“Matthew, you look so much like your mother. She and I went to school together. She was voted Most Likely to Succeed in our senior yearbook. Shefarsurpassed that expectation.”
I nod with a strange surge of pride. Hearing about Mom when she was young has always struck me as odd. To me, she’s forever stuck at whatever age she is now. Photos of her, even the ones around Grandma and Gramps’s place, come across as if they’re of someone else entirely. Her world then wasn’t the world she inhabits today. She really made something of herself.
And, not for nothing, she made something of herselfbeforeDad. She wasn’t riding on his expensive coattails until she was well on her way to selling a book. She worked her MFA program, got an agent, and then met Dad. I was only eight when she signed her first book deal. How she balanced being a mom and writing full-time is beyond me because, let’s face it, I’m a handful. Thankfully she had Oksana for the playdates and temper tantrums.
“Everyone warm enough? Need any hot cocoa before we head out? I’ve tagged a few of the nicer ones we’ve got that will fit in your family room. Sound good if we start there?” No one objects.
Hector and I hang back a little. He’s got a wandering eye, scoping out trees but not fully buying into the infectious energy yet. I can tell he’s still thinking about Natalia and his dad. He sniffles.
“For someone so ‘bah humbug,’ you sure seemed excited by that winter village display back there,” Hector says, coming back to earth enough to poke at me.
I experience a pang for those easier days with Mom and Dad. Movie marathons and bedtime stories and letters to Santa.
“We used to have one just like it at the apartment,” I say. “My obsession withA Christmas Carolstarted young with the Mickey version. You know the one with Scrooge McDuck? Every year, my parents added another movie iteration of it to our rotation, I read the book, and eventually it leached its way into our Christmas decor. We dedicated a whole room in our apartment to tables of those figurines. Every morning I’d race into our sitting room and plug it in, waiting to hear the gears whir and the lights flash on.” I sigh, wistful. “It’s the kind of classic story you can’t shake.”
This makes him smile. “I love it too, dude. It’s why I chose it for my paper. Cherry and I are doing cross-analysis with some of the movies. Which one do you think is the best?”
“Oh God. No. I can’t say. You’d judge me so hard.” My choice hasn’t changed since I was six. It’s the one I keep coming back to.
“Dude, try me,” he says. “Wait, how about this? I count down from three, and we both say our favorite at the same time.”
I accept his deal with reservations. As he starts the countdown, I think about lying, but what would be the point? Christmas is all about sharing and giving. I conjure my childhood self who would be unbothered by a non-Criterion Collection opinion of movies.
Right after three, we both shout, “The Muppets!”
Our eyes go wide with pleasant surprise. We stop to be sure we’ve heard right.
“Kermit is by and large the best Bob Cratchitever,” I say.
“And Fozzie Bear as Fozziwig?” he adds. “It practically wrote itself.”
We laugh, our breath appearing and disappearing in front of our faces like the ghosts in the movie. Half of me thought I couldn’t have anything in common with Hector Martinez. Maybe I wouldn’t let myself look hard enough.
We catch up to Arthur, Grandma, and Gramps, all gathered around a handsome, six-foot-tall Douglas fir. I’m well versed on Christmas trees due to my insistence on the strongest and best for the apartment back home. I have our farm in Pennsylvania send me pictures starting in infancy. I like to see our trees from the very beginning. It makes me appreciate them even more when they become the centerpieces of our home for that brief period.
I wonder what Bart and Bev (I like to name my trees, so what?) look like in our apartment right now. Hopefully, Oksana has been watering them properly. Did Mom and Dad allow the decorators to go ahead with my design concept—gold poinsettias and old-school strung popcorn for a traditional vibe? It seems like ages ago that I drew up that idea in one of my many sketchbooks. Bart and Bev may be brittle and barren by the time I make it back, ready to be dumped out on the curb to be cleared away and forgotten about.
“What do we think?” Grandma asks.
“I like it,” says Hector.
“So do I,” I add, but I’m not looking at the tree. I’ve got my side-eyes shifted toward Hector’s face, which has transformed, become sweeter. I can’t rip my gaze away from the deliciousness of his exquisite jaw.
“I’d normally say let’s keep our options open, but…” Gramps gives the tree a good shake and then runs his hands along the needles to test its durability. “I think this one will more than do the job.”
Arthur disappears and returns with a bow saw. “Who wants to do the honors?”
I take a step forward before Hector’s gloved hand wrenches my shoulder. “Don’t even think about it,” he says with a playful eye roll. I can’t help it. I swoon. And he sees it, spotlighted by the swaying amber bulbs above our heads.
“Give me a chance,” I say, stepping up to the task.
The hesitancy in Hector’s expression shuts off when he sees how hard I’m trying, and that seems to be enough for him.
Instead of backing away for safety, Hector helps me see to it. Together, we switch off sawing with Arthur’s strict guidance. Sweat collects under the wool of my hat. But it’s all worth it when the tree teeters and then tumbles into the waiting hands of some of the farm workers. Our perfect pick gets carried back to the barn by two high school boys, to be netted and paid for.
“Nice work,” Hector says, offering me a lingering high five before trotting ahead. He insists on helping because, as I’ve now realized, that’s the kind of guy he is.
Gramps ropes Arthur into a conversation about his back, which Arthur nods through. I fall into step with Grandma, who’s playing with the pom-pom on her hat like she’s deciding whether to say something.
