On a bitter, sharp-edged day right before Christmas, Claire and Bryce sit low in the brick edifice of the backyard hot tub, the roiling water reaching up to their chins. Bryce makes a point not to look at the curves his sister’s body is taking. In the old days, when the pool was covered for winter, Claire, Bryce, Cam and sometimes Dakota lingered in here, having breath-holding contests (record holder: Claire, with twenty-one seconds); afterwards they’d climb out on the deck, shivering, bodies steaming like the Human Torch, seeing who could last the longest before scampering back in.
That evening, Granpda and Grandma Salter (Mom’s parents) unpack their suitcases in Bryce’s old bedroom, deposit all the gifts under the tree, and sit down to dinner of meatloaf with ketchup baked onto the top. Of course they have to hear every detail of Bryce and Claire’s lives, no matter how insignificant. Bryce does a good job at maintaining conversation while avoiding looking either of them in the face; it’s been almost a year since he’s seen them, and in that time they’ve gotten so
old
.
Grandpa has moles on his face, some of them sprouting black wires, his eyebrows like a sea anemone reaching out to grab some unsuspecting prey. Grandma appears to be simultaneously shriveling and melting.
So there’s one good thing: Bryce won’t have to worry about turning into them. All the pretending to be an old man will be just that, pretending.
Grandma leads grace before dinner that night. “Creator, Sustainer and Life-giver, Bless this food to our use, and us to your service…” then loses her way, keeps adding people for whom they should pray.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” Grandma asks Claire as the breadbasket makes its way around.
“Mother, she’s too young for that,” Bryce’s mom says. “Besides, she’s giving all her attention to school right now.”
“Come again?”
“SHE’S GIVING ALL HER ATTENTION TO SCHOOL!”
“What’s your favorite class, honey?” Grandpa has a smear of ketchup on his chin after one bite.
“Maybe photography.”
Bryce’s mom dabs Grandpa with her napkin. “She’s let us see some of her pictures. They’re quite good.”
Bryce hopes they keep this going. The more talk about Claire, the less about him. Ask about all her classes! Ask about her friends!
“My teacher asked me to join advanced photo next semester,” Claire says. “I’ll be the only freshman.” Praise flies around the table; the spotlight has landed and isn’t moving. Perfect.
After dinner comes the traditional walking tour of the neighborhood. Bryce is surprised Claire doesn’t protest as usual, probably because she knows she’ll be overruled with a reminder of how far her grandparents traveled just to see them and there are times to think of someone other than yourself. He puts on his hat, coat, and scarf and joins the procession out the door, leaving Baloo to guard the castle. Smart cat, stay inside where it’s warm.
A ceiling of chimney smoke above the street. Air that feels like ice crystals growing on your face. Luminarias – little paper bags with candles inside – line the edges of the white dusted lawns. On holiday nights, the streets glow like there’s a great fire burning nearby. Bryce imagines being in a plane, seeing the hundreds of dots of orange light from up there.
Would they spell out a message?
Stay away, nothing to see down here.
As the six of them get to the end of the cul-de-sac, past the Cohens’ house (the one without any luminarias, a black hole in space) there’s the reminder from Bryce’s mom about the Cohens being Jewish and the accusatory silence from Grandma. Something about the Vanzants floats into the air and is gone.
Bryce sucks in a deep gulp of the cold. He’ll miss this time of year. He’ll miss all times of year.
They start up the next street, with the same old lit-up Santas and manger scenes as every year. Grandpa throws question after question at Bryce, about college and succeeding in the big world. From under his furry hat with its furry earflaps, Bryce’s dad cuts in from time to time with comments like “That’s some good advice” and “I hope you’re listening, son.”
Grandma is so slow, Grandpa only a little faster. Bryce walks at half speed. Claire keeps up her pace, a few feet ahead of the pack.
* * *
Bryce’s large envelopes have trickled in over the past weeks, from art schools in San Francisco, New York, Chicago. Inside are the brochures he requested; luckily no one wears a sweater in any of the pictures. This – his life as a student at one of these places – lives only in the realm of fantasy, but there’s no harm in simply reviewing the application requirements.
