by Pam McGaffin
They’re all sitting in the den watching a Bob Hope Christmas special on TV. I sit next to Dena and compliment her on her earrings—dangly red balls, like Christmas ornaments, to match her fuzzy red sweater and red plaid mini-skirt. The look is subdued for her.
I’m not sure why they’re watching some old guy swinging a golf club and telling a bunch of jokes they can’t possibly understand, but I’ve watched Gregory and Jonathan watch one Road Runner cartoon after another, so I know they’re not terribly picky.
Then I hear “Gulf of Tonkin” and perk up. I wonder if Sam is watching this. I bet a lot of families are, hoping to spot their men in the crowd. They seem hungry, those soldiers—not for food, though maybe that too, but for attention, any attention. Bob Hope makes them go crazy, hanging from poles and cramming together on hot hillsides with no shade. I feel sorry for them. Most of them appear so young and eager, you can’t help but wonder if they really know what they’re over there for.
When Bob Hope calls up on stage a sixty-nine-year-old Navy Chief, I think it must be a joke. But then the man says that he signed up to stop Communism, and I realize he’s real.
“What’s Com-moo-zizzm?” Gregory asks.
“It’s when you turn red,” Jonathan says, trying to push his brother off the beanbag chair they’re sharing. Gregory pushes him back, starting a shoving match.
“Knock it off, you two,” Dena says. “Communism is what they have in China and Russia, and we’re fighting it in Vietnam because we don’t want it to spread.”
Danielle rocks forward on the couch. “Oh, so it’s a disease?”
“Um, not exactly.” Dena locks eyes with me and tilts her head toward the door, motioning for me to come with her. “We’ll leave you brain surgeons to your program.”
She leads me back to the spare bedroom, where our grandparents have shut away their toy poodle, Lassie, jokingly named after the beautiful collie on the TV program. Lassie is being confined because she jumps on people. She jumps on us, threatening my stockings, but I don’t care. I pity her being all alone with the sounds of celebration just out of her reach. She wiggles over on her side so Dena can scratch her skinny belly.
“I’m going north to Alaska!” Dena says. Then, without warning, she starts singing, “No-r-r-th to A-las-ska,” and I don’t know if she’s serious or pulling my leg.
“What?”
“It’s only for the summer. I’m going to work in a cannery. Dad said I could after graduation. It’s a great way to earn money for college, and it’s a lot safer than fishing. Maybe you can come too.”
Her suggestion is so ridiculous I let out a loud snort. “Mom won’t even let me work at a cannery in town. She thinks it’s ‘lowly,’ her word.”
“Of course it’s lowly! And boring and slimy and gross! But it’s money, and it’s just for one summer. And I would be there to keep an eye on you.”
“Then for sure Mom wouldn’t let me.”
Dena pretend pouts. “You know, if we were boys, we’d be out there fishing already. Dad started fishing with Grandpa when he was sixteen. I bet Uncle Steve started about the same age. Dougie’s already talking about it.”
“Somehow, I can’t—”
“I know, my brother. Maybe he can talk the fish to death.”
We both crack up, startling Lassie out of her belly-scratch bliss.
“I’m kind of glad I’m not a boy,” I say. “I’d be afraid to go out after what happened.”
“Yeah, can’t say I blame you.”
“But I’d like to go to Alaska,” I add, surprising myself. “I want to find out why Mom thinks Dad may still be alive.”
I hadn’t meant to tell Dena. Why shatter her good memories of Dad with something that may or may not be true? But it slipped out, and now her face is frozen in shock.
“What … did you just say?”
Now I have to explain. I take in a deep breath and tell her about the conversation in the kitchen, including Mom saying that there’s something I don’t know about Dad.
“Hmm, she’s not really saying that she thinks he’s alive, only that she can’t be sure that he’s dead. There’s a difference.” Dena stares absently at Lassie, who’s rolled over on her back again, inviting more belly rubs. “What do you think happened?”
“I don’t know. If he’s alive, he’s a jerk for not calling us. On the other hand, I don’t want him to be dead, but he probably is.”
