by Mike Rich
“Okay, so . . .” She was getting back to the rules, which sounded firm, but were tucked inside a friendly voice. It was this kind of stuff that really gnawed at him.
“Stay inside.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Careful on the concrete steps. They’ll be really slippery.”
“Got it, Mom.”
“And try not to bother your grandfather too much. I don’t want him filling your head with any of those crazy stories of his.”
“What? Why? I like his stories,” Henry frowned as he dumped his phone into his pocket.
“I know you do.” Eloise nodded. “Same as your dad.” Then she added with a sad smile, “I just worry his stories are maybe getting, I don’t know, a little bit crazier ever since . . .”
She sighed, followed by her son doing the same a half second later.
“Great, perfect,” Henry muttered with both disappointment and frustration. Before the last word was even out, he regretted the tone he’d just used.
“I know, I know,” his mother replied, “I just . . . he misses your father a lot too.” She finally got around to turning off the Expedition. “This time of year’s rough on all of us.”
TWO
Gigi
“HENRY NATHAN BABBITT, just look at you!”
Henry’s grandmother—who’d been “Gigi” to him since he first started talking—wrapped him in an embrace so tight it sent his gloves and book bag to the floor.
He’d already taken off the gloves as a precaution on the front step—which really had looked terrific covered in snow—but only because he knew his mother had looked away for a second, no doubt checking for icicles that might fall on him.
“Hey, Gigi,” he managed to say into the arm of her burgundy dress.
“Hey, Gigi? Hey, Gigi?” she said with a smile wider than the front door wreath. “Don’t you have something else to add to that? This isn’t just any day of the year, you know.”
“Oh, sorry,” he corrected himself. “Merry Christmas, even though Christmas Day really isn’t until tomorr—”
“Merry Christmas to you! Much, much better.” She embraced him again, constricting him enough that the smell of pumpkin pie coming from the distant kitchen completely vanished for a moment.
Wow, Geege, you’re in midseason form. Two hugs in two seconds.
“Hello, Margaret,” Eloise said with a kind smile, before instantly correcting herself. “I mean, Merry Christmas.” She pulled off her hat and her hair fell perfectly into place, which served as a reminder to Henry that he’d forgotten to check his own.
“You too, dear girl.” Gigi hugged her daughter-in-law tightly and gave her a kiss on the cheek, winking at Henry. “See? At least one of you knows what to say on Christmas Eve. Come, come, hand over those coats now.”
Henry shot a glance toward his mother.
Okay?
Eloise shrugged, her eyes suggesting that ditching his coat was probably all right—for now.
“Henry?” Gigi asked. “I’ve heard rumors your latest grades took a nice step forward from last year. Is that so?”
“Well, I thought it was pretty okay,” Henry answered. “I did get an A in history, which kinda made up for the C in math. We can skip talking about chemistry if that’s okay.”
“Well, you’ve had a lot on your mind,” she said, hanging their coats in the front hall closet. From there she led them through the dining room and straight into the kitchen. Henry knew the holiday path from experience.
The inside of his grandparents’ home was every bit as stunning as the snowy front entrance. It featured hickory hardwood floors and high ceilings along with tons of artwork that blended paintings from both a hundred years ago and one year ago. Henry knew squat about all that stuff, but even he could tell his grandmother had a knack for it. All you had to do was ask her.
The elegant elderly woman was dressed head-to-toe in her annual Christmas wardrobe: a red floor-length dress with decades-old sparkly stuff around her neck and a flour-coated green apron that right now featured a splattering of turkey grease.
It would have looked nice on anyone, but there was a reason the word “elegant” always jumped to mind with Gigi. At five foot nine—she avoided saying five ten for some reason, even though she was—and with somewhat short silver hair that any Ice Princess would have rocked, she always looked great. At least ten years younger than her real age of seventy-eight.
“All right, coats are up,” Gigi said, finishing the first piece of business and quickly moving on to the next. “Henry, if you could help me choose the perfect Christmas music, ideally cheerful now and then quietly cheerful at dinner.” She then sped back into the dining room, immediately adjusting the placement of all four water glasses before giving them a youthful thumbs-up.