Which is what he’s doing at his desk when someone starts down the basement stairs. Bryce plops a stack of sketchbooks atop the brochures, in a mini-panic, then tries to sit casually so the intruder won’t suspect.
Watching Grandpa make his way down here is like watching a baby deer try to stand while wearing roller skates. Bryce comes over to help, but the staircase is too narrow for two.
“So this is the ol’ bachelor pad,” Grandpa says when he’s finally on terra firma, surveying the room. “I would’ve given anything to have this room when I was your age, ‘stead of sharing with two brothers.”
He moseys around, poking here and there, picking the top issue off the stack of new comics on the nightstand. “Used to be ten cents,” comes the mumble. Bryce knows the next part of the story, the part that’s hard to listen to, about the Golden Age comic collection and the garbage can. He rolls the issue tight in his hand and Bryce’s sphincter tightens to a marble.
“So whaddaya do down here?” Grandpa asks, smacking the comic against his open palm. It’s gone from mint condition down to very good in twenty seconds.
“Play games. Read. Draw.”
“We’ve still got that Mickey Mouse picture you drew us, hanging in the kitchen. Glad to hear you’ve kept up the hobby.” He wanders some more without really moving.
“Do you, uh, want to play a video game?”
“And embarrass myself? No, siree. I’ll just look at the pretty lady. What’s her name?”
“Heather Locklear.”
“I didn’t want to bring this up at the dinner table,” Grandpa says in a conspiratorial whisper, “But how are things in your love life?”
“Not so great.”
“Aw, come on. They should be tripping over themselves to get at a sensitive artist.”
“You mean, like Grandma did? Maybe you should try painting again.”
“My darn hands shake too much these days. Eyes are as bad as they ever were. Least they kept me out of dubya dubya two, right?” The hairy moles look like spiders crawling on his face in the shadow of the overhead bulb.
“Grandpa, can I ask you a question?”
“You just did. You may now ask me another.”
“If you could know when you’re going to die, or how, which would you choose?”
Grandpa lowers himself into the wounded beanbag chair, which puffs white styrofoam dots onto the floor. “Bryce, I reckon I already know the answer to one a’ those. Now, if I coulda found out at your age…”
“What do you mean, you know the answer?”
“Someone said once that old age is the one disease you don’t look forward to being cured of.”
“What if you could’ve found out when you were my age?”
Grandpa sits totally still, like someone flipped his power switch off. A thought hits Bryce, a thought he doesn’t want to consider, can’t consider. But who sits that still? Grandpa turns back on again. “Ultimately, that’s in the Lord’s hands – you’d best worry about the here and now, all the time you’ve got left.”
Bryce could tell him the truth right now. Grandpa’s old and wise and will know what to do.
“DO YOU TAKE MILK?” his mom shouts through the ceiling, obviously talking to Grandma.
“Bryce, can you help me up? I estimate I have three minutes to get myself to a toilet, and going up the stairs’ll take two and a half.”
After Grandpa leaves, Bryce goes back to the brochures. All those healthy kids. All the time they’ve got left.
On Christmas Eve, Ricky holds two purple pills toward Claire.
The dinner reservation had been set for six people at 5:30. Bryce and Claire both balked, saying they wouldn’t be hungry that early. Claire didn’t know what was true for Bryce; for her it wasn’t only the lack of hunger but being sick of her grandparents and the weird habits they’d developed as they’d gotten older.
Claire’s mom reminded the kids that their grandparents were used to Central time and ready to eat by 6:30, but Grandpa said to let the kids stay.
“I’ll see you both at church later,” her mom said as the party of four walked out. She looked at Bryce to add, “Don’t be late.”
Bryce retreated to the basement. Claire waited until the car was safely around the corner, then went into her mom’s closet. She put on her new coat, carefully tucking the tags inside the sleeves. Makeup. Dakota’s shoes.
“I’m going out,” she yelled down the basement steps.
“Where?” came the reply, a voice from a cave.
“None of your business. See you later.”
“We have to leave by seven-thirty!”
