Breakdown, page 15
“Huh. You could make a pizza if you really wanted to, couldn’t you?”
“Well, maybe I could, but that’s not what I mean. I want to go out to a little pizza place and order one, and sit at a cramped little table with bad music playing in the background, and have them bring it to me, too hot to eat at first, with lots of gooey cheese and hot sausage and pepperoni and black olives.”
“Green pepper and onions,” Chris said.
“Green pepper, okay, but no onions, because they really ruin your breath,” she said and laughed.
“Oh, so this is a date, then?”
“Wouldn’t have to be a date, but it would be nice to share it with someone. Better than eating alone.”
“Who?”
“Do you like pizza?”
He didn’t answer for a while, and she thought maybe she’d said the wrong thing. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft.
“There was a place Sophie and I used to go to—Carpelli’s. Little place stuck between a bakery and a card shop in a strip mall. Some of the best pizza I’ve ever had. Something about the sauce. There were only four booths on one wall, two tables for two, and a little counter where two people could sit. And you could get takeaway, too. Sometimes there would be a queue on Friday or Saturday night. We’d go every couple of weeks, usually just the two of us, but sometimes with friends. She liked pepperoni, I liked onions, so we’d get a half-and-half. And if she had to work late at the office, I’d stop and pick up a pizza and take it in, and we’d eat it at her desk.” He paused. “I really miss that.”
Pauline wanted to put her arm through his, but after what had happened in the pub, she decided against it.
“I was thinking about her, so I just kept drinking. Stupid.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “It happens. I understand.” They walked on in silence for a few minutes. “So, what do you want for Christmas?”
Chris took a breath and exhaled. “I want to be able to enjoy it and not ruin it for everyone else.”
This time she did put her arm through his and squeezed a little. He didn’t react, kept walking. When they reached the front gate, he pulled his arm away and opened the gate for her. They went around to the kitchen door. His longer strides got him there first.
Chris stopped with his hand on the doorknob, then turned to face her. He reached up and pushed back his hood. Faint light from the lamps in the kitchen came through the curtains, lighting his face. His dark eyes were on hers.
“I should have just kissed you,” he whispered. “Would have given them something to talk about, eh?” He slipped one hand around her waist and pulled her close. Surprise made her draw a breath. She put one hand on his arm, waited, then rested the other on his hip, not quite an embrace. Her heart beat fast; her face warmed. Chris licked his lips, swallowed. He breathed out faint puffs into the cold air. He touched her hair lightly, his face close to hers.
It’s the beer, she thought. Did I have that much? I need to stop this.
“Oh, crap,” Chris said and pushed her away gently. “I’m sorry. I’m drunk. I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s okay,” Pauline said automatically, stepping away and putting her hands into her pockets.
“I’d never—” Chris started, but he didn’t go on.
“It’s okay,” she repeated, confused, wondering why she felt disappointed.
“It won’t happen again; you needn’t worry. Good night.” Chris wrenched open the door and went in without waiting for her.
* * *
His hangover lasted the entire next day, and Chris hoped no one had heard him puking into the toilet in the middle of the night. At least no one mentioned it. He ate only toast for breakfast. Pauline kept looking at him in a way that made him feel like a guilty child. He ignored the beaming headache and pushed the familiar depression aside. He tramped through the field across the road to cut holly branches for Grace. He crawled up a ladder into the attic and handed down the boxes marked “Christmas” to Marie while George and Pauline went off to cut a tree. He even agreed—though he regretted it later—to go to church with the family on Christmas Eve when Grace brought up the subject.
“I’ll find you a nice shirt and trousers,” Grace said, and Chris knew he wouldn’t get away with what he’d worn to the party at the pub.
He sat and brooded while the rest of them decorated the tree in the sitting room. The tangled strings of electric lights had gone back in a box and right back up to the attic. George was employed to put a few ornaments on the topmost branches, then the women took over. He retired to his favorite chair to smoke a pipe.
