by Leary, Ann
Yes, I was very, very fond of Mrs. Howell.
One year, when I was in second or third grade, she chose me to sing a solo—the opening verse of “O Holy Night” for the Christmas Eve candlelight service.
“O Holy Night!” I began, all alone at the altar, my thin, wavering voice venturing out into the aisles and pews of the old church. It was so dark and so cold in the church that Christmas Eve. Once-familiar faces were distorted beyond recognition by the flickering light and the snaking tendrils of black smoke that arose from the handheld candles. The only person I could see clearly was Mrs. Howell, who stood right before me, smiling calmly, her cupped hand cradling the air in smooth upward motions, her lips mouthing the words along with me.
“The stars are brightly shining,” I warbled on in a semi-whisper. “It is the night of our dear Saviour’s birth.”
The church was full. Most everybody I knew sat in the pews, but I couldn’t see them. My hands shook and I clutched the sides of my red plaid Christmas skirt to steady them. Then I drew a deep breath and continued, my eyes fixed on Mrs. Howell.
“Long lay the world in sin and error pi … i … ning.… [gulp]. Till He appeared … and the soul felt its worth.”
Then (oh how joyous) the choir, young and old, and the entire congregation joined me.
“A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices, for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn. FALL ON YOUR KNEES!” (This was where you could hear our old Mr. Hamilton’s baritone, and Mrs. Riley’s sweet, shrill soprano hovering above us all.) “O, HEAR the angel voices! O NI-I-IGHT DIVINE … Oh night when Christ was born.…”
Words can’t describe the sense of comfort and community you feel, singing alone and then, suddenly, being buoyed up by the rest of the choir. I sang the rest of the carol, grinning broadly and searching the pews for the faces of my friends, my father and my mother, and now I could see them in the warm candlelight. There they were. There they all were, singing along with us. I remember my mother that night, how she sang, and how she smiled up at me, tears streaming down her face.
When Mrs. Howell taught us that carol, during Sunday school, she had us all draw pictures to go with each line. I was assigned the line “till He appeared and the soul felt its worth.” I drew a baby in a manger with a little halo over his head and rays of sunshine emanating from him. Mrs. Howell said, “I like the yellow rays of sun you used to express the soul and all its worth.” I grinned proudly, though I had just drawn the baby Jesus the way I had seen him illustrated many times—always with a little halo and the rays of golden light. The soul. Divine in all its worth? Can you imagine an adult feeding this nonsense to children?
* * *
The next day was Thanksgiving, and I walked my dogs after breakfast, then put on a wool skirt and sweater. The weather had changed; it was going to be a cold Thanksgiving Day after all.
I left my house around noon. Tess wanted everybody to arrive by one, as she planned to serve dinner at three. Emily and Scott had arrived at Tess’s the night before, and Michael’s parents lived just down the road. They were all there by the time I arrived.
Like I’ve mentioned, it’s hard now to be around people who are enjoying their drinks. Tess and Emily usually are careful to not drink much around me. I knew they’d have a little wine, but they’d act as if they weren’t enjoying it. The Watsons barely drink at all. So I had toyed with the idea of arriving a little later. I had even considered having a small glass of wine before I left the house. Many people have wine with lunch when they’re not working. But I feared they would smell it on me. Plus, really, that’s the kind of thing women at Hazelden talked about doing, during their shameful active-alcoholic days—having a drink to brace themselves for an occasion. I wasn’t like them. I didn’t need it. So I arrived on time, at one, and found old Bonnie on the front porch.
It was cold, so I let her come inside with me, and immediately Tess, who was just walking past the door with a large cheese platter, said, “Mom, I just put her out. I want to put these on the coffee table, and she’s going to eat them.”
“Oh, Tess, it’s freezing out. Can’t you put her in your room or something?”
“No. She’ll just whine and scratch on the door. Grady’s napping and she’ll wake him up. Put her out. Please.”
“Okay, okay,” I said, grabbing Bonnie by the collar and steering her back outside. I promised her that I would sneak her some turkey later and she sank down heavily on the porch with a groan.
