Authors: Laura Pedersen
“That sounds cool,” I say.
“I have an appointment to meet with a bank in Cleveland next Wednesday. They want a pond in their lobby!”
We go upstairs to Craig's room, and I hardly recognize it. There are big drawings of ponds lying across the bed and reference books scattered all over the floor.
“You're really into this,” I remark.
“Sometimes I wonder if I'd have discovered all this if Bernard hadn't asked me to design that pond for him last summer. Talk about serendipity!”
“Yeah, one never knows where a day with Bernard is going to lead,” I agree.
“The Stocktons said they don't mind if I put pictures of their pond on my Web site,” says Craig.
“So what's up with you and Megan?” I suddenly change the subject.
Pause. “Summer fling, I guess.” Craig sounds mildly disheartened.
“What do you mean, ‘you guess’?”
“She's engaged to some guy at her school.”
“Engaged? Really! I've never thought of us as being old enough to get married.”
“What about you?” asks Craig.
“What
about
me?” I say. “I've become the old woman who lived in the shoe. Who would ever look at
me
?”
“I would,” says Craig.
He clears the drawings off the bed and we sit down on the edge of it side by side. Craig kisses me on the lips, tentatively at first, and then we begin to lose ourselves in becoming reacquainted.
“Isn't this sort of weird with your parents at the other end of the hall?” I whisper.
“They respect my space. And besides, you'd better get used to it. I'm going to be living at home for a while. Though don't assume it makes me gay.”
Craig and I both laugh.
“Don't worry, I won't.”
From then on we remain in the limbo of unspoken words. Touching Craig is like entering an enchanted garden where you're overwhelmed by the scent and want to lay a hand on every petal, feel every leaf, and dig right down into the earth. I hear the sound of breathing but can no longer tell if it's my own or his, and soon become aware of a torturous desire for not just sex, but magnificent intimacy. Whenever he kisses or touches me, I know just how to answer. Likewise, he anticipates my desires and makes love to me until we shudder in each other's arms. I find myself sloping toward sleep wanting to capture the moment forever in a line of poetry or a painting that I can imagine but feel incapable of realizing.
M
ORNING ENTERS THROUGH THE CHINKS IN THE BLINDS AND IT
takes me a moment to remember where I am. Craig is lying next to me and smiles in a way that says we're back together and that this
wasn't
just a one-night stand.
While leaning on his left elbow he uses his right hand to examine my shoulders and face as if searching for pimples. “Hey, where did your freckles go?” he finally asks.
“They had to be sold in order to buy Christmas presents for the kids.”
“What a shame,” he says. “I always thought it would be fun to play connect the dots.”
“I guess I'm getting old,” I say. “Which is another reason it would be nice not to have to worry about stupid condoms. What if I were to go on the Pill?”
“Really?” Craig asks excitedly. “I never wanted to ask because, you know, it's your body and everything. But I fully support whatever decision you make.”
“It's probably a good idea anyway around my house,” I say. “Sometimes I'm afraid that I'll get pregnant by touching a doorknob. But, well, it would mean that we should both get tested and then only see each other.”
I can't believe I'm hearing myself correctly. It wasn't a thought or a blinding flash of inspiration that made me open my mouth, just a feeling that it was right, that he was made for me and I for him.
“At least, that's the only way I would feel comfortable,” I add. After the word
comfortable
I'm suddenly thinking about the look on Herb's face when he sees
this
prescription. Maybe I can have it filled at school instead.
“That would be great. We'll be exclusive,” says Craig. After a pause he throws out the line, “Do you think you want kids someday?”
“Huh!”
“Not now.” Craig chuckles. “I just meant someday.”
“Please don't ask me that right now.” I'm envisioning the long slog that lies ahead over the next ten days, known to children as
vacation.
“Maybe you could live at home and commute to college?” suggests Craig.
I think about that for a moment and it doesn't provide me with a warm feeling the way that Craig's arm across my chest does. “I don't know if that's such a good idea. There's stuff to do in the art rooms and computer lab. It's only an hour. Why don't you come visit one or two weekends a month and the other ones I'll come home?”
