“Hi, Carmelita,” I said when I walked into the house and saw her looking frantic, little beads of sweat above her upper lip.
“Hello, Miss Jordan,” she said.
“Need any help?” I asked, but before she could answer—as if tuned to her own jingle bell motion detector—my mom swooped in and ushered me out of the kitchen.
“Let Carmelita be,” she said. “How was the train?”
“Lovely,” I said. “Is there anything I can do before dinner?”
“Just stay out of the way, dear.”
I did. I stayed out of the way for the next couple hours until the four of us sat down to dinner. I made a mental note that if I ever had hired help cooking a holiday meal in the kitchen, I would make sure there was a place at the table for that person to eat with us.
I also made a mental note of something else. Or rather, the lack of something else: the turkey. For my entire life we’d had pretty much the same Christmas dinner, which was, in essence, a rerun of Thanksgiving dinner—and it always involved a turkey. Green beans, mashed potatoes, roasted corn on the cob (cut off the cob for Princess Samantha), cranberries, stuffing, yams of some variety, and turkey. Instead, there were small individual birds on each of our plates. Birds that reminded me way too much of Sneevil.
“Lord, we thank you for this meal,” Walter said. “We thank you for our health—”
“Most of our health, at least,” interjected Sam.
“We thank you for blessing us with our family,” he continued, “our friends, and we remember those who are less fortunate and spread the spirit of giving beyond our family.” I looked once again at Carmelita, who was not at the moment on the receiving end of our spirit of giving, and thought about the hypocrisy of that last statement—again wishing she could eat with us. She was more than welcome to whatever this small bird on my plate was.
“Amen,” said my mom and Sam.
“Amen,” I said and then asked, “What are we having for dinner tonight?”
“It’s quail,” said my mom. “I thought we’d try something different.”
“Ah, partridge on our plate, rather than in a pear tree,” I said.
“It’s not a partridge,” Sam said. “It’s quail.”
“Actually,” Walter said, coming to my defense, “they are similar. The quail and partridge are interchangeable in most dishes.”
It reminded me of a pigeon. I did not want to eat a pigeon. I also didn’t want to complain. But here was one of those opportunities for me to be the person I wanted to be instead of the person I’d always been.
“I’m sorry . . . but is pigeon also in that interchangeable group?” I asked with no small amount of hesitation.
“Ew, Jordan. Duh, no,” said Samantha.
“I guess it is, yes, squab,” Walter said, and smiled as he cut into his quail/squab/pigeon/partridge. I looked at Sam and made a face I’d only been on the receiving end of prior to that moment.
Sam pushed her plate away. “I’m not eating pigeon.”
“Samantha,” my mom said, “this is NOT pigeon. It’s quail and it’s a delicacy. You’ve had it before.”
“I have?” she asked, needing reassurance.
“Of course,” my mom said with a shake of her head.
I watched the interplay between Samantha and my mother. Sam may or may not have had quail before, and what was on the plate before her may or may not have been pigeon—but it didn’t matter. Sam followed my mom’s lead. If you’d seasoned and roasted a pinecone dipped in dog vomit and then called it a delicacy, you’d have won Sam’s approval.
I, however, didn’t follow. I couldn’t. I never had and I probably never would. And even though Sneevil was not my bird, wreaked havoc on what was at one time (go with me) a borderline tidy apartment, and drove me crazy, he’d grown on me. And he was in love with a pigeon (whom I’d named Romeo) that had made my windowsill its permanent home, and for that among about a thousand other reasons, including the fact that the quail staring up at me might well be his—or her—relative, I was not going to be able to eat that bird.
The good part about being somewhat invisible to your family is that when situations such as having roasted quail on your plate arise, you can wriggle out of them with minimal distress. Everybody dug into the dinner, and I moved things around on my plate and ate around the bird, but managed to avoid having to cut into it. Then I somehow made telepathic eye contact with Carmelita, who in one deft move served me more yams, swiped Romeo 2 off my plate, and ducked into the kitchen—nobody the wiser.
