The front room was dark. He plugged in the lights, and the room was suddenly pretty. The spindly tree glowed in the corner, blinking slowly on and off. He switched on the overhead light and bent to look in the stove. The fire had burned down to red coals, but they radiated so much heat he felt as if his skin were burning.
He pulled on his jacket and went out for more wood. When he elbowed his way back in, he set the logs by the door. He could hear his mother and Roddy Moyers talking in the front room. The house seemed very warm, the air thick with heat and the smell of turkey. The whiskey bottle stood on the drain board beside the carton of eggnog. Kenny glanced into the other room. His mother was sitting on the couch and Moyers had pulled Kenny’s rocker over to sit across from her. Someone had turned up the radio.
He poured himself a half glass of eggnog and, checking to see that his mother wasn’t coming, filled it with whiskey. He had to stir a long time before the clear amber-colored liquid disappeared. When he dumped the new logs by the stove, his mother and Moyers stopped talking.
He had to get his drink from the kitchen, and it felt awkward walking back into the front room. What were they going to do now? He wished he could turn on the TV.
“Sit,” his mother said. She indicated the couch next to her. He sat at the end, both feet on the floor, leaning out over his knees with his glass in both hands.
Moyers’s glass was dark with whiskey.
“You play football?” He rocked forward and addressed Kenny.
“No.”
“Ought to go out next fall.”
Kenny saw Moyers was trying to make conversation. He shrugged.
“You know the coach?” Moyers asked.
“Sure,” Kenny said. “Nice guy.”
Moyers laughed, and Lenna asked what they meant.
“Coach,” Moyers said. “I guess you could say he’s got a temper. One time in gym he was going to teach us boxing. He was standing out on the mat with the gloves on, asking for volunteers. Nobody volunteered. So, finally I went up with him, and he knocked me out cold. One punch.”
“That’s terrible,” his mother said.
Moyers shrugged. “That’s just the way he was.”
“Still is,” Kenny said. He sipped his drink. In the first one, he could hardly taste the whiskey. But this one burned his throat. He looked over to make sure his mother hadn’t seen him wince.
The radio voice announced an hour of oldies with no commercials. The first song was “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.”
“I used to love this song,” his mother said.
“You want to dance?” Roddy said. He tilted forward on the runners of his chair.
“No,” his mother said. “There’s no room.” Kenny thought she was going to giggle.
Roddy lifted his chair with one hand and swung it back out of the way.
“Sure, there is.” He stood in the middle of the floor. “Come on.”
His mother shook her head, smiling, but Roddy reached down and took her hand. He pulled her up into his arms, and slowly she began to move with the music. They did a slow kind of swing, with Roddy twirling his mother under his arm, then the two of them rocking side to side together. They were good.
The next song came on, a little faster, and Kenny watched them make up new steps. His mother looked like a girl. Her face was flushed pink. When the music paused, she stood back, laughing. Roddy sank down on the couch beside Kenny and threw his head back.
“Take over,” he said.
Kenny’s heart jumped.
“Come on,” his mother said. “Get on up here.”
“I don’t know how.”
“There’s no ‘how’ to it,” Roddy said. “You just get up and move around.”
“Come on,” his mother pleaded. “I’ll show you.”
“What,” Moyers said, “you afraid of the coach?”
Kenny stood up, grinning, and at first felt a wave of weakness in his stomach.
His mother took his hand.
“It’s all in the wrist,” she said.
“That’s what they always say.”
“No, really. Just use your wrist and arm. Pull me in.”
Kenny pulled, and his mother jerked toward him.
“With the music,” she said. “Now push.”
He gave a small push and his mother spun away, her whirling skirt billowing with air.
“That’s the way.”
Slowly, Kenny started to get the hang of it. When the music stopped, his mother showed him how to raise his arm and let her duck under, and on the next song he moved around the room, twirling his mother farther and farther out to the end of his grasp. Roddy sat on the couch, leaning back to clap his hands together when they made a tricky move. On the next song, he cut in, and Kenny sat on the couch. He leaned over and took a sip of Roddy’s drink. He’d never seen his mother so happy. He felt giddy himself. Roddy Moyers was okay, he thought. But the oddness of it hadn’t gone away. Why was Moyers in their house on Christmas? Something wasn’t right about that.
When the song finished, his mother stood breathing hard in the middle of the room, Roddy’s arm around her waist. The fire had died down, but still it was hot.
“Let’s go downtown,” Roddy said. “We can look at the lights. Go see the manger.”
“Oh, no,” his mother said. “I’m done.” She pushed her hair back from her face with the heel of her hand.
Roddy looked from Kenny to his mother. “It’s early,” he said.
Kenny stood up, thinking he would check the fire. But the room darkened, and he felt a second wave of sickness rise in his stomach. He sat back down.
“Why don’t you guys go?”
“No,” his mother said. “It’s Christmas. I’m not going to leave you here alone.”
“I’ll be okay,” Kenny said. “Christmas isn’t ’til tomorrow.”
“Have you ever seen the manger scene?” Roddy said. “It’s great. The Four-H kids trailer in their sheep and donkeys. And the Elks Club gets dressed up—you see a lot of bathrobes. Last year Joseph got so drunk we almost lost him.”
