The Warmest December

by Bernice L. McFadden

  That lie rolled so effortlessly from his mouth that even I believed him. He never apologized to me or promised me anything; maybe he thought his words to Delia were good enough for both of us.

  Hy-Lo did his best to avoid me. It was as if we had switched places. He would step out of my way and excuse himself if he needed to pass near me at one of the tight corners in the apartment. He kept the shelves stocked with lime Jell-O and canned peaches, my favorite foods. And he did not harass Malcolm or call him those names that hurt his young manhood and fertilized the hate he had growing inside him.

  The change was stressful; it hung around us, thick as an early autumn fog. You could cut it with your index finger and serve it up as pie. We moved around each other as if walking on broken glass, insipid smiles on our lips and cautious glimmers in our eyes. Even though our life now was uncomfortable, we hoped it wouldn’t change, but then hope had never been something we counted on.

  For a week the brown paper bag that was a usual fixture beneath Hy-Lo’s arm did not accompany him through the door every morning. For a week he drank Pepsi by the liter and smoked so much that a thick haze filled the apartment and clung to the ceiling like an awning.

  “How ya doing, kid?” he inquired on my third day of convalescence. His tone was light and carefree. He spoke to me as if visiting a friend in the hospital; he spoke as if he had nothing to do with my being in a brace and in pain.

  His words took me by surprise and I responded: “Fine.” I gazed at him over my Teen Beat magazine.

  “Good, good,” he said and smiled.

  I saw that his face had lost the immutable crimson color and that his cheeks had deflated a bit. His eyes were cloudless and his words came out like crystals, clear and clean.

  “Lemme know if you need something.” He threw those words over his shoulder as easily as a father tosses a ball to his son just learning to catch.

  “Who was that man?” I asked the room aloud.

  On the eighth day he came home later than usual, almost twelve noon, and I was reading another stolen erotic story. Jackie Collins had me riveted. I was moist and breathless all at once. I heard the front door open and close but that did not distract me. There was a new man living in my house and sleeping with my mother. He did not raise his voice or his hand and he did not walk into my room unannounced or uninvited. I read on.

  It was the silence that followed the closing of the front door. The utter stillness of the apartment, the familiar quiet that always followed the storm. I closed the book and slipped it under my pillow. I pulled the covers up under my chin and shut my eyes. My body began to shake and my mouth went dry. A long while passed before I heard the water glass clink softly down into the porcelain kitchen sink. He was done. How had I missed the sound of the bottle’s top?

  Hy-Lo crept into my room on the balls of his feet; I could hear the floorboards squeaking beneath him. I tried not to flinch and then he was standing over me and the air was sucked from around me.

  The aroma of alcohol covered me like a wool blanket, my skin began to itch, and I wanted to open my mouth and gulp for air. Instead I lay as still as a rock and waited.

  He began to hum to himself, some odd tune he’d hum whenever the mood hit him. It was a mocking tune that I’d hated the first time I heard it. He had hummed it when he ordered me to get the belt from his drawer, to pull my pants down and bend over. “Don’t you scream, don’t you dare,” he had said between notes, and then brought the leather strap down across my behind. I was six years old and had broken a water glass.

  He hummed and walked over to the shade and pulled it down, blocking out the sunlight, and then he closed the curtains, pulling my room into total darkness. I kept my breathing steady even though my heart was going wild inside my chest.

  He came and stood over me again, hummed once more, and then left. We had switched back.

  Chapter Eleven

  I didn’t know how many days I’d been coming here. Maybe three. Maybe eight. I didn’t know for sure. The days melded into each other and the hours disappeared altogether. But I realized as I walked down the street away from the hospital and toward the bus stop that the cold was deeper than the first few days, so deep that it reminded me of the blue ice packs that sat next to the frozen meats and bagged vegetables in our freezer on Rogers Avenue. The ice packs that Delia placed over the swells on her face, arms, and legs after he beat her.

