“Wishes are like certain prayers,” Father Coffey said, seated between my mother and father and wearing a black turtleneck. “Some are best to carry privately in your heart.”
Our family was used to Father Vitale, who had come to dinner many times. Vitale never brought his own cake, never showed up without his collar, and never challenged my father even on a point as small as that. But Vitale was retiring soon, which was why Coffey had been brought to Dundalk. My father considered his comment before saying, “I suppose that’s one way to look at it. But to my way of thinking, prayers and wishes are nothing alike. The former is a sacred conversation with the Lord. The latter is a whimsical expression of worldly desire.”
My father seemed to be waiting for Coffey to keep the debate alive, but the man stared down at the fast-melting cake on his plate and let the point die.
“Well, then,” my father said. “Since what we are talking about here is a simple birthday wish, I think the rule seems a bit silly. Don’t you, Rose?”
The rest of us had been calling my sister Rosie for a good hour by then, so my mother assumed the question had been meant for her. “Maybe so,” she answered, poking at the dark crumbles with her fork. “Although there’s nothing wrong with keeping something to yourself, Sylvester.”
“And what about you, birthday girl?” he asked. “Do you think it’s silly?”
“A little,” Rose said.
“If you can’t tell your family and your priest what you want most, who can you tell? Besides, depending on the wish, we might be able to help make it come true.”
No one spoke for a moment after that, though the silence in the kitchen begged for the news of what Rose’s wish had been. My sister must have felt it too, because after she took a bite of a baby blue flower on top of that cake, which left smudges on her lips, she said, “Do you all really want to know?”
“Only if you feel comfortable sharing,” my mother said.
Rose eyed my father. “You promise you won’t get mad?”
“Promise,” he told her.
“Okay, then.” It didn’t take my mother’s gift to sense from the way Rose inhaled that she felt nervous. “I wished . . . I wished that I could get my learner’s permit.”
The phone rang. My father excused himself, slid back his chair, and crossed the room to pick it up. As he talked to the person on the other end, my mother took a bite of cake at last, and asked in a quiet voice, “A learner’s permit for what?”
Again, I thought of that disconnect between them and the world. Father Coffey and I both spoke up for my sister, saying, “For her driver’s license.”
My mother mouthed an Ohhh, though that was all. I knew she’d never offer an official answer until my father weighed in, but he was deep in conversation by then. “Of course I remember you,” he said into the phone as he stretched the cord tighter into the living room. “I did get the letter. It was very flattering. But, well, I need to speak with my wife about the matter. We make all decisions together so she gets an equal vote. . . .” And after a pause: “We liked it very much. Thank you again. We will certainly consider your request.” With that, my father hung up and returned to the table. I expected the topic to go back to my sister’s wish, but my mother asked who had called.
“That reporter,” he told her.
“Which reporter?”
“You know, the one from the Dundalk Eagle.”
She squinted, as though reading something in small print. “Samuel Heekin?”
“The one and only.”
“I see,” my mother said. “But we gave him the interview for that paper months ago. The story has already run. What could he possibly want?”
“Says he’s interested in meeting again. He’s got this idea about writing a book.”
“About?”
“What else?” My father smiled. “Us. Who would have thought?”
“Oh, Sylvester. I don’t like the idea. A book only invites more attention.”
“I understand, my dear. But let’s discuss it later. Now Rose, about your wish—”
“I’m sorry,” my sister said, pushing the last of her melting blue flower around her plate. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have said anything. It was a dumb idea.”
“It’s not dumb,” my father told her.
Rose looked up. “It’s not?”
“Not in the least. After all, you’re seventeen now. I think it’s a very smart idea.”
“You do?”
He smiled and looked to my mother to see if she objected, though she gave no sign of it. “Yes, of course. We know how your mother hates to drive, so it will be handy having another person around here willing to get behind the wheel. Of course, there’s just the Datsun, so it’s not like you’d have your own car.”
“That’s all right,” my sister told him. “I don’t need my own car.”
“I hear there’s a driving school right over on Holabird Avenue,” Father Coffey said.