Julie stepped onto the stage, knowing this was her moment. She played the role to the hilt, flashing that smile, turning her head just so, so that her hair would fly and the light from the camera flashes would catch her eyes and make them sparkle. Marilyn had bailed on the gig a half hour before, slurring her words over the phone, and Julie knew that she might not get another chance like this. She reached the podium, and the crowd hushed. Two spotlights fell - one on her, and one on the man for whom she was to sing. And for a moment... she was lost, a five-year-old girl, standing on the back porch looking down towards the river, calling her father's name, and listening for a reply that never came. That five-year-old girl closed her eyes, drew breath, and began to sing. "Happy birthday to you," she breathed, and her thoughts went to the only birthday party she'd had as a child, her fifth, when her father had won on the poker table the night before and there was just enough money for a plain cake, walnuts in the middle and a walnut on, no icing. "Happy birthday to you," she sang, husky, remembering her father singing, the smoke in his voice and the whiskey on his breath, his arm slipping around her mother's waist. "Happy birthday, Mr. President..." and she left a gap here, one in which she knew the man in the spotlight made love to her in his mind, but in which she beamed up at her father, this smiling scrawny man who would soon be gone forever. "Happy birthday... to you." And then it was over, the crowd was on its feet, the flashlights were popping, a whole new life had begun, and her five-year-old self wondered if he was out there somewhere, watching, and if he was proud.
