The Birthday Room by Kevin Henkes Page A

will do.”
    â€œI. . . . really don’t . . .”
    â€œTrust you alone with him,” said Ian.
    â€œI didn’t say that,” Ben’s mother replied sharply.
    â€œYou didn’t have to.”
    Ben could feel his insides constrict to small, hard lumps.
    Very quietly, Ben’s mother said, “I kind of resent the fact that you didn’t ask me first. I’m the parent. You sent the letter to Ben, not me. And now you ask this . . . out of the blue.”
    â€œGod, Mom,” said Ben, “I’m twelve years old.”
    â€œBen, please.” Ben didn’t know her voice could sound so small, or strained.
    Ian opened his mouth, as if to speak, and then his eyebrows snapped together and he turned his head to the side, saying nothing. He flipped the flashlight on and off repeatedly, the beam pointing straight down, illuminating a circle of dry grass.
    Ben looked from his uncle to his mother several times; if only his eyes could knit them back together. But it seemed as though they had retreated to some separate, distant place, making Ben’s task to turn the night around enormous, impossible.
    All at once, Ben’s mother and Ian walked away—Ben’s mother toward the house, Ian in the direction of his studio.
    The lights in the studio came on, and from across the yard, Ben could hear the kitchen faucet running. She’s doing the dishes, he thought. He noticed his mother’s sandals near her chair, right where she had tossed them off, and the napkin from Ian’s shirt on the ground beside them, a crumpled ball.
    Ben stayed outside trying to decide what to do next, and the stars just went on shining, unmindful, the trees aloof.

Part Three
    ANYWHERE

    Â 
    7
    I COULD BE ANYWHERE , Ben thought. It didn’t matter anymore that he was on vacation. He wanted to be home. He was mad at his mother. Right now, he should have been on his way to the ocean. Instead he was plodding upward through the sloping apple orchard, searching for the Deeters.
    Ian was still in his studio, and for all Ben knew, that’s where he had spent the night. Ben had heard hammering and the sound of a saw, both as he lay on the cot on the porch in the darkness trying to fall asleep, and as he woke at sunrise.
    Nina had driven to Eugene for her weekly midwife appointment. She had asked Ben if he wanted to join her. “There’s a great used bookstore next door and a bakery next to that with the best cinnamon rolls I’ve ever had. It’ll take me an hour at the most.” She was already in the car when she had asked him. The engine idled steadily. She tried to find a suitable radio station, settling on a classical one. Cellos swelled, louder, louder, until Nina turned the volume down. “I asked your mom—she said it was all right with her.”
    â€œNo, thank you.”
    â€œDon’t worry,” she said. Her eyes met his, and held. “They’ll be fine. I think they’re a lot alike.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” He touched the door handle.
    â€œThey’re brooders. They think too much. Your uncle overanalyzes everything. And he’s not very good at dealing with conflict,” she told him, tinkering with a button on her shirt. “If something’s difficult to talk about, I think he’d rather have all his teeth drilled without the benefit of novocaine than discuss it.”
    â€œMom, too. Sometimes anyway. That’s bad, huh?”
    â€œWell, it makes them who they are. Everything gets complicated when you love someone.” She smiled easily. “When I get back, we’ll whip them both into shape,” she said, reaching her hand out the window frame toward him. The gesture was somewhere between a wave and a pat. Then she took off slowly down the pocked dirt road, dust trailing behind the car like a little storm.
    Ben’s mother was baking chocolate-chip cookies, which was something she did