The boy waved a folded piece of paper covered in crooked arrows and drawings of web-covered trees. James had made a birthday treasure hunt with small gifts hidden in safe places near the pavilion. Marcus had helped design it without knowing that he was helping his father lay out the surprises. Now he insisted on being the official inspector, a title he invented himself.
James crouched beside him. "Inspector Thompson, you have a complaint?"
"The treasure at the big oak is too easy," Marcus said solemnly. "Trey found it already."
"Then we move it," James replied. "Can't let the criminals win."
Marcus frowned. "They're not criminals. They're cousins."
James chuckled. "You're right. My mistake."
The child looked at him with a seriousness borrowed from his mother. "Sometimes grown-ups think they know things and they're wrong."
James felt the words settle somewhere tender. "Yes, buddy," he said. "Sometimes we are. That's why we have to listen."
Neither of them knew how painfully that lesson would return before sunset.
By one o'clock the pavilion had become a small kingdom of children. Trey was leading a group of cousins toward the treasure hunt's first clue, and Monique Johnson was trying to prevent the smallest guests from drinking their juice before lunch. Mrs. Washington sat in the shade wearing a purple sunhat and advising everybody on the correct way to serve potato salad. The adults pretended to object to her instructions while following them almost exactly. James watched the scene with a kind of gratitude he found difficult to express.
The birthday party was not elaborate by the standards of the wealthy suburbs north of the city. Several families had brought dishes from their own kitchens. The decorations came from a discount store, and the folding tables were borrowed from a church. The Spider-Man cake mattered because Maya had made it with Marcus's favorite dark chocolate filling and had practiced the web design on parchment paper until her wrist hurt. The bicycle covered in an old blanket behind James's truck mattered because they had saved for months, not because there was anything extravagant about it.
Marcus did not measure birthdays in money. He measured them in the number of people who remembered to come, the quality of the games, and whether his mother let him have a second piece of cake. Earlier that morning he had asked James whether Mrs. Washington would be there. When James said yes, Marcus smiled with relief. "She always tells the best stories about when phones had cords," he said, as if describing the distant past of human civilization.
James had printed the city reservation confirmation and placed it in a folder beside the serving table. He knew the pavilion was properly booked, the gathering was within the permitted time, and the food was a private family meal rather than a commercial operation. Those ordinary preparations should have been unnecessary to defend in public. He had made them anyway because he knew the neighborhood's history. When residents held a cookout, they were sometimes asked questions that did not appear at celebrations elsewhere.
Robert Johnson came over carrying a tray of grilled chicken and glanced at the neat folder. "You really kept all the paperwork?" he asked.