The next morning, Art woke up to the sound of somebody singing. Not good singing. Not even acceptable singing. It was the kind of singing that made a person question whether the singer had ever actually heard music before. Art opened his eyes. The singing continued. “Happy birthday to you…” Art sat up. “No.” “…happy birthday to you…” He threw back the covers. “Absolutely not.” He marched to the window.
Across the street, Lou stood on the Bellamy sisters' porch wearing a paper birthday crown. She was holding a wooden spoon like a microphone. Martie stood behind her with a tray of biscuits. Vivian was sitting in a chair, sipping coffee and looking entirely too pleased with herself.
Lou saw Art at the window. She waved. “GOOD MORNING, BIRTHDAY BOY!” Art opened the window. “It isn't my birthday!” Lou cupped her hands around her mouth. “IT IS IN A WEEK!” “WE'RE PRACTICING!”
"PRACTICING WHAT?" yelled Arthur.
“THE BIRTHDAY!”
Art closed the window. He stood there for a moment. Then he laughed. He couldn't help it. The house surely didn't feel quiet anymore.
At breakfast, Art sat across from the three sisters. Martie had made biscuits. Again. Vivian had made coffee. Lou had made a list. Art eyed it suspiciously. “What is that?”
“Your birthday schedule.”
“No.”
“You haven't seen it.”
“I don't need to.”
Lou slid the paper across the table. Art looked down.
ART'S BIRTHDAY
8:00 — Breakfast
9:00 — Walk
10:00 — Fishing
12:00 — Lunch
2:00 — Nap
4:00 — Cake
5:00 — Presents
6:00 — Dinner
7:00 — Music
8:00 — Dancing
Art looked up. “No.”
Lou smiled. “Which part?”
“All of it.”
“You don't like dancing?”
“I don't dance.”
“You used to.”
Art stopped. “How do you know that?” Lou shrugged. “Vivian told me.” Vivian looked innocent. “I know things.”
Art looked at the schedule again.
Then he noticed something. “What's at two?”
“Nap.”
“Why?”
“Because you're old.”
Art stared at Lou. Martie started laughing. Vivian covered her mouth. Art pointed at Lou. “You're lucky I like you.” Lou smiled. “I know.” He looked down at the schedule again. Then he noticed something else. At the very bottom, Lou had written:
9:00 — Sit on Porch and Talk About Life
Art's smile faded. He looked at her. “What is this?” Lou shrugged. “Nothing.” “You wrote it,” said Art, “I did," smiled Lou. “Why?” Art questioned. Lou replied, “Because sometimes that's the best part.” Art looked at her for a long moment. Then he folded the paper. “I'll be there.” Lou smiled.
The morning passed quietly. Art went fishing with the sisters. Well, technically, he went fishing while the sisters talked. Vivian had never learned how to bait a hook. Martie didn't like worms. Lou named every fish they saw. “That's Clarence.” Art looked at the water. “There is no fish.” “There will be,” beamed Lou. “How do you know?” laughed Art. Lou replied, “A fish told me.” Art shook his head. “You talk to animals quite a lot.” “Yes.” “Do they answer?” “Sometimes.” “What do they say?” Lou looked serious. “Mostly that people are exhausting.” Art laughed. “I believe that.”
They spent the afternoon by the lake. Art caught two fish. Martie caught one. Vivian caught her own fishing line. Lou caught a turtle. She insisted it had followed her. On the drive home, Art looked at the three sisters in the back seat. He realized something. He hadn't thought about the past all day. Not once. He had simply been there. Present. Alive. Happy. It frightened him a little. Then it didn't.
That evening, after dinner, Art returned home. He gathered the mail, went inside and took off his shoes. He flipped on the lamp and started checking his mail when he saw an envelope that stopped him in his tracks. There was no return address, but it was addressed to him.
Arthur Caldwell.
