by Sandra Kring
“I start at seven. It’s after seven.”
It isn’t.
“Lucy,” Oma whispers. “Don’t.”
“No, Grandpa. You don’t work anymore. Sorry. But maybe you can tell me about the jobs you’ve had when we get inside, okay?”
Grandpa lifts his finger and points to his forehead. “My brain’s broke,” he says, and I can’t tell if it’s a question or a statement, but I say, “Yes.”
I take his hand and help lead him back to the house and into his lift chair. His chest is heaving by the time we get him settled, and his face is contorted into a sob, even though his eyes are dry and no sound comes from him.
Twenty minutes later, Oma has Grandpa Sam reclining in his chair, and she’s standing over him, her opened hands hovering a couple of inches above him while some twangy Japanese music plays from a beat-up boom box. I go to the table and spread out the textbooks I brought from home, but none of them grabs my interest at the moment. “Sam, don’t bat at my hands like that. I’m opening your chakras,” Oma scolds.
With Oma busy clearing Grandpa Sam’s chakras, Milo lost in his books in the study, and my own reading dull as plain toast, I glance at the stairway off the kitchen and bite my lip. Then, without giving myself time to ponder what kind of karma will boomerang back to me for this one, I rip off my shoes and head up the stairs in stocking feet, walking gently because the boards are prone to creaking.
I open the closet door slowly so it won’t creak either, and without moving the stack, I untie the pink cord of yarn that Oma tied around them. I pull out one of the spiral notebooks, closing the door quietly behind me, and take it to Mom’s old bed.
The notebook I grab is blue, and the cover is worn bare in spots where an eraser rubbed the color off. The date—December 21 to January 5, 1985—is written over one erased bar and, above it, Mom’s name. I quickly calculate Mom’s age to be ten, when she was in the fifth grade.
I feel like a window peeker when I open it, yet I don’t stop myself. Not when I see the childish penmanship inside: fat, round letters, with circles for the dots over i’s. Pencil-drawn wreaths and Christmas trees decorate the top of the page.
I run my fingers over the paper, feeling the small creases her pencil chiseled years ago. I feel as though I’ve gone back in time to meet a potential new friend. One who, it just so happens, will be my mother when she’s grown.
I got the only A today on our chapter test in Mr. Thorton’s class. Mitzy got a C+, but she didn’t glare at me like that Trudy Millard did. I hate Trudy. I hope she cuts herself when she trips over those big feet and stabs her buck teeth so far into her bottom lip that doctors can’t dislodge them. Then she’d have to shut her ugly face and stop telling me I’m a cheater when I do better than her and stop calling Mitzy the “Pygmy Pixie.”
Ma told Dad my grade while we were at the table. Dad was shoveling forkfuls of potatoes and gravy dotted with corn kernels into his mouth (it’s so gross the way he mixes his food!), The Timber Times folded in half and held to his side so he could read without dipping the paper in his plate. Ma pointed to my ace paper hanging on the fridge. Dad didn’t look up when he told me to keep it up, get a good education so nobody can keep me down.
I looked over at his work boot butted up against the leg of the table. Dad used to let Clay stand on them when he was little, then he’d take Clay’s hands and walk him around the room. I don’t know why I thought of that when Ma told Dad about my paper, but I did.
I skim the other entries, but there’s nothing in them, it seems, other than more of her good grades, the snotty remarks Trudy made, and that she and Mitzy made s’mores at Mitzy’s house. So I get up and grab another notebook from the stack and leaf through it:
December 19, 1989:
Mom is fourteen.
I hate Trudy Millard! She knows I like Brandon Wills, and that’s exactly why she saw to it that she got his name for our gift exchange. Mrs. Billows said we could exchange names ourselves but that it had to be with someone besides our best friend.
It’s my own fault. Brandon asked me if I wanted to, right after lunch. I wasn’t expecting him to ask me, and while I stood there acting like an idiot because I was in shock, Trudy butted right in and said, “I’ll exchange names with you, Brandon!”
Trudy was wearing a new burgundy shaker sweater. I hated my sweater today—the grass-green one, unstylishly short, with hard, nubby lint balls on it that I picked for the whole bus ride. No matter how much plucking I do, there they are, sticking to my sweater like the boogers Clay rolls and tosses at me.
