The Birthday Room by Kevin Henkes Page A

her elbows on her knees.
    â€œYeah,” replied Ben. “I know what you mean.” He was tired of thinking. His head hurt.
    They were still on the porch. The sun had shifted. Now sunlight—fragmented by the trees—dappled their legs, their shoes, their heads.
    â€œI just thought of something weird,” said Lynnie.
    â€œWhat?” said Ben.
    â€œIt’s too weird to say.”
    â€œGo ahead. You can say it.”
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œOkay, but remember, it’s weird.” Lynnie was quiet for a long time, and then she said, “I was thinking again how if you asked me, I’d say that Kale’s accident was my fault, and you’d say it was your fault. Grandpa would say it’s his. And it’s not like there’s one right answer. And—this is the weird part—maybe it’s the same thing with your hand. Maybe it wasn’t only Ian’s fault. Maybe . . . I mean, who knows? I mean, you’ll never really know, it was so long ago.” She held a finger to her lips, pondering. “Dumb thought,” she added, as if to dismiss everything she had just said.
    Ben took this in. He lifted his head and squinted directly at the sun. This possibility had never occurred to him before. Heat seeped through his eyelids. When he lowered his head, his expression read: Who cares? Although he did care, of course. And then, all at once, he leaped off the porch. “I should go check in with my family,” he said.
    â€œOkay, but come back as soon as possible,” said Lynnie, rising from what looked like a comfortable, miserable slouch and grabbing onto the porch railing.
    â€œOkay,” replied Ben in a surprisingly deep voice.
    â€œOkay,” said Lynnie, imitating Ben, making a kind of a joke.
    â€œOkay,” Ben repeated, smiling.
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œOkay.”
    They continued their exchange—calling, calling, like two unusual birds—until Ben was lost to the trees and neither could see nor hear the other.
    Word of Kale’s mishap had traveled, and Ian and Nina asked Ben how Kale looked, how he seemed. Ben answered their questions and told what he knew, except for the part about the green plastic leaf. He didn’t lie; he just didn’t fill in each and every detail.
    Ben intended to return to Lynnie’s right after lunch, but he wasn’t the only one with a plan.
    â€œSince we won’t be making it to the ocean or the mountains,” said Ian, “how about a trip to the post office? It’s not exactly in the same category, I admit.”
    Because Ben’s mother was clearly within earshot and didn’t react, Ben assumed that she must have already granted permission. “Yes,” he said.
    â€œGreat,” said Ian.
    They said good-bye and drove away.
    Stones hit the bottom of the car and dust rose in its wake until they reached the highway. Then they picked up speed. Traffic was light. Ben looked at everything around him. The somber hills. The mountain peaks—far off, wrinkled, like tissue paper glued to the sky. Sheep. The occasional logging truck. Stands of fir trees that surely were older than any person he had ever met.
    â€œKale is a funny kid,” said Ian. “A good kid. I’m glad nothing more serious happened. I picture him scaling Everest someday, or sailing around the world solo. It’s interesting how you can tell already what he’ll be like as an adult. It’s not so obvious with everyone. Some people . . . with some people it’s harder to know.”
    Ben laughed, a half laugh. It was comforting to hear someone talk about Kale without dwelling on the accident.
    â€œThe last time I saw you ,” said Ian, “you were too little for me to know very well. I never saw you enough.”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œI’ve been trying to spend more time with the Deeters, to learn about kids. Practice for being a