From the Improvement Era, October 1939 –

Birthday – A Short Short Story

By Beatrice K. Ekman

He walked up and down, up and down, tirelessly on the white flags of the rose pergola, where the dry leaves of the climbing roses rustled in the crisp air.

The stars were shining and a slim young moon had dropped behind the hills an hour or more before. No sound broke the stillness but the rustle of falling leaves and the murmur of the creek as it ran over the stones at the bottom of the garden where a fringe of willows grew. To the south beyond the willows the farm acres stretched in row on row of garnered furrows; to the west lay the meadow lands where the cattle still grazed through the days of declining warmth.

The pergola skirted the south wall of the house and had been built in recent years when young Stephen Porter was home from school for his early spring vacation. Father and son had built it together and planted red and white roses that had bloomed in early summer so profusely. They had been especially lovely this summer and had covered the entire trellis.

The memory of the roses and the sound of water over stones brought to Stephen Porter many thoughts of past years. Joys and sorrows, struggles and achievements, the sweet and the bitter that make up life. He thought of his marriage and of the subsequent birth of his only son, twenty-one years ago — a short time.

Twenty-one years ago tonight he had waited on a narrow board walk where the flags now were. The door of the sitting room had opened and a light had streamed out. He had gone to meet a woman in nurse’s uniform who stood in the doorway. She had smiled and said, “You may see your son now; he is asleep; a fine ten-pounder. Your wife is asking for you, too.”

He had gone to see his wife, lying pale but starry-eyed. Afterwards he had stood by the little bed looking down at his son. He had felt strange and shaky and proud, and when he had touched the soft, rose-petal hand, a shock of joy that was almost pain had gone from his hand to his heart as the small fingers had closed tight around his. Many times since, he had felt that clutch of love at his heart.

They had called him Stephen after himself, and from that time his wife had called them Stephen and Stephen. After she died (as serenely as she had lived ) , they had gone on together . . .

The windows on the first floor were dark, but a large window on the second floor was brightly lighted behind a drawn shade upon which, at intervals, shadows of moving figures were thrown. Stephen Porter looked at the window, and his face convulsed in the darkness. He raised his hand to his breast pocket where a sheaf of legal papers lay. He paused and looked up at the calm stars. Cold, remote, unchanging, they were unmindful of his or any life. So they had looked through the ages; so they would look for ages to come. His hand closed on the papers, and he drew them from his pocket almost reverently. For a moment he stood very still; then slowly resumed his walk upon the flags.

How he had loved this dark-eyed boy of his. What a joy he had always been! Strange that he had never cared for farm work. Although he would listen to his father’s plans for the crops, the cattle, or the drainage of the meadows, it was the bird’s song that the boy heard; it was the beauty of waving grain and blossomed orchard that he saw. He was not at heart a farmer.

Stephen remembered how once he had watched over his young son through a wild delirium of fever. Two of his little friends had gone out with the same malady. Stephen had not left his side for days at a time. He sat hour after hour holding the hot little hand, pouring his own strength into the pain-tortured body, praying silently that he might be spared. A miracle, the doctor had said, when he was safe . . . back from the shadows.

One summer a fine violinist had spent his vacation in the mountains near the farm, and the Porters, father and son, had made friends with him. Evenings the stranger had played for them strains from the great music makers: folk songs and symphonies. It had been the awakening of ecstacy to the boy. Finally he took lessons, and his dream was to become a great violinist. With his son’s need of money as an incentive, Stephen had worked. His affairs had prospered; his wealth grown. It was a pleasure to provide the best of teachers for his son. He had loved to see his handsome dark head bent over the fiddle, while his long supple fingers caressed the strings that sang out the rich melodies under the even measure of the bow.

So much they had in common: the memory of the mother, the beauty of the mountains and meadows, the sound of the creek and the appreciation of music. The creek seemed louder tonight after the morning storm. It babbled as if it had a message. Over and over it seemed to murmur, “Stephen and Stephen, Stephen and Stephen.”

Stephen looked again at the lighted window and hysteria gripped him. The papers of partnership, to be presented to his son at the birthday dinner, that had been planned for so many weeks, would now never be given! Half of all he had the last. At least his wife had been spared this agony. He alone must bear it — he alone.

With sudden determination he brought his will to attention and squared his shoulders. He would go to them and face his problem. “The eternal God is my refuge and underneath are the everlasting arms; . . . surely He will deliver thee from the snare of the fowler and from the noisome pestilence. …”

Calmly he folded the papers and returned them to his pocket. A sudden gust of wind brought down a shower of crisp leaves about his feet as the door to the sitting room opened. Stephen Porter walked to meet a woman in nurse’s uniform who stood in the doorway. She said, “Come and see him; he is conscious and resting easily. The doctors are most wonderful; they are so happy to give him back to you.” “Why,” he said, “you are crying,” and suddenly he sat down on the low step and burst into uncontrollable weeping.