by Neil Hetzner
“I don’t know what I think or feel right now except relief. Relief the radiation is over, and I have some energy again. I think it’s too soon to feel anything else. I don’t know what I’m going to feel next. But one thing I think, and it’s something I’ve always thought, although I haven’t always remembered it as well as I should, something Opa taught me, is that life is good. It’s worth living. I know that must sound so simple. But, for me, it is. Whatever happens, life is good. It’s not to be missed. I think too many times people want to sort through it, to pick and choose like they’re at a buffet. But I don’t think we really have that chance. We either live it as it is, or we miss it.
“Nita, it’s always seemed to me that when you were going through the worst of times, when we didn’t know what to do, when the doctors didn’t know, when you had so much pain, when the threat of you getting cancer was always in the room with us, that you knew that. You didn’t hunker down. You plunged in. You lived—despite the pain and despite the fears—you went to college, you finished law school. Don’t you think that’s true?”
“Actually, Mom, I don’t think I knew that I had a choice.”
“Oh, Nita. I think you knew. I think you chose. And I think you made the right choice. Honey, if you only knew how much strength I’ve gotten during the last four months from thinking of you, of how you went through all that you went through. I’ve used those memories of you and your courage and your will and, especially, your acceptance of what had to be done. Almost every day as I drove up to get zapped, I’d think of you.”
“I don’t know. Maybe I felt so much then, that I numbed my nerves. I don’t know. What do you think, Mom? Am I going to end up living my life with just me?”
“Honey, I don’t think you’re numb. I think what you’re doing right here, right now, proves that. If you were numbed to intimacy, you wouldn’t be doing this. And you certainly wouldn’t have been doing all of this with your coat still on.”
“I think I’ve needed to talk to you. I’ve wanted to, but I’ve been waiting until you were feeling better.”
Give me another hug, let’s have some tea, and keep talking before everyone piles in.”
* * *
“Mother, Mother, where’s the nutmeg?”
“Over the stove. Bottom shelf.”
“I’m looking. It’s not here.”
“Pimiento jar. White top.”
“Mother, Mother.”
“On the right, near the back.”
“It’s a great system.”
“A small jar.”
“I’ve got it. I got it. It’s not even labeled.”
“Well, Dilly, nutmegs don’t look like anything else. I label things that look alike. Basil, tarragon, thyme, oregano, chervil. Not nutmeg.”
Bett coughed from the strain of yelling to Dilly.
“You need a spice rack. I told myself at Thanksgiving that I was going to have the kids get you a spice rack for Christmas. Some way I forgot.”
Bett looked around the living room at the rest of her family and smiled before continuing her long distance conversation with Dilly.
“Honey, I’m sixty-four. Thanks to your father, we’ve never been poor. If I had wanted a spice rack, I would have one. I don’t like them. I like my jars and bottles.”
From thirty feet away, amid the sounds of doors and drawers being yanked opening and slammed close, Dilly held up her end of the conversation.
“But why? God, it’s such a mess in these cupboards.”
“I never have a problem. I like having a jar match the contents. I use a coffee can for rosemary because I use so much rosemary. When I bake focaccia I like to reach in for a whole handful. You can’t do that with a little spice jar. I’d be filling it every time I bake. I don’t use much fenugreek anymore so I like to keep it in a tiny jar. The less air, the more slowly it gets tired. Honey, there might be a better way, but I find what I need.”
“Well, where’s the nutmeg grater?”
“Do you want me to come out, dear?”
“No, Mother, just tell me where the grater is.”
“In the second drawer to the right of the sink.”
“Mom, whatever happened to that grater that had the little hinged top where you could keep a nutmeg?”
“I don’t know, Lise. It probably wore out.”
“That’s because Dilly didn’t ever give you a special grater cover.”
“Wrong, Nita. Too many Christmases. Too much eggmenog.”
“Hold it right there.”
Both Nita and Lise looked to their father who rearranging the pile of kindling.
“There’s no such thing as too much eggmenog. Not the way I mix it.”
“Dad, don’t let Dilly hear you say that.”
Neil nodded conspiratorially at Lise.
Six year old Kate, dressed in a red corduroy jumper with a Christmas tree appliqué which Dilly had decorated with sequins, beads and gold rickrack, leaned toward her grandfather and whispered, “How come we even get to have eggmenog. Isn’t it wicked bad for us?”
“Wicked, wicked bad, Kate. But, don’t you worry, I love you soooo much that I’ll drink all of yours so you’ll be safe.”
Neil leered at his granddaughter. Kate looked around the living room to see what she should do.
Jessica nodded at her younger sister. “I’ll help, too.”
“Me, too,” said Lise.
Kate walked over to Nita and asked, “Won’t Popper get sick?” Nita took her niece’s hands and kissed their backs.
“He certainly will if he drinks yours and his. Have you ever heard of the golden mean?”
“I don’t think so.”
Kate’s words were said so that they sounded like the musical signature of a 1950’s radio station. Ba da boop ba.
“Well, you will sometime. So when you do, you’ll already know about it. The golden mean is a rule. It’s like, ‘Early to bed, early to rise.’ You’ve heard your mommy say that, haven’t you?”
