Today Is Eddie's Birthday
The cake reads "Good luck! Fight hard!" and on the side, along the
vanilla-frosted edge, someone has added the words, "Come home
soon," in blue squiggly letters, but the "o-o-n" is squeezed together, so it
reads more like "son" or "Come home son."
Eddie's mother has already cleaned and pressed the clothes he will
wear the next day. She's hung them on a hanger on his bedroom closet
doorknob and put his one pair of dress shoes beneath them.
Eddie is in the kitchen, fooling with his young Romanian cousins, his
hands behind his back as they try to punch his stomach. One points out
the kitchen window at the Parisian Carousel, which is lit for the
evening customers.
"Horses!" the child exclaims.
The front door opens and Eddie hears a voice that makes his heart
jump, even now. He wonders if this is a weakness he shouldn't be
taking off to war.
"Hiya, Eddie," Marguerite says.
And there she is, in the kitchen doorway, looking wonderful, and
Eddie feels that familiar tickle in his chest. She brushes a bit of
rainwater from her hair and smiles. She has a small box in her hands.
"I brought you something. For your birthday, and, well... for your
leaving, too."
She smiles again. Eddie wants to hug her so badly, he thinks he'll
burst. He doesn't care what is in the box. He only wants to remember
her holding it out for him. As always, with Marguerite, Eddie mostly
wants to freeze time.
"This is swell," he says.
She laughs. "You haven't opened it yet."
"Listen." He moves closer. "Do you—"
"Eddie!" someone yells from the other room. "Come on and blow out
the candles."
"Yeah! Were hungry!"
"Oh, Sal, shush!"
"Well, we are."
There is cake and beer and milk and cigars and a toast to Eddie's
success, and there is a moment where his mother begins to cry and she