Art Caldwell should have known better. He should have known that the moment he told three meddling women that he was beginning to feel at home, his life would never again be peaceful. He simply hadn't realized how quickly they would take advantage of it.
It started Tuesday morning. Art was sitting at his kitchen table drinking coffee when the telephone rang. He stared at it. The phone rang again. He picked it up. “Hello?”
“Good morning!” Art closed his eyes. “Vivian.” “That's right.” “What do you want?” questioned Art. “Nothing,” answered Vivian “You're lying," accused Art. “You only call this early when you want something.”
There was a pause. “Well…” Art sighed. “What?”
“We're planning your birthday.”
“My birthday is next month.”
“I know.”
“So why are you planning it now?” asked Art.
“Because we're organized.”
“You are the least organized people I've ever met.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn't a compliment.”
“I took it as one.”
Art rubbed his forehead. “I don't want a birthday party.”
“You haven't had one in years.”
“Exactly.”
“That's why you need one.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Vivian.”
“Art.”
“I am not having a birthday party.”
“You are.”
“I am not.”
“You'll see.”
The line went dead. Art stared at the telephone. Then he looked at Hank. “Did you hear that?” Hank wagged his tail. “I'm surrounded by lunatics.”
Across the street, the sisters were gathered around the kitchen table. Martie had a notebook. Lou had three sheets of colored paper. Vivian had a tape measure. Nobody knew why Vivian had a tape measure. Martie looked at it. “What are you measuring?”
“The porch.”
“For what?”
“Decorations.”
“We're not decorating the porch.”
“Why not?”
“Because this is supposed to be a small birthday dinner.”
Lou raised her hand. “Can I make a banner?”
“No.”
“What if I make it small?”
“No.”
“What if I make it tasteful?”
Martie stared at her. “You don't know how to make anything tasteful.”
Lou looked offended. “I made Gerald, and he's a very tasteful ceramic rooster."
Vivian ignored them. “I think we need balloons.”
“No balloons.”
“Cake.”
“Obviously.”
“Flowers.”
“Yes.”
“Music.”
Martie hesitated. “Maybe.”
“Dancing.”
“No.”
Lou raised her hand again. “Why?”
“Because nobody is dancing.”
“Art might.”
“Art is seventy-nine.”
Lou shrugged. “So?”
Vivian smiled. “She's got a point.”
Martie shook her head. “We are having dinner. That's all.”
Lou looked at the notebook. “What's the guest list?”
“Us.”
“And Art.”
“Yes.”
“And Hank.”
“Hank is a dog.”
“He's family.”
Martie thought about it. “Fine.”
Lou wrote his name down.
“Hank Caldwell.”
Vivian smiled, “Should we invite Edna?”
Martie looked at her. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you're still thinking about fixing him up.”
“I am not.”
Lou leaned forward. “Yes, you are.”
Vivian sighed. “Fine. Maybe a little.”
Martie closed the notebook. “Art doesn't need a woman.”
Vivian looked toward the window. “No.” She smiled. “He needs people.” That quieted them.
Martie nodded. “Exactly.”
Lou looked down at the colored paper. Then she smiled. “I'm still making the banner.”
Art spent the rest of Tuesday trying to avoid the sisters. This proved impossible. When he went to get the mail, Lou appeared. “Hi!” Art looked around. “Where did you come from?” “My porch,” giggled Lou.
“You weren't there.”
“I moved.”
“Why?”
“I saw you.”
Art shook his head. “What do you want?”
“Nothing.”
He held up his mail. “Good.”
“I just wanted to tell you something.”
“What?”
“You don't even know what it is,” Lou said. “I know it's trouble,” said Art. Vivian smiled. “Open it.” Art looked inside. A cake pan. He stared at them. “What is this?”
“Your cake pan.”
“I don't bake.”
“You might.”
“No.”
Lou leaned around Vivian. “It has your name on it.” Art looked closer. Someone had written ART across the top in permanent marker.
“Why?”
“So nobody steals it.”
“I don't have a cake pan.”
“You do now.”
Art looked at the three women. “You realize you're making my house look like yours.” Vivian smiled. “That means it's working.” Art laughed. “Lord help me.”
Saturday morning, Art woke up to the sound of hammering. He sat straight up in bed. “What now?” Hammering continued. He went outside. Lou was standing in his front yard. She was holding a hammer. Martie was holding a ladder. Vivian was holding a large roll of ribbon. Art stopped. “No.”
Lou waved. “Good morning!”
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“You're hammering something into my house.”
Lou looked up. “Oh.”
She lowered the hammer. “I suppose that does count as something.”
Art walked toward them. “What are you hanging?”
“A banner.”
“I told you I don't want a birthday party.”
“This isn't the party.”
“What is it?”
“A preview.”
Art stared at them. “A preview?” Vivian nodded. “Think of it as a teaser.”
“I don't want a teaser.” Lou smiled. “Too late.” Art looked up. A banner stretched across the front porch.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ART!
Underneath it was another sign.
79 YEARS OF BEING GRUMPY AND STILL LOOKING GOOD.
Art read it twice.
Then he looked at Vivian. “You wrote that.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it's true.”
Art tried not to smile. He failed.
Martie noticed. “So you like it.”
“I didn't say that.”
“You're smiling.”
“I have gas.”
Lou burst out laughing.
Art pointed at her. “Don't encourage her.”
“I wouldn't dream of it.”
That afternoon, Art sat on his porch. The banner moved gently in the breeze. He looked at it. He shook his head. Then he smiled. Hank came over and rested his head on Art's knee. “You like it?” Hank wagged his tail. “Of course you do.”
Art looked across the street. The sisters were sitting together on their porch. Vivian was reading a magazine. Martie was shelling peas. Lou was trying to teach a squirrel to take peanuts from her hand. Art watched them. He thought about Margaret. She had loved birthdays. Not because of presents. Because birthdays gave people an excuse to gather. She always said there was no such thing as too much cake if enough people were laughing.
Art looked at the banner again. He smiled. “Maybe she was right.” Hank lifted his head. Art scratched behind his ears. “You know what, boy?” Hank waited. “I think I'm going to let them have their party.”
From across the street came a shout. “WE HEARD THAT!” Art closed his eyes. “Of course you did.” Lou stood up. “ART SAID YES!” Martie yelled, “He did!” Vivian started clapping. Art called back. “I said I'd let you have dinner!”
Lou cupped her hands around her mouth. “THAT'S A PARTY!” Art laughed. “You three are impossible!” Vivian called back, “And you love us!”
Art stood there. He looked at the three women. Then at the banner. Then at Hank. And something inside him softened. He raised his voice. “Yes.” The sisters went quiet. Art smiled. “I do.” For once, all three sisters simply smiled.'t
Art looked toward the evening sky. And for just a moment, he could almost hear Margaret laughing. He wondered if she was watching. If she was, he hoped she was happy. Because he was. He hadn't forgotten her, and the loneliness hadn't disappeared. But, somehow, in the middle of his seventy-ninth year, life had surprised him. It had put three ridiculous women across the street. A dog in his yard. A ridiculous ceramic rooster in his kitchen. A garden gnome he secretly liked. And a porch full of people who had decided he belonged. Art shook his head. Then he smiled. “Seventy-nine,” he murmured. “Who'd have thought?”
Across the street, Lou yelled, “WHAT DID YOU SAY?” Art laughed. “I SAID I'M TOO OLD FOR THIS!” Lou shouted back, “TOO LATE!”
Art sat down. Hank rested his head on his knee again. And for the first time in years, Art looked forward to his birthday. He was getting older, and for the first time in a very long time, he had people to grow older with.