“You’re up,” he said with more sarcasm than I’d expected.
“Yep.” I ignored his tease. “You’re home,” I added as a rejoinder.
“Got out early today.”
I nodded in understanding. Coming closer, I looked over his shoulder at the papers on the table. “What are you doing?”
He rolled his eyes and turned back to the papers in front of him. “A book report,” he said.
“I always hated doing book reports, too. What’s it on?”
“A Christmas Carol.”
“I read that. Good ol’ Charles Dickens. It’s a good story.”
He shrugged. “It’s all right, I guess. I’m only halfway through it.”
I chuckled. “It’s not a long book,” I teased.
“It is to me.”
“Come on. What’s not to like? It’s a classic. It’s got ghosts, great characters, Christmas, and it’s short.”
“It’s not that. It’s the questions.”
“Mind if I look?”
With a loud sigh of resignation, he waved his paper at me in a desultory manner.
I took it and sat beside him.
“You stink.” Miller wrinkled up his nose.
“Yeah, I know.” I looked at the paper. “Questions?” I asked, humor laced with criticism. “You only have to answer one.”
“I don’t get it!” he exclaimed with frustration.
“Take it easy, Bro. Let’s see.” I read aloud, “ ‘Describe what Marley meant in the passage below.’ ” I looked up to make sure I had Miller’s full attention. I continued to read:
“You are fettered,” said Scrooge, trembling. “Tell me why?”
“I wear the chain I forged in life,” replied the Ghost. “I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it. Is its pattern strange to you?”
Scrooge trembled more and more.
“Or would you know,” pursued the Ghost, “the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself? It was full as heavy and as long as this, seven Christmas Eves ago. You have laboured on it, since. It is a ponderous chain!”
I paused and, like Scrooge, felt the implication of Marley’s heartfelt warning in my own heart. His words, though couched in the jargon of the nineteenth century, rang clear and true. Yet it was no wonder that a boy of ten couldn’t yet understand the depth of meaning in the words. What boy understood the full impact of regret?
Miller waited for my answer.
“What do you think Dickens meant by the chain Marley was dragging?”
“His sins?” Miller asked.
I rubbed my jaw, the stubble tickling my palm. “Yes, his sins,” I began. “But I think he also means his choices. We all have free will, right?”
Miller nodded.
“So, whenever we make a decision, a choice, we make it freely. Right or wrong, it’s ours to live with. Marley was reminding Scrooge that we have to live with the consequences of our choices. And after death, atone for our bad choices.”
“Like in hell?”
“Yes.” As I said the word, I thought of the hell I was living in as a result of my own decisions. I wore the chain forged of the souls of men I’d lost in the war. It was heavy, indeed. A ponderous chain. I would drag that burdensome chain, crying out in the wind for eternity, like old Marley.
“Taylor?”
Miller’s voice drew me back from the hell I was slipping back into. I wiped my face with my palm and looked at my brother, forcing myself to deal with the present. Miller’s eyes, blue like my father’s, were guarded, sensing the mercurial shift in my emotions. I thought back to the last time I’d seen him. So trusting and eager to please. When did he learn sarcasm? I wondered. What caused him to be so wary? He was still so young. As yet so innocent. I wished in that moment that I could protect his innocence forever.
I suddenly needed to get up and have a smoke. “Where’s Mama?” I asked abruptly. “She used to help me with my book reports.”
“She’s still working.”
“At the shop?”
Miller looked back at me with puzzlement. “The shop?” he asked incredulously. “She closed the shop years ago.”
I stared back, stunned. “Closed it? Why didn’t she tell me?”
“She probably didn’t want you to know. She never wants anything to upset you.”
I didn’t miss the dig. “So, what’s she doing now?”
“She cleans houses.”
I remembered seeing the new lines on her face and noticing how she’d lost weight. Yet she never complained.
“When does she get home?” I looked at the lady’s clock on the sideboard. It had always been important to my mother to be home when I returned from school. Miller was only ten and he’d returned to an empty house. Or, nearly empty. I was suddenly ashamed of sleeping all day.