  I realized that time had escaped me and Thanksgiving had come and gone without my even noticing it. And now the windows of the apartments in the projects and some homes a block away were filled with flashing red and green lights, and some front doors had gaudy Christmas wreaths and cracked plastic signs with faded Santas that said Happy Holidays and Merry Christmas.

  I couldn’t even remember how we spent Thanksgiving Day or what we ate. I didn’t even remember if I came to the hospital on that day. I knew that Mable didn’t call, or maybe she tried and the computer voice told her that the number had been temporarily disconnected and no further information was available. The phone was turned back on now.

  She used to call all the time, but she was old now and tired from trying to scream and cuss some sense into Delia, and plus she was still hurting about Malcolm, and Sam’s mind was going so she had to remember to keep the doors locked and the windows closed or he’d wander off down the dirt road that sat in front of their house in Poke County, Georgia. Down home.

  So she called only on the holidays and sometimes on the odd Sunday. “There’s room here if you wanna come on down,” she always reiterated before saying she loved us both and hanging up the phone. She had a double-wide trailer with four bedrooms and two living rooms. A big front yard and even bigger backyard. There were pecan trees and watermelon patches skirting the property. Plenty of country space, good country living, and best of all, no Hy-Lo.

  But moving to Georgia would be like moving to the other side of the world for me, and so I wouldn’t go unless Delia would, and she wouldn’t go and wouldn’t say why exactly. So here we remained.

  I approached the hospital and saw that two large wreaths had been hung on the glass doors of the hospital entranceway and behind those doors a brightly decorated tree was now sitting in the center of the lobby. I walked in and there was Christmas music being played over the intercom system but the lyrics were constantly interrupted by announcements.

  The hospital gift shop was bustling with people as visitors snatched up premade holiday baskets, potted poinsettias, and plush stuffed reindeer dolls.

  I walked through the double glass door and tried to go straight to the Visitors Information window. I tried and failed and found myself standing on line in the gift shop behind two elderly people and their granddaughter.

  “Cash or charge?” the pimple-faced cashier asked when I stepped up to the counter.

  “Cash,” I responded, looking down at the glass ball with the floating snow and smiling St. Nick. I didn’t even remember picking it up but I stuck my hand into the pocket of my coat anyway. My fingers moved across bus fare and an old Certs mint.

  “Sixteen twenty-four,” he said without looking at me as he started to pick at a pimple that was pushing through above his eyebrow.

  I jiggled the change and then dug deep into the other pocket. There was nothing there, just a wide hole and the air that pushed through it.

  The pimple was picked and was now an angry red dot on his face. “Sixteen twenty-four,” the cashier said again. His voice was impatient and I couldn’t tell if it was because I had no money and was holding up the line or because his hands roamed his face and could not find another plump subject to burst.

  “Yes, one moment,” I said as I unbuttoned my coat and dug my hands into the pockets of my jeans. Annoyed whispers floated from behind me just as my fingers curled around a piece of something in my pocket.

  I pulled it out and saw that it was a five-dollar bill. The cashier’s eyebrows raised and his mouth twisted. “Sixteen—” he started to say again.

/>   “I know,” I said cutting him off. I dug into the other pocket and pulled out a dollar. “Look, I left my money at home or something. I’ll just take a … um …” My eyes traveled over the stuffed plush toys and plastic candy canes and then settled on the poinsettia. “That,” I said and pointed to the large leafy red and green plant on the shelf behind him.

  He rolled his eyes at me and ran his hands through his slicked-back hair. “Nine ninety-nine,” he said. “Plus tax,” he added and cocked his head to one side.

  “Oh,” I replied and looked down at the crumpled fiveand one-dollar bills I’d thrown onto the counter.

  More annoyed whispers, clucking tongues, and the sound of merchandise being shifted from one hand to the other. I was so embarrassed; too embarrassed to pick up my money and walk out, so I just stood there with my head down and tried to keep my tears inside.

  “Here you go.” The voice came from beside me. I saw a ten-dollar bill hit the counter. The hand was small, brown, and delicate. It picked up the one-dollar bill and placed it on top of the ten. “Here,” the voice said again and then the hand pushed the five-dollar bill back toward me.

