Tidings, page 22
‘Okay, does everybody have their ring?’
We all nod, not quite in tune, a bit amazed by it all.
‘Now, take it out of the box and hold it in your left hand so you can slip it on the right hand of the person to your right. Everybody should be putting a ring on somebody younger than they are except Ben, who closes this circle, and puts the ring on Dad; and we should all do it at the same moment.
‘Whoops! Wait a minute! Everybody has to give their ring to the person on their left or the rings won’t fit.’
We all exchange rings. Nicole gives hers to Ben. It’s wonderful how everybody’s taking it so seriously, even Ben. We’re intimately into the fantasy of Christmas.
‘Now, Dad, will you say something appropriately mysterious and mystical. See if you can freak us out the way you always did when we were kids.’
I feel on the spot but this is the kind of thing I like. I hold up my ring, turning slightly toward the Christmas tree. The others do the same.
‘In the name of this tree, symbol of all nature, which we have taken from the forest and brought into our home to help us celebrate the birth of the sun for the new year, may we be blessed as a family, as a small forest of people reaching up and searching for peace and love in this world.’
I’m not sure I said what I really meant, but I turn and slide Lor’s ring on the ring finger of her right hand. On her left hand she wears the wedding band she’s been wearing for one day short of thirty years. Each of the others does the same. Mike slips his ring onto Nicole’s finger.
‘Gee, I wish Geneviève were here. I wonder if there’s a ring in her stocking.’
Lor looks at me then at Mike.
‘If there isn’t you can always buy her one if you want, Mike. I’ll lend you the money.’
After all the rings are on and we’re staring down at the magic of them, we still stand there, not knowing what to do. Mike starts off,
‘Six golden rings …’
We all join in and lightly, without rush, sing out the rest of the song; one number in advance until we finish thirteen. There’s a brief pause and Nicole picks it up, creates,
‘Thirteen babies bouncing …’
We all laugh and joyously, dancing, finish out the song, going back down the line to the beginning, ending with two partridges and leaving it at that. We’ve been walking sideways slowly around in a circle until I arrive again with my back to the fire.
We break up the circle and everybody starts looking at the other presents under the tree. I go over and turn up the butane heater some. It’s stopped snowing but boy, is there ever a lot of snow. I’m watching when Lor whispers into Nicole’s ear. I figure it has to do with some other Christmas present so I’m surprised when Nickie leans back and breaks into one of her false laughs.
‘Oh come on Mom, you’ve got to be kidding!’
Then, they both go upstairs to where the girls have been sleeping. What could it be now? Honest to God! I seem to live in a mystery. When I was a kid there was a radio show called ‘I love a Mystery’; I used to love it, but now I’ve been living with mysteries so long I can’t really say I even like them.
So everybody’s there waiting to continue Christmas while Lor and Nickie are upstairs. Maggie looks at me and does her version of a French shrug. Mike and Ben are on their knees beside the millstone under the tree looking at the presents, trying to pretend they aren’t waiting.
Upstairs there’s whispering. At first it almost sounds as if they’re arguing, and then there’s some silence, then more whispering. I decide to say something, somebody has to.
‘Hey, what’s going on up there? Come on, it’s Christmas. We’re all waiting.’
Loretta pulls apart the upstairs curtain and looks through it. That upstairs is more or less a balcony with the end over the living room closed by drapes.
‘We’ll be right down, dear. You can all get along without us if you want. We won’t be a minute, honest.’
There’s something in her face, her voice, that spooks me. It’s the look she had on her face when she called me home on emergency that time Maggie swallowed chlordane. It’s the look she had when she got the extract from her mother saying her father had died; not a telegram, a extract. Her face is gray-white, collapsed, but she’s wearing her calming, captain-going-down-with-the-ship smile. Oh God, what can it be now!
We stand around like stuffed toys for another two or three minutes. The candles, the second ones I lit, are already half burned down. Then there’s a noise and I see Nickie’s feet on the top steps. She peeks at us from there. She’s smiling; a younger, more aggressive, more positive version of Loretta’s smile. Loretta follows her down, carefully holding up her robe so she won’t trip.
