by Debra Doxer
They both studied me seeming not quite sure how they should respond. "Well,” Barbara began, “it seems to me that there’s quite a lot here. You’ve got the ocean and the beaches, great restaurants, art galleries, and of course the Kennedys live here.”
I tried to keep my face expressionless as I nodded politely at her, wondering if I really needed to point out that the Kennedys were completely irrelevant to me. In the end, I just smiled and responded to the rest of their questions with the expected platitudes.
As I walked out of the kitchen with my glass of eggnog, I heard Professor Sheffield talking. "Mr. Hiller wrote a wonderful paper in one of my classes. That’s why I hired him. He compared a photograph of a homeless man to the downfall of the Roman empire..."
Concentration was now impossible. Warmed by the eggnog, I sat staring blankly at the screen, my fingers poised, frozen over the keyboard. Just then, I heard a soft, wet sneeze. I looked to my right and there was little Rachel standing beside me, the top of her curly head barely reached the surface of the desk. She looked up at me as she wiped at her nose with the back of her hand. Her brown, liquid eyes were intent on my own.
"Hello," I said.
She stood there silently. Her nose was red and runny.
“Do you have a cold?” I asked.
She didn’t respond.
"Is there something you want, Rachel?"
At the sound of her name she blinked and bit her bottom lip. "Why?" she asked softly in a high voice. She appeared close to tears again.
"Why what?" I asked.
"Why did you do it?"
I blinked at her, my thoughts veering off in an unwelcomed direction. "What did I do?” I finally managed to ask.
She pointed down at the leg of my chair as a solitary, fat teardrop ran down her cheek. I followed her finger, leaning over to glance under my seat, and then I saw it. I tried not to laugh. When I sat back down and pushed my chair in toward the desk, the back leg had inadvertently impaled Barbie. Her rubber face was completely squashed. A fan of yellow hair surrounded the flattened head. I quickly stood and moved the chair. Rachel kneeled to the floor, grabbed her doll and ran away.
I sat down again slowly. The symbolism of Barbie’s fate was not lost on me. Suddenly, I wanted to go home.
I said good-bye to Barbara and her children. Rachel was hiding behind her mother the entire time. The professor handed me my check and insisted on walking me to the door. I stood in the open doorway, my coat on, the cool air drifting into the house. "Have a happy holiday, Professor Sheffield."
"Yes, you, too. I'd like to ask you a question. This book is going to be an ongoing process. Would you like to continue working for me during the next semester? I'll have the computer moved to my office on campus."
I already had two jobs lined up, but I’d never before turned down work. "Yes, that would be great,” I replied. “Thank you."
"Very good then. Have a Merry Christmas with your family."
Right about then, Professor Sheffield, with his white beard and ready smile was looking a lot like Santa Claus to me.
I stopped off at the bank and deposited almost the entire amount of the check into my savings account. I took the rest and went to a linen store where I purchased a new pillow and pillowcase. I was so thrilled by the professor's offer I actually forgot my anxiety for almost an hour, until I returned home.
"Seth called twice," my mother said. She was sitting at the kitchen table dressed in a white housecoat covered with bright yellow daisies. “He said you weren’t answering your cell phone. So he tried the house.”
I grabbed my phone in my pocket and sure enough, I had two missed calls. "I'll call him back later," I said moving past her attempting to hide the shopping bag that contained my new pillow. I wasn’t ready to talk to him yet.
"What's in the bag, Daniel?” She was tilting her head to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of it.
"It's a new pillow.” I could have explained it, clearly she was asking for an explanation, which was that mine smelled terrible, like this entire house. But I lied. "I'm used to a fuller pillow at school. I couldn't sleep with the one in my room.”
"Well you should have said something. I’ve got plenty of pillows in the attic you could have tried."
I shrugged. "Oh well, too late now.” I started to head upstairs, but then turned back. "Are you cooking a big dinner tonight?"
