I take my time with soap and water on Christmas morning, slowly washing my body inch by inch, for I know several days may pass before I undertake another bath. I do not set such a store on cleanliness as I once did. It comes to me that it must be getting light outdoors by now, but because I have taken myself away from my post by the bird feeder, I cannot see which bird comes first. And yet, I remind myself, this is no great loss. I would be no better off knowing such a fact than not knowing.
I wash the backs of my hands carefully. I close my eyes and feel the large ropy veins through the washcloth. Even in their youth, these were not hands that Madge the manicurist could have improved with Palmolive dish soap. Short and broad to match the rest of me, they are hands that have not shirked hard work. They are hands that wear no jewels. Though I once wore a wedding band, I had no engagement ring. I would not have been opposed to one, but Eliot neither produced one nor ever mentioned such a possibility. The wedding band he presented to me was plain but beautiful in my eyes. It was not shiny but rather a flat, scrubbed-looking gold. At some point during our marriage, it crossed my mind briefly to wonder whether this was the ring Eliot’s first wife wore. I had no way of knowing, and I would never have asked.
In spite of my determination to remain in the present today, my thoughts flash, before I can retrieve them, to my second Christmas with Eliot. This is the trouble with Christmas Day. I can scrape together a few pleasant thoughts of past Thanksgivings, July Fourths, and birthdays, but not of Christmases.
Neither Portia nor Alonso made an appearance at home that second Christmas. Eliot stated that Alonso had possibly hitchhiked to Vermont to visit Portia at Middlebury, but I doubted it. Though only a year apart in age, they were not close siblings. The only interchange I had ever witnessed between the two of them took place on the back porch of their house a month before Eliot and I married. Out of my sight but not my hearing, they quarreled heatedly about who would take the car that night. It was a used car their father had bought for them to share, though the concept of sharing was one neither of them had ever learned. All manner of underhanded behavior occurred in the securing of the car keys from day to day.
On this particular night I heard sounds from the porch indicating more than just the exchange of words. I heard Alonso curse his sister with language I had never heard at his age. I heard the rip of clothing, the slap of flesh on flesh, the grunt of deeper blows received. I heard the clatter of garbage cans knocked over as the winner fled the driveway in the car. The loser, whoever it was, must have left on foot, for the porch screen slammed, and all was quiet.
This had happened some sixteen or seventeen months before my second Christmas as Mrs. Eliot Hess, however, and served only to stir my doubt that Alonso had gone to Vermont. I believed he was spending Christmas in Hillcrest, the same town where we lived, ingesting large quantities of drugs and alcohol with other young derelicts unacquainted with the words work, study, or respect.
School had been out for the midyear break for several days. Eliot had used those days to rework an article he was submitting to the Michigan Quarterly Review, a literary magazine established a few years earlier and one in which he had already published one article. This second article dealt with Shakespeare’s breadth of knowledge concerning the life of a soldier in Elizabethan times. It was a brisk and sprightly manuscript, I recall, and one of which he was extremely proud upon its acceptance and subsequent publication. Though I never read Henry V, a quotation from the play struck me as I was typing it, for it spoke of a knowledge of more than soldiers. It spoke of a knowledge of life. “Like a rich armor, worn in heat of day, that scalds with safety.” One often pays for safety with considerable discomfort. The quotation has stayed with me.
On the day I completed the retyping of the manuscript, Eliot gently took the last page from my machine and placed it with the others. Eager to get it in the mail, he addressed a large envelope and affixed the proper postage. “Come with me, Sophie, to the post office,” he said, bringing my coat. When Eliot was cheerful and serene, he most often addressed me as Sophie. In his darker moods, I was Sophia. As we drove away, I tried not to look at the houses all around ours that were decorated for the holidays. Eliot didn’t like to leave lights on when we were gone, even if he knew it would be dark when we returned.
We drove to the post office, after which Eliot pulled into the parking lot of a shopping center. “Shall we shop for a gift for ourselves?” he said. This was the first mention of Christmas gifts since my unsuccessful attempts of the previous year. This was the year of the coffeepot, though Eliot had not yet announced his choice to me. He was humming as we walked toward the entrance of the department store. Not a Christmas song but a favorite tune of his: “A Little Bit of Luck.”