“I think you’re right, sad as that is. I just can’t imagine Uncle Steve leaving you all.”
“I know. Me neither, unless it has to do with this thing I don’t know about him. What do you suppose it is?”
Dena shrugs. “Beats me.”
“See, that’s what I need to find out, because whatever it is, it’s shocking and bad and super-secret. I can tell by the way Mom’s acting.”
“Are you sure you want to know?”
I meet her eyes. “Yes.”
“Well, you could talk to my dad. He’s not going to snitch on his own brother, but you may pick up some clues.”
“You really think Uncle Pat will talk to me?”
“Sure, why not?” She must sense my nervousness because she adds, “Do you want me to ask him for you?”
“Would you? Really? God, that would be great.”
I didn’t mean that Dena should ask him right now, but she says, “Just hold on,” like it’s an emergency and rushes out of the room. After a few minutes, I hear the doorknob turn and she’s back, beckoning me to get up and join her. She deposits me in Grandma’s sewing room, which at the moment is cluttered with boxes and ribbons and rolls of wrapping paper, and disappears back out the door.
I stare at Grandma’s sewing machine. I’ve always been fascinated by it. It’s an ancient one with a back-and-forth pedal you have to pump with your feet. At first, I think I’m alone in the room, but then I hear a shuffle and Uncle Pat backs out of a closet cradling a big, leather-bound book. He wipes the dust off the top with his arm.
“It’s been a while since I’ve looked at this,” he says, more to himself than to me. “So, you want to know more about your Dad. That’s understandable.” He sits in the chair next to the sewing machine and pulls up another chair next to him. The leather-bound book is a photo album.
“I was jealous of him.” His tone is matter-of-fact. “He got the looks, the smarts … the girls.” I expect him to go through the pages of photos starting at the beginning, but Uncle Pat opens the book in the middle, and I’m startled by a picture of my dad as a teenager, dressed in a tuxedo and standing next to a pretty, dark-haired girl who is obviously not my mother. They wear gold paper crowns.
“Prom King and Queen,” he says.
“Who’s he with?”
“Julie Thompson. Made head cheerleader as a junior. All the guys had crushes on her, but guess who won out?” He gives me a sad grin. “Your dad sure got the ladies. Oh, and in case you were wondering, he didn’t meet your mother until after high school. Many hearts were broken when your father married your mother. Let’s see …” He turns a couple of pages. “Ah. There she is.” He tilts the book toward me so I can see the photo better. “Have you ever seen a more beautiful couple?”
I don’t say anything, but the truth is, I haven’t. Mom and Dad are standing in the living room of this house, dressed like they’re about to go out dancing or to a fancy dinner. Back then, Mom had a fuller face framed by long, extravagant ringlets of honey-colored hair. A green satin gown sets off her coloring.
“That’s the dress!” There’s no mistaking it. It’s the dress Mom threw on the pile of clothes to give away because she would “never wear it again.”
“What?” Uncle Pat says, but he’s already flipping backwards through the book, showing me photos of Dad as a younger teenager. There he is at the wheel of Grandpa’s boat, one leg cocked in front of the other like his version of how a boat captain should stand.
“That was taken right before Steve’s first trip to Alaska. Look at that grin. Al
ready acting like he’s the boss.” Pat chuckles. “Those were some heady times, those first few seasons in Alaska with Dad. Start out a boy, come back a man.”
“Dad said it’s like the Wild West.”
“Yeah, in some ways it is. I can tell you this much, you either love it or you hate it. Your dad loved it.”
“More than Annisport?”
“Well, now, I wouldn’t say that. We were always more than happy to get home.”
Pat flips back through the book to a picture of Dad as a boy, standing next to a king salmon that’s as big as he is. He’s staring up at its hooked mouth, his own mouth hanging open. There are pictures of Christmases past, as well as birthday parties; in each one, Dad, the cutest and most photogenic, is always the focus. I begin to see what Uncle Pat means about him getting the best of everything.