* * * * *
The next morning, I wiped the sleep from my eyes and trundled down the stairs. Sam, Walter, and my mom were already sitting under the tree, waiting for me.
“Merry Christmas!” I said.
“Merry Christmas,” they all replied.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” Samantha said as if I couldn’t see the myriad gifts that had already been torn into.
“Looks that way,” I said, and reached for one of the gifts I’d bought my mother. “Here, Mom. This one’s for you.”
“Well, you open yours first,” she said, handing me a box that was obviously an article of clothing.
“Thanks,” I said, as I opened it. For a split second I felt about twelve varieties of guilt—one for each day of Christmas—buying her present at Duane Reade topping the list of reasons. Then I opened my gift. It was a sweater that I’d given her the year before. I’d gotten it at Saks and it was her size and her favorite color: pink. I never wore pink, never liked pink, and haven’t been her size since I was nine years old. Not only was she re-gifting, she was re-gifting my gift for her back to me . . . and doing it with a smile on her face because supposedly I had no recollection of giving it to her in the first place.
I put on my best poker face and smiled warmly. “I love it!”
“Is it your size?” Samantha said, trying to egg me on.
“Well, of course it’s not my size,” I said sweetly. “But that’s not what matters. It’s a lovely sweater from my mother. Something she picked out just for me. Thank you, Mom!”
“You’re welcome, dear.”
“Which one is mine?” asked Sam, and I pointed her to her box. “This one is yours from me,” she said as she tore into her present and expected me to do the same.
I opened mine up to find a travel kit. But not just any travel kit. An American Airlines first class overnight kit. The kit they give you when you travel to Europe or somewhere far enough that you conceivably could sleep, if not crumpled into your seat like a used paper towel in a restaurant bathroom. “Thank you so much, Samantha. I’ll have to take a vacation so I can use this!”
“You’re welcome,” she said, holding up her gift from me. “Uh, a blow-dryer?”
“Neat, huh?” I practically cheered.
“Yeah . . . neat,” she said. “If the three that I already have give out, I’ll go right to this one.”
“Oh, you have one?” I said, slumping at the shoulders. “Sorry, I didn’t know!” She looked at our mom, who shrugged and continued to open her presents from me, seeming nonplussed. Then we were all startled out of our wits when Walter yelled.
“Hot damn! This is fantastic,” he said, and I looked to see him holding the flashlight up. “Jordan, I actually needed one of these. You always need a flashlight,” he said, and he meant it, bless his amiable soul. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
“You’re welcome, Dad,” I said as he touched my hair, tucking it just behind my ear, providing a feeling of safety and family (even if only momentary) that I never got to feel.
Memories are divine moments, painted over with emotions so they’re hardly recognizable. No matter. I felt happy all of a sudden. And for that moment, and maybe no other, it was a Christmas I wouldn’t ever pretend to forget.
* * * * *
The Christmas gifts I had put a modicum of thought into were for Travis. We were still somewhat in the polite, getting-to-know-you stage, so I wanted to get him some
thing thoughtful and sweet but not too much of a big deal because that might freak him out. It was a delicate balance: What if my present wasn’t as nice as the one he got me? What if it was too nice? The good news was that it wasn’t a birthday, so we were both in the same gift-giving boat—both equally at risk of scuttling the whole thing.
There’s nothing worse than misinterpreting where you are in a relationship and being made painfully aware of it in the form of a gift exchange. Which actually happened with Dirk one Valentine’s Day early on. I always did have seriously bad Valentine’s Day karma.
I’d spent about an hour in the Hallmark store, trying to find the right card. Nothing that said I love you, nothing too mushy—just something cute and sweet. I bought him an oversize Hershey’s kiss and a little red teddy bear. It was very mainstream, easily obtained, and not expensive, and it had no chance of suggesting I’d put too much thought into the decision, quite a feat after more than an hour of anguished hunting. It was just enough for where I thought we were.
