Chapter 4 - The Party at the Public Park
Saturday morning arrived bright and cold.
No rain.
No rescue from the weather.
Just a blue sky and a party we would have to make wonderful ourselves.
I loaded folding tables into the truck while Dana packed coolers. Logan carried the box of decorations as though it contained something fragile enough to breathe.
At the park, the basketball court shone with early sunlight.
We had reserved the covered picnic area beside it.
Nothing glittered.
Nothing breathed mist.
But the leaves were turning gold around the fence, and the bakery had outdone itself.
The chocolate volcano rose from the middle of the cake with cookie dinosaurs climbing its sides.
One wore a tiny icing basketball jersey.
Logan stared.
“Dad.”
“Yeah?”
“They made the jersey.”
“They sure did.”
He looked at me as though I had arranged an actual volcanic eruption.
For a while, that was enough.
We hung the signs.
Set out the drinks.
Placed orange cones around a simple obstacle course.
My friend Eli arrived with extra basketballs and a speaker.
He coached at the community center and had volunteered to help before he knew anything about the family argument.
“How serious are we about rules?” he asked Logan.
“Medium serious.”
“Perfect. My favorite level.”
At twelve fifty, Aunt Ruth pulled into the parking lot.
Logan ran toward her.
I met her halfway.
“You came.”
She gave me a look.
“It’s an invitation, Max. Not a military deployment.”
Behind her came Nina, carrying a clipboard.
“Official scorekeeper reporting for duty.”
Logan practically bounced.
Then his school friends arrived.
Theo with his little sister.
Ava carrying a badly wrapped present.
Marcus and his dad.
Ben with a basketball he insisted had better bounce than ours.
Lily brought a handmade card with six dinosaurs because, according to her mother, five hadn’t looked festive enough.
The party grew noisy.
Shoes squeaked.
Music played.
Someone spilled lemonade before we had officially served it.
I began to breathe.
Then Logan looked toward the parking lot.
“Grandma’s late.”
Dana and I exchanged a glance.
Aunt Ruth crouched beside him.
“I’m here early enough for two grandmothers.”
He laughed.
It helped.
It didn’t fix it.
Children can enjoy something and still notice who is missing.
At one thirty, we started the first game.
The rules deteriorated almost immediately.
Lily decided dinosaurs should count as team mascots and be allowed to interfere with free throws.
Theo’s little sister stole a cone and declared herself referee.
Eli accepted the appointment.
By two, Logan had stopped checking the parking lot.
At two fifteen, a family walking past asked whether the court was open.
Their son was Logan’s age and carried a basketball.
Logan waved him over before I could answer.
“Do you want to play?”
They stayed.
Dana found extra plates.
The boy’s mother offered to help serve cake.
Nobody asked who was important enough to belong.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
Madison.
I let it ring.
A minute later, a text arrived.
Call me now. Private.
I stepped behind the picnic shelter.
“What?”
Her voice was tight.
“Mom says the card isn’t working online.”
“I explained that Wednesday.”
“You need to reactivate it.”
“No.”
“Max, the final payment is due at three.”
“Then speak with the venue.”
“I already did.”
“What did you tell them?”
“That I had a backup.”
I closed my eyes.
“You told them that after they contacted you about the canceled card?”
“Because I knew you wouldn’t let this happen.”
There it was.
Not misunderstanding.
Not confusion.
A gamble.
She had decided my fear of being called cruel would cost me less than her embarrassment.
Behind me, Logan shouted my name.
He had made a basket.
Both arms were raised.
Waiting for me to see.
“I warned you,” I said quietly. “You had time to change the package.”
“You’re going to ruin my son’s birthday?”
“No. You’re going to have an honest conversation about the event you booked.”
I ended the call.
Then I went back to the court and lifted Logan into the air.
At two fifty-seven, we gathered around the cake.
At two fifty-nine, everybody started singing.
May you like
At exactly three, while my son closed his eyes to make a wish, my phone began vibrating again.
This time, it didn’t stop.