Mitzy said Brandon only said yes because he knows that Trudy’s rich, so he thought he’d get a better gift, because he certainly didn’t say yes because of Trudy’s good looks, since she’s uglier than a pit bull’s ass—so screw him, in his Gap clothes. That’s how mad Mitzy was at Trudy. Mad enough to swear, even though I’ve only heard her swear a few other times in the whole seven years since we’ve been best friends.
I want a new sweater for Christmas. A shaker sweater, like everybody else is wearing. I was going to tell Ma the minute I got home and even show her what one looks like in my Seventeen magazine. Not that I’d look that great in it. It doesn’t look like I’ll get Mom’s nice boobs. More like Aunt Jeana’s corn-kernel-sized ones—the Niblet variety.
Mom was in the kitchen when we got off the bus, a kettle of ground beef smoking on the stove, cans of kidney beans and whole tomatoes left unopened next to the burner. The kitchen stunk of scorched meat and burnt onions. Ma’s head was down, her forehead pressed against one arm.
I slammed down my schoolbooks, but the thump didn’t wake her. I hurried to the stove to stir the meat and dump in the remainder of the ingredients. Clay went to the cupboard for the peanut butter jar, saw we were out of crackers and bread, and picked up a Pringles can, giving it a shake to see if it was worth the bother of opening the lid.
Ma woke when Clay cracked the cupboard door shut. She sniffed, then jumped to her feet. She thanked me when she saw the chili simmering, her words slurred from sleep as she explained that she only meant to shut her eyes for a minute to try and get rid of her headache.
I glanced into the living room, but of course there was no tree in the stand. Only the box of ornaments I brought downstairs last night. When I asked Clay to go cut that balsam at the edge of the yard, the one the robin’s nest fell from last spring, he asked why. Duh!
Clay held the Pringles tube upside down and poured the last of the crumbs into his mouth, not caring that orange crumbs were sprinkling all over his sweatshirt and the floor. I reminded him that it’s only six days until Christmas, and that’s when he got snotty. He made some rude remark like, “Yeah. We’ll just put up our tree and then we’ll have a regular Hallmark Christmas, won’t we, Ma?” I hate the way Clay talks to Ma!
Ma ignored Clay’s barb, just like she ignores most of Dad’s—except when they are directed at Clay or me. Then she reminded me that Dad said he’d cut a tree tonight. She said this as if Dad’s word is anything close to a promise.
“Like he said he’d build the biggest and best sawmill in the Midwest and make us rich?” Clay said then, reminding me of how I hate him just as much as he hates Dad.
When Dad got home and Ma asked him to get the tree, he balked, and she said nothing. At least not until he took off his work clothes, leaving them in a heap on the bathroom floor, and she went to pick them up. Balsam needles fell out of the cuffs.
“Looks like you cut a tree for somebody,” she said “But obviously not for your kids.” She reminded him that I’ve been asking for a tree for two weeks now.
I told Ma it was okay, making sure I said it loud enough for Dad to hear. Then I leaned in close enough that her hair tickled my nose and pleaded with her not to start a fight over a stupid Christmas tree.
Ma didn’t say anything else. At least not with her voice. But she slammed pans and clinked plates as she emptied the dish drainer and put dishes away. I knew without looking that she had
tears in her eyes when a stack of pans and lids came clattering out of the cupboard. I was in the bathroom when I heard the avalanche, and I stopped my pee midstream so I could hurry to her and plead with her to let it drop.
“Here, you want noise? I’ll give you noise, you stupid bitch!” That’s what Dad shouted from the living room.
I didn’t see Dad pick up the ornament box and throw it, but I heard the thud against the living-room wall and the tinkling of shattering bulbs.
I bolted to the living-room door, just as Ma did. It’s weird how we always do that. Rush to him when he’s upset, even though we should be running in the other direction.
The ornaments were scattered across the floor, and a hole was jabbed through the box where Dad’s boot had gone. The Styrofoam bulb I’d made into the face of Millie, Dad’s dog—even though my kindergarten teacher said we were supposed to make Rudolph, just because I knew Daddy would like a Millie ornament better—was smashed, his brown pom-pom nose gone, leaving only a small, fuzz-covered splotch of dried Elmer’s. I swatted the real Millie out of the way before she scarfed it up in her mouth and picked up the broken ornament Dad looked down at the crushed Millie in my hand, but he didn’t say anything. I doubt he even noticed that it was Millie in the first place.