“She’s usually home by now. I guess she got busy,” Miller said without blame. “She’s been working extra hard lately, taking on more houses.”
“Why?”
“She had to. With the boat and all.”
My attention sharpened. “What about the boat?”
Miller looked at me as if I were the ten-year-old. “It’s docked. Sheesh, Taylor, don’t you know anything?”
I stared back at him, stunned by the news. “Apparently not. Tell me.”
Miller leaned back in his chair and shrugged. “Dad couldn’t afford to keep the boat on the water anymore. So he docked it.”
“Dad’s not shrimping?” I asked, shocked.
Miller shook his head. “Nope.” His tone held no small measure of the superiority he felt knowing the family business while I, obviously, was in the dark.
I rubbed my hand across my scalp and exhaled. How little I’d kept up on family news, the extent of my estrangement hit home like the blast of a boxer’s blow. I was speechless and felt sure my face showed it because Miller spoke up.
“We’re poor now,” he said matter-of-factly.
I snorted with disbelief. “What?”
“We’re poor,” he repeated without a smile.
His simple acceptance of that fact shamed me. I paused, collecting my thoughts. “Why didn’t anyone tell me what was going on here?”
“Why didn’t you ask?”
I laughed at my own hubris. I was worse than Scrooge, oblivious of anyone’s needs but my own, as stingy, barren, cold, and empty as they were.
“This is quite a Christmas,” I mumbled, looking around at the cheery decorations and thinking of all the pain and scarcity they masked.
“Yeah. And you’re supposed to be my Christmas present,” Miller said, clearly not thrilled with the gift.
“What?” I asked, clueless.
Miller sat up in his chair, his eyes shining with emotion. “See, there’s this dog, this puppy really, that I really want. I mean, really bad. I watched it grow up since it was born, and he’s six weeks old now. I asked Mama and Dad if I could have him for Christmas. I even offered to give them all my money. Seventy-five dollars! But they said no. Daddy said no,” Miller amended. “And you know Mama. She won’t go against what Daddy says.”
“Why did Daddy say no?”
“He says we can’t afford a dog.”
That seemed miserly. “How much is it?”
“Three hundred dollars, but Mrs. Davidson said I could have him for two hundred dollars because she could see how much Sandy . . . that’s the puppy . . . loves me. She says Mama has to say yes, though, or she can’t let me have him. And Daddy says we can’t afford a dog. That’s what I mean when I say we’re poor. And I hate it.” Miller pushed the papers away from him in an angry shove and buried his face in his arms on the table.
“Mrs. Davidson is Dill’s mom? I remember Dill. You two were inseparable,” I said, remembering. “Mutt and Jeff.” I looked over at Miller; his head still in his arms.
“So his dog had the puppies?”
Miller lifted his head to nod. His ey
es were shining with tears. “His mama’s dog, Daisy. Dill is getting to keep one of the puppies for himself,” Miller added reproachfully.
“What kind of dog are we talking about?”
Miller sniffed and wiped his eyes, eager to talk to someone about his dog. “A Labrador. Daisy is brown and she had six brown puppies and one yellow. That’s the one I like. He’s the biggest, too. I call him Sandy Claws because of his color and it being Christmas and all.”
I saw Miller’s love for the dog shining in his eyes and thought, How can Daddy not buy Miller this dog? “Maybe Mama doesn’t think you’re old enough to take care of a dog. She’s already working hard. I’m sure she doesn’t want to add picking up puppy poop to her list of chores.”
Miller snorted with feigned disgust. “She wouldn’t have to lift a finger. She knows that.” His face hardened. “It’s Daddy. He says we can’t afford to take care of it. He says that about everything now.”
I watched his face harden and felt regret. Miller used to idolize Daddy. My brother loved working on the boat with him and always claimed he wanted to be a shrimp boat captain, just like our daddy. I was sorry to see his disillusionment.
