Those We Love Most (22 page)

“Somebody hand me the hot pads,” barked Margaret, and the girls scrambled to oblige her. As she opened the oven, a blast of heat blew back her carefully coiffed hair, and she began to wrestle with the giant pan. The roast’s savory aroma intensified in the kitchen as the fat crackled and snapped in the bloody juices. Piles of carrots and fingerling potatoes were arranged like a moat around the meat.

“Let me help you with that,” Roger offered, and she stepped back so that he could do the heavy lifting. He’d come into the kitchen to get more ice and was taking in the pleasing sight of his wife and children working in unison on one of their elaborate holiday family meals.

“Eiiiiyaaaaaaaahhh.” Sam, Erin’s oldest child, burst into the kitchen giggling. He was chasing Stu and Jen’s daughter, Alice, and waving some kind of plastic light saber.

Conversation, laughter, and noise from the living room swirled into the kitchen, and the house throbbed with the cacophony of extended family gathered in one place. It was glorious chaos, but underneath the patina of mirth for all of them was the undeniable undercurrent of James’s absence on this first Christmas. They would feel his loss at the heart of so many rituals tonight: the dinner prayer, the stockings, Roger’s fireside reading of the Christmas story with the grandchildren after dinner.

Christmas eve. Here they were. They had made it through the last seven months without James, past Thanksgiving, when the cousins had been splintered at in-laws, and now they were at the doorstep of this next family milestone, and it looked like they were surviving it.

“Will you carve up the roast now, dear?” Margaret asked Roger brusquely. She was using her hostess voice, and he knew better than to interfere. Her territory was ruled with an iron fist.

Roger pulled the carving set out of its well-worn box on the counter. They’d gotten it as a wedding present, and he was pleased to remember that fact. Quite amazingly, Margaret could still reel off who had given them what. She had a cataloging knowledge of their possessions and exactly where things belonged.

It was somewhat of a relief to have a job to do amid all the bustling of children and grandchildren in his home. Now Ryan, on all fours, pushed open the swinging dining room door into the kitchen, chasing Sarah, who was waving a juice box. She rammed into a stool, almost toppling it, and then screamed in delight, heading for the den.

“Children, children,” Margaret called testily, clapping her hands like a schoolteacher, her mouth tight. “Stay out of the kitchen while we get the food on the table. We’re almost ready!” Erin, Jen, and Maura exchanged knowing glances. This was Margaret at full maternal tilt.

As he slit the knife through the meat’s pink interior, Roger reflected that he felt largely back to his old self after that meeting with Kindler a few weeks before. For a time after that he’d been rattled, his confidence stooped and shaken. He should have stayed at the bar that night, driven around, anything but come home and worry Margaret by dumping his own personal crisis of faith in her lap. That had not been wise, yet the evening had ended wonderfully. They’d actually made love for the first time in a long time, and it had felt satisfying. More than satisfying. He had been surprised at Margaret’s ardor, the way she succumbed so easily to his touch.

In the den, Pete, Stu, and Brad were subdued on the dark green couch, legs splayed in front of the coffee table before them, beers in hand, studying the flat-screen TV above the fireplace. The deep burgundy walls lent the room a cavelike atmosphere as they chatted, commenting from time to time on the basketball game and waiting for the final call to the table. Even on Christmas eve sports could be found all over cable, Roger marveled. The house that was mostly too big for just the two of them seemed suddenly to press in, and he felt the urge to escape the competing swirls of chaos and staccato bursts of conversation for a brief period. Perhaps he’d take a stroll outside after dinner. He should call Julia and wish her a Merry Christmas.

Roger’s knife hit bone, and a thick bloodied slab of the beef curled down onto the cutting board. He could hear the women in the dining room, adjusting chafing dishes and bowls on the sideboard, pouring ice water and arranging the remaining condiments with the delicate silver serving utensils. He had placed every leaf in the mahogany dining room table, and Margaret had selected a forest green and silver tablecloth that set off the cream china and crystal wineglasses. The silver settings sparkled, and Roger warmed to the familiarity and festivity in the room.