She looked put out by the question. "Of course. Why would this year be any different? I cook it every Christmas eve. Don't you want me to? Is that why Seth called? Are you two going out together?"
"No, not at all. I just thought, well I.....I mean is Dad going to be here?"
She stood and walked over to the refrigerator. She peered inside for a moment, but closed the door without taking anything out. "I don't know. But there will be enough food either way."
I picked up the shopping bag. I was exhausted and my head was starting to pound. "I'm going to bring this up to my room.” I bounded up the stairs and down the hallway. What the hell was wrong with them? She didn't know if he was coming home for dinner again? On Christmas Eve? I dropped the bag onto my floor and walked to my parents bedroom at the other end of the hallway. Mom always kept a bottle of aspirin in the top drawer of her night stand. I didn't wander into their bedroom often. It was decorated in brown and gold, with a coffee brown rug, yellow curtains and a shiny gold bedspread. The heavy dressers and night stands were dark wood with black circular knots.
Basically, no one can imagine their parents actually having sex. However, here I was looking a lot like my mom, proof that they had done it at least once. But how anyone who wasn't blind could actually become turned on in this horrible bedroom was beyond me.
I walked over to the dresser on her side of the bed and pulled open the tiny drawer by its ornate gold handle. There were torn pieces of paper scattered inside with my mother's mostly illegible handwriting, old grocery lists and telephone numbers. After rummaging in the messy drawer for a moment, I found the white bottle I was searching for. I opened the cap and dispensed two, white pills into my palm. I replaced the bottle, and as I did so, I inadvertently moved aside a white piece of notebook paper. Beneath it there was an orange prescription bottle. I withdrew the plastic bottle and peered at the typed writing on the label. Dr. Lowenthal, her doctor's name was on it. The prescription was for forty pills, thirty milligrams each of Restoril to be taken at bedtime for insomnia. I opened the container. The capsules were blue and red. She had at least half of them left.
These tiny pills were the explanation I had been lacking for her sleeping late in the mornings and always appearing rather drowsy. I knew a little about sleeping pills. At school any type of drug you could want was readily available at all times for the right price. During my freshman year, the last week of finals, I was so high on caffeine and sugar after staying awake three days in a row to study, that I had insomnia the night before the exam. My roommate had a drawer full of illicit pills. He suggested I take one to get some much needed sleep. I'm not against doing drugs exactly. I just never had the extra cash, and I had always preferred the tried and true effects of alcohol. That night I took a sleeping pill, slept peacefully throughout night and nearly overslept for my test. I dragged myself out of bed, feeling drowsy and hung over, unable to keep my head up.
Why did my mother need sleeping pills? I nearly put the pills right back. Then I thought better of it and pocketed a few, recalling last night and my own fear of the sleepless nights to come. I closed her drawer and walked back to my bedroom where I hid the pills in the deep satin-lined pocket of my wool coat at the back of the closet. I knew it was not beyond my mother to curiously rummage through my things. Then I went downstairs to the kitchen for a glass of water with which to swallow the aspirin.
Mom was puttering about in the kitchen, placing pots and pans noisily onto the green countertops when I returned. I filled a glass at the sink and waited until she turned away to swallow the aspirin.
"Did you c
all Seth back?" she asked as she bent down to retrieve something from a low cabinet.
"No. I will later."
She stood and looked at me. "Did you two have a fight last night?"
"No."
"What time did you get in?"
I really wanted to change the subject. "Not too late. So what are you making for dinner?"
"What I always make. Ham and some vegetables. And there's your favorite double chocolate chip ice cream in the freezer for dessert.” She pulled the heavy ham from the refrigerator and placed it next to the pot. "That was awfully nice of your professor to let you come home early."
"He offered me a job for next semester."
She turned to me smiling. "Oh that's wonderful. You should buy him a little something to thank him."
"I wasn't planning on spending his money on him."
"I'm not saying to spend a fortune. You could get him something small, like a neck tie or a cute mug with one of those sayings like Have A Nice Day."
