The main problem, as Emily had seen from the beginning, was that they were living beyond their means. She and Henry didn’t start out in the house on Grafton Street. It had been a dream. They had saved and done without, though Henry’s parents could have easily lent them the money. As the junior engineer in his department, Henry worked the shifts no one else wanted, banking as much overtime as he could. Westinghouse was booming, which meant sometimes for weeks she would eat her dinner and go to bed alone, but gradually, by sticking to a strict budget, they’d put together enough for a down payment and to qualify for a mortgage. Only then, when they could actually afford a nice place, did they start shopping.
Invariably, when she told this story, one of the children would say, “Yes, but how much did a house cost back then?”—as if that somehow voided the moral. They didn’t understand. The price wasn’t the point.
Being bad with money, they disliked discussing it, as if they were being reprimanded for something not their fault. It must have seemed unfair. They had worked, they had tried, and yet the numbers were implacable. No answer they gave would change the balance, and so they weathered Henry’s and then Emily’s lectures in silence as payment for the check that would temporarily refill their accounts.
It was this hopeless resistance Emily had to overcome, the afternoon of Christmas Eve, as she ushered Margaret into Henry’s office and closed the door. The tree was trimmed, the children fed, the lunch dishes done. On Henry’s desk rested a thick manila envelope, one of three that Gordon Byrne had prepared for her. The second was for Kenneth. In fairness to him, she would send it off later this week, once the Christmas rush was over and there was less chance of it being lost by the post office. The third she kept for her records, and to have one handy in the house, if and when necessary.
Inside the packet, along with a copy of her will and her basic tax information, was an appendix listing her assets—fully itemized bank and brokerage statements, the contracts and current balances of her annuities, the contents of her safe-deposit box, the most recent appraisal of the house, the title to her new car, and, in her own tremulous hand, a dozen pages cataloging her jewelry, her silver and wedding china and crystal, the better furniture and Oriental rugs and artwork, even Henry’s old woodworking machinery, now valuable antiques. As she’d compiled this daunting inventory, she recalled Matthew’s warning not to lay up treasures on earth but in heaven. It hadn’t escaped her that the possessions which meant the most to her—her books and music—were considered relatively worthless. As if to correct that misapprehension, she went back and, at the very top, above everything, added Henry’s Bible, a true heirloom.
Margaret took the chair to the side of the desk, her back against the wall, hands clasped in her lap like a prisoner facing interrogation. Emily assumed Henry’s spot. Originally the pantry, the office was a windowless box topped with a do-it-yourself drop ceiling, the frosted middle panel of which held two fluorescents that didn’t quite illuminate the room. Emily clicked on the gooseneck desk lamp, training it on the blotter like a spotlight, flipped the envelope over and slid out the packet.
The last time they’d gone over her arrangements, they’d argued, but that was when Margaret was still drinking. As with any decision involving large sums of money, one’s final instructions required an uncomfortable honesty. Trying to protect the children, Emily had made her reservations about Margaret formal and binding, naming Kenneth, who was younger, her sole executor, an act she would defend to this day and that she hoped Margaret, in her new life, could appreciate.
Her instinct now was to approach the subject head-on. This talk was necessary, if unpleasant, especially with all the changes in the estate tax. She didn’t want to let things get emotional, and she’d long given up on disarming Margaret.
“Here is everything,” she said without preface, patting the top sheet, “that you and Kenneth are going to need when I die. The biggest change is that I’ve made the two of you coexecutors, if that’s all right.”
She thought this would please her, but it was possible Margaret was still nursing that old hurt, because she showed no sign of relief or gratitude, just gave her the same grim face. Did Emily really think she could be exonerated so easily?
“After you both have a chance to go over it, you and he should talk about how you want to handle things. Justin and Sam are of age now, so the whole trust thing doesn’t apply, but everything else is pretty much the same. It’s relatively straightforward. The important thing is to make sure you pay half of the estate taxes within ninety days, that way the state gives you a discount.”
“Okay.”
“Right now the total is under the federal limit. That may change next year, depending on Congress, so check with your accountant, or with Gordon. He’s going to be the one you’ll be sitting down with when the time comes. The estate will be paying for him anyway, so make good use of him.”
“His card’s in there?”
“Right here. And this is a power of attorney I’ve had him draw up, so either of you can act for me in case I’m incapacitated. I’ve also asked that no extraordinary measures be taken. After what happened to Louise, I don’t want there to be any question about that. I’m keeping that my decision, not anyone else’s. I hope you understand.”
“Of course.”
On she went, pausing every so often to impress upon Margaret this or that fine point. Emily herself would have been asking questions and taking notes, but Margaret never interjected, merely nodded along, as if reserving judgment until she could parse the whole document. Emily summarized the sections and passed them across the blotter to her—Gordon’s cover letter, the will itself, and then the separate, impressive addenda.
“If you want the car, you’ll have to establish fair value and deduct that from your share.”
Given the state of their minivan, this made sense, but Margaret let the offer pass untouched. Likewise, she didn’t volunteer any preferences for the furniture or the dishes, as if that could all wait till another time.
