Miles to Go (13 page)

She thought about it for a moment. “Bill,” she said. “My landlord.”

“What about Christine, your neighbor?”

“We can ask,” she said.

“One more thing Nicole needs to do,” I said. I looked at her seriously. “This won’t be easy.”

She took a deep breath, steeling herself to what I would say.

“Nicole had a son. A son she loved very much. Aiden needs to come back as well.”

Her eyes watered. “How do I do that?”

“You talk about him. You put up pictures of him.”

She wiped her eyes. “Okay.”

I just looked at her for a moment, then said, “Welcome back, Nicole.”

She clasped my hand. Then she stood. “I better go get dressed. We have a lot to do before tomorrow.”

A half hour later Nicole and I sat down at the kitchen table to construct our shopping list. I held the pencil.

“All right,” I said, “we need a turkey and stuffing.”

“Write down bread crumbs, celery, and onions,” Nicole said.

“Got it. And we need a can of cranberry sauce and we need yams…”

“I’m good at candied yams,” Nicole said. “I make the diabetic-death kind with brown sugar and pecans.”

“You are definitely in charge of yams.”

“Write down pecan halves and butter,” Nicole said.

“How about rolls?”

“I make awesome Parker House rolls.”

“Fabulous. Turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, candied yams, rolls. Gravy. I can actually make turkey gravy,” I said. “Do you have cornstarch?”

“Yes.”

“How many should we prepare for?” I asked.

“At least three. Bill’s coming.”

“You already called him?”

“While you were showering. He was very excited.”

“Okay, we’ll plan on four. Worst case we’ll have leftovers. I’ll be in charge of the turkey, stuffing, and gravy. Oh, and eggnog. We need eggnog. Everyone loves eggnog.”

“Not everyone,” Nicole said.

“You don’t like eggnog?”

“Diabetes aside, no. You can have my glass.”

I looked at her. “Really, Angel? You don’t like eggnog?”

“Excuse me,” she said.

“Eggnog is like the greatest drink ever.”

“You called me Angel.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Yes you did.”

“Sorry. I won’t do it again.”

“Better not,” she said.

I went back to my list. “Okay, we’re still missing dessert.”

“Pumpkin pie,” Nicole said.

“Pumpkin pie and mashed potatoes. Do you say mashed or smashed?”

“Mashed. ‘Smashed’ sounds like they got run over by something.”

I looked over the list. “I think we’re ready.”

“I’m not good at pies,” she said.

“We can buy those.”

“The bakery at Safeway is pretty good.”

“Do you have potatoes?”

“No.”

“Do you have enough milk?”

“I’ll check.” She opened the refrigerator. “Better get
some more. Especially if you’re going to use some of it with your, gag, eggnog.”

“You don’t need to disparage my eggnog,” I said.

We put on our coats and started off. On our way out of the apartment we stopped and knocked on Christine’s door. She answered wearing sweat pants and a Gonzaga basketball T-shirt. She looked surprised to see us.

“Angel,” she said. “And Steven…”

“Alan,” I corrected.

“Right, Alan. Sorry.”

“And you can call me Nicole. Angel was just a nickname.”

“Now I’m really confused,” she said.

“It doesn’t matter what you call us,” I said. “We came to invite you to our Thanksgiving feast tomorrow at one.”

A smile crossed her lips. “Really?”

“If you don’t have other plans.”

“I don’t.” To our surprise her eyes began to well up. “Sorry,” she said, furtively wiping them. “I just thought I was going to spend the day alone. Thank you.”

“Well, we’d love to have you.”

“What can I bring?”

“Just yourself,” Nicole said.

“I make really delicious mincemeat pies.”

“Good mincemeat
is an oxymoron,” I said.

Nicole looked at me incredulously. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

“Sorry. But it looks like roadkill.”

“That was even worse,” she said.

“I know, mincemeat is an acquired taste,” Christine
said. “Don’t worry, I also make an apple pie to die for and a pumpkin pie that’s at least worth getting mugged for.”

Nicole glanced over at me. “Worth getting mugged for.”

“That must be some pie,” I said. “I’m sold. You’re in charge of pies. Then we’ll see you tomorrow around one?”

“One. Thank you so much.”

“Our pleasure,” Nicole said.

I took Nicole’s arm and we went off to the store.

They—“they” being the turkey experts—recommend a pound to a pound and a half of turkey per person, which meant a six-pound turkey should be plenty. But, since I’m partial to cold turkey leftovers, I selected an eight-pound bird. I also bought an entire gallon of eggnog, which Nicole thought was overkill. “No one’s going to drink it but you,” she said.

