Courtship of the Cake (15 page)

“Why isn't he blindfolded?” Dani asked.

“Oh believe me,” I laughed. “Logan blindfolded with a stick in his hand would strike terror in the hearts of both man and beast.”

“Why would you say that? He seems like such a sweet and mellow kid.” She was genuinely perplexed, and the realization hit me just as Bear took charge and delivered the fatal blow to the piñata. Candy poured out of its cracked belly amid shrieks and squeals.

She had no clue.

“Dani, Logan's deaf.”

The look on her face told me Nash didn't know, either.

•   •   •

“Nash . . . wait!” Dani threaded her way through the guests and I followed, hot on her heels.

Nash had crouched down, bracing himself with hands on the neck of the guitar case, as Logan came bounding toward him with a goody bag full of his ground score.

“Hey, dude. You've got a good swing.”

Logan grinned and offered up a Tootsie Pop to the stranger in his
path. He had seen Nash speaking with all the important adults in his life earlier, which apparently meant they had reached candy-sharing status. I made a mental note to have a chat with him in the notepad about stranger-danger and candy sharing not always being a two-way street.

“Honey, I think you need to—,” Dani began.

Nash dismissed her with a wave behind him; a nonverbal
back off
that stopped her in her tracks.

“Hey, I've got a gift for you, too.” Nash tilted the guitar case toward Logan, but the boy was too busy unwrapping his own Tootsie Pop to pay any mind. “My old man got me a guitar when I was your age. So now I'm . . . now you've got one, too.”

The emotion that laced those last words went unnoticed by not only Logan, but by Quinn as well. She appeared on the scene, a tub of ice cream in each hand, just as Logan blew past Nash to show her his treats.

“Didn't I tell you to wait?” Quinn demanded, shooting daggers toward Nash over their son's head.

“What's his problem? You could teach the kid some basic manners, you know.”

“Problem?
Problem?
” Quinn sidestepped her son with an absent touch to his head. She unloaded the cold tubs onto my arms, but their cold sting was nothing compared to the frostbite in her tone as she bore down on Nash. “
You're
the problem!”

Bear stepped into the fray, pulling his sister back by both shoulders. Nash caught a camera lens to the lip as the strap around Quinn's neck swung in response to the inertia Bear forced upon her. Dani was instantly at Nash's side, not unlike that moment at the bakery. Sindy came running as well, pulling a vintage embroidered handkerchief from her cleavage to apply to Nash's lip as Dani helped him to a bench.

“Homecoming . . . who would've thought it would be more dangerous than jumping into the mosh pit?” His laugh sputtered bloodstains into the white linen.

The party had fallen silent except for the occasional rustle of a candy wrapper. Most of the children stared, as parents broke from their little klatches to hover near their offspring and eavesdrop.

Logan sucked on his Tootsie Pop and looked at me with all kinds of questions in his eyes. Even without the aid of our shared notepad, I had a hunch what he would write.

Is he my dad?

“Ask him,” I mouthed, slow and clear.

Logan shuffled shyly toward Nash, who had stopped blotting his lip for the time being. For someone who was used to being in the public eye, Nash had the gaze of a wounded animal, his own eyes darting everywhere but on the boy who was solemnly approaching. Dani placed her hands on Nash's shoulders from behind, and his tension visibly eased.

The lollipop stick rolled from side to side in Logan's mouth as he contemplated Nash. Then he slowly brought a hand up, all five fingers wide, and touched his thumb to his forehead. It was similar to a sign I recognized, although I had never seen it go higher than the chin. Quinn used the lower sign when she introduced herself as Logan's mother. I watched her now, as she lifted her chin high and proud, and gave the boy confirmation when he turned to her: her thumb tapped her own forehead, fingers splayed. Logan whipped his head back to face Nash.

Using a sign language of her own, Dani gave Nash's shoulders a quick squeeze. It prompted him to slowly lift his own thumb up to his forehead and copy their movements, with one large hand spread so wide his pinky practically touched Logan's nose.

