by Nancy Thayer
“I want you to go out in the backyard and run around the yard six times without stopping,” Lauren told her children.
“Mom!” Portia and Lawrence protested simultaneously.
Lauren folded her arms over her chest and glared like a drill sergeant. “Do it, now, or no dessert.”
Heads hanging, feet dragging, the children went out the back door, down the stairs, and began to plod wearily around the yard.
“Lauren,” Felicia said, “shouldn’t your kids have on coats or hats in this cold weather?”
“My children are like little furnaces,” Lauren told Felicia. “And they’ll heat up even more—watch.”
Portia and Lawrence hadn’t made it around the yard once before they turned the run into a race accompanied by arm waving, war cries, and general screaming. This year, snow had come early and the snowy ground was already coated with a thick layer of ice. The kids slid on it, fell down, rolled around, giggling and whooping.
“You see,” Lauren said. “They won’t want to come in. They have no idea it’s cold out.”
Felicia and Lauren set the dining room table with their mother’s poinsettia place mats and matching napkins. Jilly also had an entire set of Christmas plates that they put around the table.
“Gee, Mom,” Felicia teased, “do you expect us to use regular silverware?”
“I’ve looked in all the catalogs,” Jilly answered, taking Felicia’s question seriously, “but I haven’t found any Christmas silverware or utensils.”
Felicia and Lauren grinned at each other, as they had so many times in the past, silently mocking their mother’s passion for themed dinnerware.
“Has anyone seen Rex?” Jilly wondered. “He likes to hide in the laundry room. I hope he didn’t sneak out the back door.”
“I’ll get the kids in the house and have them wash their hands,” said Lauren.
“I’ll organize everyone in the living room to come into the dining room for dinner,” said Felicia.
“I’ll sauté the broccoli,” Jilly said. “Everything else is ready.” She poured olive oil in the pan, switched on the heat, and after a moment, added the broccoli.
Felicia had just stepped into the living room when she heard a commotion. She rushed back to the kitchen. Through the open doorway, she saw her mother kneeling next to an overflowing laundry basket. Jilly was petting Rex. At the same time, Lauren was holding the back door open to the mudroom which was at the far end of the laundry room. Through the open door, her son and daughter burst into the house.
“Look! A cat!” yelled Lawrence.
“A kitty! Mommy, look, a kitty!” shouted Portia.
“Quiet voices, please. Use your quiet voices,” said Lauren quietly, as if to remind them what a quiet voice was.
As Felicia watched, the cat, half covered with laundry, froze into a physical red alert, ears back, eyes wide, aware of the sounds of a predator.
“Can I hold the kitty? Can I? Can I? Can I?” asked Lawrence.
“No, I want to! I want to hold the kitty first!” yelled Portia.
Jilly was attempting to gather the cat into her arms protectively, while at the same time she tried to rise from her knees and turn her back to the children.
Lauren awkwardly bumped into Jilly as she tried to squeeze past her mother to reach her children. She managed to grab Portia’s shoulder and Lawrence’s arm. “Settle down!” Her voice was less quiet now.
“Here, kitty, kitty!” shrieked Portia in her high, eardrum-shattering small girl’s voice.
“Children, please be quiet,” begged Jilly. “Rex has never met children before. He’s afraid of you. You have to be as quiet as little mice so he’ll like you.”
“I’ll be quiet!” bellowed Lawrence.
“Lauren, perhaps you could take the kiddies back outside for a moment,” suggested a slightly flustered Jilly.
Misunderstanding, Portia stretched her arms out. “I’ll take the kitty outside!”
“Kiddie!” Jilly snapped. “Not kitty, kiddie!” She’d never used an angry voice with her grandchildren before. It startled everyone in the room, including the cat.
“Fine, Mom, I will, as soon as I can move around you.” Lauren was also getting her dander up. She was mad at her children and not that thrilled with her mother, either.
Jilly backed against the wall, clutching the orange cat to her chest. Before Lauren could step past her, Lawrence wriggled out of his mother’s hand and squirmed to Jilly’s side.