"I don't think so, Mom."
She pursed her lips together in disapproval. "It doesn't hurt to show you have some manners, Daniel. Just because the rest of the world has lost them, that doesn't mean you have to."
"But I don't have manners. You do,” I said giving into my grumpiness. “So in reality I would only be showing any manners because you told me to. Actually, why don't we just cut out the middle man here and tell Professor Sheffield to go ahead, take my salary, and buy himself something nice."
She shook her head. "Well you don't have to get sarcastic. I may be old-fashioned, but it would be the right thing to do."
I didn't even buy my parents Christmas gifts, just ridiculously corny cards with reindeer and obnoxiously joyful elves. But her words didn't bypass me completely. I didn't want Professor Sheffield to think I was without manners. I supposed I could buy him a new pipe. How much did those cost? In the end I forgot all about it.
Seth did not call again that day, and I still wasn’t all that eager to speak to him. There seemed to be no word about any homes being broken into or any dead rich residents. Maybe the whole thing would just go away. During the course of the day, I’d decided that I was going back to school early, right after Christmas. Someone had to have a couch I could crash on until the dorms reopened. I could take the professor’s notebooks back with me and continue working. My mother was going to be heartbroken when I told her. I leaned back into couch and closed my eyes. My headache was not getting any better.
ten
More people commit suicide during the holidays than any other time of year. As I lay on the couch in a semiconscious state, I half listened to a news story about this phenomenon. The TV glowed, the daylight waned, and the smell of the ham cooking overwhelmed the scent of mothballs that lingered in the house. I shifted position lazily and looked under the tree. My cards were there in white envelopes labeled Mom and Dad. There were two presents wrapped in green paper. I assumed one was for me from my parents, but I wasn't quite sure who the other one could be for. My mother informed my aunt of what Dad had done with her check so long ago, and she never sent another gift.
Dad came through the door just before seven, loosening his tie and shouldering off his heavy coat. The table was set, and bubbling pots sat on the stove. I tiredly leaned back against the door frame in the kitchen and watched my father sit himself down at the head of the table. The rubber bottoms of the chair squeaked across the linoleum as he slid over to his place setting. Mom was spooning various foods into serving dishes. She slipped a green Kermit the Frog oven mitt over her hand and brought the steaming plates to the table.
She looked over at me. "Aren't you going to sit down, Daniel?"
I silently pulled out my chair and sat myself down. I immediately picked up the scent of cigarette smoke lingering on my father's clothes. It mixed with the cooked carrots and green beans. Mom then placed the perfectly cooked ham onto the table and ceremoniously handed my father a carving knife. Dad stared at the knife for a moment before picking it up in his large rough hand.
As he stood and began to work on the carving, Mom took her seat, wiping her hands off onto her apron and smiling joyfully. She reached over and placed her delicate hand onto mine. "It's so nice to have you home. Isn't it, George?"
At the sound of his name, Dad looked up at her. "What?"
"I said it's nice to have Daniel home with us."
"Oh. Of course it is.” He looked over at me and smiled.
I returned the gesture.
We ate mainly in silence, Mom making attempts at conversation, my father and I answering monosyllabically.
"Daniel's professor asked him to come work for him next term. Isn't that nice?"
"Very nice.”
"Tell your father what you'll be doing."
I glanced up at him. He was engrossed in his meal, chewing loudly. "I'm transcribing his notes onto a computer for a book he's writing."
"A book. Did you hear that?" Mom asked.
"Yes, I’m sitting right here," he remarked without looking up.
Mom continued to eat and talk happily. "So how was work today?"
"Fine," he answered.
"Were you very busy?"
"No.” He was spooning food into his mouth as though at any moment someone might take his plate away.
"How was Tom today?" Mom asked nonchalantly.
I looked up. That was a trick question, I thought.
"He's fine."
"So you saw Tom today? Even on Christmas Eve you have to go to that bar with your friends."