I rose and reached for the cigarettes in my pocket. “You never know.” I patted his shoulder. “Santa might surprise you.”
Miller’s face fell. “If you mean Daddy, don’t count on it.”
“Finish this here homework assignment.” I tapped the paper with the tip of my finger. “I’ll take a look at it when I come back in.” I lifted my cigarettes. “I’m going out for a smoke.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Miller reached out to slide the homework paper to his side of the table.
Before I left the room, I cast a final glance at Miller. He sat in the same slump-shouldered position over his paper as before, but at least now he was writing.
Out on the porch I lit up and felt the comforting burn in my lungs. I stood in the chilly afternoon air looking out at Jeremy Creek. But all I could see was the hope bubbling in Miller’s eyes when he told me about Sandy. I exhaled a plume of white smoke in the frigid air. I wanted to be his hero again.
I wear the chain I forged in life. I made it link by link, and yard by yard.
—Marley, A Christmas Carol
Chapter 10
Jenny
The next two days flew by as I worked extra houses and extra hours. The sky was already dark when I got home. I pushed open the back door into the kitchen, relishing the blast of warm air. My buckets filled with dirty rags rattled noisily as I set them on the floor with a weary sigh. The last house had been a large five-bedroom overlooking the Intracoastal, and the missus was having a holiday party that weekend. She wanted everything “spruced up.” I explained that I’d have to charge extra for “deep clean” items such as the chandelier and baseboards, but that didn’t seem to bother her in the least. I couldn’t imagine having so much money you could just get what you wanted when you wanted it. Truth be told, I didn’t want to spend the extra time working today. I’d pushed hard without lunch or a break for both scheduled houses, hoping to get home by three to check on Taylor. He’d holed himself up in his room and I was getting worried.
I pulled the check from the last house out from my coat pocket and looked at the amount. I couldn’t help but smile with satisfaction. My back might ache but at least now I had the extra money for a nice Christmas dinner. I hummed “Christmas Time’s A-Coming” and set to gathering the dirty rags, then headed to the laundry room.
When I returned to the kitchen, I stopped short, surprised to see Taylor standing in front of the open fridge. His green military-issue robe hung open over his boxers and T-shirt. He had a hole in one of his socks. Seeing him standing in that familiar pose staring into an open fridge—one I’d seen so often when he was a teen—I had to laugh.
Taylor spun around at the noise, bumping the fridge door with his elbow and rattling the contents. He held a half gallon of milk in his left hand.
“I guess it’s my turn to startle you!” I’d never known him to be so jumpy. He looked disheveled, unshaven, as if he hadn’t showered since he’d arrived. “I guess we’ll have to get used to seeing each other roaming the house.”
Taylor smiled nervously as he set the milk back in the fridge and closed the door. “Yeah,” he replied self-consciously, tying the belt of his robe at his waist.
“Are you hungry?” I walked briskly into the room and went directly to the sink to wash my hands. “I can make you a sandwich. Pulled pork sound good? I’ve got mountains left over from the party.”
“Yeah, that sounds good. Thanks.”
We switched places at the fridge. So close I couldn’t miss the smell of bourbon that emanated from him like a dark cloud. I began pulling out ingredients from the fridge, happy to be making him a meal again. “Did you eat today?”
“Uh, I grabbed some chicken from the fridge earlier. It was good.”
“That’s your aunt Betty’s special marinade. I’ve asked her a million times for the recipe. I swear, she’ll go to the grave with it.” I kept up the chatter while I opened the bread, sensing Taylor’s uneasiness. It troubled me to see him so ill at ease in his own home. He used to light up the room when he walked in, filling it with his personality. This sullen man with hair shorn like a sheep, who spoke in monosyllables, I didn’t know.
While I heated the pork in the microwave, I kept an eye on Taylor as he walked to the rear windows. He was much thinner than I’d first surmised. He’d changed dramatically, I realized, feeling a sinking in my stomach. I could see his sharp bones where muscle used to be, and his chiseled cheekbones protruded now, making his face appear gaunt. But his eyes were what disturbed me the most. His pale green orbs were rimmed with dark circles, making them appear bruised. In the explosion he’d hurt his back, broken bones in his ribs, his left arm and leg, but I didn’t fully see until now that my son was indeed a survivor.
