The Party At My Own Grill

I signed under her name. Lindsey Waldron. Then I added, under that, “Kyle Waldron, by phone,” because I knew he would want to be on it.

Dylan came across the patio. He stood between us, in his red gown, and he looked at his mother for a long time.

“Mom,” he said. “You told me Uncle Kyle said we didn’t have to pay.”

“I know,” Tracie said. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”

Dylan reached into the pocket of his gown and pulled out a fat envelope. Graduation cards. I could see the corners of the bills inside.

“I got six hundred dollars today,” he said, and he held it out to me. “That’s for Uncle Kyle. For the house.”

I pushed his hand back so gently. “No, sir,” I said. “That’s for welding boots and a good helmet. Uncle Kyle would skin me.”

“Aunt Lindsey.”

“Dylan, listen to me.” I put both my hands on his shoulders, on that red gown. “None of this is yours. You hear me? None of it. You walked this morning. That’s your part, and you did it.”

He nodded. He did not cry, but he hugged me again, and then he turned and hugged his mother, and she broke down into his shoulder in front of everyone.

I looked away. Some things are not for watching.

That was when my phone buzzed. It was Kyle. He had stayed up. He was always going to stay up.

I answered the video call and turned the phone around so he could see the yard.

“Hey, Trace,” he said.

Tracie wiped her face and came over and took the phone from me. She held it with both hands, the way people hold something they’re afraid to drop.

“Kyle,” she said. “I wrote it down. I’m going to pay you back. I’m so sorry.”

My husband was quiet for a moment on the other side of the world. I could see our German kitchen behind him, and the little window over the sink, black with night.

“I know you are,” he said. “I love you, Trace. I’ve loved you longer than anybody in that yard. Now go cut that boy’s cake.”

She laughed, that wet laugh people do after crying, and handed the phone to Dylan. Dylan walked off with it toward the redbud tree, talking to his uncle, and I let him have it.

Somebody found the knife. Tracie cut the cake. The first piece went to Dylan, and the second piece, without a word, she brought over to me at the grill on a paper plate.

Not the one with the writing on it. That one I had already folded in half and put in my back pocket.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Don’t thank me,” Tracie said. “Please don’t thank me today.”

We stood there a minute, side by side, eating cake off paper plates. I could smell the frosting and the charcoal and the cut grass all at once.

“I really did love living here,” she said quietly. “Dylan did too. He planted tomatoes out by the garage. He waters them every night.”

“I saw them,” I said. “They look good.”

“I’m going to make this right, Lindsey.”