All manner of Christmas decorations were hung about the store—red and green bows, large plastic bells, gold stars, candy canes, stockings, reindeer with large red noses, and such. An enormous artificial tree stood on a pedestal inside the entrance, brightly wrapped boxes heaped beneath it. A long line of parents with small children waited for a turn with the portly man dressed as Santa Claus, who sat enthroned on a dais in the center of the store. We passed a mother stooped before her son, holding his face between her hands. “Don’t be afraid, sweetheart,” she said to the boy. “Just tell him what you told me. Tell him you want the bicycle so you can ride with your big sister. Santa’s a nice man.”
By the time we arrived in the housewares section, I felt light-headed and heavyhearted. I found it hard to breathe. A Christmas song was playing over the sound system: “Chestnuts roasting on an open fire, / Jack Frost nipping at your nose.” It was an appropriate song, I suppose, for I felt hot and cold at the same time.
Eliot chose a coffeepot he liked, and I followed numbly as he carried it to the cashier. Perhaps he asked if I liked it, too. I don’t remember. I was intent on getting out of the store. As a child, I had briefly dreamed of sitting on Santa Claus’s lap to tell him what I wanted. When I gave up believing in him, I had imagined that I would one day take a child of my own to visit him in a department store, then buy the requested gifts, wrap them, put them under the tree, and on Christmas morning watch my child’s face as he opened them.
You are an adult woman, I told myself as Eliot paid for his coffeepot. You know that dreams are slippery things. They wriggle off the hook and disappear. And even when you are lucky enough to land one, it is usually blemished in some way. The salesclerk put the coffeepot in a bag and handed it to Eliot. As we walked back through the store, past the line of children waiting to see Santa, past the Christmas tree, I heard a new song on the intercom. It was Elvis Presley. “I’ll have a blue Christmas without you, / I’ll be so blue thinking about you.”
I return to the world of my bathtub. The water is not so warm anymore. I hear sounds in Rachel’s kitchen. Someone is up on Christmas Day earlier than usual.
I think of the dreams that are taken from women and the ones that are simply never offered. Rachel’s dream was taken, mine never given. I think of the blackbirds I have read about in my book, assertive creatures that take what they want, even to the point of driving away chickens in a farmyard to eat their grain. I sympathize with the chickens, one minute contentedly pecking and the next shoved aside, watching from a distance as a flock of blackbirds takes the food meant for them. I imagine them returning to the feeding ground after the flock has lifted like a mist and flown away. I see them pecking at the hard dirt, coming up with nothing.
I release the drain of the bathtub and watch as the water slowly recedes. Soon I am sitting in an empty tub. I raise myself slowly, with great effort, and step onto the mat. As I take up my towel, I hear a knock on my apartment door. “Aunt Sophie.” It is Rachel’s voice. “Are you awake yet?” From farther away I hear Patrick’s voice. “Merry Christmas, Aunt Sophie!” He speaks in the tone of a command, yet one cheerfully given, as if the commander is assured of ready compliance from the troops.
Chapter 17
O
Tiger’s Heart Wrapped in a Woman’s Hide
Whereas the woodpecker typically hops up the trunk of a tree, the white-breasted nuthatch moves downward, headfirst, scouring the bark for overlooked insects and larvae. With its long toes and hooked claws, the nuthatch always maintains a secure hold as it probes into crevices with its upturned bill.
At two o’clock on Christmas Day I sit at Rachel’s dining room table. I am one of ten people at a table intended for eight. I have not been in such a company of people for many months. Only two hours ago Rachel informed me of the plans for Christmas dinner and requested my presence at the table. Had Patrick been the informer, I would have flatly refused. With Rachel, however, I found myself agreeing to participate in something I had no desire to do. I did not trust myself to speak after the events of the morning, and so I merely nodded stupidly and turned away from Rachel’s hopeful eyes. Thus, at the appointed hour, only minutes ago, she tapped on my door again and said, “It’s time for dinner, Aunt Sophie. Are you still willing to come? Shall I show you your place?”