“George doesn’t really care what the tree looks like,” Grace said. “But if you’d like to help, Chris, you’re more than welcome.”
Autopilot. “No, don’t worry about me. I used to do the lights, but Sophie never let me touch the ornaments. She had boxes of antique ones from her mother. It all had to be just right. I enjoyed watching her do it, because she enjoyed it so.” His head pounded. The women smiled at him.
He went up to his room after tea. He’d got the red ribbon from Pauline and carefully folded the wrapping paper around the gifts he had purchased: the glass bird ornament for Grace, a pair of leather work gloves for George, a magazine of crossword puzzles for Marie, with only two puzzles started by someone in the past. He’d erased the penciled-in words. He didn’t plan to wrap the black-and-white football he’d found for Wes. He tied a piece of red ribbon around it.
For Pauline he’d bought a tortoiseshell hair clip. He used what he considered the most elegant of the wrapping papers on it, folding the extra carefully so it wouldn’t be wrecked. He tied it with a piece of gold cord he’d snagged from one of the boxes of decorations.
Two days later, Chris found himself scrubbing up after supper with a bucket of hot water in the bathroom while the women bathed downstairs. He shaved and frowned at his hair in the mirror. Too late to do anything about it now. He put on the clothes Grace had laid out for him: black trousers, a white shirt, a red tie, and a heather-green V-neck jumper. At least it wasn’t a suit. He didn’t think he could handle a suit. She hadn’t forgot shoes, either. They were a bit tight, but Chris figured he could stand them for the evening.
He carried his packages down and added them to the small pile under the tree. He remembered another Christmas: the twinkling lights, baby toys, little dresses, a bath towel with yellow ducks on it. He’d bought Sophie a cream silk blouse and an expensive watch. She’d never worn either. They were still in the boxes under the tree when he’d left the house.
“Are you okay?”
Chris spun around with a gasp. He hadn’t heard Pauline come down the stairs. She wore a simple dark-green gown with a black belt and glittery black necklace. She’d pulled her hair back from her face.
“You look nice,” Chris managed.
“Thanks. Wow, look at you. Mum did good.”
“The shoes are a bit tight.” Chris held up one foot and wiggled it.
“It’s just for tonight.” She leaned forward a bit and cupped her hand around her mouth. “I vetoed the suit,” she said in a mock whisper and smiled.
“Thank you.” Chris rolled his eyes.
“Are you okay?” she asked again.
He nodded. “It’s good and bad. More good, though.”
* * *
The vicar stood at the door and welcomed everyone with a handshake as they came into the church. Chris had never been inside before. Candles in sconces lined the walls. Chris stood aside, letting the women enter the pew first, and managed to get the end seat next to George. He thought about Brother Luke, how often he’d encouraged Chris to come to church, even though Chris had always refused. He’d spent two Christmases at the monastery playing cards in the dormitory or working in the barn while the services went on up the hill in the church. Brother Luke would be pleased to see him now.
He let the singing wash over him. When was the last time he’d sung? That little gig in September, at the bar with the bad spotlight that kept going out. Jon had been there. Is Jon in church right now, too? Sitting next to Mum, holding the hymnal for her? Chris found it hard to breathe. Happy Christmas, Mum.
No, they weren’t. They would have answered his letter. Crap. Nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine, nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight, nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-seven…on and on and on.
Then it was over, and Chris was making his way out of the church, saying “Happy Christmas” again and again while his shoes pinched his feet.
If he dreamed that night, Chris didn’t remember it. He did the chores before breakfast, before George got up even. He stood out in the yard under a lead-grey sky and watched some little birds pecking around in the dirt. They fluttered away when he roused himself to go inside.
After breakfast, they opened presents.
