Chapter 24: Six Candles

There was a note on his pillow.

Gone to get the candles. Told you where. Back before the cake. E.

I read it twice and let my heart settle.

Last year, an empty chair had meant a car pulling out of a gate.

This year, it meant a man had told me where he was going.

My sister arrived at nine with the baby's bag and a folding table, and drove Junie to the lake ahead of me.

I followed in the other car.

The park lay under a flat, bright September sky, and the carousel stood at the end of the path with its lights off.

Roderick sat on the bench in front of it in his good suit.

A white cake box was on his knee, and a paper bag of candles sat beside him.

He had been there since seven, the operator told me later.

He had asked if he could stay, and then he'd sat very still, so that nobody would mistake him for a guest who might leave.

"You're early," I said.

"I'm the first one here."

"You're the first one here by two hours."

"I wanted to be the first one here for something," he said. "Once."

I sat down beside him and took his hand.

"I'm here, you know," I said. "You can put the cake down."

"I'd like to hold it a minute longer."

I let him.

By ten, forty guests stood in the grass, and Junie wore a paper crown with six gold stars.

She wore a pink dress and a gap where a front tooth had been, and she was running between the horses with Sammy behind her in his knit cap.

"No lions!" she yelled.

"There's a lion!" Sammy yelled back.

There was a lion, as it turned out, on the outer ring.

He had been right all week.

Celia stood near the fence with her arms folded, watching him run, and every time he coughed, her whole body leaned toward him.

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