Early Warning

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.”