Nickie insists Ben open the Atari set. Nickie and Mike show him the directions; they did get exactly the tapes he wanted. He settles back in a corner and concentrates on assembling it. Too bad we didn’t bring down the TV so he could hook it up, but with that Fiat, I couldn’t’ve squeezed in a Walkman radio, let alone a TV.
Mike’s created handmade presents for everybody. For Loretta he’s made a matchbox holder out of wood to hang by the stove. He even brings in a hammer from the grange and nails it up for her. It’s for kitchen matches. He’s painted it with flowers of the Morvan and varnished it, but not the striking surface.
Loretta shows her appreciation, kisses him, but she’s way off somewhere.
For me, Mike’s made a leather holder for my Swiss Army knife. He’s decorated it with a leather tool so it has flowers embossed down the side. The same flowers as on the matchbox holder. He’s made puppets for Nickie and Maggie. They walk when you manipulate a four-string wooden cross over them. Maggie’s is a duck and Nickie’s is a chicken. They walk them around the floor while Mike demonstrates. Nickie walks hers across and up onto the washstand in front of the mirror so it can look at itself.
‘See, that’s you. That’s me. Chicken!’
For Ben, Mike’s made bookmarkers, hand-cut, designed, painted. There are twenty of them, each with a title and author of a book Mike has read and loved. Ben is entranced, shuffles them like Tarot cards. I know that by Easter he’ll have read all twenty of those books, including Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Sometimes a Great Notion, On the Road, Crime and Punishment and Steppenwolf.
Loretta kisses me when I quietly give her her perfume. The waffle iron is an instant success. It’s agreed we must have waffles for breakfast. Loretta gets out her cookbook for a recipe, Mike reads the directions for making waffles. Loretta is also happy to have the Moulinex processor but there’s no song and dance pretending she doesn’t know we bought it. We’re all still stunned and mystified by these magic stockings and I can’t help but wonder what could’ve happened up there between Nicole and Loretta.
Then, suddenly, but quietly, Lor leaves and goes to the toilet room. She’s gone for at least five minutes in the middle of all the Christmas unwrapping. It isn’t like her.
When she comes back, she has a somewhat better smile; she hasn’t been crying; she also has a present wrapped with a big ribbon. She hands it to me.
‘Here, dear. I think this might be as much for me as it is for you.’
I don’t usually get presents. I carefully open the ribbon, unstick the bits of Scotch tape holding the paper in place. Loretta’s wrapped this herself; I know her style. I open the box and it’s a pair of pajamas, a pair that’s tight at the wrists and ankles, almost like a jogging suit only lightweight and dark brown. I hold them up against my chest, over my four-year-old flannel pajamas, my sweater, my belt, my beginning pot belly.
‘Now, ain’t I something!? I look like a French advertisement for men.’
Loretta looks over at me from the sink where she’s washing her hands.
‘I must admit, dear, I’m tired of seeing you stagger around in the morning holding onto the belt of those tattered PJs. I’m throwing them out right now.’
‘All they need is some new elastic, Lor; there isn’t even a hole in them, see?’
I put my new pajamas on the table. I look down at my old ones.
I hadn’t been noticing. They are ratty-looking, the nap of the flannel is mostly worn off and the check pattern has practically disappeared, faded. These things happen without my noticing. I’ve been wearing these pajamas all this time as if they were new; they were still new in my eyes, my mind’s eyes I guess.
‘I’ll go right up and change now, Lor. Merry Christmas. We can tear up these old ones and your kids at school can use them as paint rags.’
‘No, Will. I wouldn’t do that to those dear children. We throw them out, into the trash can. It’s the Christmas present I want most from you.’
‘Okay, okay, I got the message!’
I scurry up to the toilet room and change into my new pajamas. They fit perfectly and don’t bind anywhere. The waist’s a bit tight but then all my clothes are tight in the waist lately. I guess I’ll have to admit I’m not a thirty-three any more.
I come back down to clapping, cheering; whistles from Nickie and Mike.
