Jubilee July's Arc

Chapter 7 of 7

Canada Day came clear and warm. Jubilee arrived at the maple tree an hour before noon with her satchel and two coolers. She spread a red and white checkered cloth across the picnic table under the red shelter. She set out four plates, four cups, and four folded napkins. She laid a tin of butter tarts at the center and a jar of preserves beside it. She poured lemonade into a pitcher and set it in the shade. From her satchel she pulled four handwritten notes and placed one at each seat. Then she waited on the bench with her hands flat on her knees. The first car came at eleven-forty. The second at eleven-fifty. Two friends stepped out together, having driven the last stretch in convoy, and walked across the cleared grass calling her name. Jubilee stood up too fast and knocked her cup. She caught the first friend in a hug that lasted longer than either expected. The third arrived ten minutes later with a bakery box and apologies for the traffic. Three seats claimed. One bench still empty. Jubilee kept glancing past their shoulders to the road. At twelve-fifteen a fourth car turned in. The man she had drifted from badly climbed out with a red and white striped box under his arm. He walked to the tree slowly, watching his footing on the new stone path. He said the confirmation card he sent must have gotten lost in the mail, that he had assumed she knew he was coming. Jubilee pulled the four folded drafts from the front pocket of her satchel and handed them to him without a word. He read the top one, then the next, then all four. He set the striped box on the table and hugged her. The other three came around the table and folded in. They ate at the checkered table under the maple. They passed the butter tarts and the preserves and the bakery box between them. Jubilee gave each friend their note and watched them read. The man opened his striped gift last: a framed photograph from their final childhood gathering, one he had kept in a drawer for years. They stayed through the afternoon and into the evening. When the sky darkened, a burst of light cracked over the field beyond the tree, and then another, red and gold sparks streaking across the dark in long tails. The four of them tipped their heads back on the benches the way they had as children and watched until the last spark faded. No one wanted to leave first. They sat under the tree long after the smoke thinned, trading names and years and small corrections to each other's memories. Jubilee did not check her phone. The boarded house on the other side of town stayed silent, and she let it stay silent. She had four friends at the table and one July returned to her. When they finally stood to go, they made no promise about next year. They only walked to their cars together, and Jubilee locked the shelter behind them, and drove home with the empty pitcher beside her on the seat.