He knew the handwriting. His heart dropped. He picked up the envelope. He hadn't seen that handwriting in almost three years. His daughter's. Emily. He sat down. The envelope trembled in his hand. For several minutes, he simply stared at it. Then he whispered, “No.” He placed it on the table. He walked away. He poured himself coffee. He sat in the living room. He looked at the television. He didn't turn it on. The envelope sat in the kitchen. Waiting.
Art closed his eyes. Three years ago, he and Emily had stood in that old house in another town. They had argued. Not about anything important. Not really. But grief had a way of turning little things into weapons. Emily had wanted him to move closer to her. He had refused. She had said he was shutting everybody out. He had said she didn't understand. She had cried. He had gotten angry. She had said, “You don't want a daughter, Dad. You want to be left alone.” And Art had said the words he would regret for the rest of his life. “Maybe I do.” Emily had left. He had expected her to call. She didn't. Then came the letters. The first one. Then another. Then another. He never opened them. He couldn't. Because opening one meant admitting that he had hurt his daughter. And Art Caldwell was very good at living with things he didn't want to face. He stared toward the kitchen. The envelope was still there. He got up. He picked it up. He held it. Then he placed it back on the table. “No.”
Across the street, Vivian was watching. She had not intended to spy. At least, that's what she told herself. She had simply been watering flowers. At nine o'clock at night. With binoculars. Martie came outside. She looked at Vivian. “Are you spying?” “No.” “You have binoculars.” “I like birds.” “You're looking at Art's kitchen.” Vivian lowered them. “I was checking on him.” “Why?” “He looked upset.”
Martie looked across the street. Art was standing at his kitchen table. She could see him through the window. He was holding something. An envelope. Martie frowned. “What's that?” “I don't know.” Lou came outside. “What are you two doing?” “Nothing,” Vivian said.
Lou looked through the window. Her expression changed. “That's a letter.” “I know,” Vivian whispered. Lou watched Art. “He looks scared.” Martie nodded. “He does.” Vivian lowered the binoculars. “We should go over.” “No.” Vivian looked at her. “Why not?” “Because whatever that is, it's his.”
Lou nodded. “Sometimes people have to open their own doors.” Vivian looked at her. “You're getting wise again.” “I have moments.” They stood quietly.
Then Art turned off the kitchen light. The sisters watched him walk into the hallway. He disappeared.
Lou sighed. “I hope he's okay.” Martie put an arm around her. “He will be.”
The next morning, Art didn't come over for breakfast. The sisters noticed immediately. Martie looked at the clock. 8:05. “He's never late.” 8:15. Vivian looked across the street. His curtains were still closed. 8:30. Lou stood. “I'm going over.” Martie stopped her. “Give him a little time.” 9:00. Art still hadn't come out. Vivian stood. “I'm going.” Martie nodded. “Go.”
Vivian crossed the street. She knocked. Nothing. She knocked again. “Art?” Nothing. Her heart began to race. She tried the doorknob. Locked. “Art?” A voice came from inside. “Go away.” Vivian closed her eyes. “Are you all right?” “Yes.” “Are you lying?” “Yes.” Vivian smiled despite herself. “Good. You're still you.”
There was silence. Then the door opened. Art stood there. He looked exhausted. He hadn't shaved. His hair was messy. His eyes were red. Vivian didn't ask what happened. She simply stepped inside. She saw the envelope on the kitchen table. “Do you want to talk?” “No.” “Okay.”
She sat down. Art stared at her. “You're not leaving?” “No.” “Why?” Vivian smiled. “Because we're very persistent.” Art looked down. Then he sat across from her. For several minutes, neither spoke.
Finally, Art said, “It's from my daughter.” Vivian nodded. “I thought so.” “I haven't talked to her in three years.” “I know.”
“She tried.” Vivian waited. “Letters. Phone calls.” He swallowed. “I didn't answer.” “Why?” asked Vivian. Art looked toward the envelope. “Because I was angry.” Vivian asked gently, “At her?” “At myself.”
