Cleo

The house filled with loud, raucous, running boys. Walls shook. The rubber plant trembled. Potato chips were ground into the shag pile. Sausages were thrown across the kitchen. It was the sort of party that would’ve set my teeth on edge in the old days. Not anymore. Tie sheets and dangle them out the window? Why not! Cricket in the hall? What’s a broken lamp or two? I slid into my blue dressing gown to match the party theme and prepared for boys to run wild.

I hadn’t realized how many friends Rob had made in the two and a half years since Sam’s death. They weren’t dutiful friends who’d taken him on purely out of sympathy, either. They teased, laughed and treated Rob with genuine affection. He’d journeyed such a long way since 1983. The shy younger brother had transformed into an outgoing friend magnet. I almost wept with gratitude and respect for him.

Cats, babies and parties tend not to mix. I’d arranged for Lydia and Cleo to be tucked away in a room at the quiet end of the house. But they were intrigued rather than spooked by the visitors. I let them out to circulate—Cleo on her own and Lydia in my arms. Cleo swiftly adopted Simon, a red-haired cat lover, and spent most of the night on his lap sampling slivers of ham. Lydia, wearing one of her blue baby suits (bought when she was going to be a boy) greeted our guests with the gracious smile of the Queen Mother on a walkabout.

The boys played Pass the Parcel or, in their case, Throw the Parcel (thankfully neither Cleo nor Lydia played the role of Parcel). Rain flung itself at the windows. A drumroll of thunder rumbled above the roof. A flash of lightning coincided with the front door knocker slamming on its hinges.

An elderly magician stood on the doorstep wearing a false nose and glasses. Holding a large suitcase in one hand, he was oblivious to the storm, as if it was just another theatrical prop that followed him around. He must have been close to eighty years old. Apologizing for being late, he removed his raincoat and slapped a fez on his bald head. I feared for him. No audience is harsher than a collection of rowdy boys. The boys sneered when he stepped boldly into the living room. He wasn’t going to last thirty seconds in there.

His hands were square, with fingers the size and shape of cigarette stubs. Bricklayer’s hands, yet they proved deceptively nimble. The magician made ropes change their lengths inside a plastic bag, and ink-spattered scarves wash themselves clean in the privacy of a cardboard box. Though the boys had no intention of being impressed, they couldn’t help themselves.

Towards the end of his act the old man produced a top hat. He asked the birthday boy to tap it three times with a magic wand. To everyone’s amazement a pure-white living, breathing dove emerged from the hat.

Cleo, who had been watching the show with detached amusement from Simon’s knee, suddenly shot across the floor like a licorice bullet and sprang at the bird. The old man tumbled backwards. Alarmed, the dove squawked and slipped out of his grasp. The boys watched in awe as the bird flapped across the room to perch clumsily in the rubber plant. Steve grabbed Cleo and carried her out of the room while I helped the magician to his feet.

“Wow! This is the best party I’ve ever been to!” yelled one of the boys, as the magician retrieved his bird and carried it out to the kitchen. The others whooped agreement and sent the old man off with enthusiastic applause.

Later, the magician soothed his dove along with his nerves over a mug of tea. Spacey strains of David Bowie reverberated through the walls.

“They call that music?” he sighed, sliding his plastic nose and glasses into his pocket. “I’m a Bing Crosby man myself.”

The old man drained his tea, packed up his suitcase and headed back to the safety of the thunderstorm. I waved him good-bye and ventured into the party room. The sight of fifteen boys in pajamas jumping off furniture and leapfrogging over the shag pile would have reduced me to a screaming shrew not so long ago. But I’d wasted too many years trying to yell boys into shape: surrendering to the noise, the untidiness and the celebration of it all was much more fun.

I searched the sea of heads for Rob. He was easy to spot in his red dressing gown with Cleo in his arms.

“You’re going to love this one, guys!” he yelled, turning up the stereo even louder. As Bowie boomed out Rob’s favorite song, “Let’s Dance,” I had only one choice. Surrender. With Lydia perched on my hip I swayed, twirled and waltzed till my legs ached. The room shimmered with joy. I hadn’t partied like this since Sam was alive—no, since ever. Along with all the tears, I’d shed ideas about what mattered. I didn’t have to be in control all the time anymore. The boys weren’t disasters waiting to happen to our furniture. A few extra scratches would improve the coffee table. We laughed. We danced. We were alive.