We open the rest of the presents and as each present is unwrapped I throw the paper, the boxes, into our fireplace. This is another tradition, one I started, maybe dangerous, but exciting. Christmas morning can look like a cyclone hit if you don’t keep ahead of things. Loretta and Nickie have begun the waffle making, Mike lending technical assistance. Maggie and Ben are setting the table, our first and our last table setters. Ben even sets himself a place at table.
The true feeling of Christmas pervades. Those stocking presents, especially the rings, did it. I pull out our heater plug in the corner and go plug in the heater for the bathroom. It’s well over twenty in this main room and probably warmer up where the girls will dress. But we’ll all appreciate some warmth in that icebox of a toilet.
I take out our envelopes with the notes about the paintings by Jo Lancaster and the twenty-dollar bills. I pass them to Loretta and she gives them to the girls. They seem pleased. I hope it isn’t too selfish a present. After all, they won’t have that much time in Paris and might not want to spend any of it posing.
I’ve made a special envelope with a fifty-dollar check for Mike. I smuggle it to Loretta for her to write a note and sign, too. Then I take it over to him.
‘Now this is just for you, Mike. It has nothing to do with tuition or plane fare or anything. This is extra, just to buy something you want for Christmas. You kind of caught us by surprise, wonderful surprise, I admit, but we’re still off balance.’
He opens it and looks at the note, the check. His eyes start filling with tears. He turns away, walks to the tree, stares at it, wipes his eyes with his sweater at the wrist. I watch him, feel myself deflate.
God, it’s only fifty dollars. What’s he got to cry about? Did I do something wrong again? I don’t know whether to go over, put my arm over his shoulder, say something; or pretend I’m not noticing. Lordy, the whole place is filled with emotion. I’m beginning to feel like Ben, as if it’s too much, too much for me to handle. I’ll be bursting out crying myself in about two minutes if I’m not careful. Maybe that’s what I really should do anyway.
Mike turns away from the tree, goes over and kisses Lor from behind, on the shoulder. He comes and shakes my hand.
‘Gosh, thanks, Dad, Mom. I can sure use it; but I don’t deserve it. I feel like all I do is take things from you that I can never pay back.’
I’m stumped. This situation is beyond my noncreative skills. But something has to be said. Nickie saves me.
‘Don’t you worry, Mike. You’ll get to pay back. You know how Dad is, he never loses. In the end, you’ll pay somehow or another. Don’t you worry about it.’
She puts her arm around his waist, stands beside him, sticks her tongue out at me, smiles.
That gets us past it. The waffle iron turns out to be a great success. It makes waffles fast as we can eat and that’s impressive. Loretta fakes our syrup the usual way, melted brown sugar with maple syrup coloring and flavoring.
After breakfast cleanup we all dress for the cold and go outside. It’s clear and freezing. Mike tries the pond and finds it’s solid. Loretta holds her hand over her mouth while Mike jumps up and down on the ice showing how frozen hard it is. Even Ben finally ventures out on the snow-covered ice. The ice is so hard, and the weather was so cold when it snowed, that the snow sweeps away easily, leaving very clear, invisible ice.
Lor comes out with all presents wrapped and ready for Katie’s little ones at the Calvets’. It’s past ten o’clock now but there’s still no sign of life there. We decide we’ll wait till later; they probably danced, ate and drank until six this morning.
Mike gets a broom and starts sweeping the ice. Nicole goes downstairs and brings up our ice skates. They’ve been down there unused for over four years. It turns out there’s a pair that’ll fit Mike if he only wears one pair of stockings; one pair fits me, and there are two pairs to share around for Maggie, Nicole and Lor. We clean them off, cobwebs, spiders; rub off the rust; dust them, oil them with salad oil and put them on. All this we do inside by the fire.
I get the push broom from the cellar and another broom from up by Maggie’s place so there are three brooms. Mike, Nicole and Maggie start sweeping clear a place for skating. It’s amazing how fast the snow piles up and gets heavy; but we work hard and in fifteen minutes have a good ten-yard by ten-yard space cleared. There are no skates to fit Ben, nothing even close. If there were, he wouldn’t wear them anyway.