Well, he is home now, I thought to myself with a mother’s resolve. I just need to fatten my boy up. I heaped another scoop of potato salad on his plate, and then cut two buns in half. I’d be serving dinner in less than two hours, but I wasn’t sure he’d show up. He rarely did. “You feed the dog when the dog barks,” I muttered.
From the corner of my eye I caught sight of Taylor pulling out a pack of cigarettes from his robe pocket. I didn’t know he’d started smoking and was sorry to see it. He put the cigarette in his mouth.
“Smoke outdoors, please,” I told him, adding firmness in my voice.
Taylor took the cigarette from his mouth. “Sorry.”
“Nasty habit.” I scrunched my nose to show my displeasure as I placed a few of the holiday cookies on his plate. “It’ll kill you.”
“I should be so lucky,” he mumbled.
The words stung, and I swung my head to stare at him, unnerved. The Taylor I knew would’ve never said such a thing. The microwave beeped, calling me to fetch the pork, so I let the comment drop. What was there to say, anyway? Instead I held my tongue and kept myself busy preparing the hot sandwiches. The Carolina pulled pork and onions that I’d slow-cooked smelled heavenly, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I set the two sandwiches on the plate beside the potato salad, a large pickle, and the cookies.
I called Taylor to the table: “Come sit!” I set the plate down, then hurried to put salt and pepper by his side, double-checked that he had a napkin, then stood watching as he lowered into the chair and picked up the sandwich.
“Looks good.” He stared at the plate. “It’s a lot of food.”
“You’re far too thin. And pale,” I added.
“I was just thinking the same about you.”
“What?” I laughed, self-conscious, and smoothed my disheveled hair. “I just got off work. I must look a mess. Besides, I’m just getting old, that’s all. But you!” My eyes caressed his gaunt face, saw his long, thin legs exposed where his robe fell open. “I’ve got to fatten you up. Hold on, I’ll get you a glass of milk.” A min
ute later I set the glass on the table and stood beside him, hands clasped together. I couldn’t help myself. It had been so long since I’d served my son a meal at the kitchen table.
Taylor stopped chewing and looked at me. “What?” he asked, mouth full.
I frowned at his boorishness, and flustered at being caught staring, I quickly looked away. “Nothing.” I smiled weakly. “I just can’t believe you’re sitting here. At my table again.”
His brows gathered as he swallowed hard, set the sandwich on the plate, and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “Gotta tell you, it’s kinda creepy you just staring at me.”
I flushed, uncomfortable with the awkward tension between us. It felt so foreign. “Indulge your mother,” I said jovially, and reached out to set my hand on his shoulder. As much to reassure myself as him that all was well. I felt his muscles flinch at my touch. I pulled back my hand as if I’d been burned, then hurriedly retreated across the kitchen to fetch a glass. My hands shook as I stood at the sink and filled the glass with cold water, then brought it to my lips. I was so upset I could hardly swallow. That he would flinch at my touch cut me to the core. I sneaked a furtive glance at Taylor from over the rim of the glass, trying not to be caught staring. He’d returned to his sandwich. Who is this man? I asked myself again.
I set the glass on the counter and tried again, saying nonchalantly, “I didn’t see Ashley at the party.”
Taylor shook his head, his eyes on his plate. “She went home.”
Talking to him was like pulling teeth. I leaned against the counter and looked again at him from behind.
“But why? She helped me plan it. Corralled all your old friends. She was so excited. Poor thing, was she sick?”
“No. We talked and she wanted to go home.”
“Oh, no, did you have a fight?”
Taylor swallowed hard. “No, we didn’t have a fight,” he answered, piqued.
“She’s such a nice girl. I’ve always liked her. I always hoped that, well, you know, that you and she would tie the knot one day. You’ve been together forever.”
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