The fight ended with Mom cleaning up the Christmas mess as she wiped her eyes.
Tonight I don’t care that Trudy Millard is going to get a Christmas gift from Brandon. I hate him anyway, so I’m not going to cry about it. He’s a male, so therefore stupid and not worth my bother. Trudy Millard told Jennifer Logan that she’s going to marry Brandon one day. She can have him! I’m never going to get married. Not even if I decide I want kids someday. I’m just going to go to a sperm bank to get those.
I stop reading for a second and stare at the wallpaper facing me. The house here in Timber Falls is quiet—at least when Grandpa is sleeping and the TV is off—and it’s hard to imagine it filled with the sounds of slamming pans and shouts. It makes me feel sad for Oma and Mom. I keep reading, though hoping that she at least got the sweater she wanted.
December 24, 1989:
We’re having turkey for Christmas dinner. Last year we had one measly, skimpy chicken. The same as we have on ordinary Sundays, baked until the skin is tree-bark dry. Granted, Ma tried to make it look like a turkey by stuffing its tiny ass with dressing and garnishing it with parsley sprigs, but it only made it look more pathetic.
We have a real turkey this year because the paper mill gave all the employees a certificate for a free one. When Ma told Marie about the coupon, she came right over to drive Ma to the IGA to get it, saying that if she waited, they’d all be picked over.
Clay thinks the turkey is an indication that this Christmas will be better than last in all ways and that he’ll get the 22 he asked for so he can shoot clay pigeons with his dorky friends. As for me, I’m not convinced we’ll get good gifts this year, and I’m not even sure it matters, because what I want now, more than anything else, is boobs, a boyfriend, no fighting on Jesus’s birthday, and one of Dad’s toboggans.
Dad has been making and selling toboggans for two years now. Ma says he’s made one for us this year, though. Not one for each of us—yet—but one to share, because he’s had too many orders and because he’s had to put in too many overtime hours at the mill. I hope he got the toboggan finished, but I’m not sure if he has, because on Saturday he was putting on his boots to go out to the shed to work when the phone rang. He looked funny when he said, “Okay, okay, I’ll be right there.” When he hung up, he told Ma he had to go in and not to expect him home until close to morning. That’s how it is when there’s a major breakdown at the mill. Sometimes Dad has to work two days straight, because time is money. Clay was pissed when he first heard that Dad had only one toboggan for us, saying he had all year to make us each one. I don’t mind, though Clay and I can take turns using it.
Dad’s in his workshop tonight. I can see the lit bare bulb through the shed window and his dark head bent over his workbench. I suppose he’s rubbing the bottom with beeswax, which is the last thing he does. Liz Gardiner got one of Dad’s toboggans for her birthday last month, and she said he told her that if you keep it coated on the bottom with beeswax, it will glide down the hill all the faster.
Just about a mile down the road, there’s a hill behind Henry and Nordine Bickett’s house. A tall hill, perfectly sloped, that begins at a clump of red pine we can shimmy between, then nothing but hill that empties into a field beneath it Clay says we’ll be able to sail like the wind down that thing, and I told Mitzy that we should have a sledding party there and invite everyone we like—which doesn’t mean Trudy Millard! Clay will crash it, of course, along with his creepy friends, and they’ll be smashing into everybody and talking dirty, because they’re all dumb enough to think that that kind of behavior impresses girls.
As soon as we open gifts on Christmas Eve and that toboggan is in my hands, I’m going to call Mitzy and tell her I got it Mitzy doesn’t open gifts until Christmas morning, and she asked for a sled, so then all we’ll have to do is wait for morning to know if our party’s on.
Clay must have decided that one toboggan is better than none, because he stopped being pissy about it and decided that we’re going sledding as soon as the sun comes up on Christmas morning—just me and him (weird, because the only thing we ever do together anymore is fight). Clay has his boots propped by the door, an extra pair of socks he swiped from Dad’s drawer stuffed inside and waiting. I’m going to wear the boots Clay outgrew last year, which are still too big for me, but with extra socks they’ll do. Clay says we’ll sled until dinner is ready—which should take considerably longer, since it’s turkey this year, not a 3.5-pound chicken—come home to eat, then sled until dark.