Dirk called me about ten minutes before he was scheduled to pick me up and said he was running a few minutes late—never a good sign—which I didn’t know would be status quo for the rest of our relationship. When I asked what we were doing, he said he didn’t know. I didn’t know if that meant that it was a surprise and he was being coy, or if he really hadn’t put any thought into it, but I’d find out soon enough.
When Dirk finally showed up seventy-two minutes later, he had a casual air about him that immediately put me on the defensive. Or would have—had it not been Valentine’s Day. But I figured that St. Valentine would be forgiving—how else does someone get to sainthood?—and so should I. I gave him a kiss hello and watched him as he took his tan leather coat off and walked over to my couch.
“So . . . what are we doing?” I asked.
“I’m kind of tired,” he said. “Want to just order in?”
“Sure,” I said, conjuring St.Valentine’s magnanimous and nonviolent spirit once again.
We ordered Indian food and watched TV until it arrived. When the buzzer rang, I got up to get the door, pausing once to look back in his direction. A look that might have suggested, It is Valentine’s Day, dear Dirk, so right about now you might think about getting your ass off the couch to come pay for this dinner.
Nothin’.
So I paid, thinking he must just be spacing out. He’ll realize and jump up with his wallet at any time. Or the delivery guy will say, “Oh, one more thing . . .” and produce one more thing. Something.
I tucked the card, bear, and chocolate into the bag and then brought it over to the table. He unpacked it and smiled when he saw the gifts.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” I said. He opened the card and smiled. I hadn’t written anything too sentimental. I think I just went with the message on the card and signed my name.
“You too,” he said, and leaned in to kiss me. I kissed him back halfheartedly as I wondered what was going through his head. If anything.
And then he dug into the food. I sat there somewhat astonished and suddenly lacking appetite, but I choked the food down nonetheless. I mean, I’d paid for it.
After we ate, he attempted a bit of a make-out session, but I wasn’t exactly into it, as I was still waiting for my teddy bear. Finally he gave up and said he was tired, put his leather coat back on, and left.
I always knew that having expectations was just a way to set myself up for disappointments, but still . . . it was Valentine’s Day.
It wasn’t that he’d completely overlooked the holiday after asking me to spend it with him, so much as it was the final blow—him leaving his card, candy, and teddy bear sitting on my table. You live and you learn. And you don’t spend Valentine’s Day with someone who says, “What’s up?” every single time he calls you. You’re calling me, Dirk—you’re the one who’s supposed to know what’s up.
But what a difference a guy makes. This was Christmas and this was Travis. I had typed and printed the Longfellow poem. My big plan was twofold. I was going to have the poem copied on parchment paper and then burn the edges to make it look like some lost (then found) document. An artifact. Maybe even the original Longfellow manuscript. If they’d had computers back then (I didn’t have much choice of fonts). I bought an antique wooden frame for it that I thought would go perfectly in Travis’s restaurant and I was going to surprise him with it.
I was also having the prototype made for a T-shirt that was going to be part of a cute little marketing plan I’d thought of for the Beacon. I know it was a case of putting the cart way before the horse, but it would be something that would make Travis smile and maybe keep him going with his plans on a day when he was struggling.
Travis and I had agreed that we’d exchange gifts when I got back from my parents’. By then I’d have already been to Kinko’s and made my little arts-and-crafts project and I hoped that the T-shirt would be ready. The place I’d hired to make it was used to doing big runs of thousands of T-shirts, and when I came in wanting just one, they weren’t too thrilled with me. Then again, they charged me a bloody fortune, because apparently the setup fees to silk-screen one shirt were the same as if they were making a thousand. So they really could have used an attitude adjustment.
I stopped by Kinko’s first.
“Hi,” I said to the distracted guy behind the counter. “I was wondering . . .” He just kept looking down at the register, concentrating on it like he was trying to split the atom. “Hi. Hello?” Still nothing. “Brandon?” Then he looked up.
“How’d you know my name?!” Brother.
“Uh, your name tag,” I said and motioned to the pin he was proudly wearing.
“Oh. Cool. Hey.” And then he actually looked back down and started to mess with the register again.
“Um . . . excuse me? Do you have a minute?”