Eloise sent Henry a smile that he knew carried a heavy dose of heartache.
Gigi had always made a strong effort when it came to Christmas, but she’d really gone overboard the last two years. Henry figured that if she ever stopped for even a single second, especially on this night, it wouldn’t be good.
Ding! Ding! Ding!
The oven timer chirped from the kitchen—and even though Gigi was in her midseventies, she actually scurried into the adjoining room for a look-see.
“Half hour more and this turkey should be all ready to go.” Gigi waved for the two of them to follow. “Henry, can you grab me the Christmas oven mitts, please?”
“Sure. Top drawer over here, right?”
“Right you are—OW!” she confirmed while nearly burning her hand just opening the oven. “Maybe only twenty-five minutes more,” she said, waggling her hand. “I think that’s what the mathematician in me would recommend.”
“Here ya go, Geege.” Henry returned and looked up at her as he held out a pair of mitts that once looked like snowmen, but were now long-charred by the oven.
Annnnnnnnd, yup, there it is. Had to happen sometime tonight.
It was his looking up at her that had done it, he could tell. It had happened last year and now this year as well—though whether last year had also taken place by the oven, he didn’t quite remember.
Everything slowed down for a second as Gigi returned her grandson’s smile.
She gently took the mitts from his outstretched hand and leaned down to say, “Grandson . . . tonight and tomorrow? They wouldn’t be the same without you here. It just wouldn’t be the same at all.”
“Thanks, G—”
There was a knock at the front door.
“Ah! That’ll be Abigail from next door. I told her to drop by,” Gigi told Henry, quickly smoothing his shirt. “That young lady was very excited to hear you were coming over tonight!”
Abigail? Abigail Kentworth?! What’s she doing here?!
Henry had gone to school with Abigail for a couple of years and spent a good portion of that time trying to keep his cheeks from turning bright red every time he saw her. Fortunately, her father had been named as a board member at another school—one of New York City’s best—and she’d switched over just this fall. The move had given Henry’s cheeks a much-needed break.
“Go on now,” Gigi shooed him toward the door. “You don’t want to make her knock a second time.”
Seriously? We’re really gonna do this? D’you pick up some flowers you want me to give her too?
He could feel both his mom and grandmother watching as he made his way down the hall, his adrenaline level spiking with each step.
The doorknob silently taunted him: Come on, turn me. I dare ya. Henry stopped a foot from the entryway, not willing to take the dare yet.
Oh man . . . she is gonna look great. She always looks great. It’s an indisputable fact. ’Specially if she’s got the ponytail working. The blond ponytail. Uh boy.
Her looks were just part of the reason he’d always had a hard time figuring out why she even took an interest in him.
“Oh dear,” he heard his mother say as she and Gigi moved into prime eavesdroppi
ng position a few feet behind him.
Henry waited another second before reluctantly opening the door, and—
Daaaaaaannnnng.
Sure enough, it was Abigail Kentworth, looking as great as ever. Ponytail intact, though tonight it had the added bonus of being nicely tucked under a winter hat and falling perfectly over her left shoulder. The white jacket she was wearing, along with the blue scarf and boots with some kind of fake fur around the top, didn’t hurt either.
He could feel the first rush of crimson heading for his cheeks.
“Hey, Henry. Merry Christmas,” Abigail said with a warm smile and appropriate spirit.
“Hey, Abigail,” he replied with appropriate awkwardness, his nerves running at about 120 percent.
She held out a sparkling glass plate of homemade candy. “I brought you some fudge.”
“Oh, cool, thanks . . .” Henry’s tone was polite and carried just enough enthusiasm as he took the plate off of her hands.
“You’re welcome. My mom and I made a whole bunch this afternoon.”
“Oh . . . well . . . it looks really great. Really . . . fudgy.”
Fudgy . . . is that even a word?
“Ummmmmmmm,” Henry shifted gears. “Pretty amazing snowstorm, isn’t it?”