“Hi, kitty kitty,” Lawrence yammered, reaching up a hand to pet the cat.
Rex shot out of Jilly’s arms like a squeezed banana out of its skin. In a flurry of orange and white fur, he streaked down the hall and into the living room.
“Oh, no!” exclaimed Jilly. “Rex will be afraid of all those people. He’s not used to groups.”
Bumping into one another as they ran, Lauren, Jilly, Felicia, Lawrence, and Portia sprinted down the hall and into the living room.
Pat jumped to her feet, horrified. “Oh, dear, a cat!”
The cat had taken refuge behind an armchair next to the Christmas tree.
“He won’t hurt you,” promised Felicia. “He’s more afraid of you than you are of him.”
“I’m allergic to cats!” Pat proved her claim by exploding in a giant sneeze.
“We’ll get him, Grandma Jelly,” Lawrence said. The little boy dropped to his knees and crawled behind the armchair where his father was sitting.
Porter stood up, the better to observe his son. “Be careful, Lawrence, the cat might scratch you.”
Jilly said defensively, “Rex has never scratched anyone!”
Lauren hastened to back up her husband’s warning. “There’s always a first time.”
“He went behind the Christmas tree,” Lawrence reported.
“He’ll tear up all the pretty wrapping paper on the presents!” cried Portia.
“Don’t crawl on the presents, Lawrence,” Lauren ordered. “You might break them.”
At the mention of the presents, Lawrence subsided.
“I’m sure poor Rex is traumatized by so much noise,” Jilly said, wringing her hands.
Felicia put her arm around her mother. “Why don’t we all go in the dining room and have dinner? That will give the cat some peace and quiet.”
Her mother nodded. “That’s a good idea, and dinner is ready.”
“But what if the cat pees on the presents?” asked Pat, anxiously digging in her purse for a tissue.
“Why would the cat pee on the presents?” demanded Jilly, rather insulted.
“That’s what cats do,” said Pat. “They’ll pee on anything and you can never eradicate the stink.”
“Rex has never peed on anything in the house except his litter box,” Jilly retorted indignantly.
“Yes, but you only got him a few days ago,” Lauren argued.
Four-year-old Portia burst into tears. “I don’t want pee on my presents!” she wailed.
George, the hero of the hour, rose shakily on his crutches. “I’ll poke my crutch behind the tree. That will force him out.”
“Please don’t hurt him,” begged Jilly.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” George said. He sat on the arm of the chair next to the Christmas tree, steadied himself with one hand, and with the other, slowly maneuvered his crutch over the piles of presents and behind the Christmas tree.
All around him, everyone, even the children, watched in breathless silence.
George yelled, “I think I poked him!”
The cat yowled, the wrapping paper rustled, the Christmas tree shuddered, and dozens of ornaments fell from the tree as Rex fled up the trunk to the very top where he attached himself with all four claws to the handmade, spun cotton angel.
“Oh, George!” cried Jilly.
“Step back, Lawrence and Portia,” their mother demanded. “You might get cut on some of the broken ornaments.”
“Here, kitty kitty!” called the children, as if he wer
e at the top of a building instead of a tree.
Rex’s fur stood up all over and he had a wild look in his eyes. His back feet scrambled furiously to find more secure footing on the quivering slender branches.
“Quiet voices,” Lauren encouraged.
“A-cheese!” Pat sneezed.
Perhaps Pat sounded like a predatory animal. It certainly seemed so to Rex, who reacted to the noise with a frightened hiss and an arched back. More ornaments fell to the floor.
Felicia took a practical approach. “How are we going to coax him down?”
“We’ve got a stepladder,” George told them. “It’s in the garage.”
“No, it’s not, George,” Jilly reminded her husband. “Remember we brought it in to decorate the tree. I think we put it in the hall closet.”
Porter said, “I’ll get it,” and left the room. A moment later he called, “It’s not in here.”
“A-cheese!” sneezed Pat loudly and juicily.
“Hiss!” hissed Rex. The Christmas tree wobbled back and forth, threatening to topple.