The bike ride to Ricky’s apartment building took fifteen minutes of hard pedaling, or twenty-five of normal Claire chose half and half tonight, trying to get there fast but without messing up her makeup She’d need to leave at 7:10 to be home in time to put the coat away and change for church Make it 7:15
She set her bike under the outside staircase. The sounds of laughter and music came from his mom’s apartment, the party where Rick Sr. would be getting drunk all night. Little Christmas lights grew all along the railing, up the stairs and straight to his door. She checked her coat once more in the window reflection before knocking. Ricky would be impressed to see her wearing real fur.
He didn’t say anything about it when he opened the door. Nor when he offered her one of his dad’s beers. Nor when they were kissing on his bed (even though she was still wearing it).
Finally she said into his mouth, “Do you like my coat?”
He pulled his head back, rubbed the fur on the collar between his fingers. “Nice.”
“It’s my Christmas present. I’m not supposed to get it til tomorrow but I wanted you to see me in it first.”
“My mom gets me something every year. My old man just gives cash.”
“Then you can buy whatever you want.”
“I guess.” He picked up his beer can off the floor and drank deeply.
“You can have my beer, too. I have to go to church later and my mom will sniff my breath or something.”
“You have to what?”
“It’s Christmas Eve.”
“Since when do you go to
church
?”
“Since I was, like, a baby and got baptized.” The heater clanged and banged through the wall, followed by a purr of warm, musty air.
“How do you not crack up watching all those dopes praying to their invisible buddy in the clouds? I’d be pissing myself laughing.”
“I go because I don’t have a choice, Ricky.” The heater kept pouring down on them; Claire wanted to take the coat off and leave it on. “I wish we could smoke but my mom would for sure smell that.”
“I have a surprise for you.” He left the room. She wanted to have a look inside the journal always on his desk, to see if there were love poems written in there, but he was back too fast. Two purple pills cupped in his palm. “From when my old man broke his ankle last year. He think he’s all tough, so he didn’t take ‘em.”
“What does it do?”
“Gives you a nice buzz. Your mom won’t smell anything.”
Claire takes one, swallows it with a gulp of warm beer. Ricky follows suit.
They’re lip locked again, he’s got his hand under her coat, her shirt, her bra. He’s doing that heavy breathing thing. She can feel him through his jeans, pressed against her leg.
The pill announces itself behind Claire’s eyes first, cotton candy. When it’s at her chest, where his hand gropes her, the song comes through the wall from an apartment next door.
She sits up.
“What?” he asks.
“What song is this?”
“I dunno. Some oldie.”
“No, wait, it’s Dakota’s!” She’s laughing, or maybe crying, or something in between where you’re smiling but your face is wet.
“Who?”
“’Wild Horses’!” She sings along at top volume. Ricky shushes her but now he’s laughing too. He puts his hand over her mouth and she sings through it. “
Wmmmm, wmmmm hmmmm-mmmm
!”
The song coming on here, now, must be a sign. She’s meant to be with Ricky. It’s Dakota telling her so.
They’re laughing in each other’s ears, her hair in his mouth, his forehead clammy against her cheek. He keeps trying to kiss her. She could have sex with him, here, now, with the Stones playing and the heater smell and everything so funny. That would ok as a first time. Great as a first time.
She sees the red numbers on his bedside clock and stops laughing 7:35
“I haveta go,” she says, trying to stand up. She falls back into his laughing arms. “No, seriously!” She makes it up, says some kind of goodbye, and runs out the door.
“Say hi to Jesus for me!” he calls after her.
All the way dark outside. Her legs can’t remember how to work a bike. She gets going, pedals hard, then harder. Butt up off the seat. She knows to stay on the sidewalks to avoid ice, but the sidewalk is too narrow right now. Even the street seems dangerously tight to navigate.
She guides herself by luminarias, with their lights that stretch as she passes, leaving trails across her eyeballs even after she looks away.
Headlights come toward her. Another set looms from behind. She veers down a side street, almost loses it on an ice slick.
A giant blinking snowman in someone’s yard. A group of carolers down the sidewalk. They shout, “Merry Christmas!” as she whizzes past.
Stray flakes come down like dandruff.
She’s cold and hot at the same time. Past Meredith’s house, right across the dumb district line. Finally, her street, a runway, the little candles pointing right up her driveway.