“Do you want me to bring the roast out there?” Roger called. Above the bustle no one heard him, and he moved toward the swinging door of the dining room, opening it halfway with the serving fork pointed up in one hand. No answer. “Julia, do I bring in the meat?”

For an instant, Margaret stiffened, and an ugly, knowing look jammed on her face, as if she had just tasted something bitter. Roger, still unaware of the gaffe, was momentarily confused, as his daughters briefly stopped their preparations, wearing puzzled expressions.

Their grandson Sam burst into the dining room, hitting the table and causing the ice to tinkle against the crystal water glasses. Margaret turned back to look at Sam with controlled fury and then cut her gaze to the floor, wiping her hands on her apron. “Bring the roast in here, Roger,” said Margaret curtly, after a strangled pause.

It took Roger one uncomfortable moment, as he backtracked along the guy wire of his utterance, to realize his mistake. Christ Almighty. Had he just called his wife Julia? Had he let that slip unconsciously? Roger set the roast platter on the sideboard and moved into the kitchen doorframe, lowering his eyes, grateful for Margaret’s practical, unflappable nature. He was hopeful she wouldn’t give it another thought. She had no idea of the significance of the name, couldn’t possibly know who Julia was. It was a simple mistake, an honest mistake; he shouldn’t place any more weight on it than the times he simply called up the wrong word. There was so much confusion in the house, so many boisterous people and kids colliding, it was disorienting. There was no reason for Margaret to suspect that there was any more to it than that. Reassured, Roger busied himself situating the silver platter on the trivet.

Minutes later Margaret was herding all of them into the dining room. The rolls were out of the oven, the mashed potatoes and the oysters and corn casserole steaming in sterling chafing dishes. In the center of the table, Margaret had artfully arranged little crèche figures interspersed with fir boughs and candles, giving off an evergreen scent. The long tapers in the candlesticks flickered, illuminating the room’s metallic striped wallpaper. The grandchildren stomped their feet eagerly like ponies, entering the line one by one from the kitchen with newly washed hands. The fluffy piles of mashed potatoes their mothers had heaped on their plates were in disproportionate amount to the rest of the food.

Once they were all seated, Margaret reminded her grandchildren to put their napkins on their laps and turned to ask Ryan to say grace. For a small moment, everyone hesitated. This had been James’s role for the past few years as the oldest grandchild, and he had relished it. There was a momentary awkwardness, largely unnoticed by the children, and a collective realization that it was not so much that they were recovering from the loss of James on this very first Christmas season without him, but that they were learning to live around the edges of his absence.

“Thank you, God, for our food and for family. Please take care of us and please tell James that I miss him.” Ryan lifted his head but squeezed his eyes shut self-consciously.

Roger studied Maura as she smiled tentatively; the beginnings of tears swam in her eyes. He was pleased to see Pete reach for her hand. Margaret was also observing Maura, her mouth pursed.

“And may God protect those we love most,” Roger added, his eyes darting back to Maura and then Pete, who looked stoic, glazed even, from multiple beers in the den.

“Amen,” the table muttered in a staggered unison, and then there was the sudden scuttling of silverware on fine china as everyone dug into their heaped plates.

Later that night, after Stu and Jen had gone upstairs to settle Alice, and Erin’s family had headed home to leave carrots for the reindeer, Ryan sidled up to Roger on the couch while Maura and Pete were gathering their things.

“Do you think Santa will find James in heaven?”

The simplicity of the question ambushed Roger, and he pulled his grandson in for a hug.

“I do,” said Roger. “I think James is going to have a very good Christmas with God and all the angels up there. And you know, when you’re in heaven, you get to watch down on everyone else. He’ll be watching down on us too.” Roger rubbed Ryan’s shoulder for a moment and was struck by his marked resemblance to James, the same spray of freckles on the bridge of his nose, the clear blue wide-set eyes, a legacy from his side of the family. Ryan had recently gotten a haircut, and Roger smoothed the bristles at the nape of his neck where the barber had shaved him. As he hugged Ryan, Roger was struck by the slimness of his frame, the insubstantiality of a seven-year-old boy.

“Good,” Ryan said simply, “because I miss him.”

“Me too,” choked Roger. “I miss him too.”

