The Not-So-Happy Birthday

“Your eighteenth-century Yorkshire Downs riding breeches will be in next week, sir,” piped Homer from his second floor bedroom on the Easton estate. Submerged in inventory, the boy was on life support—his telephone headset and laptop. As always, the phones were ringing off the hook.

“I’ll e-mail you as soon as they’re here.” He paused for the usual gushes of gratitude.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!”  

“You’re welcome, welcome, welcome!” cried Homer before leaping onto the next call. “Double H. How may I help you?”

Homer Easton’s bedroom dwarfed his classroom. By the far wall, beneath the banner proclaiming “Homer’s Horse Boutique,” his bed, literally, stood. It was a life-size replica of Silver, the Lone Ranger’s stallion, its back opening up to provide a small but comfortable sleep station. Blankets, saddles, bridles, stable rugs, equestrian wear, equine supplements, and derby memorabilia overran the rest of the room.

A shelf near the window belonged to the dear departed Benny Two Shoes. On the shelf was an urn containing Benny’s ashes, a single horseshoe cradled in blue satin, and a gold-framed photo of the chestnut steed, showing the white foreleg markings for which he was named. The engraving read, “Beloved Benny Two Shoes, May You Trot in Peace.”

It was a typical morning in Bel Air. Beneath the dazzling summer sun, an army of workers patched, pruned, polished, and perfected what was already perfect, while in the lush pastures of the Easton estate, a titanium-white mare grazed, her back ablaze with light.

Inside the Easton mansion, Rona raced down the stairs, shouting, “Maria! My briefcase!”

The young housemaid scurried out carrying the attaché case. They collided at the bottom of the stairs, landing in a tangle of arms and legs.

“Aaah!”

Maria surfaced first, still clutching the briefcase. She raised it like a trophy. “Here is it, Missus.”

“What would I do without you?” Rona scrambled to her feet, grabbed it, and disappeared out the front door.

Maria staggered after her with a garment bag. She struggled to load the bag into the car while Rona clicked her PDA with the agility of a concert pianist.

“Doctor Willoughby will be here at nine for Homer’s therapy session,” Rona said.

“No, Missus. Homer take exercise at nine.”

“Isn’t that Tuesday?”

“Tuesday scuba lesson.”

“I thought scuba was Wednesday.”

“Wednesday riding lesson.”

Rona glanced at her watch. “He’ll be here any minute. Tell him we’re sorry and have him reschedule.”

Maria, who dreaded even the mildest confrontation, stared at the ground. “Yes, Missus.”

With one foot in the car, Rona waved at the second floor window where Homer stood clad in his Lone Ranger outfit, smiling and waving. Maria plucked a walkie-talkie from her apron pocket and held it up to Rona’s mouth. “Happy birthday, sweetheart. I’ll call you later.”

Homer’s voice crackled through the walkie-talkie. “Bye, Mom.”

Rona blew a kiss, jumped into the car, and zipped down the long driveway. Suddenly she hit the brakes and the car screeched to a halt.

“I know you’re there.”

Homer popped up in the back seat.

“It’s just a few days, I promise,” she said to the rear view mirror.

Homer nodded and climbed out of the car, head hanging, walkie-talkie in hand.

“I love you, darling,” Rona said.

Shoulders slumped, he watched her speed away. As he plodded back to the house, he glanced up at the life-size blow-up of himself, smiling and waving in the second floor window.

Seated at the table in the center of the Eastons’ enormous gourmet kitchen, Homer spooned cereal into his mouth with his right hand and tapped his laptop with his left.

Maria stood by the stove scrambling eggs. She flicked on a Spanish/English language tape.

“Estoy encantado de conocerle. I am pleased to meet you,” a voice declared.

Maria repeated, “I . . . ­ahm . . . pleezed . . . to . . . meet  . . . yoo.”

Homer detached his headset, got down on his hands and knees, and crept toward the door, but Maria had eyes in the back of her head.

“You boosted. Where you go?”

Standing up to his full four feet two inches, Homer continued to edge toward freedom. “It’s ‘you are busted’ and ‘where are you going,’ Maria.” 

Maria mouthed to herself, “Yoo . . . arrr . . . boosted. Where . . . arrr . . . yoo . . . going.” She smiled with self-satisfaction.

“And if you really want to sound like a cop, you should take English lessons from a policeman!” With that, Homer opened the back door and made a break for it, racing across the manicured grounds toward the stable.

Maria ran after him, waving a wire whisk. “You no can go, you take exercise now!”

“Have that brainless bunch of pecs meet me at the bridle path!” he shouted.

Dressed in a full English riding habit, Homer slowly walked the magnificent Bluestone Belle around the bridle path. A ripped Joe Tosca ran in place at the head of the path, waiting impatiently for him to complete the circle.

“I thought you wanted a hard body,” he said, when boy and horse finally arrived.

Homer looked down from atop Blue and shrugged his thin shoulders. “I am the victim of my parents’ frustration over their own bodily flaws, of which they have many.”

“Whatever. Now get down and hit the ground pumping.”

“We’re going around one more time.”

Joe made a grab for him, but Homer dug his heels in and boy and horse were off at a gallop.

Up came a low fence. Homer whispered in Blue’s ear, “Shoot the moon.”

But Blue skidded to a stop, launching Homer over the fence to land in a pile of hay. He remounted and they were off, but again Blue balked and Homer sailed headfirst over the fence, bouncing a few times like a rubber ball before coming to rest.