Pauline exclaimed at the new wrapping papers. She smoothed them out carefully after she’d thanked Chris and clipped up her hair. Everyone chuckled when Chris and George opened their gifts to each other at the same time and both found leather work gloves. Chris put on the hat Marie had knit for him, and Marie’s mouth opened in delight as she paged through the puzzles. Grace hung her bird on the tree and stooped to give Chris a peck on the cheek while she handed him her gift: a small leather wallet containing nail clippers, a file, and scissors.
“I do like a man with neat nails,” she said and winked at him.
Pauline passed him a gift done up like a Christmas cracker. He untied the red and gold cords and unrolled the foil paper, smoothing it out the way Pauline had done. Inside a cardboard tube, he found a carved ivory chess piece: a castle, intricate and ornate, with little towers and windows, and vines snaking up the walls.
“I found it in a box of junk in the market. Bought the box, picked that out, and left the rest behind. Imagine what the whole set must have looked like.”
“It’s brilliant, thank you,” was all Chris could say. He passed it around for everyone to ooh and aah over.
“It’ll fit in your pocket, that,” Pauline said and looked away.
Wes showed up. He opened his gifts—a knit cap, mittens, and a bag of peppermint sweets—and took Chris outside to try out the ball. George and Pauline came out soon after, and the four of them spent a happy hour kicking the football around the yard until it started to rain.
Games in the sitting room, tea, chores, and supper rounded out the day. Wes seemed ready to stay, so Pauline fixed him a bed on the couch in the sitting room. Chris was about to head to bed when she stopped him at the bottom of the stairs.
“Can I talk to you? In the study?” She carried a lamp.
“It’s Christmas,” Chris said. Did she really want to wrestle more painful memories out of him?
“I know. Just for a minute.”
He followed her in and shut the door. She set the lamp down, but didn’t sit, so neither did he. She bit her lip.
“What is it?”
Pauline pulled something from her back pocket and held it out to him. He saw red writing and realized what it was.
“I’ve had them since the day before yesterday. Mr. Percy gave them to me. I didn’t want to ruin your Christmas.”
Chris took the envelopes from her. Each one had a diagonal line through the address, and underneath, in red letters, was scrawled “Abandoned.” The line went right through Jon’s name and appeared to underline Brian’s.
“Huh,” Chris said. The hand holding the letters had gone numb, like it didn’t belong to him anymore. Pauline was talking to him, but he didn’t listen. He stared at the word. Abandoned.
Pauline took his arm. “Chris?”
“What?”
“It doesn’t necessarily mean they’re dead.” She held his gaze with her own. “Right?”
“You’re always so optimistic,” he whispered. “I wish I could be. But you haven’t seen what I’ve seen.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.” He felt bad for her. She had known for days, kept it from him to give him the best chance of a good Christmas. He put his arms around her, kissed her cheek—the way he should have done at the pub—and held her. “Thank you, for everything,” he said into her hair. “You’ve made this the best Christmas I’ve had in a long time. I’ll treasure all the gifts your family has given me.” He released her, touched her hair—such pretty hair, the way it gleamed in the glow of the lamp—and went upstairs to bed.
CHAPTER 16
The New Year’s Eve party at the pub was more subdued than the Christmas party. Fewer people came, perhaps due to the snow coming down steadily since midday. Chris had tried to politely decline, but Pauline managed to convince him to go.
“I’ll laugh at you when you slip in the snow in those wellies and fall on your arse,” he said to her while they were getting their coats on.
“I should hope you would kindly grab my arm and keep me from falling,” she replied.
The walk to the pub was accomplished without incident. Chris waited in the vestibule while Pauline changed into the shoes she’d carried along.
“Did you have a huge closet full of shoes, before?”
“I shudder when I think about how many shoes I owned,” she said. “That’s what you did when you went out shopping with your girlfriends. You bought shoes. I wore most of them, I suppose. But you can’t complain if I don’t want to wear wellies to a party.”
“I’m not complaining. They’re simply divine, dahling.”
“You won’t be so grumpy tonight, will you?”
