Jubilee July's Arc

Chapter 1 of 3

Jubilee July sat on the porch steps of the house where she grew up, holding a letter the post office had sent back to her for the third time. The envelope was bent at one corner. A purple stamp across the front read RETURN TO SENDER. Below it, someone had scribbled NO FORWARDING ADDRESS in blue pen. Inside that envelope was an invitation to meet under the old maple tree on Canada Day, the way she and her four childhood friends had done every summer until the last one. Three months of searching had brought her this far. She had combed through old Christmas cards from her mother's tin. She had called a cousin who seemed to know everyone. She had found four addresses, written four notes, and tucked each one beside the treat that friend loved most as a child: butter tarts, lemonade, peppermints, ginger cookies. The man's note she had written four times before sealing it. All four drafts were still folded in the front pocket of her woven satchel, in case she lost her nerve and needed to start again. Beside her on the step sat the stack the mail carrier had returned that morning. Every envelope she had sent was there. Forwarding labels covered the addresses. Stamps from two provinces marked the corners. Edges were soft from handling. Not one had been opened. She had thought the hard part was finding them. She understood now that the addresses she had found were already old. She walked to the corner where the maple tree stood. The trunk was wider than she remembered. The crown was full and green, and a squirrel watched her from a low branch. A bird's nest sat tucked in the fork above. No initials were carved into the bark anymore. The grass beneath was uncut. A rope swing she had forgotten about hung from one limb, the seat split down the middle. She stood under it and counted on her fingers. Four friends. Four wrong addresses. Twenty-three days until Canada Day. She crossed two streets to the old ice cream parlor where they used to meet before walking to the tree. The mint and pink awning was faded but the lights were on. Behind the counter stood a woman who had scooped cones for them as kids. Jubilee set the returned stack on the counter and asked if she still kept the birthday book, the one where every neighborhood child wrote their name and the names of their parents. The woman wiped her hands on her apron and reached under the register. She placed a thick ledger between them. Jubilee opened it to the year of the last gathering and began copying down parents' names. The addresses on her envelopes were dead. The parents, she hoped, were not.