“Are you insane?” Bryce asks, opening the front door. “Mom is gonna kill us!” He keeps Baloo inside with one leg.
Claire wants to ask for water, but can only gasp out, “Sorry.”
“Let’s go – you’re wearing what you’re wearing.”
In the car, her head still vibrates from the bike ride; she hangs it out the window even as his heater is going full blast. He shouts questions at her and she starts giggling again. There’s a line at the McDonald’s drive-thru as they pass; at least those people don’t have to go to church.
At a stoplight Bryce turns to her. “Are you high or something?”
Like a nosy old lady. He leans over and sniffs her; she shoves him away. “Get outta here, Mom.”
“You are! You smoked pot when you knew we’re going to church.”
“I promise you I did not smoke pot tonight.”
“Then why are your eyes like that?”
A car toots behind them and he starts forward.
“Don’t talk at all,” he tells her as they arrive. “And especially don’t laugh.” The hymns roll out across the parking lot. They step inside the worship hall, where every pew is full of standing parishioners, and take a spot at the very back. Their mom’s up on stage with the choir, singing to come let us adore him. Everyone holds little white candles, and then Claire and Bryce are holding them too. She doesn’t know how that happened. She stares at the flame in her palm and wishes she had her camera.
There’s another song and then Pastor Mark is up. Heads bow, people repeat what he says. Claire starts to giggle but bites her lip.
“Amen,” Pastor Mark says.
“Amen,” all the mouths reply.
It’s quiet now, everyone looking downward. Claire’s candle tilts, pouring a loogie of hot wax onto Bryce’s hand. He yelps and all heads turn toward the back corner. Claire bursts out laughing and runs. She’ll wet her pants if she doesn’t get to the bathroom.
She drops the candle in the sink and makes it into the stall, but as soon as she’s unbuttoned her jeans she vomits into the toilet. Again. Again. Her mom has claimed that vomiting is worse than giving birth and at moments like this, Claire’s a believer.
Nothing’s funny anymore.
The door opens and, while Claire usually hopes for her mom when she’s sick, this isn’t usually. “Claire?”
“In here,” she croaks. She imagines the whole congregation standing outside, that this person is the one of them brave enough to step in.
It’s Noel from youth group. She doesn’t have her big glasses on tonight and looks way prettier without them. “Bryce asked me to check on you. Do you need help?”
Claire doesn’t hear herself answer but she must have because Noel pulls her up off the floor, wipes her face with a paper towel. “Can you get all my makeup off, please?” Claire asks.
“That’s a pretty coat,” Noel says as Claire rinses her mouth out at the sink.
“Oh no, I’m not supposed to be wearing this! It’s my Christmas present.” Stupid Bryce who wouldn’t let her change clothes. “If my mom sees it…”
Bryce’s voice outside the door, just above a whisper, asks what’s going on. Noel pulls him in.
“We’ve got a crisis,” she informs him.
When the three of them step out, Bryce leads the way, Claire follows, and Noel brings up the rear, the coat rolled up snug under her arm. Their plan is simple: get the coat to Bryce’s car then get back inside before the grand finale. They can hear the hollow echo of Pastor Mark’s voice, like he’s talking from inside the wall.
Noel motions for them to follow back down the hall, past the staff offices, out a back door to the Sunday school playground. Past the iced-over swing set, where Claire once leaped from an arc so high that she sprained her ankle. Noel leads them the long way around the building toward the parking lot. Claire shivers in her T-shirt.
They step back in right as the worship hall doors swing open and the congregation files out. Here come their parents and grandparents. “What happened?” Claire’s mom asks from beneath furrowed brow.
Bryce says, “We sat in the back. It took longer to drive here than I thought.”
“And since when do you dress like that for church? Honestly, you two. Let’s go.” Claire sees Bryce mouth something to Noel as the family leaves.
At home in the hot shower is when Claire feels her senses sharpen to normal, like focusing a camera lens. Bryce gave her a thumbs-up on her way in, which must mean he got the coat back in time. Has God been watching all this? Will He judge her for sneaking her coat out, getting high and wanting to have sex on Christmas Eve?
Is there even anyone home up there?