“Everyone loves eggnog,” I said.

“Not everyone,” she replied. “Some people have taste.”

“Truce on the eggnog,” I said.

“Truce,” she said.

In addition to all the food we bought, we purchased other accoutrements of the season: scented candles, mistletoe, Christmas tree ornaments, and strings of Christmas tree lights. Through it all, Nicole was joyful.

As I was looking through the produce section, she brought an ornate silver picture frame to show me.

“What do you think?” she said. “I think it’s pretty. It’s sterling silver.”

“It’s beautiful,” I said. “What’s it for?”

“For Aiden,” she said.

“Perfect,” I said. “It’s perfect.”

Then she said, “I think I’ll get two. I think Bill would like one as well.”

A few minutes later I asked Nicole, “Do you have any Christmas music?”

“No.”

“Do you have a stereo?”

“I have a CD player and an iPod.”

“That will do.” I purchased Christmas CDs by Burl Ives, Mitch Miller, and, of course, the Carpenters. As I showed the CDs to Nicole, I said, “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Karen Carpenter?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“I don’t look at all like Karen Carpenter. To begin with, I’m blond.”

“Okay, so you’re a blond version of Karen Carpenter.”

“I don’t look like her,” she said, throwing her hands up in the air and walking away. I followed her with our shopping cart.

“I think you do,” I said to myself.

I told Nicole to wait for me at the front door while I stopped at the video counter and picked up two movies. As I walked back, she tried to see the DVD cases I held in my hand.

“What movies did you get?”

“You’ll see.”

“Tell me,” she laughed. “You’ll see,” I said.

On the far corner of the strip mall was a Christmas tree lot.

“We need a tree,” I said.

“I get to pick it out,” she said. “It’s my house.”

“Fair enough,” I replied.

Nicole found a nicely shaped Douglas fir about 6 feet
high. The man selling the trees—his name was Maximilian (but just call me Max)—was so passionate about his trees that I was almost surprised he was willing to part with them. In addition to our Douglas fir, we left with a profusion of unrequested and useless information about our purchase, including:

• The Douglas fir is not really a fir tree.

• The Douglas fir is one of the few trees that naturally grow cone-shaped.

• The Douglas fir was named after David Douglas, some guy who studied the tree back in the 1800s.

• The Douglas fir was voted the number-two overall Christmas tree in America, second only to the South’s Fraser fir, which, I assume, is a real fir tree.

• Max only sells Douglas firs.

Max tied the tree to the top of Nicole’s Malibu and we drove home. After we had carried in all the food and put it away in the fridge, I grabbed a steak knife to cut the twine and went out to get the tree.

Our tree was gone.

I couldn’t believe it. I shouted for Nicole from the porch and she came running outside.

“What?”

“Someone stole our tree.”

“Right now?”

“Right off the car.” I looked at her. “Who steals a Christmas tree?”

“Well, it
was
a Douglas fir,” Nicole said, “the second-most-popular Christmas tree in the world.”

I looked at her and grinned. “Do you think there’s a black market for Douglas firs?”

“Huge market for stolen and kidnapped trees. We’ll probably get a ransom note any minute.”

“Won’t our thief be surprised when he learns that it’s not even a real fir.”

“Fake fir,” Nicole said. “It would be like stealing a diamond ring and finding out it was only a zirconia.”

“It would be just like that,” I said.

We both burst out laughing. Then we went back to the store for another tree. Max gave us his “friends and family” discount of ten percent off our second one.

That evening we decorated the tree. After we finished, Nicole came out with the silver picture frame with a smiling photograph of her son. She set it on top of the television.

“He’s a handsome kid,” I said.

She smiled sadly. “Welcome back, son.”

The next morning Nicole rapped on my door, then walked in. “Morning.”

“Happy Thanksgiving,” I said.

“Happy Thanksgiving to you. I called in sick to work again.”

“How did that go?”

“My boss wasn’t happy. I don’t think she was buying it.”

“Did you try to sound sick?”

“I did. But I’m not very good at it. I wonder if I’ll get fired.”

“I think you should just quit.”

“Why? It’s an important job.”

“It is. But it depresses you.”

“You’re right, but I can’t quit. I need the money. Besides, what do you do with a major in film studies? No, an
uncompleted
major in film studies.”

“You could get a job at a theater. You could, like, sell popcorn.”

She playfully hit me. “That will certainly pay the bills.”

“We just need to find you a job with a little more positive energy.” I looked over at the clock. “And we’ve got a lot of cooking to do. When should we put the turkey in?”