Of Mice and Nutcrackers: A Peeler Christmas (11 page)

“Here’s the one,” says Grandma. Our corner fruit store sells Christmas trees around the back. Every year Dad takes us to pick one out. Not this year, of course. Dad had breakfast this morning, for the first time in a while, but he’s not going outside yet. He’s upstairs sleeping now, and Grandma is taking us tree shopping. A typical winter weekend in Toronto, warm enough to melt the snow, but freeze you. Copernicus, the big market street, is crowded with people. Parkas are open at the throat, breath steams, slush collects at the side of the roads.

Grandma’s choice is a scrawny spruce. It’s lying down on the ground. It looks tired.

“That’s the tree. Let’s go home.”

We all stare at her.

“It’s not the biggest!” says Bernie. “That one is bigger!” He stands up in his stroller to point to one of the standing trees. A pine. I like pine myself. The long needles make it look fuller.

“Or how about this one?” I say. “See Grandma, it’s bushier than yours.”

“So what? This is the one. Let’s go. You wanted me to take you to look for a Christmas tree, and I found you one.”

“But –”

“Nope” She picks up the tree. It’s not very big at all. Grandma is an old lady, and she can lift it with one hand.

“Are we done already, Jane?” asks Bernie, twisting in his stroller.

“I guess so,” I say.

“But I like to pick,” says Bernie.

Dad’s Christmas tree shopping expeditions always take a long time. We check out every tree. There’s a lot of comparing and arguing; we usually end up standing the trees next to each other to see which one is the tallest. Sometimes we have to toss a coin. Then, when we’ve made our choice, we have to get the tree home. If there’s snow, we drag it home on a toboggan. If there isn’t enough snow for a toboggan, we put the tree on Bernie’s stroller. Bill and I push. Dad and Bernie steer. By the time we get home with the tree, we feel that we’ve earned our hot chocolate.

“So what?” says Grandma. She walks away. We hurry after her. I’m pushing Bernie in his stroller. When Grandma gets to the slushy sidewalk, I grab her arm.

“You have to pay Tom,” I say. Tom runs the fruit store. He’s not giving the trees away.

“I paid him before we went out back,” she says. “Come on, now.” She carries the tree to the corner.

“The tree should be bigger,” I say. “And bushier. Shouldn’t it, Bill?”

He shrugs. “I guess so,” he says.

What’s wrong with Bill? He’s usually as keen as the rest of us.

“It’s only a tree,” he says.

“A Christmas tree,” I remind him. “A tree with presents under it.”

“You don’t need a tree to get presents,” he says. “David gets presents without a tree.”

“David’s Jewish,” I say. “He doesn’t get presents without a whatchamacallit candleholder.”

“Menorah.” He smiles at me condescendingly. I hate it when he knows something I don’t. He sounds the word out slowly, like I’m an idiot. “And it’s not for presents. It’s just a symbol of the miracle.”

“Yeah, well, so’s a Christmas tree a symbol. Isn’t it?” I ask Grandma.

“Christmas tree? It’s a nuisance,” says Grandma. “It falls over. It dries out. It’s messy. The needles get everywhere. I can’t stand the ham things.”

“The tree should be in my stroller. That’s how Daddy does it,” says Bernie. “You’re not doing it right, Grandma.”

“Uh-huh,” says Grandma. She drags the tree down the street to the corner with a crosswalk. We follow. She sticks out her pointing finger. A car moving up the street doesn’t stop at the crosswalk; doesn’t even slow down. Neither does the car after it.

“Dastards!” She changes fingers.

The next car is slowing down. So is the one coming from the opposite direction.

“Come on!” Grandma looks back at us, and strides out into the crosswalk.

We hang back. “Watch out, Grandma!” I call.

Copernicus Street is famous for its double U-turns. That’s where a car going up the street makes a U-turn at the same time as a car going down the street. They slow down, then crisscross around each other in the middle of the intersection. It’s a kind of traffic ballet – a stately circle dance.

That’s what’s going on now. Only now there’s another ballerina onstage. Grandma. And she doesn’t know the dance.

“What the shell is going on?” She glares at the nearest driver. He has one of those ugly old cars, big as a boat. His window is rolled down, so he can call out to someone he knows on the street.

“Hey, axle!” That’s what it sounds like Grandma calls him. “Watch where you’re going!”

The driver stares at her. He has a cigar in his mouth, and it hangs out at a ludicrous angle. His car keeps coming. It’s getting close to Grandma.

