The birthday song ended, and people began returning to their seats.
Somebody carried away the empty cake plates.
The man with the microphone announced that coffee would be served shortly.
I was wiping a little icing from my fingers when I noticed Garland walking toward me.
He wasn't smiling anymore.
He stopped beside my chair.
"Della, could we talk somewhere quiet?"
I looked at the people around me.
Then I looked at him.
"You're asking me that again?"
He nodded.
I put my napkin down.
"All right."
We walked toward the side of the hall, near a row of windows overlooking the parking lot.
The music was still playing.
People were talking.
Nobody seemed particularly interested in us.
Garland stood with his hands in his pockets.
For several seconds, he didn't say anything.
Then he looked at me.
"You've changed."
I almost laughed.
"That happens."
He looked embarrassed.
"I didn't mean it that way."
"I know."
He glanced toward my table.
"Those people seem very close to you."
"They are."
"How long have you known them?"
"Some for years."
He nodded slowly.
I could tell he wanted to ask something.
He seemed to be searching for the right words.
Finally, he said, "I didn't know you had so many people in your life."
I looked at him.
"Why would you?"
He lowered his head.
That question had apparently reached somewhere he hadn't expected.
We stood quietly.
Then he asked about my work.
I told him I had retired after thirty-six years driving a school bus in Sunflower County.
His eyebrows lifted.
"Thirty-six years?"
"Yes."
"That's a long time."
"It was."
He asked whether I had enjoyed it.
I told him about the children.
The early mornings.
The cold winter days.
The parents who waved from their porches.
The little ones who fell asleep before reaching school.
He listened.
Then he smiled faintly.
"You always were good with children."
I looked at him.
That was an odd thing to say.
He had once left because he believed I couldn't give him children.
Now he was telling me I had been good with them.
I didn't know whether he understood the contradiction.
Perhaps he did.
Perhaps he didn't.
I let the silence remain.
Then he asked whether I had ever married again.
"No."
He looked surprised.
"Never?"
"No."
He glanced toward the birthday table.
"Well, I suppose you had your reasons."
"I did."
He seemed to want me to explain.
I didn't.
He shifted his feet.
"Did you ever have children?"
I looked at him.
There it was.
The question I had been waiting for.
I could have answered immediately.
Instead, I watched him for a moment.
"Yes," I said.
His face changed.
"Yes?"
I nodded.
He stared at me.
"How many?"
I looked toward the people at my table.
"Enough to keep me busy."
He almost smiled.
But he seemed confused.
"Are you saying you had children?"
I nodded again.
He looked at me as though he hadn't understood.
"How?"
I didn't answer that question.
Not because I was ashamed.
Because he had not earned the whole story simply by asking.
I said, "Garland, you left a long time ago."
He looked down.
"I know."
"You made your decision."
"I know that too."
"And I made mine."
He nodded.
For a moment, he looked genuinely troubled.
Then he asked something that surprised me.
"Are those people your family?"
I looked at him.
"Some of them."
He followed my gaze.
The woman who had greeted me at the door was laughing.
One of the others was pouring coffee.
Another was helping move chairs together.
They looked comfortable.
They belonged there.
"That's a nice thing," Garland said.
I didn't answer.
He rubbed his forehead.
"Bonnie didn't expect all this."
I looked at him.
"Neither did I."
He seemed to understand that I wasn't going to make things easier for him.
He looked toward the parking lot.
Then he turned back.
"Della, I hope you know I never wanted to hurt you."
I felt something move inside me.
Not anger exactly.
Something older.
Something tired.
I remembered the kitchen.
The duffel bag.
The pickup.
The empty driveway.
I remembered the nights when I had wondered whether I was somehow less of a woman because I couldn't have children.
Then I looked at the man standing in front of me.
"You didn't have to want to hurt me, Garland."
He waited.
"You hurt me anyway."
He lowered his eyes.
I left him standing by the window.
When I returned to the table, Ernestine was looking at me.
She had been watching from a distance.
She didn't ask what we discussed.
She simply moved her chair closer.
I sat down.
She passed me a cup of coffee.
"Black?"
I nodded.
She knew.
And I was grateful that she didn't ask another question.
Click here to continue reading: PART 10: My Sister Asked Whether Garland Had Finally Apologized, But His Words Had Opened a Much Older Wound
The Birthday Invitation That Arrived Forty-Two Years After My Marriage Ended Had One Cruel Sentence Written at the Bottom
Part 9 of 20