“That’s it, I guess,” Emily said. “Unless you have any questions?”
“Not right now.”
“Thank you, dear. I’m sorry we had to do this today, but it’s something that had to be done.”
“I know,” Margaret said. “Thank you. It’s just a little overwhelming.”
“Consider it your reward for putting up with me all these years.”
“Don’t joke.”
“Sorry.” She hadn’t meant to, it just popped out.
“You’re the one who’s put up with a lot,” Margaret said. “I know I haven’t been the easiest daughter in the world. I’m trying to do better.”
“You are.”
They both rose, and, as had become her habit since finding sobriety, Margaret hugged her, patting her back. “I love you, Mom.”
“I love you too, dear,” Emily said, but once Margaret was gone, she clicked off the lamp and sat for a moment alone, scattered and unsatisfied, trumped somehow. She thought she’d feel better after their talk, as if, in preparing to leave this world, she might purge the past and unburden herself. Instead she felt empty, and foolish for thinking either of those was possible, whether that was her fault or not. She thought of all the time they’d wasted, all the pointless battles they’d fought, and while she knew in her heart that she wanted more than anything for the two of them to be reconciled, finally, she couldn’t shake the idea that they’d both waited till the last minute, and now it was too late.
THE GIFT
Christmas Day it rained and Sarah spent the afternoon in bed. Her cough worried Margaret. Tomorrow, early, they were headed back to Michigan, where it was snowing. The children were supposed to go skiing over New Year’s with Jeff’s family at their place in the U.P.
“He can’t expect her to go if she’s like this,” Emily said.
“Of course he will,” Margaret said, as if it wasn’t a question.
Emily wanted to suggest they stay until she was bet
ter. Anything to prolong their visit. After that first interminable day, how quickly the time had passed. She could feel it flowing beneath them like an undertow.
With Margaret and Arlene helping, there was no room in the kitchen. “Too many cooks,” Arlene joked, but the turkey was perfect. They ate dinner and let the dishes sit as they gathered around the fire, drinking coffee and admiring the tree, sharing their old stories. Rufus lounged at Emily’s feet, his head resting on a new stuffed Eeyore as if it were a pillow. Before long Sarah excused herself, thanking everyone for her presents and blowing good-night kisses so she wouldn’t infect them.
“It’s okay if you want to go up,” Margaret told Justin, engrossed in his new iPhone. “I’ll take care of the dishes.”
“Merry Christmas,” he said, giving each of them a hug.
“I’m glad I saved my receipts,” Arlene said when he was gone, because the sweater she’d given him was a medium and he was a large now. She’d also given Margaret a second copy of Eat, Pray, Love—the first coming from Kenneth and Lisa—but overall their gifts had been a success.
Margaret poked the fire and sat on the floor by Rufus, smoothing his coat with one hand. Emily had asked her not to get her anything too dear—her gift was just them being there—but the shot of Emily on the dock at Chautauqua with all the grandchildren that last summer was precious. Where on earth did she find it?
“You’re not the only one with pictures.”
“I can’t believe it’s been seven years.”
“I can,” Arlene said.
As the last log collapsed and the fire dwindled, they picked at the box of Bolan’s chocolates Arlene gave her every year, though they were already stuffed with pumpkin pie and Christmas cookies, until, groaning and sticking out her tongue, Margaret fit the lid back on.
Over Emily’s protests, all three of them cleaned the kitchen. The machine could fit only so much. The crystal and the pots and pans they had to do by hand. Margaret washed while Emily and Arlene dried. They worked together easily, hip-to-hip, a team, gabbing and laughing, then falling silent again, busy putting things away, and Emily was content. As gloomily as the day had begun, it had ended well. If this was their last Christmas, then this was the memory she wanted Margaret to keep.
By the time they finished, Arlene needed to get home. She was coming to the airport in the morning to see them off, but Margaret walked her to her car and hugged her goodbye.
“The cold feels good,” Margaret said on the stoop, waving after her.
“Of course it’s going to snow tomorrow,” Emily said.
“As long as it holds off till the afternoon.”
“I think it’s supposed to.” It was just a couple of inches, though for an instant she pictured a storm pushing in early, closing the roads, making them stay a few more days.
Inside, the grandfather clock bonged, reminding her that they had to get up in six hours.
“It really isn’t such a bad little tree,” Margaret said.
“It turned out nice, didn’t it?’
“That’s what Linus says in the show.”
“I get it.”
“It did turn out nice. Everything did.”
“Did it?”
“It did. Thank you for having us.”
“Of course,” Emily said. “You know you’re always welcome.”
“I know.”
“I wish Sarah felt better.”
“I hope you don’t get what she has.”
“Maybe she could come to Chautauqua this summer? She could bring Max.”
“I’ll tell her you said that.”
“I barely talked to her at all.”
“I know,” Margaret said. “I’m sure she feels bad about that.”
