by Anna Quinn
Fiona slams her glass on the coffee table. “Mommy! What time is it?”
“Fiona! Be careful!” Nora glances at the clock over the fireplace. “It’s five minutes to midnight.”
Fiona, her eyes wide and bright, turns to Stephen. “When it’s midnight, everyone opens a present.”
“How wonderful,” he says with a grin. He picks up a sugar cookie from the plate, breaks it in half, and offers the other half to James.
Nora can understand why James is crazy about this man. She thinks about how things can change on a dime, how last Christmas, James sat in that exact place on the couch, his heart aching with loneliness. She remembers too how later that night, she and James had been out on the sidewalk, gazing in the window at the glittering tree, she’d been so comforted to have him there, but then he’d said, “I think we should search for Dad.”
They’d had an argument then. He hadn’t understood her, hadn’t understood how much their father’s disappearance had made her doubt herself. “My God,” she’d whispered to him, even though they were alone on the street, “Who would leave their children and never come back? Especially when their mother had just died! Who would do that? And who lets his wife beat the crap out of their child?”
But James was too angry to hear her. “God, you’re as cold as Mom! You know how the war fucked him up. Can’t you ever just cut him some slack?” And then, out of nowhere, “Jesus, do you and Paul ever touch?” She’d walked away from him then, heard him yell, “Screw it! I’ll look for Dad myself!”
James had gone home the next day, a week early. He’d waited until all the presents had been opened, waited until after Christmas dinner, for Fiona’s sake. Nora and James had acted as if things were okay, they’d arranged their words carefully, sorted and organized their thoughts before speaking. And when he’d said goodbye, he’d kissed her, thanked her, and she’d hugged him back, but up close to him, she’d seen his eyelids, puffed and red, like he’d been crying.
And then, on New Year’s Eve, he’d called her. “I’m not going to look for the bastard,” he’d said. “You’re right. Who the hell would do those things?”
In the distance the cathedral chimes midnight. “It’s time!” Fiona shouts, her face shining, as she rushes to the tree. She goes straight to a large box wrapped in bright red paper, marked “The Brown Family” in purple letters. She brings the gift over to Nora and sets it in her lap.
“It’s for all of us! But who’s it from?” Fiona asks.
“It doesn’t say,” Nora says, turning the box around.
“Delivered yesterday,” says Paul. “It was wrapped in brown paper, so I figured I could unwrap it.”
“Was there a postmark?” Nora asks.
“Didn’t think of looking.”
“Did you keep the paper?”
“Jesus, Nora. No, I threw it the fire last night. What’s the big deal? Probably just from a neighbor or someone.”
“It’s a Christmas mystery! Maybe it’s from Santa!” Fiona says, nervously.
“Go ahead and open it!” James says.
Fiona takes the box from Nora, kneels on the rug, and rips off the red paper. Inside, there’s a white box filled with four smaller boxes, side by side, wrapped in the same kind of red paper. Each is tied with a purple ribbon.
“They have names on them, and there’s one for each of us!” Fiona exclaims, reading each name aloud, names her mother had taught her to read just recently—but in the next moment she is dismayed. “Except there isn’t one for Stephen,” she says, shaking her head.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” James says, “I’ll share mine with him.” He takes Stephen’s hand and kisses it.
“Okay,” Fiona says, soothed. “Then, you two open yours first!” She places a rectangular package on James’ lap. “I think it’s a book,” she says, snuggling next to him. Nora can see she is enjoying every minute.
“And you are right,” James says, lifting a large book out of the paper.
“It’s a Keith Haring book,” Stephen says, sliding his arm around James.
“Who’s Keith Haring?” Fiona asks as James turns the pages of the book slowly.
“He’s an amazing artist, sweetie,” James says. “We went to the same university in New York. I only met him a few times before he died.”
“Probably of AIDS,” Paul says, pouring himself another glass of wine.
“What’s aids, Daddy?” Fiona asks.
“You know what?” Nora says. “Let’s open another present. Let’s see what our mystery giver gave to you.”