  I raised my head and turned my face to look into the eyes of Nurse D. Green. “I—” I started to say, but she put her hand up and slowly shook her head.

  “It’s okay,” she said and smiled.

  The cashier sighed in disgust. He snatched the poinsettia off the shelf and was about to slam it down on the counter, but then he caught the look in Nurse D. Green’s eyes and thought better of it.

  “Thank you,” I said as I picked up the change and the plant, and then I turned to thank Nurse D. Green, but she was gone.

  The poinsettia looked out of place on the hospital nightstand. More than out of place, unhappy. It had lost its vividness and its leaves drooped as soon as we entered the room.

  I wanted to move it, turn it around to show its best side, but that would mean coming close to him again and it had taken all that I had just to lean over and place the plant down on the stand. I couldn’t come so close again so soon, so I left it as it was.

  Nurse D. Green came in and commented on how beautiful it was. She looked at it as if it were the first time she was seeing it, as if it weren’t her hard-earned money that made its presence possible. Its leaves lifted a bit in her presence.

  “Uh-huh,” I responded in awe and was about to thank her again, but a buzzing sound from the next room caught her attention and she dashed out before I could even open my mouth to speak.

  My mind traveled between the poinsettia, Nurse D. Green, Christmas, Malcolm, and Delia. They were swirling, restless, destructive thoughts, like the twisters that battered the Midwest during the summer. The thoughts made my head ache and I pinched my wrist to try and distract myself.

  I watched Hy-Lo and the liquids that bubbled through the tubes and kept him alive. I thought again about ending it all. Just pulling the plug from the wall and putting a stop to the memories.

  My hand jerked beneath me and I thought for a moment that I would actually do it, but then I felt shame open up inside of me and spread through me until my body shook with the intensity of it.

  I didn’t recognize this thing in me that was changing my hate, molding it into compassion, trying to sculpt it into understanding and forgiveness. I shook my head against the thought and cleared my throat against the thick film it left there.

  I would force myself to remember the smell of hate, the feel of pain, and the sense of rejection he instilled in me every single day of my life. I would remember and then this feeling of forgiveness that was laying root inside of me would dissipate and the hate would blossom again, like gardenias in spring.

  I moved my chair closer, leaned back, and waited. It was the carolers who roamed the hallways of the hospital singing to the sick and dying that helped take me back to Rogers Avenue. It was their small voices filled with Christmas cheer, the way they sang “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” and how that song happened to be playing in the background on that horrible December 25.

  Christmas seemed to have come quickly that year. Perhaps because all of my energy had been focused on refereeing Hy-Lo and Delia—“Let’s keep it clean, guys!”—housework, and school. I’d become withdrawn and distanced myself from Glenna. My bruises were worse than Delia’s because I was bruised on the inside where they could not be bandaged or treated with antiseptic.

  Snow came two days before Christmas; it covered the ground like a blanket of cotton that came up to our knees and spilled over and into the tops of our rubber boots. I had prayed for snow, so much snow that the city would come to a halt and no one would be able to make it to my house for Christmas dinner. Every year there was a scene, some altercation that required police presence. Hy-Lo slapping Delia, Hy-Lo punching one of his brothers. Always Hy-Lo, always liquor, always police.

  I smiled up at the sky and thanked God aloud. My words came out in frosty bits of air that disappeared before my eyes. And then the next day the temperature climbed to fifty and melted it all away. We would have Christmas dinner after all and a new nightmare would be created to fill my adult dreams.

  Gwenyth came outfitted in a flowing red dress that was so long it dusted our parquet floors, gathering pine needles and bits of fluff as she moved between the kitchen and living room. I watched her adorned in her fake pearls and glass stud earrings and told myself she was Christmas Past: a specter of what once was.

  Mable and Sam came dressed in jeans and matching white sweatshirts with red bows and green fluorescent letters that screamed Ho! Ho! Ho! across the front.

  They came laden down with shopping bags filled with colorful wrapped boxes that held gifts for Malcolm and me.