I allowed myself to be escorted to the dining room, a room I have only walked through until now, and am seated to the left of Patrick, who occupies the head of the table. I would prefer being at the foot, next to Rachel, but I say nothing. When I arrive, everyone else is seated except Rachel, who pulls my chair out. She then walks to her own chair and nods to Patrick. There is no food on the table, but each place is set with pink and white china I have never seen. No one is talking. I avoid the eyes of the other guests, but one quick glance tells me that this is as mismatched a group of ten as has ever convened around one table.
I will start with the youngest. Veronica is sitting between her parents, Steve and Teri, on the opposite side of the table. She is in a special chair that appears to be a hybrid model. Not exactly a wheelchair and not a high chair, for it is not high. The chair is pushed back slightly from the table, and a tray is fitted to the front of it. A strap similar to a seatbelt holds Veronica in place. A neck brace keeps her head erect. She has hair like corn silk, and her eyes are wide and blue yet focus on nothing. Her mouth is open, but she makes no sound. She has the face of an angel. I imagine all the things she could have been had she been born unimpaired.
On the other side of Teri sits Mindy, the teenaged daughter. Like Veronica, she is beautiful. It is a wonder to me that such beauty has sprung from two ordinary-looking people like Steve and Teri. I suppose this is no more a cause for wonder, however, than the fact that two handsome parents like mine produced a homely child like me. Unlike Veronica, Mindy appears to be normal in every way.
Like most teenagers, she looks as if she would prefer other company than that presently gathered around this table. No doubt she is eager to get this over with. She is wearing something black. It is snug and stretchy, with only cap sleeves, but she gives no sign of being cold. Her blond hair is pulled back in a ponytail. Certainly not “gussied up,” as my mother used to say. As only one other person is gussied up, however, she is in the majority at this table. She appears to be lost in thought, perhaps musing over what she will do with more interesting companions after this required activity is over.
Potts is probably a few years younger than Steve and Teri. This is the second time I have seen him. Though I may not have recognized him outside Patrick’s home, I would have known his voice anywhere. He is seated on the side of the table where I am, but two people separate us. Perhaps Patrick, remembering my question about the white electrician, believes I would dislike bumping elbows with a black man over Christmas dinner. Potts is wearing a maroon sport coat and a green necktie. Perhaps Patrick failed to tell him this was a casual affair.
“That is one of the prettiest sweaters you’re wearing,” the woman to my left says to me. I lift my eyes to hers for a brief moment. I have never seen her before today. She and the woman next to her are closer to my age, though I estimate them to be younger by at least a decade, perhaps more. “Did Santa Claus bring it to you?” she asks. Her head is cocked toward me, and she is smiling in a childlike way. Her hair is gray—in a style my mother would have called “flyaway.” Perhaps I am staring, for she lifts a hand to pat her hair. “My hair must look a fright,” she says. “The wind is sure blowing today, isn’t it?” She continues patting. “I don’t ever remember a windier Christmas Day.”
“Yes,” I say.
“I thought it was going to blow us off the road on the way over here this morning,” she says. “Helena was driving, and I was wondering how she could keep the car in check, the wind was so gusty.” She lays a hand across her breast and laughs. “I kept saying, ‘I’m sure glad it’s you driving and not me!’” She laughs again breathlessly as if she has told a funny story. This woman is wearing a red plaid flannel shirt with a blue scarf tied at the neck. Perhaps this is a new fashion, to wear flannel and silk together.
Patrick taps his glass with his fork, unnecessarily, as if there is a great hubbub at the table instead of a single dithery woman talking about the wind. “For the sake of Aunt Sophie,” he says importantly, “let’s introduce everyone again.” I want to tell him to skip this part, but I remain silent, knowing that Patrick cannot be deterred once he has an idea. As could be expected, he makes a production out of it, announcing that he will begin with Steve and “proceed counterclockwise.” He is clearly pleased with his use of the term counterclockwise and pauses briefly, as if hoping someone will ask what it means so that he can have the joy of explaining the way the hands of a clock move. I have observed that Patrick often believes himself the only one possessed of the simplest knowledge.
