by Sue Margolis
Since Ben had decided that, present-wise, this was going to be the worst Christmas ever, I imagined him going into a strop when he saw what his father and I had bought him. But his GX Racers Tightrope Terror—essentially, performing stunt cars—and night-vision goggles seemed to hit the spot. Ditto the very generous Amazon gift certificates from Betsy and Phil.
Having never been allowed weapons, the Nerf Vortex Nitron Blaster (“with an electronic scope and pulsing lights to assist with accurate aiming”) that my parents sent him went down a storm. Mum and Dad sent Amy a Home Pedicure Set for Girls. She loved it, which pissed Greg off no end. Greg and I got Amy everything she’d asked for: a pink iPod Nano, the Hannah Montana microphone alarm clock and a necklace with a silver jelly bean pendant.
“Oh, and Roz got you both a present,” Greg said.
“Non-gender-specific, naturally,” I muttered, so that only Greg could hear. I imagined ancient Japanese wind instruments or hand-carved yo-yos.
“OK … wait for it,” Greg said. “You are going up in a hot air balloon.”
“Wicked!”
“When?”
“Later in the year. As soon as the weather turns a bit warmer. And you won’t be on your own—Roz and I are coming, too.”
“Mum, isn’t that amazing?” Amy said.
“Er … yes … absolutely … Greg, can I see you in the kitchen for a moment?”
“What now?” He followed me out of the living room.
I stood, arms folded, my back against the kitchen counter. “How could you have let Roz organize something like this without checking with me?”
“What are you on about?”
“I’m on about you allowing her to put our children’s lives at risk and me not being allowed a say in the matter.”
“Oh, come on. People don’t die in hot air balloons.”
“How do you know?”
“Because—anticipating that you’d blow a fuse—I Googled hot air ballooning accidents and it turns out that on average there is one injury for every thousand journeys. Have you any idea how that compares with car accidents?”
“So what?”
“What do you mean, so what? It proves that going up in a hot air balloon is pretty damn safe.”
“But you or Roz should have asked my permission.”
“Will you just listen to yourself? Who do you think you are? I refuse to come running to you every time Roz and I want to do something with the kids. You let our ten-year-old daughter wear nail polish and I have to lump it. Now she tells me that you’ve said she can have a tattoo when she’s sixteen. Fabulous. Will I get a say in that? The heck I will. Roz asked me if it was OK to take the kids hot air ballooning and I said yes. Get over it.”
“So for you this is about scoring points, and sod our children’s safety.”
“I can’t believe you just said that. Do you really think that’s the kind of father I am?”
“Why can’t you two ever stop fighting?” Amy yelled. She was standing in the doorway, looking as if she might burst into tears. “It’s Christmas. I can’t believe you’re doing this.”
I went over and put my arms around her. “Sweetie, I’m so sorry. We didn’t mean to upset you. But Dad and I weren’t actually fighting. We were just having a disagreement, that’s all.”
“No, you were fighting. I heard you. So do Ben and I get to go up in the hot air balloon or not?”
“Of course you do,” I said.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“OK.” Sniff.
I gave her a final hug before letting Greg scoop her up.
By now Ben had appeared. He gave no indication he’d heard the commotion. I said that now might be a good time for him and Amy to take Dworkin for a walk. “But I want you back in twenty minutes. And make sure you stick together. And don’t go near the main road.”
A moment later they had their coats on. Even though it was broad daylight, Ben insisted on wearing his night-vision goggles. Amy said he looked like a dork, but that didn’t put him off. He grabbed Dworkin’s lead and Greg and I watched as Ben and the dog set off down the garden path. Amy followed, three or four paces behind, as if to say, “I am so not with them.”
I went back into the kitchen. Greg had put the kettle on for more coffee.
“So are we cool about the balloon trip?”
“I guess,” I harrumphed. “Look, I’m sorry for being a control freak, but I would have appreciated a phone call, that’s all. Taking the kids hot air ballooning isn’t like taking them to the zoo. It’s risky.”