“Okay!” Fiona says, jumping up. “But you know what?”
“What?” Nora says, handing Fiona her gift.
Fiona’s eyes are wide and excited. “The mystery person must know James is an artist.”
“Hmmm,” Nora says, thinking Stephen might be the secret Santa.
Fiona pulls off the purple ribbon and unwraps the red paper.
“A princess wand!”
“Goes with your tiara,” James says, smiling.
Fiona twirls over to Paul and taps him lightly on the head with the wand. “Daddy, you gave me the tiara. Are you the mystery giver?”
“I am not, but you will always be my little princess.”
Paul’s spoken these words, “my little princess,” to Fiona before, and Nora had heard them as an endearment, but in this moment the words send a shudder through her body which startles her.
Fiona skips back over to the two small boxes left and picks up Paul’s gift. “Here, Daddy, it’s your turn!” She holds it out to him but then wrinkles her nose. “I smell something,” she says, sniffing the box. “This smells like dirt!”
“Hey, whose present is this?” Paul asks, taking the gift from her and unwrapping it. He lifts out a small cedar box. He holds it up so they can see the picture of a handsome military leader wearing an elaborate royal blue uniform, a triumphant expression on his face.
“What’s it say, Daddy? Who is that funny man?”
“That, my darling, is Simon Bolivar, the great Venezuelan warrior.” He lifts the lid. “And these are cigars from Cuba. Our mystery giver has excellent taste.” He selects one, rolls it between his fingers and runs the length of it under his nose, inhaling deeply.
“Smoking is bad for you!” she says, scrunching up her face and touching her wand to the cigar he’s holding. “I’m going to turn that cigar into a … a …”
“Hey, hey, what about your mom’s gift?” James says in a voice that’s a bit tipsy.
“Yes! Now it’s Mommy’s turn!” She runs over to the last gift and brings it to Nora. “Here, Mommy, this feels like a book too!”
Nora looks at the perfectly wrapped gift on her lap. She opens the wrapping slowly, exposing a child’s picture book: The Crabapple Fairy. Her face heats up, and panic seizes her. It’s the book her father read to her every night before bed. She nearly faints.
“Mommy? Do you like it?”
“It, it’s lovely,” Nora says. It’s only a book, she tells herself, and she takes a deep breath, but slowly, so no one will notice she must calm herself. She stands up and places the book on the coffee table. “Fiona, I think I’m going to read it later. I’m awfully tired right now, and you should be in bed. You don’t want to interrupt Santa’s plans, do you? Can you whisk us upstairs with that magic wand of yours?”
“Will you read it to me tomorrow?” Fiona asks, twirling around, still enjoying her wand.
“Of course,” Nora says, though of course she will not.
* * *
“She’s a sweetheart,” James says later, when they are alone in the kitchen. He is pouring more whiskey into his coffee. “Want it?” he asks her, holding the mug out to her. She takes it, sips a little. Heat rushes down her throat.
“You okay, Sis? You seem tense.” He pours coffee into another mug, on
e that says best dad ever, and adds a large gulp of whiskey.
“Was the fairy book your idea?” she says. “Did you tell Stephen to buy this for me?”
“What? Stephen didn’t send that box!”
She studies him carefully. “The gifts are from Dad,” she says then, in a small, thin voice.
James is silent. Holding his coffee mug with two hands.
“Do you know where he is?” she asks, fear spreading through her veins.
“Jesus, Nora, if I did, don’t you think I’d have told you?” He takes a sip of his Irish coffee, looks at her for a long moment, and says, “You know, Nora, maybe he just wants to make amends.”
She walks into the living room then picks up the fairy book from the coffee table, opens the fireplace screen, and throws the book into the flames. Pieces of fairy wings burn and flutter up the chimney.
CHAPTER NINE
1965
Nora, still in her nightgown, runs barefoot down the stairs and into the kitchen where her mother cracks eggs into a cast-iron skillet. “Mommy!” Nora shouts. “The dead tree in our front yard grew flowers!”
“The tree wasn’t dead,” her mother says, lifting the edges of the eggs with the spatula. “It’s a crabapple tree, sure ’n’ that’s how they look.”