“Don’t let me drink too much, okay?”
Chris followed Pauline as she made her way through the crowd, greeting and smiling, the tortoiseshell hair clip nestled among the hair at the back of her head. He wondered if she had chosen it to go with her outfit or if she had chosen the outfit to go with the clip. She drew him into short conversations he would otherwise have stayed out of. She didn’t touch him, but to Chris it seemed as if the people they talked to viewed them as a couple, as if Pauline were hanging on to his arm and casting loving glances at him. Maybe it was just his imagination. Maybe he needed a drink. No, don’t think like that. A drink would be nice, but he did not need a drink. He slipped off to the bar and got himself a pint and her a half.
“I owe you one,” she said as he handed it to her.
“Not at all.”
The music started, Mr. Weeks warming up with an easy step, accompanied by the scrape of chairs and tables as they cleared more space in the darts room. Pauline and a few others headed that way.
No one asked Chris to dance, which suited him fine. He avoided the archway between the main room and the darts room, with its insidious bundle of mistletoe still hanging there, and instead found a seat at the end of the bar and nursed his second—last?—pint.
Freddie approached him, her face neutral. He tried to look approachable. She inched closer.
“I’d like to apologize for my behavior,” Chris said to her.
“In advance?”
“I’m sorry, Freddie. I was drunk, which isn’t an excuse, but…”
“Apology accepted. Buy me some crisps.”
“Is that what I’ve been smelling?”
“No one let you in on it?”
Chris gave her a coin and she was back soon with a stool and a small bowl heaped with crisps. Chris moved his stool to make room for her. When she settled herself, her thigh pressed against his. She didn’t seem to notice.
“They’re still warm. They’re best this way,” Freddie said, munching.
“I haven’t had these in years.”
Harry brought them beer.
“Last one tonight, okay?” Chris said to him.
Harry winked. “Lay off the crisps, then, old chap.”
“I saw you in church,” Freddie said.
“Grace asked me to go. I couldn’t say no.”
“You didn’t look very comfortable.”
“My shoes were too tight.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
Chris sipped. “Yeah. No.”
“How was the rest of your Christmas?”
“Um. Up and down. But mostly up. You?”
“Very nice,” she said, not meeting his eye.
“Wes came up and spent the day.”
“Good. He needs that sort of family thing. He brought his ball to school this week. That was a brilliant gift, by the way. We all had a grand time kicking it ’round the school yard.”
“Good. Is he getting on with the other kids better?”
“Yes, I think so. I was thinking that we should get the school field back in order this year, maybe after planting. It’ll take some work. We could have games, get the community involved.”
“That’s a great idea. I’ll help.”
Freddie eyed him. “I thought you might be gone by then.”
“Ah. Yes. Well.” Chris stared into his beer, then reached into his back pocket. “Maybe you should see these.” He slid the letters toward her on the bar.
Her eyes widened and she drew in her breath. She picked up the top one, the one to Jon, and looked at the one underneath.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Chris.” She put a hand to her mouth.
Chris took them back and slipped them into his pocket again. “It doesn’t necessarily mean they’re dead, you know.”
“No, no. Of course not.”
“I wish I believed that.”
“But you’ll still go, to find out.”
“Not in the snow.”
Freddie looked into her glass, then crushed a small piece of crisp that had fallen on the polished wood of the bar top with her fingertip. “Do you wish you hadn’t sent them? It was my idea. Maybe I shouldn’t have—”
“It was a good idea,” Chris said, putting his hand on her arm briefly. “Don’t worry about it, okay? It’s done. It doesn’t really change anything.”
She drank down the last of her beer in one swig and pushed the rest of the crisps closer to Chris. “Look, I’m tired, and I’m not good company tonight, so I’m off. Happy New Year and all that.” She slid off the stool.
“Wait—” Chris said. He glanced toward the darts room. “Should I walk you home? It’s just that—”