“Go on,” Kenny said. “I’m going to bed.” If he stayed up any longer, he was going to be sick.
After his mother was gone, Kenny walked out to the kitchen. His mother had put the leftovers away, but the dishes were piled up in the sink, greasy with bones and leftover bits of soggy lettuce. He started to scrape the dishes, but he had to stop suddenly and go lie down.
He lay on the couch with his eyes open. When he closed them, the room turned black and spun around. He didn’t think he could make it up the stairs. The radio was playing the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, but the music seemed to swell and churn inside his head. In the corner, the Christmas tree lights blinked on and off, a faint twinkle in the corner of his eye, pale pink and yellow and blue and green.
When he awoke, he knew it was much later. He had been dreaming of his dad. Another Christmas when his dad had been away from home. The tree lights were still blinking, but the radio station had gone off the air and the room was filled with a static buzz. It was very cold, and he was alone in the house.
19
Cynthia overheard her parents in the kitchen, and she hung back on the stairs. She was supposed to play in the Christmas service at church, but if they didn’t leave soon, they’d be late.
“Cynthia can deliver the poor boxes,” her mother said.
“No,” her dad said, “I can’t trust her.” He paused for a moment and continued. “Not in this snow.”
His first words hurt so much that Cynthia kept hearing them, as if he hadn’t said the second part, the part about the weather. She knew why her parents were arguing. Her dad was lined up to drop off boxes of food after the service. But his shoulder was giving him trouble. He didn’t like to admit it, but Cynthia had seen him wince getting up from the dinner table.
“She’ll have one of the boys along.”
“Now, that’s a comfort,” her dad said.
“Well, I�
��m a little concerned,” her mother spoke softly. “You can’t afford to be laid up.”
Cynthia stepped around the door frame. Her dad stood up, and before he saw her, she saw his jaw tighten with pain. His face was damp and gray. She couldn’t stand to see him hurting.
“We can do it,” she said.
Her dad gave her a sharp look. She was wearing wool slacks and a sweater.
“That what you’re wearing to church?”
“I’ll keep my coat on.”
“God can’t see under your coat?”
“God doesn’t care about the outside.”
“You don’t know what God cares about. Go up and change.”
“We’ll be late.”
“Cynthia,” her mother said. “Don’t talk back. Go on upstairs.”
Cynthia turned and went up the stairs. She felt hollow, as if her body were only a thin shell around her, and getting up in front of everyone to play at church seemed impossible. Sometimes she hated her mother, who cared only about how things looked. There was a false note in her mother’s pretense toward religion, but Cynthia was so used to it it never occurred to her to argue or complain.
On the drive into town, Cynthia watched the snow come down, hypnotic; it seemed like the car was standing still and the snowflakes were shooting at them. Her mother and father were quiet in the silence of the snowfall.
In town, the lights glowed faint, and people drove slowly, with an odd politeness, like dreamers. Her dad pulled up and parked behind the church.
Cynthia’s piece was short, but it came at the end of the service, giving her more time to be nervous. She settled into the pew, her coat pulled tight around her even though the church was brightly lit and overheated. She could hear the furnace kick on in the basement. At the end of the sermon, she slipped outside, came in through the side door, and stood in the doorway off the entrance to the altar.
The congregation was sparse, scattered in the long, empty pews. They were mostly old people. The church seemed so much bigger from the altar. Cynthia always thought the minister liked it because he could look down on everyone. She only wanted the service to be over.
When it was time to play, she forced herself to walk across to the piano. For a moment, she wasn’t sure she could make the notes. But when it came, the music flowed on its own, and while her hands were on the keys she felt better.
After the benediction, she followed her parents downstairs into the basement and ate a dry cookie cut in the shape of a Christmas tree. Her father joined the men in the back, dragging heavy cartons of canned goods across the linoleum toward the door. She went to stand beside her mother, who never took her eyes off Earl. He was breathing hard, and his white shirt clung damp between his shoulder blades. When all the boxes were stacked, her mother made up her mind. “He can’t go out in his condition,” she said. She set off toward the circle of men resting by the door. “I’ll have the men speak to him.”
Harold Cray, the saddle maker, had been in the choir. He helped Cynthia carry boxes to the car and load them in the trunk. She could hear the men arguing, her dad’s voice rising, and the other men lowering their voices to remonstrate with him. She heard her father grumble Harold’s name. If he heard Earl, Harold paid no attention. He finished loading the boxes and closed the trunk. Only his strange eyes showed between his hat brim and his muffler. He waited on the other side of the car, slapping his green wool gloves together to stay warm.
Standing beside the car, Cynthia felt the snowflakes touch lightly on her face and melt. She slipped in behind the wheel, but she waited for her mother to come to the window before she turned the key. Harold lowered himself into the passenger seat and slammed the door.
“Harold,” her mother said. “Get done and get her home. It’s Christmas Eve. We should all be home.”
Her father glared at Harold as if he wanted him to disappear. “Ten,” her father said. “No later.” He reached up and swept a glove across the snowy windshield. “Turn your defrost on.”
