The first plate of food arrived shortly afterward.
Somebody had brought brisket.
There were beans, potato salad, bread, and a bowl of coleslaw.
The food looked good.
I hadn't eaten much that morning.
So I served myself.
One of the women beside me laughed.
"You always did like your potato salad."
"I still do."
She passed me a fork.
For a little while, I forgot why we were there.
That was the strange thing about seeing people after many years.
You could begin talking about something ordinary.
And suddenly, the years between you seemed much shorter.
We talked about old neighbors.
We talked about people who had moved away.
We talked about the church van.
We talked about the school bus.
Somebody mentioned a rainy morning when a child had refused to get off the bus because he had forgotten his lunch.
I laughed.
I remembered that day.
I remembered almost everything about that job.
The children.
Their backpacks.
Their arguments.
Their sleepy faces.
Their little hands waving through the windows.
I had driven that bus for thirty-six years.
There were mornings when I wanted to stay home.
There were afternoons when I was exhausted.
But I had loved the work.
Not every minute.
But enough.
A shadow fell across the table.
I looked up.
Bonnie was standing beside us.
She had a glass in one hand.
Her sequined dress caught the light when she moved.
"Could I speak with you?"
I set down my fork.
"Of course."
She looked toward the others.
"Privately."
I glanced around.
The people at my table became quiet.
I stood.
We moved a few steps away.
Bonnie looked toward the entrance.
Then back at me.
"I don't understand."
I waited.
"Why did you bring all these people?"
I looked at her.
"You asked me to come."
"Yes, but I didn't expect…"
She stopped.
I let her finish.
"I didn't expect you to bring so many."
I folded my hands.
"The invitation asked how many people would attend."
Her mouth tightened.
"That was a personal message."
I looked at her.
"Was it?"
She seemed irritated.
"You know what I meant."
I didn't answer.
She lowered her voice.
"I don't think this is appropriate."
I almost laughed.
Not because I was amused.
Because I couldn't believe she was standing in front of me saying that.
"Bonnie, it's a birthday party."
"Exactly."
"And we're guests."
She looked toward my table.
Then she looked back.
"Garland has a family here."
I nodded.
"I can see that."
She seemed to expect me to say something else.
I didn't.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"I just don't want any confusion."
I looked at her sequined dress.
Then at the glass in her hand.
Then back at her face.
"There isn't any confusion on my end."
She looked away.
For a moment, I thought she might walk off.
Instead, she asked another question.
"Did Garland tell you about us?"
I considered that.
"No."
"About the boys?"
"No."
"About our life?"
I looked at her.
"Why would he?"
She didn't answer.
I could tell she hadn't expected that response.
She looked almost offended.
I continued.
"I don't know your life, Bonnie. You don't know mine."
She stood very still.
Then she said something I hadn't expected.
"Well, I know enough."
I felt my face become warm.
But I kept my voice steady.
"Do you?"
She looked toward the table.
Then she walked away.
I returned to my chair.
The woman beside me asked whether everything was all right.
I nodded.
"Just a misunderstanding."
She didn't believe me.
But she let it go.
I picked up my fork.
I wasn't going to let Bonnie spoil my food.
Across the hall, Garland was speaking to one of his sons.
The younger man looked toward our table.
Then he leaned closer to his father.
Garland said something.
The son looked surprised.
I wondered whether he had finally told them who I was.
A little later, one of the sons approached.
He was tall.
He had gray beginning near his temples.
He held a paper cup.
"Excuse me."
I looked up.
"Yes?"
"Are you Della?"
I nodded.
He hesitated.
"I'm Nathan."
I waited.
He looked toward his father.
Then back at me.
"My dad's first wife was named Della."
I felt something tighten in my chest.
"That's right."
He nodded slowly.
"I didn't know you'd be here."
I looked at him.
"Neither did I, until I received the invitation."
He seemed uncomfortable.
"I hope you don't mind me asking."
"Go ahead."
"Did you and my dad…"
He stopped.
I understood.
"Yes. We were married."
He looked down at his cup.
"For how long?"
"Five years."
He was quiet.
Then he asked whether we had children.
I took a breath.
There it was.
The question that had once controlled so much of my life.
"No," I said.
He nodded.
I continued before he could ask anything else.
"Your father and I couldn't have children together."
Nathan looked toward Garland.
Then back at me.
"I'm sorry."
I studied his face.
He seemed sincere.
"Thank you."
He stood there for a moment.
Then he said something that surprised me.
"I never knew much about that time."
I nodded.
"People don't always tell their children everything."
He looked uncomfortable again.
"I suppose not."
I didn't blame him.
He hadn't been there.
He hadn't made the decision.
He was simply a grown man trying to understand something about his father's past.
I gestured toward the chair.
"Would you like to sit?"
He looked toward the birthday table.
Then he smiled faintly.
"Maybe another time."
I nodded.
He returned to his brothers.
I watched him walk away.
For the first time that afternoon, I felt something other than nervousness.
I felt curious.
Not about Garland.
About the three men who had grown up believing they knew their father's whole story.
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: One of Garland’s Sons Asked About the Marriage He Had Never Heard Discussed, And I Realized Silence Had Been Part of Their Family Too
The Birthday Invitation That Arrived Forty-Two Years After My Marriage Ended Had One Cruel Sentence Written at the Bottom
Part 6 of 20