I went back inside and everyone greeted me, even Nancy and Bill Watson, with stiff hugs. Why must everybody hug all the time? Scott was holding a Bloody Mary in his hand. I happen to love Bloody Marys. In fact, when Tess asked me what I’d like to drink, I started to ask her for a Diet Coke but then changed my mind and said, “I’ll have a Bloody Mary … just without the vodka.”
“A Virgin Mary, huh?” Scott laughed. Then he said, “I’ll make it, Hildy,” and I followed him into the kitchen. It was good to see Scott, I have to admit that. I like him, I always will. When I married Scott, I married my best friend. Our worst years were those in which he knew that he was gay but neglected to share that with me. Once we separated, after the initial pain of rejection and the financial squabbling, I was able to recognize my old friend in Scott, and I know he did with me.
Tess was hustling around the kitchen with Nancy Watson, and when we came in, she looked a little exasperated.
“Um, Mom, Dad, we’ve got everything sorted out in here. Why don’t you go out and join the others in the living room?”
“I’m just making your mother a drink,” said Scott.
“Oh, okay,” said Tess, and I saw her watching Scott’s drink ingredients out of the corner of her eye as she basted the bird.
“When do you think Grady’ll be getting up?” I asked Tess.
“He usually gets up around two, now that he’s down to just one nap a day,” reported Nancy.
I smiled at her and thought, Yes, I know, sweet cheeks. You take care of him every day.
Scott squeezed a lemon into my drink and tapped a few extra drops of Tabasco in, just the way I’ve always liked it. We went back into the living room, but Michael and Bill were watching football. Scott and I have never really followed sports, but we stood there for a few minutes. Michael and Bill were on the edge of their seats. “No, no, NOOOO,” Michael suddenly called out, pounding the couch with his fist. Scott and I were looking at the TV, trying to figure out what all the commotion was about. I watch television sports in much the same way that a cat watches television. I like all the action, and I’m able to follow the movement of the figures on the screen, but I have no idea what’s going on.
“Well, that’s it,” said Bill
“ARRRGGGG,” said Michael.
Scott and I smiled at each other. “Come look at the dining room table,” he said. “I set it up this morning.”
We went into the dining room, and there it was. A Thanksgiving dinner table fit for Martha Stewart Living. Scott collected French china and beautiful antique tablecloths and napkins, and he always shared his bounty with the girls. He had left me with a treasure trove of collectibles, myself, but I could never put a table together like Scott. He had arranged cut flowers in vases. He’d used pinecones and bunches of beautifully colored leaves for a centerpiece. He had made little votive candleholders out of tiny gourds. We pulled a couple of chairs back from the table and, after sitting down, tapped our drinks together.
“Cheers,” I said.
“Cheers, Hildy,” said Scott. We sipped our drinks.
“How long are you staying in Marblehead?” I asked.
“I’m going back tomorrow, really early. I can’t find anybody I trust to run the store when I’m away. I’m only open on weekends in the wintertime.”
“Oh, right, tomorrow’s the big shopping day, isn’t it?”
“Maybe at the Gap. Not so much in the antiques business. But we—I usually have a pretty good day.”
Scott’s former boyfri
end, Richard, used to be his partner at the shop, but he moved back to New York when they broke up. Scott and I sipped our drinks again and smiled at each other. Scott looked … puffy. Well, let’s face it. He looked old. I’m sure he was thinking the same thing about me.
“So, you’re still on the wagon, huh?” Scott asked.
“Not on the wagon,” I chided jokingly. “I’m in recovery.”
“Right, I beg your pardon,” he said. Then he said quietly, “Do you go to AA meetings?”
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” I whispered, and he roared with laughter.
“The girls are always reporting to me how well you’re doing in the ‘program.’ I finally had to ask them, ‘What program?’ I thought you’d gotten yourself a TV show or something. They said, ‘AA, Dad,’ like I was a moron. I think they’re trying to get me to cut back, too.”
“Well, if they invite you over for dinner, and it’s not a major holiday, my advice is, run for your life.”
Scott laughed and then said, “But really, Hildy, I think it’s amazing what you’ve done. Staying sober and all that. It’s really amazing. I know you did it for the girls, but it’s done you so much good. I can see the change in you. Really.”
