The Birthday in Grandpa’s Hayloft

What the town said

The talking started before the hay was out of Maisie’s hair.

On Sunday morning Dana’s post about the skate party was gone from the parents’ page. Nobody had asked her to take it down. By then, I am told, there were eleven comments under it, and not one of them said what she had hoped.

Most were polite. “We heard it was a nice rink.” “Sorry we missed it, we were out at the Kaiser farm.” One mother wrote only “Hope Kaylee had a good day,” and I think that one stung worst of all.

The pictures took longer, and they were not mine. Tasha Greer posted four of the hay wagon with the eleven kids on it, singing. A father in a camouflage cap posted a video of the rope swing. By Sunday night, a hundred and forty people had liked a photo of my daughter in the hay with cake crumbs on her chin.

On Monday, Virgil from the rink called me again. He sounded about fifteen years old, which he is.

“Ma’am, I wanted to say sorry again. And, um, the manager asked me to tell you the other party can’t get that buyout money back. It’s in the paperwork, same as yours.”

I asked him what the buyout had cost. He told me, because he was too young to know he should not. Six hundred and twenty dollars, for three children and a table of cold pizza.

I thanked him and hung up and stood in the supply closet at Dr. Mabry’s for a minute with my hand on a box of gloves. I did not enjoy it. I want that said plainly. But I did understand it as a number, and I am not going to pretend I did not.

At the Kroger on Tuesday a woman I barely knew stopped her cart in the cereal aisle. “You’re the one with the hay barn,” she said. “My niece said it was the best party she has ever been to.”

By the end of the week, nine mothers had asked whether Grandpa would let them book the barn. One wanted it for a summer birthday. One wanted it for a retirement party. One, I swear, asked whether he took weddings.

“Tell them the door’s open,” Grandpa said, when I called him. “Tell them to bring their own tea.”