“Oh, boy,” Lawrence yelled with glee. “It’s gonna crash!”
“I think the stepladder is in the back hall by the washing machine,” Jilly called.
“I don’t want the tree to fall down!” Portia burst into tears again.
“We don’t need a stepladder to reach the cat,” Archie announced. He stepped up onto the cushion of the armchair, reached up, and hoisted the cat by the scruff of his neck. Rex protested loudly, flailing at the Christmas tree with his front paws and growling deep in his throat. Twisting like water in Archie’s hands, he went upside down and faced Archie, claws extended, hissing and snarling like a mountain lion. His contortions threw Archie off balance. Archie fell off the chair, dropping the cat. He landed on his back with a loud crunch as he hit the presents. Rex rushed out of the room, thundered up the stairs, and disappeared.
“The presents!” cried the children and Lauren.
Felicia hurried to help Archie up from his inelegant position. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Archie awkwardly tried to find a place for his feet. “Maybe a bit embarrassed.”
An ear-piercing shriek bleated through the house, so shrill and overpowering everyone in the room automatically covered their ears with their hands.
“Now what?” George asked, eyes wide.
“Maybe it’s the police!” suggested Lawrence hopefully.
“It’s the smoke alarms,” said Jilly. “Oh, no, I think the broccoli is burning.” She ran from the room.
“I’ve got to help Mom,” Felicia told Archie. She raced away into the smoky kitchen to find her mother dumping blackened broccoli into the sink.
“Open the back door!” Jilly ordered. Felicia hurried to do that as Jilly said, “I’ll open the windows, too. Stay by the door. I don’t want Rex to get out.”
Felicia went into the laundry room, opened the back door—there were no screen doors here on Nantucket. She stood guarding the door, waving her arms in the air to help the flow of fresh air enter the house and deactivate the fire alarms. Finally they shut off. The cool air felt good and so did the momentary peace. She was worried about her mother, who had gone to such great effort to make everything perfect for this Christmas holiday.
Returning to the kitchen, she asked, “How’s the lasagna, Mom?”
“The top is more brown than I’d like, but I think it’s fine for eating. I’m sorry to say the sauté pan is ruined and so is the broccoli but I’m sure the children will remain healthy without broccoli for one night.” Jilly was leaning against the counter, looking dazed. “I don’t know if I can return to the living room. All those broken ornaments …”
Felicia gently took her mother by the arm and led her to a kitchen chair. “Sit down a minute and rest. There are plenty of adults in the living room who are capable of picking up. Besides, not all of the decorations are broken. Relax a moment.”
In the living room, Felicia found everyone involved in gathering up the fallen decorations, putting the broken ones into a paper bag and the good ones into a book bag that Lauren had taken from the front hall.
“This way,” Lauren said, “Mom can look through them. If one of them means a lot to her, perhaps she can glue it back together.”
“Good idea.” Felicia returned to her mother in the kitchen. “You’ll be surprised, Mom, when you see the tree. You won’t know that anything happened.”
Jilly opened her mouth then closed it. “I’m sure you’re right,” she said, too overwhelmed to disagree.
16
While her mother relaxed in the kitchen, Felicia leaned against the living room door, scrutinizing the mess and wondering where to start.
Pretty little Portia was sitting on her mother’s lap, sobbing at the top of her lungs. “The presents are ruined! The presents are ruined!” Lauren hugged her little girl close, stroking her hair as she reassured her that the presents were fine.
Beneath the Christmas tree, Lawrence crawled around like a CIA agent, sneakily peeling back the torn paper, tearing it more to peek at what was inside.
Porter was on his stomach on the floor, tightening the screws in the green plastic device that held the Christmas tree while Archie supported the trunk and directed him. “The left screw. It’s leaning to the right. No, the other way!”
Felicia’s father had taken sanctuary in the armchair farthest from the Christmas tree. His head had fallen to his chest and he seemed to be mumbling to himself.
And standing by the fireplace, Archie’s mother, Pat, continued to sneeze her eccentric, high-pitched sneeze.
