The New Yorker - USA (2021-01-18)

THENEWYORKER,JANUARY18, 2021 53

couldn’t see their faces or even their
reddish fur, but he always had the im-
pression that they were wearing a sneer.
His bedroom curtains had been half
closed—a ritual of sickness. His mouth
was silenced again by the insertion of
a thermometer. Dr. Henderson, armed
by his mother’s prior diagnosis, pro-
duced medicines from his bag and gave
his mother some words of instruction.
Two of the pills were to be taken im-
mediately. He wrote a supplementary
prescription. Then he removed the ther-
mometer, looked at it, wiped it care-
fully, and put it back into a little liq-
uid-filled tube.
“It’s a mild case, Jimmy. You hardly
have a temperature. I’ve seen much
worse. You’ll live. You’ll be right as rain
in a few days if you do as your mother
says. And no school for at least a week.”
You’ll live!
“As for blushing, young man, I can’t
cure that. You’ll have to take care of
that by yourself.”
He tightened his lips, both serious
and not, then, snapping his bag shut,
he got up from his chair and looked at
his watch. “Your mother’s promised me
a cup of tea.”
Dr. Henderson was always offered
a cup of tea.
His mother got up, too, and they
stood together at his bedside, as if he
were their child. Dr. Henderson said,
“And no playing with your friends, ei-
ther. But you’ve already done that. A
wonderful birthday party. You’re lucky
you didn’t miss it. I’m sorry I missed
it myself.”
Then they went downstairs, leav-
ing him with the sudden thought that
Dr. Henderson might never enter his
bedroom again. If this was the last ill-
ness. And then with the thought, not
so stabbing, yet puzzling: Why should
Dr. Henderson be sorry to have missed
his party? Had he been invited?
And then with the sudden return-
ing image, as he lay in bed, of that party,
every detail of it. A memory merely a
week old. But now, sixty and more years
later, it came back to him just as pierc-
ingly fresh.
That party! Even the hypothetical
presence at it of Dr. Henderson. Though
why, indeed, should he have been there?
Why should he have been standing
there, a special guest, among the gag-

gle of mums? The mums were the only

grownups at the party. There were no

men. It was a teatime party. All the

men were absent at work. All the fa-

thers. All the doctors, too.

But it was true. It was a wonderful

party. It reënveloped him now. The best

of his birthday parties, because, after

all, he was ten, a big boy, two numbers

to his name. And the best party be-

cause—but this, he now knew, was

hindsight, neither a thing nor a word

he had then—in less than a year’s time

his parents would start the process of

not living together. The world would

disintegrate.

It wasn’t his mother and Dr. Hen-

derson, as he might have supposed,

even vaguely wished. His mother some-

times went to see Dr. Henderson by

herself. But this was only to “see her

doctor,” in his surgery. “Women’s stuff,”

his father had once bafflingly said about

these visits. Then shrugged, as if he

didn’t care.

Putting two and two together, he’d

wondered if this “stuff ” might have to

do with the little brother or sister he’d

once been promised. But surely that

was all finished with long ago, long be-

fore he was ten. His mother had set-

tled for just one. So had he—settled

on being the one. It was his mother

and him. Then he’d dared to suppose

that the visits might not be about any-

thing medical at all.

But it had been his father. It had

been the other way round. When his

father went to work, he didn’t, some-

times, just go to work.

Though none of this had clouded his

tenth-birthday party, no more than had

the illness he would have a week later.

A

wonderful party on a gorgeous

summer’s day in the garden that

lay beneath his bedroom window.

If he’d got up from his sickbed, he

might have surveyed the scene of his

party. But he didn’t need to—it was

in his head.

As it was in his head now.

The lawn strewn with his guests,

his school friends. Only an hour be-

fore, they’d all been at school and the

lawn had been just a lawn, quietly bask-

ing in the June sun. But a transforma-

tion had occurred. The boys, including

himself, had been thrust into clean

shirts and the girls, more willingly, per-

haps, into party frocks. Then they’d all

regathered at his house and taken pos-

session of the lawn.

On the narrow terrace between

house and lawn stood a table bearing

food and drink, and round it clustered

the mums, in party frocks of their own.

Under the table, hidden by a tablecloth

hanging to the ground, had been,

though not for long, everything needed

for a succession of party games, and

the presents to go with them. Every-

one, he understood, was to have pres-

ents, but he would have the most and

the best.

And so it had transpired. What was

on the table was soon pillaged—the

tablecloth would eventually need a se-

rious wash—and what was underneath

achieved its purpose. The lawn be-

came strewn not just with children

but with torn and crumpled wrapping

paper and other debris from the games,

not to mention many smeared and

sticky paper plates and cups, some

trodden on.

And all this joyous litter was a trib-

ute to his mother’s toil. How she must

have labored that day, preparing little

fancy cakes—and one big one—as well

as ice cream, jellies, bottles of lemon-

ade, jugs of lemon and orange squash

to be topped up with ice cubes from

the new fridge. In the brief interval

between his return from school and

the start of it all, he had watched her

set everything out with unpanicking

efficiency, a calm smile on her face.

How she must have worked—wrap-

ping the presents as well!—and how

unflappably and triumphantly she had

assembled the results of her work.

In the unit, soon, he would inwardly

invoke, to assert his necessary poise,

his mother’s busy serenity before his

tenth-birthday party.

At the last moment, she’d gone up

quickly to her bedroom to put on her