Weather. Great. You couldn’t come up with anything dorkier to talk about?
He did get the feeling that Abigail might be nervous too, since she was clasping her hands behind her back. Not that knowing this helped much. He’d have bet the contents of his grandmother’s house and a few other houses on the block that his nerves swamped whatever nervousness she was feeling.
“Hey, Mrs. Babbitt,” Abigail said, waving to the two women standing behind him. “Both Mrs. Babbitts! Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas, Abigail!” Gigi nearly shouted, while Eloise, who seemed to look as if she knew how Henry was feeling, offered a smile and a slightly more subdued, “Merry Christmas to you too, Abigail.”
“Come in, come in, dear,” Gigi gestured, taking the plate of fudge from her grandson and putting it on a nearby table. “Henry wouldn’t want you getting snowbound out there, would you, Henry?”
“Oh, sorry, no,” Henry could feel the crimson in his cheeks turning a deep shade of burgundy. “Yeah, come on in.”
Abigail stepped inside, the snow quickly beginning to melt off her coat, her hat, and . . . her ponytail.
Oh man, her ponytail. You kiddin’ me? I’m the one who should be snowbound. Better yet, maybe I should just run outside and bury my head right into the snow.
It took little to no time before his grandmother’s grand, grandmotherly plan became all too apparent.
“Abigail?” Gigi asked innocently enough. “Didn’t your mother tell me you had something you wanted to ask Henry?”
What?!
“Oh, yeah, she uh . . . she did.” Abigail fidgeted a little. “Soooo . . . there’s ice skating over at Central Park in the morning,” she said, her eyes going to Henry’s. “I was kinda thinking I might go.”
Gigi interjected. “No, no, no . . . I think you mean an ice skating gala, Abigail, don’t you?” she corrected her. “Not just skating, but dancing and other holiday fun, yes?”
Henry could see his mother pressing her lips against her fingers, stifling a laugh.
Skating? Dancing? thought Henry in growing terror. Sure, let’s go ahead and mix sharp-edged steel blades with the tango.
“Yeah, I think it is called something like that,” Abigail replied. “And I do think they might have some dancing.”
Henry could hear his grandmother trying to suppress a squeal behind him. “Oh, Henry, you must go!” she said to both of them. “It sounds like such a wonderful thing to do on Christmas morning! Don’t you agree, Eloise?”
The look Henry saw on his mother’s face was a little more complicated—as he knew it probably would be.
“Well . . .” Eloise chose her words carefully, already somewhat hesitant. “It’s, umm, I mean ice skating can be dangerous, can’t forget that, especially with the snow, right?”
“It’s supposed to be over first thing in the morning,” Gigi countered encouragingly.
“I know it is,” Eloise said with a sympathetic look in Henry’s direction, before turning to Abigail. “Abigail, hon . . . maybe if we could just wait to see how the morning looks, would that be all right?”
“Sure, absolutely. That’s . . . fine with me,” Abigail replied. She turned to look back at Henry.
“Yeah, that’s prob’ly smart,” he agreed, before deciding on the spot to toss cold water on the whole idea. “Might be kind of a long shot, though. I’ve got this cold that’s really been bothering me for the last few days. Y’know how it is.”
Now her cheeks were the ones turning red. “Oh, okay. Stuff’s been goin’ around, I know.”
“I might just kind of hang out here,” he said, hoping to strike the right tone. “But have a really Merry Christmas, okay?”
Abigail nodded. “You too, Henry. I understand,” she said to him quickly, before making sure to also say to Gigi and Eloise, “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Babbitts.”
“You too, dear child, you too,” Gigi said warmly and then winked. “I’ll have this plate cleaned and ready for pickup tomorrow morning, in case Henry’s feeling better.”
“Oh, right . . . and thanks for the fudge, Abigail,” Henry knew to say.
“You’re welcome.” Abigail turned and waved, a fresh dusting of snow settling on her hat and shoulders. Henry waved back, watching her bouncing ponytail for a moment before slowly closing the door.