The boy grinned and caught Nash in a hug around the neck. I watched my childhood friend's hands, normally so capable of limber movement up and down the frets of his guitar. They hovered useless and foreign for a moment, before coming to rest tentatively on Logan's scrawny back. Dani stepped back, letting father and son have a
moment. Her gaze caught mine, and she bit back a small smile before focusing on Nash and Logan.

A few people clapped, and there was a release of nervous laughter throughout the tent.

“Come on, the ice cream's melting,” Quinn said, reaching for the tubs, but I held them fast. Time froze as we stared each other down.

“You never told him?”

Quinn kept her eyes on the cartons of ice cream. “I told him there was the possibility. Back when the doctors were testing.”

“That was over nine years ago, Quinn. Jesus.”

“He never called back,” she said softly. “So I figured he didn't want to know.”

“No, you didn't think he deserved to know, did you?”

“You spoke to him more than I did, Mick! Did he ever ask you about Logan? Even once? No. Did you ever bring Logan's name up, or was it always ‘don't ask, don't tell'? Denial has always run as strong as that current back there”—she gestured toward the river, beyond the trees—“here on the Half Acre. Isn't that why
you
came back?”

The cartons were getting soggy, and she snatched them from my grasp. “Time to do cake and candles!” she hollered brightly. But for my ears only, she added with a defeated sigh, “Logan's been making the same damn wish for the last nine years. It's about time it came true.”

MAKE A WISH

“I have to get out of here,” Nash hissed in my ear, “or I am going to totally lose it.”

“No,” I said. “No way. That would be the worst thing you could do right now. Let's go sing, have cake, and make this about Logan today, okay?”

“I never should've come back here.”

“Your
son
”—I stressed the word—“is very happy you came back here.”

“He's deaf, Dani. Deaf! And mute. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?” For the second time that day, his voice cracked with emotion, and he had to clear his throat. This was a guy whose voice was an instrument, a tool of his trade that paid his bills and had, along with the sounds that sprang from his guitar, proved him a desirable commodity out there in the world.

And the only person he wanted to win over could never be swayed by it.

“Do
not
walk away.”

He glared at me. I stared pointedly back. The words hung between us. If anyone were to glance over at this moment in time, they might've thought we were having a lover's quarrel. Except we weren't lovers. And it was less a quarrel and more a job requirement.

I couldn't walk away, either. Or run.

Damn Maxine and her “dependability, respect, and the utmost professionalism while you work with the artists.”

Logan came running and tugged a shell-shocked Nash by the hand toward the tent where the desserts were waiting. Bear had already poked ten candles around a very homemade cake that read:

HAPPY BIRT
HDAY LOGAN!

in wavy letters. Something told me Mick hadn't baked that particular cake, but he smiled down at it as he reached around Bear and stuck in one last candle “for luck.”

“I forgot the matches,” Quinn muttered, rummaging through her box of supplies. “Damn it. Bear, could you run to the house—”

“I've got it.”

There was a flash and a whiff of lighter fluid as Nash flipped the top on his old vintage Zippo. A hush fell over the group; even Sindy was quiet. I caught Bear and Mick exchanging a guarded look. Quinn bit her lip and looked away as Nash moved the flame over each wick. She held Logan to her with one hand across his heaving chest.

I had seen Nash whip out that lighter on many occasions over the last few months: to spark up the occasional joint in social situations, to satisfy some random girl's flirty request for a light, to activate the tiki torches back in the artist compound after a heavy rain doused them. Even to show respect for his fellow musicians from sidestage, as fans raised their Bics, glowsticks, and iPhone virtual flame apps during a particularly moving encore. But never had I witnessed such
a solemn look as he completed the ritual for his son. It was all consuming and hypnotizing, as if answers to some ancient mystery were locked deep in the blue-black center of each flame.

