Chapter 21: A Tablecloth

Desmond was in the Cedar Row lobby at ten to one, holding a lemon cake in both hands.

He had not shaved carefully, and there was a small cut under his jaw.

"You're early," I said.

"I said I would be."

"You said one."

"It's ten to," he said, "which is early for one."

I took the cake from him so that I would have something to do with my hands.

The party was in the sunroom, with a banner the aides had made and six residents in paper hats.

Agnes wore a purple one.

She looked up when we came in, and her whole face opened.

"There he is," she said. "The jaw."

"Happy birthday, Agnes."

"It is?" She considered it. "Then I'll have cake."

We sat on either side of her.

An old man in a cardigan told Desmond about his boat for twenty minutes.

Desmond listened to every word and asked what kind of engine it was.

An aide taught me the rules of a card game that had no rules.

Agnes ate two slices and wore frosting on her nose.

When the candles came, she blew them out in one breath, and the room cheered.

She looked at me with perfectly clear eyes.

"I wished for you," she said.

"Mom."

"Don't tell, or it won't work."

I laughed, and my throat hurt.

Over her head, Desmond was looking at me.

He didn't say anything.

He had a smear of icing on his cuff.

His face was the one from the spare room doorway, raw and grateful and trying not to ask.

At three, as we left, Agnes held on to my sleeve.

"Take him somewhere," she said. "Not here. Somewhere with candles."

"Yes, Mom."

"With a tablecloth."

In the parking lot I leaned on the car and said, "My mother has given us an assignment."

"I heard."

"I don't want the Kestrel Room."

"God, no."

"I want somewhere with a tablecloth."

He thought.

"There's a place on Armitage with a dozen tables and a cat."

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