“Relax. They’ll be fine. Now can we please let it drop and change the subject?”
I wasn’t inclined to, but I felt I’d made my point. “Fine … So, any takers for the tank?”
“Uh-uh. I guess it’s only to be expected at Christmas, when people are spending so much money. I’m sure things will improve come the new year.”
I could have gone into my usual accusatory gripe about Tanky, but in the spirit of goodwill and because I’d promised Amy there would be no more fights, I decided not to.
“Let’s hope so,” I said.
“Turkey looks pretty impressive,” Greg said, nodding towards the twelve-pounder waiting to go into the oven.
“I’ve put an entire pack of butter under the skin like you’re supposed to and shoved a couple of oranges up its backside along with the stuffing. So I’m hoping it won’t be as dry as usual.”
“I don’t ever remember your turkey being dry.”
“You’re just being polite.”
“No, I’m not.”
“God, how awkward is this?” I said. “You being a guest on Christmas Day, bringing me a poinsettia, being polite about my turkey?”
He managed a smile. “People in the same boat tell me it gets easier as time goes on.”
By now the kettle had boiled. I made more coffee and we talked about the kids, which seemed a safe enough topic.
“By the way,” I said, “Ben seems to think we should be spoiling him more, to make up for separating. He was pissed off we didn’t get him a go-kart for Christmas.”
“Mercenary little so-and-so. Suddenly our separating has become a retail opportunity. I’ll talk to him.”
I suggested that, since it was Christmas, we should let it go.
We took our coffee into the living room. I sat on the sofa. Greg took an armchair. It felt so odd, the two of us keeping our distance like this. The conversation turned to work. I gave him the latest on STD.
“It’s all a bit weird at the moment. Because the relaunch of the show isn’t happening until the new year, nothing’s changed yet. Right now, there’s this phony peace going on.” I explained how STD had even turned up to the Christmas party, got pretty merry and ended up singing the Aussie version of “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” which was all about possums playing, dingoes dancing and emus laying.
He asked me how the kids were managing without Klaudia. I said they were really missing her. We’d taken her out for a good-bye pizza and given her a framed photograph of her with Amy and Ben. “It was that one of them splashing in the sea at Brighton. Of course, we all cried buckets, but she’s spoken to the kids on the phone and she sent them a Christmas parcel full of the most disgusting Polish sweets. Of course, the kids can’t get enough of them. She’s promised to call the moment the baby’s born.”
It was past three before we sat down to eat. Ben came to the table still wearing his night vision goggles. I’m pretty sure he’d kept them on only to wind his sister up. Dworkin passed on the starter—my homemade parsnip and apple soup—but decided to join us for the main course. She sat on the floor between Amy and Ben, her bowl full of particularly moist turkey, roast potatoes, green beans and sweet-and-sour red cabbage. She wolfed the lot, including the cranberry sauce.
It seemed easier to let the children lead the conversation. Amy was full of the summer-term school trip to an Outward Bound center in Devon. “We get to go rappelling and canoein
g. And there’s horse riding. It’s going to be amazing.”
“I didn’t know you were into that kind of stuff,” Greg said.
“What, because she wears nail polish?”
He ignored the comment, which was probably for the best.
Amy carried on chatting about the trip and all the gear she would need—rucksack, walking boots, Windbreaker, fleece, sun hat.
“Mum,” Ben piped up, clearly determined to draw the parental attention back to him. “For my birthday can I invite the Six Dwarves?”
“Your birthday isn’t for months,” Greg said, “and anyway, don’t you mean the Seven Dwarves?”
“Nah. I’m not inviting Grumpy. You know what he’s like.”
Greg and I burst out laughing. Meanwhile, Amy turned on her brother.
“You can’t invite the Seven Dwarves. They don’t exist. Snow White is just a story, dummy.”
“Shuddup, schlemiel. I meant people dressed up as dwarves.”
I put down my knife and fork. “Will you two stop calling each other names? And, Ben, I’ve told you about using that word.”
“Well, she is one.”