“That could work for now, at least until my business gets going,” says Craig.
Happiness floods my heart, and everything bad seems to be in the past while I finally hold the present right in the palm of my hand.
We go downstairs and Craig's mom greets us by saying, “Merry Christmas!”
Whoops, I'd almost forgotten about that. It's Christmas morning!
Mrs. Larkin ties on an apron with a big snowman on the front and invites me to stay for breakfast. It's tempting, especially since I see that she's having the really good kind of sausages that come frozen in a box. But I tell her I'd better head home to wrangle all of my brothers and sisters, who by now will be zooming around the house with their new toys.
“Well, it's fine to stay over anytime,” says Mrs. Larkin. “Craig's father and I really admire how you've handled things this past year.”
Just as I'm walking out the front door, Mom turns her mini-van into the Larkins’ driveway.
B
ERNARD THOUGHT THAT YOU MIGHT BE HERE,” MOM SAYS AS SHE
gets out of the car.
“Sorry about last night,” I say. “It's just that … with Dad, you know, and everything.”
We stand outside in the cold facing each other, and for the first time I notice the fine latticework of wrinkles on my mother's face.
“I understand,” says Mom. “You know, Arthur and I haven't been together or anything like that.” Her cheeks flush, and she looks down at the tire tracks in the driveway.
“It's none of my business, Mom.”
“But I want you to know that, Hallie. We haven't even really kissed, other than on the cheek or the forehead when he leaves.”
“Honestly, Mom, you don't have to tell me any of this.”
“I know I don't. But please hear me out, Hallie. Right now I can't even imagine sharing my bed with another man.”
If my life were a movie, this is the moment where Mom and I would bond together as adults. Only it's not the multiplex in Timpany, and I'm finding this conversation to be increasingly icky For some reason I prefer to think of my mom as the maker
of wonderful birthday cakes rather than a regular woman with … well …
needs.
“I'm not independent like you,” continues Mom. “When I was your age and your father was my boyfriend, I was writing my name on scraps of paper to see how it would look after we married, and daydreaming about the wedding. I never bothered to get my diploma, which was foolish, because if I did I might have a good job now, or at least in a few years when the twins start school. You don't know what's going to happen in life. That's why I became so upset when Louise had trouble. And you, my goodness, I'd lost control over you by the time you were ten years old, though I tried not to show it.”
“I'm not strong, Mom. Be serious. When you were sick, I was the first one down the rabbit hole.”
“What do you mean? You kept the whole family together.”
“I hardly visited you.”
“That's because you don't like to feel helpless—and there wasn't anything you could do at the hospital. But at home there was, and you did it all.”
Mom is being extremely generous if you consider Louise taking off, one of the twins almost buying the farm, and all the kids now whispering “tits like a basset hound's ears” to one another during church.
“So we're just different, that's all,” I say.
“My point is, Hallie, that I need someone. I'm sure you will, too, but I don't think it will ever be in the same way. Do you understand?”
“I guess so,” I say.
“I'm not as brave,” adds Mom.
After my experiences this past year I currently think that the bravest thing in the world is to be a mother, especially to ten children.
“You know how you found out about my age and Eric being, well, somewhat premature?” asks Mom.
“Yeah.”
She looks off into the distance before continuing. “What I'm saying is that Eric wasn't an accident, Hallie. I knew there was a chance I'd become pregnant. Looking back, I realize that it was the easy way out. If only I'd had the confidence and the courage to do it the right way at the right time. And who knows, maybe your father could have been a professional football player.”
Wow. So Eric was what you might call a planned accident. I let this piece of information sink in. There's not much to say other than to promise to have safe sex, but it doesn't seem the right time for that. “I thought I'd start school again in January. If it's okay with you.”
Mom finally smiles. “Yes, I think that's an excellent idea.”
“If you can handle things at home.” And then I remember she's not exactly alone. “I mean, I guess you'll have some help.”
“I hope so. If it's okay with you.”
“Is Pastor Costello at the house now?” I ask.
“No. I invited him, of course, but he feels uncomfortable.”
“I'll see if I can find him,” I offer.