Cynthia watched her parents walk over to the neighbors’ car, her father looking back, his mouth tight with anger, and climb in the backseat before she turned on the windshield wipers and the defrost fan. When the other car had driven away, she backed slowly out of the parking lot into the wide street.
She drove and Harold delivered the boxes. She kept the heater running and watched him lumber up to the doors and ring the bells. He wore army surplus camouflage and a dull green cowboy hat. When somebody opened the door, he mumbled “Merry Christmas,” shoved the carton into their arms, and loped back to the car. Sometimes an old person opened the door, looking bewildered, and Harold had to carry the box inside. At the last house, the people weren’t home. Harold walked back to the car, set the box down in the snow, and leaned in the window.
“Nobody home.”
Cynthia shrugged. “Just leave it.”
“Dogs’ll get it,” Harold said.
“It’s just cans,” she said.
“No, this one’s got boxes.” He bent down out of sight. “And beer.”
“Just leave it,” Cynthia said.
Harold shook his head. He came around the car and held the carton of bottles up to the window.
“Take it,” he said.
She set the beer on the seat beside her, and Harold ran the box back up to the porch. She remembered her dad saying something about Harold staying off the booze. When he got back in the car, they both sat there, not looking at the beer on the seat, and Cynthia burst out laughing. She couldn’t believe it. Somebody from church had buried beer in the bottom of the Christmas box.
“What are we going to do with it?” Harold said, his voice so blank and innocent that they both heard it and laughed out loud. Harold’s laugh surprised her. It was low and masculine and musical.
Cynthia gunned the motor and let the big car fishtail across the road. With one hand, she spun the wheel with the skid and straightened out.
“Jesus,” she said. “I guess we’ll have to get rid of the evidence.”
“We got no opener.”
“We’ll just have to get one.”
Cynthia pulled in behind the city hall. She lifted two bottles. They were cold and beaded with water. She climbed out and walked behind the car. She’d seen men pop bottles open on rear bumpers. She didn’t know exactly how to do it, but she hooked the crinkled beer cap on the sharp edge, hit it with her gloved fist, and it popped off. Beer foamed up and crawled down the bottle, onto her glove. She set the bottle in the snow and opened the other one.
Back in the car, she handed one bottle to Harold, turned up the radio, and took a long swallow from her own beer. She could feel the cold slide down her throat and drop into her stomach. Harold tossed his wet hat in the backseat. He took a drink, and she heard him sigh.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Cynthia gripped the neck of the bottle between her glove and the steering wheel and drove out onto Main Street. She wished she could drive faster, but she could feel the road slide out from under the wheels.
“Where to?” she said.
“Not here,” Harold answered.
“Where?” Cynthia took another swallow of beer.
Harold signaled with his bottle. “I know a place,” he said. “Go straight.”
Cynthia headed out onto the highway. They rolled down the windows and let the snow fall on their arms. Light specks of ice flew in and danced around the car like sparks. She sped up, following the yellow line on her left. The night ahead was blank and white, and wraiths of snow streamed in sheets across the pavement. It felt like driving up above the clouds.
They sang, throwing their heads back and pitching harmonies against the voices on the radio. Harold sang tenor parts in the choir, but in the darkness his voice hit bass notes that made her laugh so hard she almost had to stop the car.
They pulled over to open the other four beers, and back inside the car she and Harold began to sing the Messiah—the Easter part—in a voice so low and coun
try, so twangy, Cynthia had to reach behind the seat, fishing for a box of tissues.
All we like sheep
da da da da
All we like sheep
da da da da
Have gone astray
After the choir director had admonished them one year by saying, “No, this is not the cowboy’s lament,” nobody in the back row ever sang it right. “All we, like sheep, have gone astray.”
She felt so good. A sweet euphoria, as if nothing could go wrong, as if she could drive forever, came over her, and the low car sailed down the highway. The moon had come up somewhere behind the clouds, and the snow falling all around them glowed as if each flake held a tiny drop of light. Her coat sleeve was caked in slushy snow, but she didn’t care. Harold’s cheeks glowed pink, as if he’d been out sledding.
They pulled up at a tavern on the county line. The lot was filled with cars, their windshields and windows blanked out by snow. They could hear heavy music thumping inside. Cynthia parked, and they sat watching the smudged blue neon signs in the window blink on and off.
Harold found his hat in the backseat and rocked it low over his eyes.
“They won’t let me in,” she said.
“What’re they going to do?” he said. “Kick us out?”
“Yup.”
“On Christmas?”
Cynthia could hardly talk for laughing. “No,” she said, “on our butts.”
When she recovered, she combed her wet hair back, parted on the side and slicked down like a boy’s.
“Let me wear the hat,” she said.
She handed Harold the keys. “In the trunk,” she said. “Coveralls.”
Harold threw her dad’s padded coveralls through the window and stood in the snow while she struggled to pull them on over her clothes. Outside, she tried to stuff her skirt down into the legs. Harold pretended he was on guard duty. When he looked at her, another laugh came from down low in his chest.
Love and Country Page 14