Dad put down his fork, looked up and sighed. "Maggie, I'm here now, aren't I?"
"Well, aren't we honored. His highness has graced us with his presence."
The muscles in my stomach tightened. I dropped my fork. "Please, can you not fight for one night?” I pleaded. Ordinarily, I would not have said anything, but I couldn't help myself. I couldn’t deal with this tonight.
They looked at me. My father wore a resigned expression, but my mother, her eyes filled with tears.
I tried to diffuse things. "Please don't get upset. Dad came home in plenty of time for dinner. Let's just finish. Okay?"
She nodded her head, sniffling quietly. I looked over at my father. He was staring down at his plate again but he’d stopped eating. I wished I were anywhere but here right now.
We finished the annual Christmas Eve meal in strained silence. Then Mom cleared the table and Dad relocated to his favorite chair in the living room. Next on the agenda was opening the gifts and cards. We had decided to do it tonight instead of tomorrow morning. My father said he had to meet with a potential client tomorrow, on Christmas day. I don't think Mom believed him.
I helped to dry the dishes, and then I followed Mom into the other room where the yellow tree lights sparkled, reflected back a thousand times over in the bevels of the tiny glass animal figurines she kept everywhere. I pulled my cards out from under the tree and handed each of them one. I received a kiss on the cheek from one parent and a nod from the other. I sat on the couch while they opened them. I hadn't written much, just the ordinary merry wishes and so forth.
"I'm sorry I couldn't buy you any gifts."
My mother waved my apology away. "Don’t be sorry. We know you have to save your money.” She stood, took a present from under the tree and handed it to me.
It was a square box, but it was very light. It felt as though there was nothing in it. I pulled the wrapping off quickly, ripping it carelessly. A brown cardboard box was revealed. I opened the top and saw a white envelope sitting inside. I withdrew the envelope and looked over at my mother curiously.
"I didn't want you to only have an envelope under the tree. So I put it in that nice box. Go on, open it."
I cringed, knowing that was exactly what I had done for them but realizing that my mother had not meant it as a dig. I ripped open the envelope and found a gift certificate for thirty dollars to a bookstore. "Thanks. This is great."
"You don't like it."
<
br /> I sighed. I hadn’t thanked her enthusiastically enough. I stood, walked over to her chair and gave her a hug. "I love it. This was a great idea. Thank you. Really."
"Well, I thought you’d like it. But it was so hard to decide what to get you. I really don't know what your interests are anymore. But if you don't want it...."
"Mom, I want it. It's perfect."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure. I'm really really sure."
She smiled, finally satisfied. She picked up the next box and brought it over to my father. The box was pretty big, and it definitely was not as light as mine had been. He looked up at her surprised. I too stared in amazement. Neither my mother nor my father had exchanged gifts on Christmas for as long as I could remember. She placed it on his lap and stepped away.
He fingered it gingerly, staring from the gift to her. "Maggie, I....well I...."
"Open it," she urged.
He hesitated for a moment, but then he carefully took off the red bow and peeled away the paper. When the box was visible, I recognized the logo of the local hardware store on it. He pulled open the top and lifted out a new tool belt. It was made of heavy beige leather with lots of pockets and hooks and a big adjustable metal clasp. I knew Dad needed a new one, but he would never spend the money. I watched him examine it carefully. Mom looked on with pride. It was a nice moment. I was nearly overwhelmed by the quick glimpse of happiness I saw in my father's eyes. But then his expression changed. The beginnings of a scowl became apparent. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach.
"How much did this cost?" he asked, holding it up.
She backed away slowly and sat down in her chair. "Not much. It was on sale. I wanted to buy you a Christmas present. Is that such a terrible thing?"
"We can't afford it."
"I saved the money myself."
I sat back on the couch and sighed. Dad put the belt back in the box. "What do you mean you saved the money? Whatever money you have I give you."
"It came from the grocery allowance.” Her voice was trembling slightly. "I clipped coupons and saved a little extra here and there."