  Delia had not spoken to Mable for more than two weeks and the air between them was sour. Delia barely brushed her lips against Mable’s cheek and only offered Sam a stiff hug and a quiet hello. They were representatives of Christmas Present.

  Charlie, Randy, and Charlie’s wife Carol had arrived right after Mable and Sam. We heard them in the hall of the building before they even rang the doorbell. They were raucous and half-drunk when they stepped through the door. They threw greetings over their shoulders at us and made a beeline straight to the television stand that had been set up as a bar for the occasion.

  Charlie looked like Hy-Lo but he was taller and heavier and bald. Randy was the odd one of the three; he was short, barely five feet tall, and as dark as the deepest summer night. Carol, Charlie’s wife, was tall and sinewy. Her neck was thicker than Charlie’s was and her hands were just as large as his, but you forgot about her size when she opened her mouth to speak and her words came out sounding like Mickey Mouse.

  “Where are the kids?” Delia asked as they struggled to remove their coats with one hand while the other hand held their mixed drinks.

  “Home,” Carol said and then, “You got any cherries, you know the sweet ones?”

  “Like the one between your legs?” Charlie said and slapped her on the behind. Everyone around the liquor broke into a fit of laughter; the rest of us remained solemn.

  Delia rolled her eyes and looked embarrassedly over her shoulder at Malcolm and me. I shrugged my shoulders at her; we had heard worse from Charlie.

  Mable sucked her teeth loudly. “There are children present!” she said in a stern voice and rolled her eyes. Sam patted her knee and scratched at the top of his head.

  Malcolm and I stopped unwrapping our gifts and sat quietly down on the floor beside the tree, crossing our legs Indian style and resting our chins in the palms of our hands. We had been denied the pleasure of the Christmas show at Radio City Music Hall, but we would have front seats for the show that was about to take place in our living room.

  They ignored Mable’s comment and talked loudly amongst themselves, never moving away from the TV stand and the six bottles of liquor it held. “Well?” Carol said in exasperation and turned to face Delia, who had positioned herself against the wall.

  Delia’s arms were fol
ded across her chest and she chewed nervously on her bottom lip. “Huh?” she said.

  The glass that Carol waved back and forth before her eyes broke Delia’s spell. “Cherries, Delia, cherries,” she said in an annoyed voice as my mother took the glass from her hand.

  “Cheez!” Carol added and then joined in on the tail laughter of the joke.

  They behaved as if we weren’t there, as if they still stood among the lowlifes who found themselves on a barstool at the Blue Moon on Christmas Day, instead of on the sofa, sipping cider, surrounded by family.

  Gwenyth stood, smoothed her Christmas dress, and took a step toward them. “Randy.” She called his name sharply and I saw some color drain away from his face.

  “Mother,” he said, then stepped forward and planted a loving kiss on her cheek. “Merry Christmas,” he slurred and Gwenyth’s face contorted against the rankness of his breath.

  She said nothing else; her eyes condemned his behavior and dismissed him all at the same time. He lowered his head, and had he a tail he would have stuffed it between his legs. Instead he suddenly became aware that we were in the room and began to move between us, offering greetings and words filled with holiday cheer.

  Gwenyth’s eyes passed over Charlie and Carol and then fell on the bottles of liquor. She licked her lips and turned her attention to Charlie. He would be more difficult to approach. He was the oldest of her sons and knew more of Gwenyth’s life than the others. He held that fact over her head like the sharp blade of a guillotine. “Charlie.” Her voice was still sharp but there was an air of cautiousness surrounding it. “Charlie,” she repeated when she found she was still looking at his back.

  Carol had stopped laughing and turned to look at Gwenyth. She looked her up and down and then her eyes settled on the fake pearls around Gwenyth’s neck. She sniffed and became aware of her own clothing. A tattered denim jacket that would not have kept out the slight chill of a spring day. A black scarf covered in lint, fraying in the middle and at the ends. She pulled at her jacket and then touched the beige corduroys that had a large ink spot on the knee.