Maybe that’s not his first Bloody, I thought. Change. People see what they want to see.
Grady awoke, as scheduled, at two. Nancy bustled up the stairs to get him, and when she brought him down, he was wearing a pair of miniature gray trousers and a little white oxford shirt.
“Good God,” Scott muttered to me, “look at the little Republican.”
“Okay,” I whispered. “It’s official. You’ve had too much to drink.”
Scott laughed a little too loudly and Tess and Emily shot us annoyed looks before scuffling off into the kitchen together.
We all played with Grady. He was at such a fun age. A walker and a talker and a charmer.
Nancy was having him recite all the letters in the alphabet, which she had taught him. She asked, “Who’s that?” pointing to Michael.
“Dada,” Grady gushed.
“And who’s that?” (She was pointing to Bill.)
“Papa.”
“That’s right. Papa, did you hear what Grady said?”
“Mmmm-hmmm,” said Bill, turning and winking at Grady before fixating on the TV screen again.
“Who’s that?” Nancy asked, pointing at me.
Grady had become distracted by the pile of crackers on the cheese platter that rested on the coffee table in front of him.
“Grady, who’s that?” Nancy repeated, trying to get Grady to look at me. She tried to turn him around, but he shook free of her hands and stuck a cracker in his mouth. Then he reached for the Brie.
“No, Grady,” Nancy cried, swooping him up and away from the tempting platter full of deadly dairy products. “Let’s go see if your mommy has a snack for you. But first, give kissy to Grandma Hildy.”
Grady was crying for the cheese platter, and when she brought him to me, he was shaking his head and saying, “No, no, no, no, no.”
“He’s always a little fussy when he first wakes up.” Nancy smiled apologetically.
“I know he is,” I said through gritted teeth. Honestly, if she hadn’t had my grandchild in her arms, I would have clocked her on the head. Could she have been more obnoxious about Grady? I’ve never liked Nancy Watson. She’s a nitwit. When not watching Grady, she’s busy “scrapbooking,” which is her hobby, and Tess is always showing me the sickly-sweet scrapbooks featuring Grady that Nancy puts together, seemingly, every week. I always smile as Tess flips the pages for me, and I say things like “Imagine having all that time to devote to something like this.” Or “I think I might like it better if it just had the photos and not the hearts and cartoon teddy bears and everything.” Nancy’s latest scrapbooking gimmick was to have “thought balloons” coming from Grady’s head. These were meant to be humorous. Grady would be wrapped up in a towel after his bath and the thought balloon would say, “Ahhhh, another day at the spa.” I always stared at these completely stone-faced whenever Nancy or Tess showed them to me. Of course, they would be convulsed with laughter and pointing and shaking their heads at each turn of the page.
The dinner was taking forever. My head was pounding. I had come to the conclusion, over the past weeks, that I really did need to switch from red to white wine. The red was giving me such headaches. I had read it has something to do with the tannins. It just affects some people that way—with the headaches.
After an eternity of awkward small talk with Scott, it was time to sit down to dinner. Emily was opening the wine in the kitchen.
“Mom? What would you like?” she asked.
I was tempted to ask for one of Grady’s juice boxes. It just always felt so infantilizing (this is a word you learn in rehab) when people asked me what I’d like to drink. I noticed that Bill and Nancy were smiling at me in the most patronizing way.
“Scott, just mix me up another one of these Virgin Marys,” I said.
He mixed up my little virgin drink.
My little drink for naughty girls who have given up the privilege of drinking grown-up drinks.
He handed it to me and then we were all helping carry in the turkey and the stuffing, the mashed potatoes and Brussels sprouts and peas, the squash and the special gluten-free pasta with soy butter, which was the only food from his restrictive diet that Grady could be enticed to eat. We did the usual running around, looking for the gravy boat and trying to find a salt shaker that actually worked, and trying to figure out what that burning smell was, and finally I found myself all alone in the kitchen with my Virgin Mary. Everybody had sat down, but Tess had forgotten to put the pies in the oven.
