New Year's Resolutions

by Briggs, Laura

  She rapped twice before there was any movement on the other side. The door handle rattled, then turned, revealing a man on the other side. Thin, greying hair parted to one side, a faded shirt that had once been blue, judging by the shade around the buttons. He stared at her, mouth slightly open in a sleepy, puzzled expression.

  Abby smiled. “Hi, father,” she said.

  *****

  “Do you remember this one? From the Thanksgiving school play?” asked Abby. She pointed to a photo on one of the album’s pages, depicting her in a burlap turkey costume on her mother’s lap.

  He grunted. “Maybe,” he answered. “Don’t remember much about the holidays. Always too busy.” He shuffled his feet, clad in a pair of worn house shoes in brown corduroy.

  “I know,” said Abby, tucking a strand of hair aside nervously. “It’s just...I thought you might remember this one a little. It was our first Thanksgiving in Florida. After we bought the house.”

  “We bought,” he repeated. “I bought, you mean. That house was an old wreck. No insulation in the attic, rotten pipes in the kitchen.” His mouth pinched as he glowered at some unseen vision.

  The sliced turkey lay in its carton, open beside a jar of mustard and mayonnaise that Abby discovered in the fridge. She rummaged through it for side dishes to match the cold potato casserole and white bread rolls, pulling butter and pickles from the shelves after she arrived.

  “How have you been?” she asked. “I wanted to call you, but I thought I would surprise you. Come and see you for a change instead of sending a card or a letter.” She placed a couple of jars on the table and unscrewed their lids.

  Her father followed her into the kitchen, watching uncertainly as she laid out the food on the table. “Don’t have no bread,” he said, after a moment of silence.

  “No, that’s all right, I brought rolls,” Abby answered. “We used to make sandwiches on rolls, remember? When we went to the beach.” She pulled out one of the chairs at the table and motioned for him to sit down.

  She assembled the sandwiches as she made small talk about her work, a few comments about friends and students, her eye cutting in his direction every few minutes to watch his reaction. Only a few words had escaped him since her arrival; he offered no comment on the subject of her life.

  Would he volunteer anything about his own? She waited, giving him an opening as she passed him a plate of sandwiches.

  “Do you ever hear from Uncle Ted?” she asked. “Or any of your buddies from the sales route?”

  He picked open one of the mini sandwiches, his finger poking through the relish topping and mustard. “Nope,” he answered. “Don’t hear from nobody. Not much for calling people. Darn answering services, all those beeps for putting people on hold. Old Jerry died of cancer, besides. Never did like Lou.”

  Abby forced a smile to her lips. “I guess I’ve forgotten about Lou,” she said. Chewing a piece of turkey as an excuse for their momentary lapse in conversation.

  “Coffee,” said her father. “Make some if you want it.” He jerked his head in the direction of a coffee pot and a stack of instant packets.

  “No, thanks,” said Abby. “But I’ll make you some if you want it.” Her face brightened with this suggestion.

  “Don’t want it,” he answered. “Hate the stuff. Only make it for the neighbor who rakes the lawn.” He rose and left the remains of lunch at his place, shuffling towards the living room.

  She followed, leaving the food on the table. Pulling the photo album from her bag, she sat down on the sofa and opened it.

  “I found that picture of you and mama when you won the dance competition,” she said. “I thought you might want it, to have it framed. After college I never got to–I mean, I never thought to bring back the albums Mom loaned me. So you wouldn’t have a copy–” She flipped through the pages, stopping at the sight of a faded color photo depicting a couple holding a trophy.

  She slipped into her old accent more easily, the longer she was here surrounded by thoughts of her past. Not the accents of countless states and cultures, but the soft sound of her parents’ west Texas upbringing, long before years of sales beats and transfers.

  For a moment, a glint of animation returned to her father’s face at the mention of the dance competition. He leaned closer, surveying the photo on the page. A soft grunt of acknowledgement before he sat back again.

  “Your mother was a pretty woman when she was young,” he said. “Would’ve stayed that way if she’d kept off the sweet. But she never did like a diet. Kept eating until the cancer.” He settled into his recliner again.

  Her mother’s waistline was only a size bigger than Abby’s own, causing her to blush. “I think Mama looked nice,” she answered, doing her best not to argue this point. “Her dresses always fit really well...”

  “That’s cause they were filled out,” her father grunted. “Run to fat, her family was.”

  Abby’s fingers trembled as she turned the album’s page. “What about this one of you and your car?” she said. “You used to love this car so much.” She pulled the snapshot from the vinyl casing and held it out.

  He didn’t take it, leaving it suspended in space between them. “Don’t need it,” he answered. “Got a lot of photos already. Don’t have one of my car outside now, don’t need one of any other car.”

  “Why not?” Abby’s temper surged a little. “Don’t you want anything to remind you of the past? I mean, Mama and me–” She cut off, biting back the words that were longing to escape.

  “Your Mama left plenty of memories behind and I don’t need help sorting them out,” he answered. “You want me to have a good memory of you, then you do something with your life besides wait for everybody to like you.” He pointed a stern finger at her with these words.