She hoists the tree onto her shoulder. Good thing it’s a small tree. It’s between her and the big old ugly car. The car keeps coming. Closer and closer. Is it going to run her over? I’d be trying to get out of the way, but Grandma doesn’t. She stands her ground. When the car is close enough, she lunges forward and sticks the scrawny Christmas tree right in the open window. She uses both hands to ram the tree right into the car, point first.

The car swerves the wrong way, toward the oncoming traffic, which stops. The car keeps going, slowly, until it crashes into a streetlight. And stops. The Christmas tree is still sticking out of the driver’s window, bouncing from the impact.

Grandma walks back to where we’re waiting on the sidewalk. Her face is expressionless.

The driver opens his door and crawls out. His face is covered in pine needles. His cigar is still in his mouth. He’s upset. He yanks the tree out of his window and throws it on the ground. There aren’t a lot of needles left on the tree now. Most of them are on him.

“Hey!” says Bernie to me. “That’s our tree.”

“Sh,” I say.

“What are we going to do for a Christmas tree now?”

Grandma bends down. “We’ll get another one,” she says clearly. As she walks us back to the fruit store, people stare at us and whisper and chuckle. One word I recognize: “olé.”

That’s it! That’s what Grandma’s gesture reminded me of. A matador, when he’s sticking the bull.

The next tree we pick out is bigger than the first one. We load it into Bernie’s stroller and walk it across Copernicus very carefully. The big old car is still pointing the wrong way, blocking traffic.

We lean the tree against the side of the front porch, like we always do, and troop in for hot chocolate. There’s a surprise waiting for us in the hall. Dad. He says hello to us all, a bit shyly. “I saw you carrying the tree up the steps. Nice looking one this year. Did you have fun picking it out? Have you earned your hot chocolate?”

Funny to hear him say that – usually it’s Mom.

“Oh, yes,” says Bill. “Especially Grandma.”

“Got anything stronger than hot chocolate?” asks Grandma.

Dad starts to laugh, and then it turns into a cough, and he has to go to the living room and sit down. I go with him, and sit on the arm of his chair. “So, how are you doing, Daddy? How are you doing really?”

“I’m weak, but I feel a lot better.”

He smiles. He looks thinner and tireder than normal, but his eyes are the same as always. It’s him again. I lean over and give him a hug. It’s nice to have him back.

“I missed you.”

His bathrobe rides up his arms. His wrists look small and bony.

“I’ve missed you too. How’s my little girl? How’s the show going?”

“It’s going well. We might be on
TV.
I’m a little worried about Jiri, who may not be able to memorize his part, but everyone likes the play, except for Mr. Gebohm, who’s trying to kill us.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Dad, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure, honey.” He settles back in the chair.

“I have a friend,” I say.

“Is this about your friend, or about you?” asks Dad. “I’m not going to give fatherly advice to your friend. I’m not her father.”

“Oh, it’s about me. But suppose my friend isn’t … well, suppose she seems to be not really my friend right now. How do I know if it’s forever, or if she’ll come back?”

“Go on,” says Dad. He clasps his hands together and listens.

I tell my dad about me and Patti. It’s been troubling me. I’ve known Patti since kindergarten, and we’ve always done things together. It’s a great comfort knowing who your best friend is. And now, suddenly, I don’t. I don’t call her when I get home. I don’t tell her the things that are on my mind. I don’t even hang out with her at recess. This is the first time I can remember when I didn’t know who I’d do my next group project with. It’s strange. I’m entering a new country, and I don’t know the language.

“It’s about trust, really,” I say. “I can’t trust Patti anymore. And that makes me sad.”

Silence from the chair. I look down. Dad is dozing quietly.

Hmm. I guess my problems are not that exciting.

“Hot chocolate in the kitchen,” Grandma calls. I give Daddy a kiss on his forehead and get up from the chair. His forehead isn’t hot. He sighs and keeps breathing steadily.

Bill and Bernie are fighting over the cup with Captain Hook on it. “Perfect for six-water grog,” says Bill. “Splice the main brace.”

“I want to splice the main brace too,” says Bernie.

“Splice it with the Winnie the Pooh cup,” says Bill.

“It’s not the same.”

I don’t care which cup I get. I take a sip – from Bart Simpson – and nearly spit it out. It’s lumpy. So’s my next sip. And the one after that. And the sips that aren’t lumpy are too watery. Grandma has found a way to ruin instant hot chocolate. I didn’t think you could do that.