“Crabapples!” Nora says, happily. Just the word alone, crabapples, the way it pops and bounces in her mouth, makes her giggle. “Mommy, why are they called crabapples? Are they crabby and grouchy and mean?” she asks, laughing.
“Nora,” her mother says, “will ye stop with the questions and set the table?”
“But, Mommy, can you eat them?”
Her mother turns to her, holding the spatula in the air. “Nora! No, you can’t eat them. Now set the table!”
Nora is seven, and they’ve just moved from Chicago’s south side to its outskirts because now her father is the vice president of the Bank of Chicago and because the colored people made her mother hysterical, made her shriek, “I won’t be raising me children around niggers,” made her threaten to take Nora and James back to Ireland for good. And though Nora didn’t understand her mother’s troubles, more than anything, she secretly hoped they would go back to Ireland. They traveled there only one month a year, and she missed her grandfather tremendously—missed their walks through bogs that smelled of dung and clover, missed fishing for brown trout and summer salmon, missed the times when he’d play jigs and reels on his accordion, his rough hands flying over the tiny buttons making her forget she was ever afraid of anything.
But her mother didn’t take them away to Ireland—instead her husband bought her a house on five acres of land.
“Hey, what’s all this about crabapples?” her father asks, coming into the kitchen, wearing a starched white shirt, green paisley tie, navy suit pants, and the black shoes Nora had polished the night before. He swoops her up and sets her on the counter so she can look directly into his eyes, which makes her feel like they are king and queen of their own island.
“They never grow up,” Nora says, matter-of-factly, “and they grow out of ugly dead trees, and you can’t even eat them.”
She wraps her arms and bare legs around her father and examines his face to see if he is just as surprised about crabapples. She guesses not, as he begins to tickle her. “And you know what else?” he asks.
“What?” Nora says giggling, knowing for sure nobody is smarter than her father.
“There’s a song about crabapples.” And he sings then, in his church voice, a voice so big Nora can feel it inside herself. “Crabapples, crabapples, out in the wood, little and bitter, yet little and good!”
He lifts Nora up and twirls her around the kitchen, singing, “The apples in orchards, so rosy and fine, are children of wild little apples like mine.”
But then, her mother’s voice. “Karl! For God’s sake, stop!” Maeve doesn’t like it when Karl acts silly, which seems enormously unfair to Nora. Her mother never uses the Lord’s name in vain when her father plays with James.
Karl sets Nora on her chair, which is right next to his, straightens his tie, and sits down at the table.
“Is that the whole song, Daddy?” Nora asks, hugging her knees to her chest.
Her father winks and puts a finger to his lips to quiet her so they won’t further aggravate her mother. He whispers, “One little apple I’ll catch for myself. I’ll stew it and strain it to store on a shelf.”
“James, breakfast!” her mother shouts, carrying the pan of eggs to the table. James clamors down the stairs and into his chair. He has two plastic army men, one in each fist, and begins making them fight each other on his plate, shouting, “Pow! Pow! Pow!” until one of the soldiers falls dead into his eggs, and James giggles so hard he falls off his chair.
“Nora, put your knees down,” her mother says then and pushes an egg roughly onto Nora’s plate with the spatula, breaking the yolk, even though she knows how much Nora likes to poke the egg open herself and let the yellow out slow, slow, slow onto her toast.
Nora’s heart bangs with anger, and she lets her mother know it by humming the new song and not putting her knees down either.
“Put your knees down,” her mother says, her voice quiet, the kind of quiet that makes James go quiet, the kind of quiet that means she will knock you into the furniture as soon as Daddy goes to work, but Nora keeps humming, jabbing the deflated egg over and over with her fork.
“Nora,” her father says softly, buttering his toast.
“Is that it?” Maeve asks, glaring at him. “She disobeys me and all you can say is ‘Nora’?”
Sometimes Nora wishes her father would raise his voice to her mother, take charge, but mostly he just takes Nora aside before he leaves for work and says, “Now, Nora, be a good girl, and don’t get your mother’s Irish up today.”
