Chapter 24: The Second Birthday

On Sunday Keir walked up the ramp on his own.

He used one cane, and he took his time.

Ken stood at the top with his arms crossed, and he did not offer a hand.

"That's a good ramp," Keir said, halfway up.

"It's a bad ramp," Ken said. "I built it in a hurry."

"It held."

"It held a chair. Let's see what it does for a man."

Keir reached the porch and stood there, breathing, with his hand on the rail.

Ken looked at him for a long moment.

Then he took his reading glasses off the cord and wiped them on his shirt.

I saw that his eyes were wet.

"Well," he said to the stove, through the open door. "He's taller than the report."

Peg's kitchen smelled of butter and burned sugar.

The table was set for five, with the good plates, the ones with the chip on the rim that nobody minded.

In the middle sat a plain yellow cake on a glass stand, with a ring of candles.

There were twenty-five of them, and they were crooked.

"One for every year I missed," Peg said, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Mom."

"Sit down. Don't make a speech."

Ken pulled out a chair for me, and I sat.

At the fifth place, by the window, a card stood against a plate in Peg's square handwriting.

Roxie.

The chair was empty.

"She called Friday," Peg said, when I looked at it.

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