She nods as if that would be nice. “I've asked the children to wait to open their presents.”
We both get into our cars. Only she turns right at the end of the street and I make a left. The silent empty yards are dotted with frosted pines and naked gleaming birches beneath a calendar blue sky. Everyone is at home celebrating Christmas or else enjoying a quiet day off.
When I arrive at church, Pastor Costello's van is the only vehicle in the lot. I find him up on a ladder in the sanctuary taking down decorations and carefully packing them away for next year, all except for the poinsettias on the altar, which will remain
there through Epiphany. The church feels lonely compared to the way it was last night during the five o'clock children's service, all lit with candles, every pew jam-packed with families singing “Silent Night.”
“Isn't it a little early in the day to be taking down the decorations?” I ask.
Without looking down from the ladder Pastor Costello replies, “The holiday is over for me.”
“Not really,” I say. “You can't spell Jesus without the letter
u.
” This is one of the things Pastor Costello famously tells the graduating Sunday school class every spring, knowing there's a good chance he'll never see them inside the church again aside from Christmas and Easter.
My entreaty is about as effective as his annual speech. Pastor Costello reaches up high to remove some garland surrounding a plaque honoring the previous minister.
“Some kids are anxiously awaiting your arrival so they can open their presents,” I try again.
“And what kids might those be?” He still doesn't look down.
“Well, there are two babies, but they don't care so much about presents. Then there are some little kids who might pass out if they don't start tearing open wrapping paper soon.” I pause and stare at the front of the sanctuary where Dad's coffin sat almost a year ago. “And then there are some bigger kids who would just enjoy your company.”
Pastor Costello finally glances down at me.
“I'm sorry I was such a jerk,” I say. “If it makes you feel any better, I've been doing a lot of apologizing the past twenty-four hours. You're just one on a long list. It's basically my full-time job now.”
He gives me a little smile, and for some reason I'm more relieved than I thought I'd be.
“Why don't I meet you over there a bit later?” he asks.
“Why don't you come with me now and I'll give you a ride home later? Craig and I can even help you pack up the rest of this stuff.”
“Amen to that,” says Pastor Costello, and finally comes down off his ladder. “It sounds like an offer I can't refuse.”
W
HEN WE PULL INTO MY DRIVEWAY THERE ARE ABOUT SEVEN
faces pressed against the big picture window and an audible whoop goes up inside the house. The front door flies open to reveal a room that is bright with Christmas morning.
Inside the living room I see Brandt standing next to the tree, looking more grown-up than ever. Sitting nearby are Louise and Eric and Teddy. It's pretty clear they're thinking the same thing as me, that it's the first Christmas without Dad. But the little kids don't share in this preoccupation. Dad was a long time ago, and the presents are right here and now.
It's hard to tell what is on Mom's mind. She busies herself with picking up wrapping paper and empty juice glasses, a study of constant motion. She must be thinking about Dad, too. I catch her looking at his photo on the side table. He's here. And yet he's gone.
Finally Pastor Costello interrupts Mom's frenetic cleanup and says, “Come and sit down for a moment.” She hesitates. There's an empty plate with Danish crumbs in her hand that's pulling her toward the dishwasher. I take the plate and she sits down next to Pastor Costello, takes a deep breath, and for the first time focuses on her surroundings.
Pastor Costello opens my gift to him—a trilogy of murder mysteries with gruesome covers—and Mom looks at me as if this isn't a very appropriate gift. But Pastor Costello quickly rescues the situation for us both. “I've been meaning to start reading mysteries. They offer some excellent insights into human nature.”
“Can we open it
now?”
Davy begs Mom.
Everyone knows that
it
means the box from Uncle Lenny, which is so big that it's been stored in the garage all week.
“Yes,” agrees Mom.
With help from Eric and me, the kids drag the heavy box into the living room and start to tear at it. Before long there's a big floppy piece of bright orange rubber emerging, and I say a silent prayer that it's not a blowup doll. The kids are going crazy shouting and tugging from every direction. The last third appears to be stuck and so they yank on the free end until suddenly there's a loud
whoosh.