I’d almost forgotten how much fun it is to glide over ice virtually without friction. Loretta and I skate together cross-handed. She has a hard time keeping her ankles stiff. She’s always had weak ankles; even on those wonderful winter days in Bavaria when we’d skate almost every day, her ankles would buckle.
Mike decides to go get Geneviève. He mounts the motorcycle with his skates still on. I guess he can shift in this snow with ice skates, and brake, but I don’t know how.
In about five minutes he comes back. He couldn’t get enough traction to climb the hill up to Vauchot.
Nicole, Ben and I have pushed the snow back more so now we have maybe 150 square yards for skating. Nicole and Maggie are skating together. Mike starts tying a series of short rope lengths he’s cut from the support for our volleyball net. He ties them around the wheels of my motorcycle. It’s so cold I don’t know how he can tie the knots.
But he gets them all tied, then rolls the bike out onto the ice.
‘Come on, Dad! I’ll give you a ride.’
I skate over; grab hold of the luggage carrier. He starts slowly, slipping but getting enough grip to pull me. His feet are out on both sides to balance the bike. He pulls me out of the cleared area into the part of the pond with untrampled snow. After I get through the piles we’ve made, the snow gives some resistance to my skates but not much. I slide along; it’s like skiing in deep-powder snow; snow’s flying out around me. Mike’s hollering and hooting as we go. This should surely wake the Calvets.
Out by the pond’s end, he puts one foot down and swings the bike, with me, around in a quick turn. I let go and glide slowly to a stop, knee-deep in bulrushes. He waits. I skate back and grab hold again. We gain speed till we’re at the edge of our cleared area, where I let go and spin turn to a stop beside Lor. Mike jumps the bike up over the pond edge onto the dam.
‘I’ll be right back. Geneviève’ll love this.’
He goes along the dam and carefully turns downhill onto the road. I hope he can go downhill as well as up. I hope he can go uphill all the way to Vauchot without wearing out his ropes. Hell, he’ll manage somehow.
Nickie and Maggie have started rolling snowballs as a way to clear the pond. The snow is a bit dry for this, but the sun is out strong now, bright blue sky, and the snow is getting softer, heavier so they can make the balls. They start with little snowballs and quickly have balls big enough to sit on. The snow still picks up clean from the ice and our skating space is getting bigger all the time.
Nickie’s sitting on a big ball she’s just rolled. She’s sweating and has her scarf off, her down jacket opened. She’s indefatigable.
‘Wow, have I got a good idea.’
She looks around as if she’s measuring the pond. She pants, gets her breath. Maggie’s just finished a big ball and rolls it up next to Nicole. She sits on it. I don’t think I remember Maggie ever doing anything so physical. She pulls her hat down over her ears, takes off her woolen gloves, shakes off the snow, rubs her hands together, blows on her fingers, puts her gloves back on. She looks at Nicole. Nicole has started laughing. I can’t tell if it’s a real laugh, but then who am I to judge whether somebody else’s laugh is real?
‘Look. We’ve got all this raw material; let’s sculpt a life-size crèche right out here on the ice. Mike, Ben and I will be the sculptors. Dad, Mom and Maggie can be the haulers of snow. We’ll build something out here that’ll be competition for Chartres, Fatima, Lourdes, Nôtre Dame and Saint-Denis rolled into one.
I refuse to respond, but I’ll go along if the others do. Ben’s gone inside. Lor looks at Maggie then at me.
‘That sounds like a wonderful idea, Nickie. I can’t think of anything more Christmasy. You’re a genius.’
‘Well, Mom. It’s about time somebody recognized that. I’m the creative personality type, that’s what all those crazy tests at La Jolla tell me. Why do you think I’m an art major? I used to think I was going to be the first important woman sculptor in this dumb world.
‘Okay, let’s get to it everybody. Dad, can you lift that ball Peg just rolled over there on top of this one?’
Maggie and Nicole stand up. I get behind the ball, at least three feet in diameter, and with Nicole’s help I muscle it up the side and onto the other ball. Nicole starts patting snow into the crack between the balls, patting and firming the snow.
