The Birthday Party at the Fire Station

The Text I Sent

Before I woke Bodie, I sat back down at the table and wrote one text to the class moms.

I wrote it four times. The first three were too long and had too much of me in them.

The one I sent said this: “Hi everyone. Bodie’s party is moving across the park to the township fire station lot. Same time, 2 to 4. No hard feelings to anyone who goes to the other one.”

Then I put the phone face down again, because I knew if I watched it I would go crazy waiting for answers.

I did not mention Brielle’s name or who paid what.

Waking Him Up

Bodie sleeps like his daddy, flat on his stomach with his arms thrown out like he fell from somewhere.

I sat on the edge of his bed and rubbed his back until he groaned and rolled over.

His blond cowlick was standing straight up in the back, the way it does every morning no matter what I do to it. He squinted at me. “Is it my birthday?” he asked.

“It is your birthday,” I said. “Happy birthday, buddy. You’re seven.” He grinned with his whole face.

“I have to tell you something,” I said. “We’re not having your party at the pavilion anymore.”

I watched his face start to fall, and I talked faster. “We’re having it at the fire station.”

He sat straight up in bed. “The real fire station?” he said. “With Mr. Amos?”

“The real one,” I said. “Mr. Amos is pulling the engine out front for you and your friends. You can climb on it.”

Bodie has wanted to be a firefighter since he was three years old.

He has a plastic fire helmet he got at the county fair, red with a gold shield on the front, and he wears it to the grocery store.

He threw his blanket off and ran for his dresser.

He pulled on his red T-shirt, the one he picked out himself for his birthday, and then he put the plastic helmet on before he even had his socks on.

He did not ask why the party moved. Seven-year-olds don’t always. He just wanted to know if there would be a hose.

I said I did not know about the hose, and he said that was okay.

Then he asked one more thing, while I was helping him with his shoes. “Is Sissy still having her party?” he said.

Sissy is what he calls his baby sister. He has called her that since the day she came home.

“She is,” I said. “At the pavilion.”

“Can she come to mine after?” he asked. I tied his shoe a second time, even though I had tied it right the first time. “We’ll see, buddy,” I said.

The Cake and the Morning

I had baked two dozen cupcakes on Friday night, chocolate with white frosting, and I had a sheet cake ordered from the grocery bakery for pickup at one. It said “Happy 7th Birthday Bodie” in red letters.

I spent the morning moving everything I had planned for one place to another place. Paper plates. Juice boxes.

A plastic tablecloth with fire trucks on it.

By ten I had two answers to my text. Penny’s mom wrote “We’ll be there.” Another mom wrote “Of course! See you at 2.” The rest of the class was quiet, and I tried not to count.

I did count. Seventeen had not answered. I told myself it was Saturday and people were busy.

At eleven my phone buzzed and I grabbed for it. It was not a mom. It was Amos.

“Engine’s washed,” his text said. “Jasper’s coming to help. Don’t bring chairs, we have tables in the bay.”

Jasper is a young volunteer, a lineman’s apprentice with the electric co-op.

I made Bodie a grilled cheese for lunch, and he ate it wearing the helmet.

He asked me four times what time it was. At 12:40 I could not stand it any longer, and we loaded the car.