“I’ll do it,” I had said, turning on my heel. I was the only one who hadn’t sat down yet. I put the apple pie and the cherry pie in the oven. Then I poured a little vodka into my Bloody. Not too much. But not too little, either. Really, Thanksgiving is a lot to ask of a sober person. I just needed something to take the edge off.
I sat down and Bill Watson said grace and we all raised our glasses and toasted one another. I sipped my drink. I hadn’t had anything but wine since I’d started drinking again. In my mind, wine, somehow, wasn’t really drinking. Vodka, I thought as I took my second sip, definitely was.
So what?
We tried to get Grady to eat a little bit of turkey. Scott and I had persuaded Tess to place his high chair between us. I went to give Grady a little bite of my mashed potatoes, but Michael cried out, “Hildy. No. There’s butter and milk in the potatoes.” I caught Scott’s eye above Grady’s little head then, and we both tried not to laugh. Scott’s nostrils flare when he tries to control his laughter, and I couldn’t help it. I turned and coughed into my napkin, my eyes blinking back tears of mirth. The way Michael had said it—as if I were trying to slip the baby a spoonful of arsenic.
Emily entertained us with a story about one of her roommate’s efforts to find a date on eHarmony. It was hysterical, actually. Emily is very, very funny. She gets it from Scott. I went in to get another glass of “tomato juice.” I made another grown-up Bloody. When I sat back down, Grady began clapping his hands and humming, and I said, “You know, I think Grady has a natural gift for music.”
“Mom, I can’t believe you just said that,” gushed Tess. “He does. I was just telling somebody that the other day.”
“Of course he does,” said Scott. “What songs do you know, Grady?”
Michael and Tess tried to entice him with songs from his baby videos. Everybody was well into their second glass of wine at this point, and we all teased them about the stupidity of that music.
“I’ve been teaching him some real songs,” I said. “Songs that Daddy and I used to sing to you girls.…”
“Oh great. Grady’s learning Grateful Dead songs,” Emily said with a smirk.
“WHAT?” Scott and I protested together, and then it was like the old days, when it was just Scott and Tess and Emily and me
.
“I have always HATED the Grateful Dead,” I said, swilling my “juice” and laughing at the notion.
“Me, too. The Dead. PLEASE,” said Scott. “Grady, here’s a song by the great Nina Simone—”
“DAD. NO!” The girls shrieked in unison, laughing hysterically. I almost choked on my drink, it was so funny, the idea that Scott might start singing Nina Simone songs in front of the Watsons.
“No,” I said finally, “Grady likes Simon and Garfunkel. I taught him ‘Scarborough Fair.’”
“You did, Hildy?” Scott asked, smiling at me lovingly. “Sing it,” he said. “Sing it to him now.”
“No,” I giggled. I was blushing.
“C’mon, Mom,” Emily said.
“Well, I can’t sing it alone. It needs the harmony,” I said.
“DAD…” the girls pleaded.
“I can’t believe this. You girls used to hate it when we sang together.” I laughed.
“No we didn’t,” said Tess.
“Well, we only hated it when you did it in the car,” Emily said.
“Oh, that’s right. That sucked. Actually, don’t sing, guys,” said Tess. So of course we did sing. We did an okay job of it. We sang, smiling at each other over Grady’s head, which swiveled so he could look first at Scott, then at me, then at Scott again. We hit a few off notes. Scott kept flubbing the words, but when we hit the chorus, we hit it just right. It was so nice. It felt like the nicest thing. At the end, Grady slapped his palms on the tray of his high chair.
“More,” he said. “More.”
Everybody laughed when he said that, and I saw that Emily was smiling and shaking her head and wiping away tears with her napkin. She’s always been the most emotional of us, Emily, but it was such a sweet moment.
“Don’t get us started, Grady. You’ll be very sorry,” said Scott.
“Well, I had no idea you both had such lovely singing voices,” said Nancy Watson.
“The girls sing beautifully, too. Do you still have your guitar, Tess?” I asked. She was pouring herself another glass of wine.
“I do someplace. Up in the attic, I think. I can check. But I am NOT singing with you guys.”