“Me? Sure.” As in so many situations in life, it turned out be a matter of asking the right question.
“Yeah. I was wondering if you could copy this poem onto some parchment paper. Or parchment-looking paper. It needs to fit in this frame, but I’ll do that part.”
“We don’t do framing,” he said.
“Right. That’s what I said. I’ll take care of that part myself.”
“Okay, cool.” And he went back to the register, this time pulling the paper-receipt spool out and inspecting that. Every time I go to Kinko’s and I’m met with this kind of stuff, I always think that I am being punk’d.
“Brandon?” I repeated.
“Hey!” he said, as if we were long-lost friends.
“I still need to make that copy.”
“Oh, okay. What can I help you with?”
“Okay . . . I need this piece of paper copied onto parchment-colored paper.”
“Sure. No problem. Would you like that on Sandstone or Desert Haze? Me? I prefer Sandstone.”
“Well, if you prefer it,” I said, thinking maybe if he was working with his preferred paper it would speed up the process. I picked up my cell phone and dialed Travis, who was now number three on my speed dial. I told him that I was running a little late but that I’d meet him downstairs at his place in twenty minutes.
Then I called the T-shirt printing place. I told them I’d be there in ten minutes. They informed me that the shirt wasn’t ready. This wasn’t good. I tried my best to stay sweet and asked how much longer they needed. A couple of hours, it turned out—which sucked. I figured that I’d just meet Travis and give him the framed poem at dinner and then we’d take a walk after dinner and I’d surprise him with the shirt.
Brandon came back with the poem. It looked great, but I still needed to burn the edges to give it that antiquated, distressed look. I took it outside and started to set it on fire. Brandon watched from inside and his eyes widened when he saw me take the lighter to it. He ran out.
“Miss! Miss!” I looked up. “I could have done it on Desert Haze! Sandstone was just my preference. If you didn’t like it, you could have said somet
hing. I could have redone it on Desert Haze.”
I marveled at his sudden conversion to a customer-service powerhouse and explained what I was doing. A relieved Brandon made his way back into Kinko’s and I continued to set the edges on fire and then quickly blow them out. By the time I was done it looked perfect. Well, not perfect but that was the point. It looked haggard and ancient and pretty close to what I’d wanted. I’d actually burned into one of the sentences but the last letters were still legible and I thought it added to the charm. I put it in the frame and set off to meet Travis.
* * * * *
When a man makes reservations for himself and his new girlfriend at One if by Land Two if by Sea, people familiar with this landmark New York restaurant are inspired to remarkable heights of inappropriate suspicion.
“What, are you getting engaged?” Todd asked me testily without an excited smile when I told him. I rolled my eyes.
“You keep leaping to such far-fetched conclusions, you’re going to pull your groin,” I told him.
“I may end up doing that anyway,” he mumbled.
“What was that?” I said, though I’d heard.
I realized that I needed to temper what I shared with Todd—a realization that of course came too late and left my stomach feeling like I’d just tried to outrelish that little Asian guy who wins the hot dog–eating contest every year: bloated and nauseated with my own insensitivity and all the by-products that came with it. But I wasn’t used to keeping things from Todd. And because he was the only one that knew the truth, this newfound awkwardness between us was that much harder.
At Christmastime, the ever-present threat of a marriage proposal is only part of the spectacle at One if by Land. And as I stepped out of the cab, I spotted another and felt a pleasant little chill—the twinkling lights on the Christmas tree through the beribboned window across the street. The restaurant looked to have been built into an old coach house, and the twisty street that it resided on—so unlike the broad, plain avenues we’d just left behind—made it that much more cozy. It was freezing outside, a few snowflakes were even making an appearance, but the restaurant had a fireplace going and a toasty holiday atmosphere that felt like home—the homes I’ve seen in magazines and woodcuts on the first pages of Dickens and Jane Austen novels, anyway. At my parents’ house, the fireplace was bricked in, painted off-white, and then covered by a porcelain peacock. Not charming, but definitely low-maintenance.
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