  She had run out of the house after those words when she was seventeen. Slamming the door behind her as she left, running to the neighbors, a friend whose parents let her stay over when things were too heated at home.

  But not this time. Instead, she turned the page in the album on her lap, as if his comments had been about the weather.

  “I remember this one of us at Christmas,” she said, her voice trembling. “We went to Virginia so we could see snow...it snowed that year in Richmond. More like white dust on the car, but it was real. I was eight years old and I had never seen it before.”

  There had not even been enough snow for making snowballs; for building a snowman, even. Her mother had taken the photograph through the window of their motel room, her father had watched a grainy television station all afternoon. A tiny silver Christmas tree in the center of the table for decoration.

  It was silent in the room after these words. Abby’s voice had died away, her concentration fixed on this photo. She was aware after a moment that her father was watching her.

  “Why are you here?” he asked.

  She blinked. “What do you mean?” she answered. “I–I came to see you. To spend Thanksgiving with family.”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment.

  “Don’t you want me here?” she asked. “I’m not here to fight. I just want to make things better between us.”

  “I didn’t ask you to come here,” he said. “I don’t think we got anything to talk about.”

  She sat frozen, a stone figure with the book open on her lap. Then she closed it.

  “All right,” she said. Her voice faltered. “Then I guess I’ll go.” She rose and reached for her bag. He said nothing in response, staring at some point beyond her shoulder. Then he reached for the remote on the table beside his chair, trembling fingers turning on the television. The sound of a cop movie springing to life, a rifle report as a car skidded off the road.

  Abby retrieved her basket from the kitchen as the television shootout continued. She glanced at the half-eaten pie, the remains of the turkey and sandwich trimmings. The thought of gathering them up hurt; the thought of eating them ever again repulsed her. Turning away, she stuffed the album into
her bag and shouldered it, lifted the basket and carried it to the foyer. Where she let herself out without saying goodbye.

  Her breath came in ragged gasps in the car as she started the engine. It rumbled to life, the rental car’s radio sending a burst of static before a Christmas song drifted from the speakers. She turned it off in mid-chorus, her gaze fixed on the dashboard in concentration, hearing no other sound except the engine and the hiss of the heating vents.

  She shifted the car into reverse and eased down the driveway. Then drove away without looking back.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Henry hoisted his bike up the stairs one at a time. His tire brushed against the rail as it had so many times before, his body wedged against the wall with effort.

  It was his last ride of the season, a yearly pilgrimage he indulged in a few days after Thanksgiving as penance for apple punch and two slices of pie.

  His answering machine was flashing as he steered the bike through the front door. Dropping his keys on the table, he pressed the button. A senior editor’s voice mumbled a request about last-minute changes to a manuscript on Henry’s desk before trailing off at the beep.

  He hit the delete button; the machine flashed “0” messages, now that Henry had erased the saved ones in the memory months ago. All of them, including the one with Lois’s husky voice.

  Ron the cat skittered into the kitchen as Henry leaned the bike against the wall. The apartment buzzer sounded, Dolores requesting entrance. He left the door open as he moved to the kitchen and pulled a bottle of water from the fridge.

  Dolores was wearing her Christmas scarf and hat, her traveling gloves signaling that she was driving today. She and her husband usually spent a ski weekend in the country with some of his business associates this time of year.

  “Just stopped by to drop something off before I leave,” she said. “You must be sick of seeing me at home and work,” she added, playfully. “But I have something I wanted you to see before I leave.”

  She held out a paper-wrapped package, a plain ribbon tied around the middle. “Merry Christmas,” she said.

  Confused, he took it from her and turned it over, popping the tape sealing it shut beneath. “Isn’t it a little early?” he asked. “I’ll see you before Christmas, you know.”

  “I know,” she said. “I’ll give you something else then. Maybe from the liquor department.” With a knowing smile as she waited for him to finish unwrapping it.

  The brown paper tumbled to the floor, revealing a glossy volume beneath. A copy of Lost Inside by Elaine Tamis. The design below a sketch of two figures lost in a blue heart-shaped maze, poetry intertwining its edges. His sketch.

  “Dolores,” he said, when he found his voice. “What the–”

  “I took it from your easel,” she answered, shrugging. “I showed it to Thomas and he agreed with me, it was perfect. So he overrode your original decision.”

  He glanced up at her. “Why?” he asked, softly.

  She smiled. “Because you always try to do the right thing, which means doing the sensible thing,” she answered. “Because you’ve grown so used to it, you never give yourself a chance above anyone else. So I did the unsensible thing for you this time. To give you an idea.”

  She leaned forward and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Enjoy it,” she said. “Thomas and the rest of the editors think you have great talent. Quite impressed, really.” With that, she closed the apartment door behind her.

  He stared at the book in his hands, his image on the cover. Turning it over, he glanced at the fine print on the back: Cover design by Henry Weimar.

  With a smile, he tucked it carefully on his shelf, next to Daniel Deronda and Jane Eyre. A place of honor, he decided, given his resolutions this past year.

  *****

  He received a few compliments from coworkers in the office on Monday, including a few who had admired his work at his Thanksgiving dinner. An editor asked him if he would consider doing a design for an upcoming modern poetry volume on her desk.