“Ba da boop ba.”
“Well, the golden mean is a rule for living. It’s the same as saying moderation in all things. Do you know what moderation means?’
“Ba da boop ba.”
“Well, what that means is that a lot of almost anything can be bad for us and a little bit of most things is good for us. Or, at least, isn’t bad for us. So, a little eggmenog at Christmas is a good thing, but a lot of eggmenog is not.”
“But, why is it mean?”
Nita held Kate’s hands and smiled professionally, as if Kate were a judge, while she thought of what to say next.
“No, Katie, it’s not that kind of mean. The golden mean is a way to measure things.”
“Like the golden ruler? Our teacher told us about the golden ruler.”
“Nita, you better quit, now. You’ve been out-obfuscated.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
Bett motioned to Kate.
“Kate, why don’t you help me pour the eggmenog.”
Dilly came into the living room holding up the nutmeg and grater triumphantly.
“I don’t know how anything gets done in that kitchen.”
Bill looked up for a second then put his head back down and continued reading from a thick blue binder. Dilly asked, “Who’s going to pour?”
Kate gave her mother a big smile, pointed at Bett, then, she hooked a finger into the center of her dress.
“Mopper and me.”
“No, pumpkin, you’re too little. You might spill it.”
“But, Mommy, Mopper said I could.”
“Baby, why don’t you grate the nutmeg, that’s a special job, and let Jessie help your grandma?”
“But, Mommy, I want to pour.”
“Kate, I mean it. Give Jessie the ladle, now. Thank you. Jess, take the ladle, half cups, no more. Be careful. Don’t spill it. Here, Kate. No, the other hand. You hold the grater in your left hand. And, the nutmeg in your right. Just rub the tip against it. Not so hard. Go fast, but not too har
d. That’s right. Now, go around the room and ask, ‘Would you care for nutmeg?’ Okay?”
Kate gave her mother a dark look.
The punchbowl of glass, with hand-painted gold and silver flowers, had been sent from Germany as a wedding present for Opa’s parents. Sitting on the gold-rimmed tray, surrounding the pedestal of the bowl, were the fifteen chalice-shaped cups that remained of the original eighteen. As Bett held the out cup, Jessie, eyes frozen in concentration, brought the long handled silver ladle to the cup. When the cup was half full Bett set it on the linen runner that covered the scarred surface of the cherry sideboard. After all the cups were filled, Bett and Jessica began distributing them.
The chalice shape and the solemnity with which her oldest granddaughter held the cup made Bett think of a priest leading a procession. After Jessie passed out a cup, Kate came up and asked if he or she cared for nutmeg. In each instance when the answer was yes, Kate struck the nutmeg several times across the grater with the same exaggerated stroke that a child might use to light a kitchen match.
“Would you care for nutmeg, Mommy?”
“No, thank-you, Miss Kate. It makes me sneeze.”
“Does it make me sneeze, too?”
“I don’t think so, honey.”
After she had finished making her rounds, Kate knelt on the floor between the couch and the coffee table and began to grate nutmeg into her cup of eggnog. She was very careful to make sure that all of the nutmeg’s dust landed in the pale yellow froth. She bent her nose to the cup to see if she would sneeze. To get closer she spread her elbows out along the table. Her right elbow caught the edge of her mother’s punch cup. The cup tipped, fell against the edge of the table and rolled onto the floor. A cataract of thick creamy fluid cascaded down onto the red and blue border of the rug.
“Kaitlin! That was stupid. Pretty stupid. How could you? Jessie, quick, get a sponge.”
Neil and Bett said so close together that it sounded rehearsed, “Don’t worry, Katie, it’s all right.”
Lise ran to the kitchen.
At the end of the room where he had been sitting alone Bill looked up from his reading. He stared motionlessly as if waiting for something to happen. Kate, still on her knees, feeling trapped between the table and couch and the legs of her mother and grandmother, began to whimper. Dilly snapped her fingers at Kate.
“Shush. Enough of that. You’ve done enough. Give me the cup.”
When Kate hesitated Dilly said very slowly, “Give me the cup, now. I thought so. Look. See. See here. You’ve chipped it. You broke Granma’s cup.”
Bett interrupted.
“That’s okay, Dilly. It was an accident.”
“Accidents happen when little girls are foolish. You…”
What Bill had been waiting for seemed to have occurred. He got up from his chair and moved toward the couch.
“Enough. Leave her alone.”
Dilly jerked her head toward Bill.
“What are you telling me?”
“Just leave her alone. Your mother was right. It was an accident.”
“She…”
“I mean it, Dilly. Shut up. Leave her alone. It’s Christmas.”
Dilly’s voice rose in tone and volume.
“She’ll never learn.”
“None of us will ever learn all the lessons you think we need.”
Bill put his hand out across the table toward his daughter.
“I’m going for a walk. Want to come with me, Kate?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Go wash your hands, sweetie. Get the sticky off. I’ll get your coat.”