Back home from Christmas eve dinner, Pete read “’Twas the Night before Christmas,” and they’d put out cookies and a glass of milk for Santa. Maura and Pete took turns tucking in both kids, soothing their excitement and urging them to fall asleep soon. They wandered downstairs, settling on the couch, sipping glasses of wine until they were certain the kids were asleep before carrying the presents up from their hiding place in the basement. They tiptoed around, making noises and then shushing each other, and yet it had been hard not to focus on the fact that there was one less stocking, one less excited child. The previous year, James had figured out that there was no Santa, but he had sworn up and down to keep that secret from his siblings.

Maura hesitated when Pete opened another bottle of red wine, but she held her tongue. He was already partway in the bag, his eyes matte, head panning in that slow deliberate way of closed-circuit security cameras. He’d made a fire earlier in the night, scrounging old logs in the garage, as neither of them had thought to order wood this fall, one of the many details that had evaporated from their formerly ordered household.

After they’d organized the gifts under the boughs of the fir tree, they sat on the rug in silence, watching the blinking colored lights reflect on their faces. Pete put his arm around her first and then moved toward her with a look of naked hunger and need. Exhausted from the festivities and saturated with past family memories, this was not how she had imagined the night would end. Maura steeled herself as he lifted her sweater and fumbled with the button at her waistband. Struggling out of his pants with a sense of urgency, his hands grazed her stomach, moving up to her breast and finding the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Pete bent his head and she squirmed out of her jeans, acutely aware of how her spine was pressed uncomfortably into the space where the rug dropped off to hardwood floor.

“I love you,” he said, thick tongued, pressing his lips to the side of her cheek by her ear, making the little nibbling, blowing motion that had wooed her back in college when it had seemed sexy and not so canned.

“Love you too,” she murmured, but she turned her head aside and squeezed her eyes shut. She was concentrating mightily on trying to relax her body from its involuntary, rigid stance. This was exactly what she should be doing now, she told herself, exactly where she should be, but she felt almost nothing; no desire, just a kind of vaporous rising panic. The wine at dinner made her a little fuzzy and now Pete was pawing at her, and she needed to pee. She shoved that thought aside.

“I’ve missed you,” he moaned, and she wrapped her legs around him, clasping him closer. If she could do this right, she thought, it would mean so much. On one level, lying in his arms felt so simple and familiar, she momentarily believed it might save her life.

There was a noise upstairs, something like an object falling, or maybe it was just the creak of a pipe between the walls of the older house. She tensed for a moment, freezing, poised to listen, and they both stopped. Pete watched her carefully, never taking his eyes off her. He was drunk, she realized then, very drunk.

“What?” he said thickly. “What is it?”

“A noise. Did you hear that?”

“It’s nothing, just the heat, those old radiators. Iss not the kids, they’re sound asleep.” His voice was groggy, his words slightly slurred.

“Are you sure?” Maura sat up, pushing him off of her and starting toward the steps.

“Yeah,” said Pete, falling back down on the rug and letting out his breath in a frustrated
whoosh
. He rubbed both of his palms over his eye sockets in a hurried motion, as if to revive himself.

As she rose, Pete’s arms suddenly shot out and looped around her ankles, pulling her back on the rug with a single-minded purpose, and her annoyance flared as he rolled to kiss her again. His merlot-soaked tongue called to her mind the textured underside of a portobello mushroom, fleshy and moist, and then her thoughts flicked briefly to Art. And as she fought the urge to push Pete’s chest away, Maura once more willed herself to concentrate.

When they began again, their hips moving in unison, he entered her, somewhat rougher than she would have liked, and any trace of a spell that she had tried to conjure up had been broken. Her rhythm was off, her attention completely diverted. She could feel Pete’s urgency but still felt no desire. Maura bit down on her bottom lip and closed her eyes. The floor cut awkwardly into her back, and she made an involuntary movement that somehow nudged Pete away, and he grasped her harder. As he moved inside of her, Pete seemed unaware of anything but his immediate pleasure, and because she could hold it in no longer, Maura began to cry, softly at first and then her shoulders shaking, her body rag doll limp. Pete suddenly slammed his hand down on the rug beside her head and rolled off of her body.