Amy opened her mouth to retaliate, but Greg got in first. “Hang on—has anybody noticed we’ve forgotten to pull our Christmas crackers?”
For Ben, this was always the best bit of Christmas lunch. He loved reading the daft jokes and riddles.
“Dad, pull mine with me!”
I pulled Amy’s with her. A few moments later, having discarded the plastic key rings and miniature screwdriver gift sets, we were exchanging jokes.
“OK,” Ben said, already giggling, “what’s Santa’s favorite pizza? … Wait for it … One that’s deep pan crisp and even.”
We all groaned. Then the kids got Greg to play “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” on his head. The festive atmosphere was restored.
• • •
Nobody had room for Christmas pudding, so we decided to save it for later. I suggested that before we got stuck into Home Alone, The Wizard of Oz, The Great Escape or whichever annually repeated “Christmas favorite” was showing on TV, we Skype Grandma and Granddad to say merry Christmas.
As usual, this meant Skyping Phil. We caught him, Betsy and their boys, Adam and Luke, in the kitchen. They were having breakfast with Mum and Dad.
Phil panned the laptop camera around the room so that we could see everybody. They were all in their pj’s and wearing party hats. The grown-ups were drinking mimosas. Betsy said hi from the stove, where she was frying bacon while simultaneously putting cinnamon rolls in the oven and yelling at one of my teenage nephews to find the maple syrup.
“Nope, we’re fresh out,” a voice said.
“Shoot. I cannot believe I have run out of maple syrup, today of all days. Don’t worry, we can use honey.”
“Honey on bacon? Euuch. Dad, you have to go to the store.”
“What, on Christmas morning?” Phil said to his son. “No way.”
“Then nobody’s going to eat the bacon.”
“No, you mean you’re not going to eat it, which means there will be more for everybody else.”
“Will you two stop bickering?” Betsy chimed in. “Honey will be fine. Phil, are you watching the toaster? It’s been acting up and I’m worried the bagels are going to burn.”
“We don’t need bagels,” my mother was saying. “The cinnamon rolls will be fine.”
“I could manage a bagel,” Dad came back. “I can’t eat pastries for breakfast. The fat aggravates my reflux.”
“Don’t worry,” Phil said. “There are bagels coming.”
“I don’t think so,” Betsy came back. “Phil, get over here. There’s smoke coming out of the toaster. I ask you to do the simplest thing …”
I had a great deal of affection for my sister-in-law—probably because her house was even more messy and chaotic than mine. Unlike me, though, Betsy didn’t let it bother her. Phil said that at the hospital she was all organization and efficiency. At home she was Roseanne.
The other difference between Betsy and me was that she had a husband who tidied up after himself and actually did more housework than she did. Granted, Phil’s contribution didn’t amount to a whole hill of beans, but the point was he was willing. “And that means the world,” Betsy had said to me, more than once.
By now Amy and Ben were more than a tad bored watching pixelated images of their Florida family bickering over breakfast. “Just say thank you for your presents,” I whispered. “And then you can go and watch TV.”
They did their duty, as did Adam and Luke, who apparently loved the iTunes gift cards we’d sent them. On the grounds that Christmas was all about kids, we adults had long since imposed a no-buy zone. So every year we sent gift certificates to Luke and Adam and every year Phil and Betsy reciprocated with gift certificates of identical value for our two. Greg called it farcical. I called it Christmas.
Greg said hi and merry Christmas to Mum, Dad and the rest of the family. Then he took the kids to the other end of the room to watch Home Alone 4.
My mother’s face filled the screen now. “Greg looks well,” she said. Assuming that the pictures she was getting of us were just as pixelated as the ones we were getting of her, I had no idea how she could tell. “You know, it’s so lovely to see you being a family again.”
“Mum,” I said, lowering my voice, “please don’t start getting ideas. This is for one day. We’re doing it for the kids, that’s all.”
“And I bet they’re happy to see you together. You know, maybe you should think about going back into counseling.”