During Bill and Dilly’s interchange the rest of the family drew back into a vacant-stared silence. After Bill left the room everyone came back to life. Bett thought it looked like a game of charades when the guessing ends and movement is restored. Only Dilly remained frozen. Bett and Lise worked around Dilly’s feet cleaning up the eggnog. Neil took as long as possible at the punchbowl refilling his cup. Jessie rearranged the crèche scene set up on the piano. Nita looked at Peter, raised her eyebrows and gave him a half-smile. Finally Dilly said, “There’s always someone tired at Christmas.” She left it to each of the family to decide who she meant. Not everyone guessed the same name.
* * *
Lise half-turned to her older brother in the pale yellow light of late afternoon.
“God, Pete, I’m so stuffed I may seize up somewhere along this road.”
“If you do?”
“Just leave me. I deserve my fate. It was great though, wasn’t it?”
“Anytime anyone else is doing the cooking I think it’s great.”
“I guess so. How long’s the Retreat closed for?”
“A week.”
“That’s a long time for you.
“It’s been really slow anyway. It won’t hurt that much.”
“I’m glad you did it. It’s been great seeing you and knowing you’re not going to jump back in the car in the next minute.”
“I’m glad I’m here. And sorry Brad isn’t. I’d like to meet him. Dad said he was great. Really smart, but not genius, can’t do anything but think smart.”
“He’s got family, too.”
“Have you met them?”
“No. They’re in Kentucky.”
“Are you going to anytime soon?”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning is this serious?”
“Going to Kaintuck makes it serious? Who knows. Some days it feels that way. I feel really connected. Other days it feels like PBS. You know? Interesting stuff. Good for you. Enlightening. But still with the urge to flip the channel to see what else is on.”
“Because you’re bored?”
“No, not even really that. More just to see what else is on. Don’t want to miss anything. The thing is Brad’s a great guy.”
As she was becoming uncomfortable, Lise asked, “What about you?”
“The usual. Clear sailing. Nothing. Nothing going on. Nothing on the horizon. Nothing likely to be on the horizon.”
“Is that how you want it?”
“No. But, that’s how it is.”
“Why, Pete?”
Peter took a long time to answer.
“Lise, look. It’s P-town. It’s the business. It’s Massachusetts. It’s the hours. It’s the kids. It’s me. Mainly me. It’s not a great package.”
“You could be wrong. Let’s cut down through here. There’s always great sea glass out on the point.”
For the second time in less than five minutes, Lise wanted to change the direction of their conversation. Peter had been fifteen when she was born. By the time she was old enough really to be aware of him, he was gone. Her earliest memories of him were as someone home for the holidays. He had been more guest, more an uncle, than a brother. Home from college. Home in a uniform. Then home from the war. Wounded and wary. She really hadn’t come to know him until when she was in her early teens. She had spent most of three summers living with Pete, Gaby and the boys. The first summer she had babysat Miguel and Chris while Gaby helped out at the restaurant; however the next two summers she worked as a dishwasher and, then, as a prep cook. It was during those two summers that Lise came to love and respect her brother.
When everyone in the restaurant was running around yelling and screaming, Pete was calm. When the kitchen was hit with a dinner rush, rather than panicking as the salad and dessert men often did, Pete moved even faster and became more efficient. When busboys fought with dishwashers and waiters swore at the sous-chefs, her brother would defuse the anger with a calming word or two. For a time Lise had admired her brother, to the point of hero worship, for his concern, calm competency and his gentle leadership. Four years later, seeing Peter’s anguish at the loss of Gaby and the boys, Lise’s admiration had been tempered with compassion. Later, her compassion had become mixed with frustration as she watched Peter’s life tortuously coil around itself.
It was compassion which led Lise to change the subject by tur
ning off the road. She climbed across the field of boulders that buffered the curve of the road from the destructive waters of storms and high tides. She cleared the last rocks and jumped down onto the sand. Looking back, she saw her brother slowly making his way through the jumble of stone. His long stops, false starts, flailing arms, and grimacing mouth were a more descriptive rendering of his condition than his words had been. She regretted leaving the road. Her mother’s sickness, Bill’s outburst, her brother’s pain were making Lise feel as though too many uncertainties were intruding in her life. Ignorance in science was one thing.
After Pete recovered from his climbing over the rocks, the two of them began to walk out toward the end of the spit of beach that pushed its way deep into the cove.
“Sorry.”
“For what?”
“For taking so long.”
“Ssshhh.”
“These feet.”
Pete walked with his head down until Lise said, “Don’t miss it. It’s too gorgeous. We can look for glass on the way back. God, I miss the water. Looking at the Charles River from a sealed lab window just doesn’t make it.”
“Well, at least you see what you can see. I live surrounded by water and hardly ever remember to look.”
“You probably see other things.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Maybe people. You always seemed to know what was going on at the restaurant. What do you think that was with Dilly and Bill? Was that anything?”
“I don’t know. God, she can be so tough. No one’s allowed a mistake. It’s hard putting that on a kid. Mistakes should be forgiven.”
Lise wished that her brother could hear himself.
Lise mused, “Maybe it really is just Christmas. Mom said they were supposed to be with Bill’s family this year. Could be that, or something else.”