Wading through the fallen ornaments, Felicia made her way to Pat. “Why don’t you step outside for a few moments for a breath of fresh air? Maybe that will help your allergies.”
Pat glanced up gratefully, her face centered by a puffy red nose. “That’s a good idea, dear, but it’s so cold outside. Perhaps I’ll call a cab and go back to the hotel.”
“Oh, no, please don’t leave yet. Dinner’s almost ready. Why don’t you let me loan you one of our down coats,” Felicia offered. “It will keep you nice and warm.”
“All right,” Pat agreed unhappily. Handkerchief to face, she allowed herself to be led to the front hall where she donned one of Jilly’s down jackets. Regarding herself in the mirror, ensconced in so much puffy bulk, Pat croaked, “I look like a sofa.”
Felicia laughed. “We all look that way here in the winter. Let’s go out.”
The two women stood side by side on the front steps of the house on Chestnut Street. The Gordons’ house was right in the middle of town, one of the few houses that hadn’t been turned into a commercial establishment. It was a magical location, especially at Christmas. On the shops all around them, small lights twinkled like colorful stars. The harbor was only three blocks away and they could hear the deep booming horns of the ferries as they arrived and departed. The evening air was cold and salty, flowing into their lungs like an elixir.
Heels clicked and laughter rang out as people hurried from nearby restaurants and the movie theater.
“Would you like to take a walk?” Felicia asked.
“Not in this snow.” Pat looked down at her sensible sneakers. She breathed for a while, then said in a confessional tone, “You have much more family than Archie and I.”
Felicia couldn’t tell if this was a good or bad thing.
Before Felicia could ask her future mother-in-law to clarify her remark, Pat shivered. “I’m ready to go in now.”
It was noisier in the living room than it had been ten minutes ago. Lauren was standing over Lawrence with her hands on her hips, smoke practically steaming from her nostrils.
Her son stood glaring at her with a fierce face and clenched hands. “I didn’t tear the wrapping paper! I didn’t!”
Yes, he did! I saw him do it! He’s lying! Felicia thought, but wasn’t certain what the appropriate action was. After all, Lawrence was her nephew and in general a darling boy.
“Lawrence, because this is Christmas season, and because we’re at Grandma Jelly’s house, I’m not going to punish you for lying.” Lauren knelt down next to her son and put her hands on his little shoulders. “This is a crazy time, isn’t it?”
The rigidity of anger slowly melted from the little boy’s body. He nodded.
“It would be so nice if you could help me stack the Christmas presents up in a nice pile again,” said Lauren.
“Okay, Mommy.”
“I want to help, too.” Portia jumped off the chair and knelt next to her mother.
How does she do it? Felicia wondered silently. How did her sister manage to transform a furious little monster back into a sweet little boy? How did Lauren even manage to love her children when they were shrieking, nasty-faced maniacs? How did perfect Lauren live with such imperfection?
“I don’t know if I can do it,” Felicia whispered. “I don’t know if I will ever be capable of being a mother.”
Next to her, Pat chuckled. “It’s sort of a learn-as-you-go job. Believe me, when I was raising Archie, I didn’t play golf. Some days my hair never got combed.”
“Excuse me, ladies, I want to take this out to the mudroom.” Porter held up the brown paper bag filled with broken ornaments. He slid past them into the hall.
“The tree is stable again,” Archie told them. “We can start rehanging the decorations.”
“Dad,” Felicia joked, “you stay over there in your chair with your crutches out of the way.”
George joked, “Oh, you mean I can’t do my tap dance now?”
The ornaments had been gathered into a pile on the coffee table next to the brass bowl of nuts. For a while the family worked in relative harmony. Lauren and her children restored order to the pile of Christmas presents while Archie, his mother, and Felicia hung decorations on the tree. Felicia looked down to see her nephew, so engrossed the tip of his tongue was caught between his teeth, carefully sliding a red ribbon over a torn part of wrapping paper so that the tear didn’t show. At this moment Lawrence looked absolutely angelic. She saw Lauren glance at Porter. The two looked down at Lawrence and then at each other with smiles of pride and pleasure.