“Esther, don’t start.” It was my dad. I could see the edge of his unshaven chin. “You promised you wouldn’t start …”
“I’m not starting. I’m just pointing out that children are happier and do better in life when they have parents living under the same roof. It said so in this magazine article I read the other day at the hairdresser’s.”
At this point, Adam asked Mum and Dad if they had any maple syrup at their place. Dad said he thought they might. “I’ll go take a look,” he said, getting up from the table.
For a few minutes, the rest of us carried on chatting and exchanging news. Then Betsy suggested that Mum take me on a tour of her new bathroom.
Mum and Dad had just finished refurbishing the granny annex. I’d seen the new kitchen, but Mum and Dad still hadn’t shown me the bathroom. I’d heard all about it, though—from Gail. She’d had the tour a few days earlier, just before she, Murray and the kids left for their customary Christmas break in the Canaries. “I can’t help thinking,” Gail had said, “that mint tiles with an eggplant bath mat and toilet seat cover is all a bit meh. Why is it that when it comes to decorating, our mother can only think in edible colors?” I suggested to Gail that maybe she should ease up on our eighty-year-old mother, but I couldn’t help laughing. Mum had always been the same. I remembered the last time she decorated the living room at the old house and how she’d adored showing off her salmon drapes and guacamole broadloom.
“Oh, you should see it,” Mum was saying to me now about the bathroom. “I keep all my guest hand towels in this pretty wicker basket.”
“Yeah,” Phil butted in, “except she won’t let anybody use them because she says they’re for guests. So I have to go into the kitchen and wipe my hands on a dishcloth.”
Betsy said that if Mum was going to take me on the grand bathroom tour, she should be quick because breakfast was almost ready. Mum said she needed to go to the little girls’ room, so she suggested that Phil should head off with the laptop and that she would catch us up.
Phil picked up the laptop and led me out of the kitchen and onto the patio. We crossed the lawn and went on past the pool and Betsy’s vegetable patch, which had long gone to seed. At the bottom of the garden was a small white rendered bungalow. This had been built by the couple who’d previously owned Phil and Betsy’s house. They ran a hot tub business and the bungalow had been used as an office and showroo
m. When Mum and Dad agreed to come to Florida, Phil and Betsy had set about converting it.
“So how are you and Betsy coping with Mum and Dad?”
“Actually, it’s working out a lot better than we thought. Betsy drives Mum to the supermarket a couple of times a week, but they manage to get out and about on the bus. They seem to be taking life much more in their stride. They’ve even started going to the seniors’ day center in town and by the sound of it they’re making friends. They seem to be very anxious about not invading our privacy, though. In fact, we have to nag them to come over.”
I said I was glad things were going well. I also said I felt guilty about him and Betsy having to take full responsibility for Mum and Dad as they approached advanced old age. “It’s a huge ask. It feels like Gail and I palmed them off onto you.”
“Come on—you did not palm them off and you know it. Betsy and I asked them to come and live with us. It was our decision. And you know how laid-back Betsy is. She just rolls with the punches.”
By now we were outside the bungalow. I could see Mum’s new mushroom drapes. Phil was about to knock on the door. Then he stopped.
“I can hear Dad on the phone,” he said. “Maybe we should give him a minute.”
“’K.”
For a while, neither of us spoke.
“Soph,” Phil said eventually, “are you getting that?”
“What?”
“Listen.”
I listened.
Dad must have moved to the open window because I could hear every word.
“No, it’s probably safer if I come to you,” he was saying. “Where do I find you? OK, I know where that is. Top bell. Anita. That’s a pretty name. You know, Anita, I have to admit that I’m a bit nervous about this. The only woman who’s ever seen me naked is my wife. So I guess we should talk about payment … Fifty dollars. That seems very reasonable. Oh, and would it be OK if I brought a couple of buddies with me?”
I heard myself yelp. “Omigod! What the—? Phil, correct me if I’m wrong, but it would appear that our octogenarian father is planning to have group sex with a hooker.”
“Yeah, that was pretty much my take on it. Although, in fairness, they could be planning to bang her one after the other.”