Sixteen Years of Fridays at the Bank

Carson’s birthday

June thirteenth fell on a Saturday, and it was my week. The day came up sunny and warm with a breeze out of the south that smelled like cut hay from somebody’s field past the edge of town.

My mother came over at noon with the cake. A yellow cake with cream cheese frosting, the kind she had made for Carson every birthday since he was one, and a handful of candles she had brought in her purse.

Angie’s folks, Ron and Sue, drove up from Shenandoah. Ron brought a cooler of pop and a bag of the good sweet corn from the stand on Highway 59, the first of the year.

I had told Angie the kids were welcome to have their mom at the picnic, and Darren too. That is how we did birthdays. Nine years, and we had not missed one together.

They came around three. Darren’s mother had the twins at her house in town so Angie could have an afternoon. Angie looked like she had not slept in a week, because she had not.

Darren walked across the yard in a blue polo shirt and khaki shorts. I was in a gray t-shirt. He shook my hand. It was a stiff handshake, but it was a handshake, and I gave him credit for it.

Then he went and stood at the edge of the yard by the back fence, with his arms crossed, and Angie went and stood beside him. My mother and Ron and Sue were in the lawn chairs over by the garage in the shade.

I had grilled burgers. Carson had eaten three. Brooke had eaten one and stolen half of another off her brother’s plate, which is the true sign that a summer afternoon is going right.

Around four, my mother brought the cake out and set it in the middle of the picnic table. She lit the candles with a long kitchen lighter, cupping each one against the breeze.

Carson sat at the table with Brooke beside him. I stood behind them. Everybody sang, even Darren, a beat behind the rest of us.

Carson leaned forward to blow, and that is when Darren said it.