Grandma Grace and Grandpa Bill are almost unrecognizable as the young parents of three boys. Grandpa’s potbelly is missing and Grandma, holding baby Alex in her arms, sits up slim and straight. Her smooth face could even be described as pretty.
We’ve gotten to the front of the book, and I ask Uncle Pat if we can look at the pictures in the back half. He tells me those are mostly of Uncle Alex—that he and Dad had moved out by then—but agrees. As he quickly goes through the pages, I think I recognize Mom and Dad in another photo. I reach out my hand to stop Uncle Pat’s turning and make him go back. Mom and Dad are sitting on our couch. She’s holding me and I’m crying.
“Not a very nice picture of me,” I say.
Uncle Pat’s laugh sounds odd, forced. “No.” He turns the last page and closes the book. “Now, maybe you can tell me something.” He runs his fingers over the embossed “Memories” on the cover of the photo album. “I was just talking to your mother. She’s pretty dead set against a funeral. Do you know why?”
His question takes me by surprise. I want to say, “Because she thinks he might be alive,” but something holds me back, so I just say, “Um.”
“Dead set was a poor choice of words. I’m sorry. Why’s your mom so against a funeral?”
“Ida?” Mom calls outside the door, relieving me of the need to answer.
My uncle coughs. “In here.”
She walks in giving him the stink-eye, like maybe she overheard our conversation. Her open mouth twitches. I know that twitch.
“Ida and I were looking at some old photos,” he says. I wonder if he’s trying to sound casual, because Mom’s mad as all get-out.
“Dinner is ready,” she says coldly. As we’re walking to the dining room, I hear pieces of their hushed argument behind me. Uncle Pat apologizes, though for what, I’m not sure.
WITHOUT Dad, I expected Christmas to be a half-hearted affair, but the size of this holiday spread tells me otherwise. I don’t remember there ever being so much food on the table. The women—particularly Grandma Grace, who did most of the cooking—seem to be trying extra hard to fill the void. There are the usual dishes of spaghetti, sauerkraut, and pork shank, but more of it, as well as mountains of mashed potatoes, yams, string beans, and Jell-O salad. Even with the lot of us, I don’t know how we can possibly eat it all. Then Grandma Grace, skin shiny with sweat, places the largest turkey I’ve ever seen on the table. We ooh and aah and clap. Uncle Pat, who has the job of carving, says once the hubbub dies down, “Good Lord! Should we invite the neighbors?” Everybody laughs and Grandma Grace beams, flashing the crowned tooth that has been a source of fascination for each new grandkid to come along. We call it her Gold Fang.
In this merry chorus, Mom’s scowl stands out like a sour note. She’s not even trying to hide it. For once I’m happy to be at the kids’ table, where I can pretend not to notice the building storm. I only wish Dena could be here with me, but she’s finally graduated to the adult table. Poor Dena.
When everyone is settled, Grandpa Bill says grace.
“Dear Father, we thank you for this day, this feast, and everyone at this table. We thank you for the gift of your Son and for family and friends and the love and comfort they bring. Although we mourn the loss of Steve, our dear son, brother, husband, and father, we know that he is with You in heaven. We ask that you help those who struggle to accept his passing.”
I steal another glance at Mom and am startled when our eyes meet. Hers are narrowed into slits. Even from here, I can see the muscles in her jaw tightening. I can’t watch. Please, I tell her with my thoughts, don’t make a scene. You can explode all you want when we get home.
“Heavenly Father, help us treasure each other this day and all the days to come. In Jesus’s name, amen.”
A shuffling sound amid the murmurs of “amen” draws my attention back to Mom. She’s standing, hands braced against the edge of the table. Oh, oh, here it comes. Guess she didn’t get my message.
“You expect me to say amen to that? What’s wrong with you people?”
“Now, Christine,” Grandma says. “We—”
She whips around to face her mother-in-law. “You planned this. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing. You get us over here and then you start in.”
“Christine.” Uncle Pat holds his palms out like stop signs.
“I’m not finished!” Mom’s cheeks are flushed. “I know where I stand with this family. I know you tried to talk Steve out of marrying me.” My relatives are stunned silent. Uncle Pat slowly shakes his head. Aunt Janet has her hand over her mouth. Across from me at the kids’ table, Danielle’s mouth hangs open, while Dougie purses his thick lips together, suppressing a giggle.
