The Birthday Party

(written after attending my greatuncle Bill's 100th birthday pary)

Next to the man himself, it was the cake that stood out as a focal point. It read, "Happy Birthday Bill. 1890-1990." A horsedrawn carriage in tremendous detail was juxtaposed with a beautiful white spacecraft. A single red rose occupied a place of honor by its side. It seemed a shame to cut into such a piece of art.

Bill made his way through the crowded living room to his cake. When he saw the rose he turned to his daughter-in-law.

"Thank you," he said simply. He had lost his own Rose only five years before. He had cared for her all the last years of her life and he regretted nothing.

He started to cut the cake but someone said, "Wait, we have to sing." He stood patiently while the family sang his honor, and then made the first cut into the cake, vaguely proud that his hand didn't even shake. He stepped away and looked for a chair, smiling at everyone in the expectant silence. A cousin he didn't know said, "OK, you can all talk again, now." She looked familiar, but they all did.

It was an unusual gathering in its way. Everyone was related to someone there, but most were strangers. Bill was the common denominator. He sat in a straight chair in a corner and greeted people. He knew almost everyone, had some story to tell of their past, some remembrance. He stood up for all the women, straight and tall, dark blue suit perfectly fitted.

"Don’t stand up, Bill," each one said.

"I’ll sit when I get tired. Don’t worry." He didn’t feel tired; he felt pleased. He grinned to himself every so often.

"I’m Rachel, Helen’s granddaughter," said one of his great-nieces. He recognized her when she said her name.

"Rachel. For goodness sake," he said. "I haven’t seen you in about a hundred years." She laughed. He said "Rachel" just the way his sister had. He knew this young woman could see her grandmother in the line of his own jaw and in the Hirschberg nose. There were more than a few of those noses in the room. Most of the people there looked vaguely alike. It felt strange to be the last one left of all his brothers and sisters.

A cousin joined the small group around Bill. "How are you doing at the rest home?" he said.

"I just moved out of my apartment about three weeks ago," said Bill. "It's hard but I’m adjusting. I moved so the family wouldn’t worry about me." He paused for a moment. "My first roommate was in the hospital when I got there. He never came back. Then I got another roommate, some old guy who took one look at me and yelled, ‘Bill. Bill Hirschberg.’ He was someone I knew over forty years ago. I hadn’t seen him since."

"Did you like him back then?" asked the cousin.

"I don’t remember. I didn't know him that well," said Bill. "It’s nice having him around now though. Makes it easier. The only problem is, he likes all the windows open and the heat off. We worked it out though. We swapped beds and I pull the curtain around mine. I wish we were allowed to have electric blankets." He looked around the room and smiled. A room full of people, there for his sake, laughing, talking, getting to know each other.

He began to wish people would stop approaching him so he could eavesdrop on some of the conversations. There wasn’t much noise besides the garble of voices, the frequent laughter. He couldn’t smell much perfume, just a whiff if one of the women hugged him. No chinking sounds—plastic cups, plastic plates. No smoke, no liquor. He'd smoked and drank his whole life, and had his steak for breakfast every day. He hoped they hadn't ban the stuff for his sake.

"I’m Rebecca," said a little girl. Bill thought fleetingly that she was somebody’s brother’s sister’s daughter, but couldn’t think it through.

"Whose daughter are you?" he asked.

Rebecca pointed to her mother and brother. "And my father’s over there. I’m not sure how we’re all related."

Another guest came over to chat with Bill. He had no idea who she was.

"I’m Mandy, Mathew’s wife," she said.

"Who’s Mathew?" he wondered. "Oh yes, Helen’s grandson."

"It’s funny," said Mandy. "In my family I’m considered one of the short ones. Here I’m really tall." Bill smiled. He was the same height as Mandy. He hadn't shrunk much in a hundred years.

He felt a bit tired, but not unpleasantly. Over there was Sam and his family. Two women hugged each other by the front door—Sue and Donna, he thought. Someone admired the photographs on one wall. Gene, his son, the photographer, came over to check on him.

"How are you doing, Pop? Had enough yet?" he asked.

"No, I’m fine."

They didn't need to be so solicitous, he thought, and then he thought how nice it was that they were.

His thoughts drifted. He continued to smile and nod, and make polite conversation. A good group of people, he thought. Normal lives, kind of boring in a way. Only two tragedies—when Stella’s boy, his nephew Bert, was blown up in the basement of his store. And there was his own daughter. . . . People shouldn’t outlive their children. It’s not right. Laughter came from the kitchen—something about politics. He felt over-warm. I’ll never see some of these people again, he realized.

The guests began to leave.

"See you next year, Bill."

"It was great to see you. You look wonderful."

"Thanks," he said to everyone. "I’m glad you could come."

Don’t go, he thought. But he was ready for some quiet. He glanced at the table full of presents. What on earth do people bring to a hundred-year-old man? He looked forward to finding out.