He labors through the introductions of Steve, Veronica, Teri, and Mindy, using the words neighborliness, congenial, and reciprocal in the process. When he comes to Potts, he says, “And my amiable colleague from the Main Office, Cicero Potts.”
There is a sudden intake of breath from the woman on my left. “Cicero?” she says, leaning forward to look at Potts. “Is your name really Cicero? Why, I had an uncle named Cicero, but I’ve never met another person with that name! He was my favorite uncle when I was a girl, but he died young, of a bad case of ptomaine poisoning. It took him fast. He left a wife and four little children.” She laughs as if catching herself. “But you look healthy as can be.”
Patrick opens his mouth to resume.
“Cicero Cork, that was his name,” the woman adds. “He had a little produce stand in Yazoo City, and, oh, the prettiest fruits and vegetables you ever saw!”
Patrick tries to start again. “And—”
“His wife remarried after only a few months, which at the time might have seemed hasty to some people.”
Patrick clears his throat.
“But four children and no man around the house would be awfully hard for a woman. I stood up for her when people started talking. She was a real soft-spoken little thing, frail as a flower.”
There is a moment of silence, and she seems to be done at last.
“And we’re delighted to have Teri’s aunt Helena joining us today,” Patrick says. “She drove over today from Yazoo City with her friend Miss Biddle, who is seated here next to my aunt Sophie on my left.” He beams at me. “What good fortune is ours to have two aunts at the table!”
“Oh, it’s Della Boyd, please, not Miss Biddle,” says the woman on my left. “I will have to insist on that.”
Patrick laughs a jolly Christmas laugh. “All right then, we’ll dispense with the formalities. Della Boyd it is.” He gives her a little nod as if conferring a great honor.
“And then, of course, my aunt Sophie is seated here on my left,” Patrick says, apparently unaware that he is repeating himself. “So now we all know each other,” he says cheerfully, as if to know a person one must simply know his name. He stands up now and puts on a pair of reading glasses. “With your permission, I would like to read a few verses from the book of Luke.” He does not wait for anyone’s permission but picks up the Bible from beside his plate and begins reading: “‘And it came to pass in thos
e days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed. . . . ’”
* * *
It is more than a few verses. He reads about Bethlehem and swaddling clothes and a manger. He reads about shepherds and hosts of angels and good tidings. He reads about Mary pondering things in her heart.
It was wise of Rachel not to have the food on the table yet. No doubt she knew it would have been stone cold by the time Patrick finished with the preliminaries. When Patrick stops and closes the Bible, Cicero Potts says, “Thank you, brother. I never grow tired of hearing that passage from God’s Word.”
“Oh, isn’t that the truth?” Della Boyd says.
Still standing, Patrick announces his intention to “offer a word of thanksgiving for this happy occasion.” He proceeds to do so in a lofty voice, calling each person at the table by name and expressing gratitude for “the incomparable blessing of these, my family and friends” and for “the repast of which we are about to partake.” He has very likely rehearsed this prayer. I watch Veronica across the table. Her head is turned in Patrick’s direction, yet her eyes sweep back and forth. She cannot comprehend the unbearable tediousness of the man whose voice she hears. I think of the small world in which she lives, a world she has not chosen. But who among us has chosen his world?
When Patrick at last finishes, Della Boyd says, “Well, wasn’t that nice?” to no one in particular, and then, as if conversing with herself, “Yes, that was sure a nice blessing.” Rachel rises and goes to the kitchen, presumably to get the food. I hope there are no further delays, for I am hungry.
Teri is fastening a plastic bib around Veronica’s neck. Steve is rubbing Veronica’s arm as if stroking a cat. I think of the number of hours Steve and Teri give to this child, who will never be able to give anything back. I think of the morning two weeks ago when Teri sped to the hospital with Veronica, who had gone into sudden convulsions after breakfast. I recall the great display of joy when Teri came over to tell Rachel that evening that the doctors had once again been “able to get things under control,” that Veronica was back home asleep in her crib. I marvel at a love so deep that a woman whose life could only be simplified by the absence of such permanent dependence cannot bear the thought of losing her child.
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