Vivian reached across the table. “That's usually where anger comes from.” Art laughed quietly. “You sound like Lou.” “Don't insult me,” Vivian laughed. He smiled. Then his face fell again. “I said something terrible to her.” “What?” “I told her maybe I wanted to be left alone.” Vivian was quiet. “Did you mean it?” Art looked at her. “I thought I did.” “And now?” Art looked toward the window. Across the street, Martie and Lou were watching. He smiled sadly. “Now I know better.” Vivian squeezed his hand. “Then maybe it's time she knows too.”
Art looked at the envelope. “I don't know what it says.” "Then open it.” “What if it's angry?” “Then let her be angry.” “What if she doesn't want me?” Vivian's eyes filled. “Then you'll have to give her time.” Art looked at her. “And what if she does?” Vivian smiled. “Then you're going to need a bigger table.” Art laughed. A tear slipped down his cheek. He wiped it away.
Vivian stood. “I'll be across the street.” She started toward the door. Art stopped her. “Vivian?” She turned. “Thank you.” “For what?” “For not asking me to forget.” Vivian smiled. “We're not very good at forgetting.”
She walked outside. Art closed the door. He returned to the kitchen and picked up the envelope. For three years, it had represented everything he was afraid of. Today, it represented something else. A chance. His hands shook as he opened it. Inside was a single sheet of paper. He unfolded it. And read.
Dad,
I don't know if you'll read this. I hope you do. I don't know how to fix what happened between us. I don't even know if it can be fixed. But I miss you. I miss my dad. I keep thinking about the last thing you said to me, and I know you were hurting. I was hurting too. I don't want to spend the rest of my life being angry with you. If you ever decide you want to talk, I'm here.
I love you.
Emily
Art read it twice. Then a third time. His vision blurred. He pressed the paper against his chest. “Emily.” His voice broke. He looked toward the photograph of Margaret on the shelf. “You'd tell me to call her.” He laughed through his tears. “You'd tell me I've been an idiot.” The room was silent. Art nodded. “Yeah.” He picked up the telephone. His hand hovered over the numbers. He was afraid. More afraid than he'd been in years. Then he dialed.
One ring. Two. Three. He almost hung up.Then—“Hello?” Art couldn't speak. His eyes filled. “Emily?” Silence. Then a breath. “Dad?” Art closed his eyes. “Yes.” Her voice trembled. “Oh my God.” Art swallowed hard. “I got your letter.” Another silence. Then Emily whispered, “I didn't know if you'd ever open one.” “I didn't.” She laughed softly through tears. “Of course you didn't.” Art smiled. “I was scared.”“So was I,” said Emily.
He looked around his kitchen. At the blue plates. At Gerald. At the birthday cake pan. At the photographs. At the life that had somehow begun again. “I moved.” “I know.” “How did you know?” asked Arthur.
“The woman who lives across the street called me.” Art's eyes widened. “Vivian?” Emily laughed. “She said she was your neighbor.” Art shook his head. “Of course she did.” “She also said you were stubborn.” Art smiled. “She knows me.” Emily was quiet. “Dad?” “Yes?” “Are you happy?”
Art looked toward the window. Across the street, three women were pretending not to watch him. Lou was openly waving. Martie was shaking her head. Vivian was wiping her eyes. Art smiled. “Yes.” His voice was steady. “For the first time in a long time, I am.” Emily breathed out. “Good.” Art looked at the phone. “I'd like you to come visit.” Another silence. Then Emily whispered, “I'd like that.” Art closed his eyes. He smiled. “Bring your appetite.” Emily laughed. “I surely will.” He laughed too. And across the street, Lou threw both arms into the air. Martie hugged Vivian. Vivian cried.
Art stood in the kitchen holding the telephone. For the first time in three years, he heard his daughter's laughter. And suddenly, the house didn't just feel less quiet. It felt full.The past hadn't been erased, but finally the door to the future had opened.