I have to go. I’m going to help Mom clean.
I turn the page and glance at the date of the next entry: Christmas Eve night. I want to read about them sledding, but before I can turn the page, Oma calls to me. I quickly tuck the notebook under the bed with the next entry I want to read facing up (because the pages aren’t numbered, so even with my sharp photographic memory, I might have a bit of trouble finding it quickly), then I hurry to the top of the stairs and call back, “I’m up here!”
Oma is at the bottom of the stairs, wiping her hands on a towel—hands that are red from hot water and scrubbing, because she had to cleanse them well to remove the “disease” that came from Grandpa’s Sam’s blocked chakras. “Oma? Since Mom said she wants to sleep in the guest room now, can I sleep in Mom’s old room? I like that room, and you snore.”
“Who says I snore?”
“I do.”
“We’ll see,” she says. “But you’d best come down here and get to work, young lady. Your mother will be upset with us both if you don’t do your schoolwork while she’s out.”
At the bottom of the stairs, the bathroom door is shut. Feynman is sitting on his haunches watching it, so I know Milo is in there. “I’m going to use the bathroom up here first,” I say, “since Milo is using that one.” Milo, the idiot that he is, yells, “I’ll be out in a second,” from behind the door, and knowing Milo, he probably means literally one second.
“I can’t wait,” I yell, and hurry off. I lean out of the bathroom doorway and listen. I don’t hear anything, so I creep to the end of the hall to see if Oma’s still at the bottom of the stairs. She’s not. Then I hurry back to Mom’s room and pull the notebook out from under my bed.
Christmas Eve night:
Christmas Eve dinner was a joke. One big, fat, stupid joke! I thought it would be different this year—or I hoped it would be—but it wasn’t.
Ma was at least semi-happy when I got downstairs this morning. She was smiling as she measured flour into a bowl so we could make gingerbread cookies, like we always do on Christmas Eve.
Ma got teary-eyed when she told me how she wanted to get Clay and me nice gifts this year. She knows how disappointed Clay is going to be when he doesn’t
get the gun he asked for. I suggested that maybe Dad could give Clay one of his, but all Ma said was, “Well, you know how your father is.” And, yes, I know how he is. How Ma has to beg for every dime he hands her, and every time she does, he asks her where the last ten or twenty bucks he gave her went. It upsets me when he does that, but I know he’s scared that we’ll run out of money or that he’ll never have his dream. It’s only fear that makes him say those things.
Dad was a boy during the Depression, and he always tells us that we don’t know how it is when you have to go to bed hungry because there’s no money for food. I think that’s why he hoards his money like he does. And besides that, Dad wants to save every dime he makes because he’s got his heart set on building a lumber mill. In a year or two, if First National will give him the loan (which he thinks they will, considering he’s got forty acres for collateral, and he’ll have a hefty down payment saved), he’s going to build the biggest and best sawmill in the Midwest. Dad always says that then we’ll have so much much money we’ll be swimming in it, and the Millards will be kissing the asses they kicked I smile every time Dad says something like that, because he looks happy then. And we’ll all be happy when Dad gets happy.
I wanted to tell Mom that a lot of gifts don’t matter, so she wouldn’t be upset with Dad. I wanted to tell her that after Christmas vacation, when Mrs. Paulson asked us all to stand up and recite what gifts we got for Christmas, I’d make up my gifts, like I do every year, so that none of us has to be embarrassed. But I didn’t say that to her, because I knew it would only make her sadder. What I did tell her, though, was that if I got my toboggan, and if Dad carved her something special out of wood, those gifts would be more than enough.
We had fun making the cookies, contorting the cutout shapes to look like people we know. Mom giggled ’til she almost fell off her chair when I made Aunt Jeana, stretching the cookie’s body ’til it was as narrow as a pencil and then taking a paring knife and gouging out two deep-set eyes so close together that she looked like a Cyclops. Mom told me it looked just like her. She giggled when she told me I was terrible.