  “I sensed something poetic about your work,” she explained. “Especially the drawing you did of the city at twilight–the one I was asking about, pinned to the board in your apartment.”

  “Thank you,” he answered, with a smile.

  He reviewed the stack of new galleys, including a novel on a satellite that transports people to another version of their life. Rather wondering if the same thing had happened to him today.

  Since Dolores was gone, he finished sending his changes and compiled copies to their respective editors. He could see a few office workers return with shopping bags marked with snowflakes and shades of red and green. He pondered what the best possible gift was for a deserving assistant like Dolores.

  Dolores was usually easy to shop for, made happy by gourmet chocolate or tickets to her favorite shows. Seth was harder–since Henry had virtually no knowledge of European rock groups or Asian techno albums after a year of keeping his bargain and attending multiple concerts. Hardest of all, he suspected, would be finding something that satisfied both Seth and Sheryl, if the lady of the moment was still his obsession a few weeks from now.

  At least he had no girlfriend to shop for. No earrings to purchase, no hand-woven scarves or carved music boxes. No long hours spent hovering over a perfume counter, trying to find the scent that reminded him of their first theatrical experience or the time they went on a picnic in the park.

  Henry tried an organic candle shop for possibilities, smelling cranberry and citrus combinations with Dolores’s taste in mind. The cold air outside the shop seemed bracing, promising signs of snow in the grey, overcast skies. He purchased a box of specialty Christmas chocolates for the holidays and a bottle of champagne for a New Year’s hostess gift. He had an extra-large cup of coffee to make up for the one he missed in his haste this morning.

  “Number five,” called the girl behind the counter, startling Henry as he fumbled to turn on his cell phone after office hours.

  “Here,” he said, making his way towards his coffee and pastry. The phone buzzed with a message signal, a sign that he had received a call during office hours. With a sense of regret, he pictured Seth phoning about the latest joys of Sheryl’s presence, now that the Swedish rock band incident had blown over.

  Instead, the voice in the message was husky and female. “Hi, Henry,” she said. “This is Lois. I tried to call this morning, but you were gone. I just wanted you to know that the rumors are true. My engagement with Matt is over. As of a month ago, actually.”

  The cup of coffee in his hands was forgotten as her words sank into his brain, the shock of hearing her voice on his phone again.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about you,” she continued. “I just wanted you to know. If you want to call me sometime, we’ll catch up.” Her voice softened, then disappeared with a click.

  He closed the phone. The hint in her words was obvious after knowing her for so long; the reason for calling was unmistakable. If he wanted to open the door between them again, all he had to do was dial her number.

  Instead, he shoved the phone in his pocket. No sense in revisiting the past after all this time. Letting out a long breath, he pushed open the door to a wine shop and slipped inside. Maybe they had a selection of dry red that would please his assistant and her husband this holiday.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  In the darkness of her apartment, Abby dried her tears with a damp tissue. For the last few days, she had found herself tearful and tired, curled on the couch as old movies reeled past on one of the local station’s primetime lineup.

  Maureen would kill her, if she knew about this. Fortunately for her, Maureen had a bad cold and was limited to leaving phone messages that Abby had neglected to answer. Maybe her friend would think she was busy preparing her students for the concert or altering her music lessons for the spring season. Or maybe Maureen had already guessed the truth about what happened over Thanksgiving.

  The phone rang beside the sofa; Abby fl
inched, but ignored it. She tucked her feet beneath her blanket and watched as Miracle on Thirty-Fourth Street appeared on the screen.

  Work was easier; her students were excited about their upcoming performance one class period, then terrified the next time. Jacqi chewed her nails in between practicing songs, while Tyrel had begun acting up in class.

  The only time they were calm was in the middle of a song. Plunging into “Joy to the World” and “Lullaby” with determination. The horns were improving, along with the strings, reassuring Abby that they were practicing in their spare time.

  She moved her hands, guiding them whenever they became uncertain of their role in the performance. The music pages fluttered beneath the waves from the radiator, the paper edges decorated with red and green holiday stickers.

  There was a sharp thwack! as one of Jacqi’s strings broke. She lowered her violin, her lip sticking out in a pout. Abby motioned for the song to halt.

  “It’s okay, Jacqi,” she said. “I have extra new ones–besides the ones for the concert.” She reached for the violin and turned the peg for the E string as her students watched.

  “Can I go down the hall for a moment?” asked Bobby, raising his hand.

  “Yes, Bobby,” she answered. The rest of the students were getting restless, whispering among themselves and having makeshift swat fights with rolled-up pages from their sheet music. Jacqi hopped up and down before the window, trying to see the snow on the pavement below.

  The door to the class opened, a face peering inside. “Miss Nesbit?”

  Abby turned around, glimpsing a woman in the doorway, a sweater and slacks on her thin frame.

  “Mrs. Riley?” she said.

  The woman smiled. “You remember me?” she answered. “I’m glad. I came here to ask you a favor.” She stepped aside, allowing a small figure to enter the room. Tousled reddish-brown hair and freckles on a pale face, a neatly-pressed shirt and slacks.