Bernie’s kneeling in a regular chair. He leans over the table. “Grandma, do you want to play –”

“In a minute,” she says.

Grandma has a glass in her hand. She drinks, sighs.

“What’s that?” Bernie asks.

“Single malt hot chocolate,” says Grandma.

Sunday afternoon. Dad is upstairs, resting. His temperature is almost normal now. Mom is at the office, catching up. Grandma has gone back to her apartment to pick up something – she won’t say what.

Lunch is over. Bill and Bernie are fighting around the kitchen, using paper towel rolls for swords. Watching them, I can’t help thinking about the choreography of the fight scene in our
Nutcracker.

“Yoicks!” says Bernie, swinging his sword wildly. “Yoicks! Yoicks! Yoicks!”

“Stop shouting, Bernie,” I say. “And slow down. They’ll never see you if you flail around like that.”

“Huh?”

“And Bill, could you come forward a bit. Maybe
three
steps. Left-right-left.” “Huh?”

“It’s stronger that way. Try it again, you guys.” I sit back.

They look at each other, shrug their shoulders, and go back to their fighting as if I had never opened my mouth. “Yoicks! Yoicks! Yoicks!” says Bernie.

Hard to be the director in your own home. The actors don’t have to do what you say. I miss my
Nutcracker.

As if on cue, the phone rings, and the ident-a-call screen says
OGILVY.
It’s my Nutcracker: Brad. “Hello!” I say.

Only it’s not Brad. A strange woman’s voice on the other end of the phone says, “Is that Jane? Jane Peeler?”

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“I’m Mrs. Ogilvy. Brad Ogilvy’s mother. Tell me, dear, how are you?”

“Fine,” I say. “Um, how are you?”

“I can’t talk for long. Brad doesn’t know I’m calling.”

I don’t say anything.

“It’s about the project you and Brad are doing together. I wondered how it’s going.” “Huh?”

“We talked about it when I saw you at the hospital a few days ago. A science project, wasn’t it?”

“Um.”

“You remember, don’t you, dear? About … nuts?”

“Oh,
that
project.”

My brothers are still fighting in the kitchen. Bill slashes with his paper towel roll at Bernie, who ducks and stabs blindly forward, hitting Bill in the nose.
Blood spurts. Bill puts his hands to his nose. They come away bloody. Bill starts to cry. Bernie drops his sword. The look on his face is almost religious – a mixture of fear, awe, and surprised delight.

“Yes, dear. You were working on it after school on Friday, weren’t you? You and Brad.”

“I was with Brad after school, yes.”

“Can you tell me how it’s going?”

“Um … why can’t you ask your son – Brad?” I say.

And now she gets weird. All right, weirder. “Because, you see, dear, I don’t trust Brad,” she says. “I ask him about it and he says it’s going fine. But I don’t see any work in his notebook. I go through his school-work when he’s asleep, and I can’t find anything about nuts.”

“Oh.” I say. I’m definitely not comfortable with this. I don’t think she should be going through Brad’s notebook. I don’t think he should be lying to his mom. I don’t think I should be having this conversation.

“I know about the maps you’re all making for geography. I know about the 1950s artifact. Brad is going to bring in a
BAN THE BOMB
button we found in the basement. But I can’t find anything about nuts. So, what’s going on?” Mrs. Ogilvy asks. Her voice is getting harsher. “What’s he up to? What secret is he keeping from his mother?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

Bill is sniffing. His shirt is sprinkled with bloody drops. Bernie reaches up to touch one.

“Aha!” Mrs. Ogilvy’s voice rings down the phone like a trumpet. “So there
is
a secret!”

“Huh? I mean, there is?”

“You just admitted it.”

“I did?”

“What is it? What is Brad’s secret? Tell me. I have a right to know. Tell me what he’s hiding from his mother!”

“I think I have to go,” I say. “My brother is bleeding.”

“What? What was that?”

“Bill’s hurt,” I say.

She doesn’t hear me. “Filbert?” she says. “What about filberts? Is that what the nut project is about?”

I hang up.

Bill and Bernie both have blood on their hands. I don’t want to wake up Dad. I’m supposed to be responsible. “Are you okay, Bill?” I ask.

“No.”

“How about you, Bernie?”

“Yoicks!” says Bernie.