He’d told her once that her mother couldn’t help it when her Irish came up because a long time ago the Irish people were treated meanly, and since then, most Irish children, especially the red-headed ones (like her mother) were born with a temper. Nora worries she herself has a temper even though her hair is blonde because once when she was angry she’d thrown her doll across the room at the dresser and didn’t even try to fix her for days. She’d felt so bad about this she told Father Donahue at confession the following Saturday. The priest said throwing a doll was only a venial sin, not a mortal sin, because of the doll not being a real person. He told her to say ten Hail Marys as penance and to not do it again because a person who frequently indulges in venial sin is likely to collapse into mortal sin. When she’d asked the priest what “collapse into mortal sin” meant, he’d told her it was one step closer to ending up in hell.
From that day on, Nora worried so much about collapsing into mortal sin that when she felt even a hint of her Irish rising up, she hid in her closet until the temper went away.
But now Maeve’s Irish is up, and she yanks Nora by her arm and throws her away from the table. “Get outside. Now.”
Nora runs to the screen door, kicks it open, and lets it bang LOUD behind her. She runs to the crabapple tree and wraps her arms around it, tears streaming down her cheeks.
And now, the sound of the screen door banging again, and she watches her father trudge with his briefcase to the garage. He is not going to look for her. He gets into his car, starts the engine, and backs up slowly. When he is next to her, he rolls the window down and calls, “Princess, it’ll be okay. I promise.”
She runs to him then, stands on her bare tip-toes and grips the bottom of the window frame with her small hands. The cold steel of the car presses through her cotton nightgown.
“Daddy, please don’t go. Please don’t leave me. Please, Daddy.”
“I’ll be home soon, princess,” he says, and he removes her fingertips from the window frame, puts his foot on the gas, and backs out of the driveway, leaving her there.
/> CHAPTER TEN
January 24, 1997
“It sounds like you were close to your father,” David says, taking off his glasses and cleaning them with the hem of his brown cardigan. It’s been a month since she’s seen him. She’d canceled two appointments, hadn’t felt she needed his help, hadn’t heard voices, hadn’t seen any floating faces. Even after throwing The Crabapple Fairy in the fire and realizing her father was still out there somewhere, she’d been okay, managed just fine. But lately, the anxiety was creeping back in, stealing her sleep, making her hard to get along with, making her pretend things—smiling while Fiona poured Cheerios and milk into her bowl, spilling half of it all over the table, and biting her tongue when she watched the evening news with Paul, him flipping channels and cursing at Clinton’s inauguration and Albright’s confirmation as first female secretary of state.
And so here she is. She’s told David about the fairy book and the crabapple tree. She stares at the window even though the blinds are shut, the flattened metal slats thick with dust. Yes, she had been close to her father. For years she’d thought of nothing but him, but then he had deserted her, left her suspicious and suspended between truth and reality. The angry fist of her heart begins to pummel her chest. He is twenty-seven years too late.
“Tell me what you remember.”
Her father’s hands on the wires of his cello. Music in their house on Sundays. Brahms and Beethoven and Mozart through the walls and ceiling. And sometimes his mouth on a harmonica. Once, a buddy of his from the war, Clem, came to visit. At dinner Clem told them how her father had played the harmonica in the barracks at night. “Soothed us low and smooth to sleep,” Clem said. “Low and smooth like cream.” Her father’s blue eyes had looked at his pork chops then, shy and quiet.
She pulls the raven pillow onto her lap, folds her hands on the raven’s wings. “He was a good businessman, I think. A vice president at Bank of Chicago.” She finds the zipper on the pillow and slowly zips and unzips it. Zip. Unzip. Zip. “And he had lots of friends. They’d come over on Saturday nights and drink scotch and play poker at the kitchen table once James and I were in bed.” Zip. Unzip. Zip. “He told us once how he was an only child, how lonely he was, how his parents died young in a car accident and he went to Marymount Military Academy in Tacoma because an uncle recognized his musical talent and Marymount had one of the finest music programs.”