A snickering Joe yanked him to his feet. “I said hit the ground pumping, not bumping.” 

Homer looked up at him, his face hot. “This is deeply humiliating.”

“Give me ten.”

Homer huffed and puffed his way through ten pushups and then collapsed. Joe scooped him under his arm and carried him kicking into the house.

Dr. Roquefort Willoughby, wearing his usual black, three-piece suit, drove up the Easton driveway in his black Mercedes. Despite the bad traffic, the doctor could not stop grinning. Yesterday, he and his sweetheart, Sylvia, had professed their love. He rang the doorbell, whistling under his breath.

Maria scurried to the door, frowning and muttering to herself in Spanish. She opened the door and flashed a radiant smile for the doctor. “Good morning, doctor. I . . . ahm . . . pleezed . . . to . . . meet . . . yoo.”

“Keep up the good work, Maria! I must apologize, I’m running a bit late.” He moved to enter, but she blocked the doorway. “How is our little man?”

“He fine.”

Moans and groans echoed in the background.

“Aren’t you going to let me in?”

“Yes, of course.” She bit her lip and didn’t budge. “There is un problema . . .”

Whimpers vibrated off the walls behind her.

“What’s that?” demanded Dr. Willoughby.

Piteous cries resounded within. He heard Homer shout, “No!”

“The unmistakable sound of . . . child abuse!” Dr. Willoughby pushed past Maria and bounded down the hall like a bloodhound on the scent, following the moans and cries to their source.

The doctor burst into the exercise room with Maria close behind. Surprised by their sudden arrival, Joe let go of Homer’s legs.

For one promising moment, the boy sustained his wavering headstand. “Aaah!” Homer toppled over onto the exercise mat and lay there motionless.

Dr. Willoughby and Maria ran over to him.

She cradled him in her arms. “Mi niño, habla con me.”

Homer didn’t move. Dr. Willoughby looked at Joe, who shrugged, apparently thrilled at the prospect of never having to give the boy another session.

Maria turned to Dr. Willoughby, pleading, “Doctor, do something.”

“Where’s the phone?”

“Allà. He no breathe!”

While Dr. Willoughby dialed 911, Joe knelt beside Homer and began performing CPR.

Homer sprang to life, wiping his mouth with a dis­gusted expression. “Yecch!”

Dr. Willoughby hung up the phone and the three adults gaped at the boy.

“Got you going, didn’t I?” gloated Homer.

Maria primped her hair and cast a flirtatious eye at Joe, who looked macho in his t-shirt and shorts. “You save my life.”

Dazzled, Joe stammered, “His life . . . I saved his life—I mean, I could have, if he wasn’t . . .” Growling, Joe lunged at Homer, who took cover behind the Total Gym.

“I don’t want to interrupt anything,” said Dr. Willoughby, “but, you see, the little man and I must have our weekly talk. Right, Homer?”

Homer studied him warily.

Maria took a deep breath. “This what I try to tell. Missus make mistake. Exercise today.” Maria beamed at Joe, then turned a sober face to the doctor. “You come Thursday.”

“I see.” Dr. Willoughby glanced at his watch. “Since I’m already here, I suppose I can meet with him after they’re done.”

“No can do, doctor. We have party today. Homer has ten years.”

“Aha, a birthday party.”

“You welcome to stay.” She batted her eyes at Joe. “Both of you. I make delicioso lonche.”

Red, blue, and yellow balloons and streamers festooned the dining room ceiling. The table itself held enough small woodland animal party masks for at least ten children. Homer the Fox sat at the head of the table, picking at his lunch. Joe the Duck and Dr. Willoughby the Owl sat opposite each other at the far end, avoiding eye contact. The other chairs were empty.

The Field Mouse in an apron entered singing “Happy birthday to you” and carrying a cake in the shape of a horse’s head, lit by ten candles. Maria gestured to the men, who joined in with forced merriment.

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Homer, happy birthday to you.”

As soon as Maria set the cake down in front of the unsmiling boy, she started vibrating like a lawnmower. With an embarrassed grin, she fished a buzzing cell phone out of her apron pocket. “Hola. Yes, Mr. Easton, he here.” She gave the phone to Homer.

In Palm Beach, a tan, forty-three-year-old Mort Easton rested on the deck of his yacht, a cigar in one hand and a cell phone in the other. Within arm’s reach, a blonde in a bikini sunned herself. “Happy birthday, son. I hope you like your present,” he said.

“It’s the best, Dad.”

“Does she have a name?”

“I call her Bluestone Belle.”

“That’s a darn good name.”

In the awkward silence that followed, Mort searched for the right words. “I was hoping to be there with you but I have another one of those meetings. You know how it is.”

More silence.

“Maybe you don’t, but you will someday.”

The blonde brought him a fresh drink. He smiled at her and blew her a kiss. “How’s the party?” he asked Homer.

“Splendid.”

“Splendid . . . that’s my boy. I’m going to try to get out there and see you real soon. Would you like that?”

“Sure, Dad,” said Homer listlessly.

Homer clicked off, but Mort didn’t notice. “Son,” he intoned to the dead phone, “I don’t say it as often as I should, but I want you to know . . . I love you.”

Mort blinked back unexpected tears and added with false cheer, “Listen to your mother and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” He hung up, pleased with himself. 

Maria folded the phone back into her apron and urged Homer with a tender smile, "Make wish."

Homer stared at the candlelit cake, jumped up, ripped off his party hat, flung it to the ground, and bolted from the house.

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