the radio up in her hand. The man's saying things that don't seem to please her. She spins away from him and starts up the front path. The man points at the house. She flips up her sunglasses. She sees me; I see her, too. I've waited a long time for this day. But it isn't how I've imagined it would feel when Sylvie finally came home.

The man catches her halfway up the front walk. They argue, but I can't hear them. About a minute later, they move slowly toward the street, turn at her luggage, and keep walking until they're gone from sight. It's plain they're giving me a chance to leave.