She offered to help lock up, but Emily told her it was okay, by now she had it down to a science. They hugged good night at the bottom of the stairs—“Feliz Navidad,” Margaret said—and Emily went through the rooms, turning off the lights. She left the tree for last, parting the screen of the fireplace and scattering the embers, then standing back and noting its speckled reflection in the front window, and her own silhouette against the stairs. Yesterday she’d been desperate. Today she felt love. Was it just Christmas? If the clock struck now, would the first spirit appear, take her hand and show her the folly of her ways? At her age, it was dangerous to think the past was all she had, her life already defined, when every day was another chance.
In bed she wondered if she believed that. In the morning she tried again, but her mind wasn’t pliable enough, and there was no time.
They had to be out of the house by five-forty-five. She was used to waking early, but alone, at her own pace. She rushed through her shower so Margaret could hop in after her. She would have made them breakfast, but Margaret said they’d get something at the airport. They still had to pack.
Outside it was night. Under the streetlights, the asphalt was drying in patches. To Emily’s dismay the Post-Gazette hadn’t arrived yet. She fed Rufus and brewed a pot of coffee, made herself an English muffin and waited. She’d told Arlene five-thirty. When the clock struck the half hour, she mulled calling her, and then, before she finished her cup, the doorbell rang.
Arlene apologized for being late. “I’m surprised you’re not in the car already.”
“They’re still getting their act together.”
They saw nothing of them until exactly five-forty-five, when Justin bumped his suitcase down the stairs. Minutes later, Sarah clunked down with wet hair, followed by Margaret carrying a heavy duffel bag and shouldering an overstuffed backpack. She grabbed her jacket and scarf from the closet. No, no coffee, they had to get going. Emily held the front door for her, staving off Rufus with a hand.
“Have you got everything?” Arlene asked as they turned onto Highland.
“If not,” Margaret said, “it’s too late now.”
Downtown they had the tunnel to themselves. The Parkway West was empty, only a few unlucky truckers working on Boxing Day. In back, sandwiched between Margaret and Justin, Sarah dozed with her mouth open. The sun wouldn’t be up for another hour, and Emily kept to the right lane, driving the limit, yet she felt like she was speeding. She thought it was wrong that she should have to help them leave.
They climbed Green Tree hill, swung under the Norfolk and Western trestle and through Carnegie.
“How are we doing on time?” Arlene asked, as if she were going with them.
“I think we’re okay,” Emily said, though it would be close. To get the bags on the plane, they needed to be there forty-five minutes before departure.
They didn’t have time to park the car. Emily pulled up to the curbside checkin and they all piled out into the cold. A skycap helped Justin unload the way-back, the hazards flashing over their faces while Margaret dealt with the ticket agent. There was a state trooper sitting behind them, so Emily could leave the wheel only briefly to say her goodbyes—sloppy and impromptu, not at all what she wanted—before they were through the doors and gone.
It was a shock, back in the car, to find that, once again, it was just herself and Arlene.
“I hope Sarah’s okay,” Emily said.
“She was pretty miserable.”
“I did like her hair like that.”
“I got used to it.”
She didn’t want to be alone, and they had to get off at Edgewood anyway, so she suggested breakfast at the Eat ’n Park, coupons be damned.
“I actually have one,” Arlene said, patting her purse.
“Well,” Emily said, “this is a Merry Christmas.”
HOUSEKEEPING
Though their visit had been short, and relatively quiet, she felt the change in the house immediately. Upon coming home, she waved Arlene away and closed the door and was alone again, her peace and privacy restored. The tree still lent its festive presence to the living room, but without the heightened sense of expectancy that made Advent her favorite season. There was nothing to wait for—the holiday was over. She wo
uldn’t see them till the summer, for one week, Sarah possibly not until Thanksgiving, if then.
“Yes, Mr. Poofus,” she said, taking his face in her hands, “it’s just us. You don’t have to share me with anyone.”
He followed her through the upstairs as she stripped off the sheets and pillowcases. Justin had dropped his wet towels on his unmade bed, provoking an “Honestly” that Rufus thought was directed at him. Margaret, sleeping in her old room, had pushed the keepsake pictures on her dresser to one side to make space. Along with a full glass of water that left a ghostly ring on her nightstand, Sarah had forgotten her phone charger, still plugged in and drawing electricity. The hall bath’s shower caddy held someone’s fancy shampoo and conditioner. From the hook on the back of the door hung a red plaid nightshirt. Emily gathered these fugitive pieces in a box she quarantined in Henry’s office to mail at some later date, and kept going. She moved the booze and did a complete redistribution of the Kleenex. Once started, it was hard to stop, as if by keeping busy she might not miss them. Room by room, she cleaned and rearranged and straightened, and in a few hours changed everything back to exactly how it had been before, wiping away any trace of disorder, as if they’d never been there.
UNDER THE WEATHER
It started with a harmless cough, a dry tickle that progressed, overnight, to a scratchy throat. She began to sneeze—sometimes so uncontrollably she wet her pants, though that could happen at the best of times. Her head filled with mucus, plugging her ears, and she felt blunted and dull, as if she were moving underwater.
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