The birthday boy grinned at everyone over the blazing candles, then he lifted his index fingers as if ready to conduct an orchestra. The children all began to sing and sign at the same time, four simple signs that carried just as much joy and enthusiasm as the traditional vocals. Some of the adults knew the signs as well, others tried to fake it, and some didn't attempt it at all. As we collectively warbled toward the finish, one voice rose above the others, strong and steady. Nash was doing the one thing he felt comfortable with, that he knew he was good at. He held that last note longer than everyone, adding a bit of melodic vocal range to the end. Nash could've held that note long after the candles had burned down to waxy puddles across the frosting, but Logan didn't give him a chance. With eyes squeezed shut and a whoosh of breath, he blew out every last candle as the crowd clapped and waved jazz hands in the air.

“Why do we wish over cake with our eyes closed?” Mick was behind me, leaning close. “Is it the same reason why we kiss with our eyes closed?”

His close proximity and his question raised goose bumps on my arms and other questions in my head. Was the thought of what we dared to hope for so fragile that opening our eyes would shatter the magic of it?

•   •   •

As the guests drifted away and parents tugged on their children's arms and collars to round them up and offer thanks to their hosts, I walked the perimeter, collecting stray juice pouches and candy wrappers. Nash was by the tree, tossing the disembodied piñata head back and forth between his hands and staring out at the river.

“Hey.” I stashed the trash into a garbage bag tied to one of the slats of the picnic table and joined him.

“When I was . . . I don't know, maybe eight or so, I came here for
Bear's birthday party. His parents had hired a magician, I remember. And there was a cotton candy machine, like at the fair. And the biggest piñata I had ever seen.” He continued tossing the colorful crepe-covered skull from hand to hand. “We all took a crack at it. Mick, Bear, even little Quinnie. She was a couple years younger than us but had a wicked swing.” He smirked. “Still does. But none of us could break that thing. Mrs. Bradley came out with her broom and poked and prodded a weak spot on its belly, until it was nice and tender, and then we all took another turn at it. Bear was our Little League champion; he finally made the swing that cracked it in half.”

Nash glanced up at the tree with a slight smile, as if replaying a movie of the day. “I couldn't believe the amount of candy that came pouring out. And plastic jewelry, and toys. Little army men, rubber snakes, every kid's dream. It didn't seem like it would ever stop.” He cleared his throat. “All the other kids swarmed under it, pushing and grabbing. I was kind of paralyzed, watching it all. Then I noticed the piñata head, it had rolled over there.” He nodded his head toward the base of the large maple. “I remember racing over to it, and claiming it all for myself.”

He placed the donkey head into my hands, and I turned it over. The cavity was stuffed with wadded-up newspaper.

“I didn't know they only filled the body with the treats. By the time I realized, all the stuff was gone from the ground. Every child had armloads of booty, and I was left with this.” He took back possession of the head and poked at the paper inside.

“Mr. Bradley walked past me to gather up all the garbage, and I'll never forget it. He saw me standing there with the head and he said, ‘That's what you get for being so greedy.' And he kept on walking.”

“Oh my freakin' God. What a horrible thing to say to a child.” That had to rate a good ten hours on the therapy clock, for sure.

Nash shrugged and gave a bitter laugh. “Well, he was right. I remember thinking, ‘Why bother with fighting for a few handfuls on
the ground when I can have the entire head to myself?' I had taken the easy way out.”

“Nash. You were eight years old. Lots of kids would've done the exact same thing.”

“Then why did they have all the candy, and I had nothing?” he asked. He turned to face me. “Obey the rules, and you get rewarded. Be a sheep. Follow the herd.”

“That doesn't mean you were wrong. You were being smart, and creative.”

“I
was
being greedy. I did want it all to myself. Was that so wrong?” His voice began to rise. “And I didn't want to be like all of them!” He did a dropkick and booted the head down the embankment, where it rolled out of sight. We heard a watery
ker-plop
. “Who was I kidding? I couldn't be like the Bradleys no matter how hard I tried. They had a big, beautiful house that people would drive miles to see just for the Christmas lights. I lived in a trailer. My dad would turn off the lights on Halloween because we couldn't afford to give out candy.”

I wrapped my arms around him and he buried his face in my hair.

“Can you see why I don't belong here?”