“Nineteen years,” Mom is saying. “That’s how long I’ve been pretending to be a part of this family. Well, no more! You can go ahead and have your funeral. I won’t be attending!” She throws her red Christmas napkin on the table. Her chair scrapes the floor as she backs away. She walks over to me. “Ida, we’re leaving.” She takes me under the arm.
“I don’t want to go.” Her hand drops. I replant myself firmly on my folding chair.
Mom exhales loudly. In the stunned silence, every sound of her exit is amplified—the clomp of her heels, the creak of the closet door, the clang of the hanger as she yanks her coat free. I dare to glance over as she opens the front door. Her coat is draped over her arm, and her slip peeks out beneath the hem of her dress. It’s not too late. I could get up, run after her. But I can’t move. The door closes behind her, and I hear someone at the adult table, I’m not sure who, mutter, “Merry Christmas.”
CHAPTER 11
Compass
A navigational tool that shows the direction of the vessel in relation to the Earth’s poles
Uncle Pat gives me a ride home. We pass houses lined with lights of every color, twinkling and blinking shrubs and snowmen and reindeer, nativities glowing golden under bright white stars of Bethlehem. It’s beautiful, and I want it all to go away.
“Christmas can be a cruel holiday,” Uncle Pat says, reading my silence. “You’re expected to be merry, but …”
I nod. He doesn’t have to finish his sentence.
“Well, today … I know it was hard to watch, but she probably needed to get all that off her chest. I think it’s been bubbling for some time.”
“Nineteen years.”
“Yes, well,” he says, slowing down to take a turn, “I think this had to happen. Unfortunate that it had to be on Christmas, but … suffice to say, your mom’s very fragile right now.”
Fragile makes me think of a china figurine. Should I be careful with Mom because she’s easily breakable? Or because she could explode at any moment? She seems to me both fragile and dangerous, and it kind of irks me that I have to wear the kid gloves when she’s the one who spoiled Christmas. Though, who am I kidding? Christmas was already doomed.
“You can and will get through this,” Uncle Pat continues. “Both of you will. Because you’re strong, and maybe a bit stubborn, eh?” He reaches over and gives my arm a bump with his fist. “In some ways, you remind me of my brother.”
He pulls up in f
ront of our house. The porch light is on. So is my mother’s light upstairs. Pat reaches behind his seat and pulls out the shopping bag with our presents as I get out of the car. Mom’s are still wrapped. As he leans over the seat and hands me the bag, he looks at our house. “You’ll be fine,” he says. “But know that our home is always open to you if you need it, okay?”
“Okay. Thanks.”
I shut the door and watch him drive away before opening the gate to our walkway. The front door is unlocked, which I think must be a good sign. Mom isn’t so mad at me that she’ll make me dig around for the hidden key. I deposit the bag of gifts next to our fake tree and head upstairs, past the light peeking around Mom’s closed door, and into my room. I’ll talk to her tomorrow, after we’ve both had a night to sleep on things.
WHEN my nightstand clock says noon, I force myself out of bed, throw on a robe, and go downstairs. Time to face the music, as Dad would say. But the house is quiet—too quiet. I check out front. The car is still in the driveway. Maybe she took a walk. I go back upstairs. The door to her bedroom is still closed, and, though it’s daytime, I can see the faint yellow light of a lamp leaking around the seams. She’s always up before me. Do I check on her? Uncle Pat would say I should, but I don’t want to. At some point, she has to come down to eat. I’ll talk with her then.
I go back downstairs, pour myself a bowl of cereal, and turn on the TV. Then I sort through my presents: a book of Bible verses from Grandma, fuzzy pink slippers from my younger cousins, a sweater-set from my aunts and uncles that looks way too big, and a manicure set from Dena with three different colors of nail polish: pearl pink, fire-engine red, and tropical coral. I open the box, take out the pearl pink, and prepare to do my nails while I watch TV.