Gigi sighed and shook her head. “Ohhhh . . . Henry, Henry, Henry, what am I going to do with you?” she said, leaning down to look him straight in the eye. “You had the chance right there in front of you! Abigail came to you, even. What’s the worst that could have happened?”
“Yeah, I know,” was all Henry could think to say, throwing in a shrug to boot.
“All right, well.” Gigi clapped both knees with her hands. “I know your grandfather’s very excited to see you. He tells me he has something of utmost importance he wants to discuss with you upstairs.”
“What is it?” Henry asked, curious at once—as was his mother, apparently.
“Is everything all right, Margaret?” Eloise asked.
“Yes, yes, everything’s fine, dear,” Gigi replied as she nudged Henry toward the stairwell. “He’s very secretive about such things, you know.”
“Remember what we talked about, Henry,” Eloise reminded him with a knowing look.
“What did you talk about?” Gigi asked. Now she looked to be the curious one.
“Nothing important. Just . . .” Eloise looked pointedly toward Henry. “If your grandfather’s tired, let him rest. You can talk with him later when we’re all visiting.”
Gigi sent him a wink. “Take your time. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready, all right?”
THREE
The Old Man
HENRY ALWAYS TOOK his time going up the stairs of his grandparents’ house because of the story the climb told. Not the steps, of course, but the photos on the wall next to them.
They told the story of a lifetime. The life of Henry’s grandfather, to be exact.
The cluttered wall was filled with old and perfectly framed photographs, most of them black-and-white. Not as a creative choice, mind you, but more because when eighty-year-old Carter Babbitt was given his first camera, black-and-white was the only choice. Henry had shaken his head for a week at that little snippet of information.
Each photo captured a chapter of the old man’s amazing life, all the way up to his second-floor study. Each and every image featured the lean and lanky patriarch of the family proudly wearing one of his assorted hats, all of which put a spotlight on his unique personality. A Yankees baseball hat, a Sinatra-style porkpie cap, even the wide-brimmed cowboy hat Carter had purchased twenty years ago somewhere out in eastern Oregon.
The pictures at the bottom of th
e stairs showed him as a young dreamer in Boston, where he was well on his way to a career manufacturing high-quality fabric for clothing.
Whenever Henry asked how it began, his grandfather would simply shrug and say that he’d stumbled into it. Henry knew better, though. His grandfather had worked hard for everything.
A few more steps up were the first photos of Carter alongside a strikingly attractive woman of a likely self-proclaimed five foot nine, her eyes almost forced shut by the joyful smile on her face: Gigi in her younger days—already on her way to becoming a tenured math professor.
By the seventh stair, Henry’s father had joined the picture. He looked to be only two years old, with his entire lifetime—short as it turned out to be—still in front of him.
Then there was the highlight of step eleven: a photo taken in the snow of Colorado. Nathan Babbitt with Eloise Lewis, joyously laughing during a piggyback ride on her future husband’s back, both in their early twenties—Henry years away from becoming anything more than a twinkle in their eyes.
Until the fourteenth stair, right next to his favorite photo ever: Seven-year-old Henry standing next to his father and grandfather in front of the African elephants at the museum. The same exact spot where twelve-year-old Henry had stood, very much alone, just this afternoon. Three generations of Babbitts caught in the kind of sudden, joyful laughter that comes only once in a great while.
Under the elephant’s watchful eye, right, Dad? It’s what you always used to say to me when we were there together.
Henry climbed the last few stairs and discovered the old man’s study door was open, but only by an inch or so. The dim light from within wavered onto the landing.
Carter Babbitt sure did love his candles. Whenever he’d see the bright, fake light emanating from things he called “newfangled,” he’d frown and say that real knowledge was born with real light.
The phone in Henry’s pocket rumbled and he looked down to see the trace of unwavering light his grandfather would most certainly frown upon. He pulled the phone out, just enough to read:
FIVE MINUTES! COME ON DOWN TO HELP WITH DINNER!
Henry sighed and clicked away his mother’s message, then went a step further and turned off the phone entirely, which may have surprised the phone most of all.