That sounded good, she said. She had never been a marshmallow fan.
“I told the boys all about you,” he said. (What could he have said? He knew almost nothing about her. Same as she knew nothing of him.) “They’re so excited you’re coming.”
Even without children in the house she woke early on Christmas morning. Making her coffee, she thought about her three children—off at the farm, with Cam and Coco and Elijah and the grandparents. Drinking her coffee in her strangely quiet kitchen, she looked out at the snow. She could see, through the window of her neighbors’ house across the street, the blinking lights of their tree and her neighbor Mrs. Winstead in a bathrobe handing out gifts. In the house next door someone was playing the same Alvin and the Chipmunks Christmas album they always used to put on Christmas morning, loud enough that even through the windows she could hear the Chipmunks’ rendition of “Up on the Housetop.”
She called Akersville. Her ex-father-in-law, Roger, answered. Odd how it worked: one year a person’s part of your family, the next, his voice sounds like some loan officer at a bank turning down your application. “I’ll put the kids on,” he said.
Al came on first. She had gotten a camera and a new winter jacket. Socks, books, another of the dresses Cam’s mother seemed determined to give her that she would never wear, and a pair of pink fuzzy slippers. Cam’s mother, Roberta, was always giving Al pink items, as if that might suddenly remind her she was a girl. Al turned these over to Ursula, just as now—as swiftly as possible—she handed over the phone.
Ursula was more talkative, though not as much as she used to be. Her good cheer, that Eleanor had always taken for granted, now carried an air of affectation.
She provided a list of her presents, which included a Walkman and a sweater she’d asked for and a pair of high boots. She offered up a recitation of their activities over the last few days—a cookie party with her old friends from softball days, a snow sculpture contest, carolingwith Coco’s parents. Cousins, even! Their father’s brother had paid them a visit from Texas, with his three kids. Eleanor could hear, in her voice, the care Ursula was taking to make sure that nothing she said sounded too great, even though, to Eleanor, it did, and the truth was, this made her happy for Ursula more than sad for herself.
“There’s probably a lot going on there,” Eleanor said. “You should get back to the fun. Let me talk to your brother.”
Talking with Toby over the phone was always difficult. Maybe it was hard for him, not seeing a person’s face, to connect with the words she was saying, or offer any back.
“Coco made waffles,” he told her. “With syrup from our trees.”
Back to the Game Boy.
Sometime around midmorning Eleanor made the pie she’d promised to bring to the holiday dinner of Russell and his sons: apple.
She put on the Joan Baez Christmas album that her family used to play when she was growing up. After, she changed into a red dress she hadn’t worn in a very long time—a little out of fashion with its padded shoulders, but her hosts were unlikely to mind.
Russell’s directions got her to where he lived twenty minutes ahead of schedule. Eleanor pulled over a block away and sat with the motor running until it was three o’clock. It occurred to her that she should have brought something for his sons, but she didn’t even know their names.
They lived in an old house that had been converted to apartments—theirs on the second floor. Climbing the steps, she thought, momentarily, about Timmy Pouliot. He’d be with his big French Canadian family, of course. His brother, his brother’s daughter, who she remembered from softball, his three sisters and his mother, whom she’d never met, but knew from the photograph Timmy Pouliot kept next to his bed.
The bed, she knew.
Russell’s sons answered the door. The older one wore thick glasses, and the kind of haircut a boy gets when his father, economizing, tries to cut it himself—a bowl cut. He was very thin, his pants held up, but just barely, by a fake leather belt. He was wearinga clip-on Christmas tie that lit up when you pushed a button, which he did.
The smaller brother was only slightly less thin. No glasses, but when he stepped forward to greet her she saw that he had some form of cerebral palsy. Mild, but recognizable.
“I’m Arthur,” the older one told her. “This is my brother, Benny. His umbilical cord was tangled up around his neck when he was born. That’s why he walks a little funny. He’s not retarded or anything.”
This was old news to Benny. He paid no attention to the health report. “We bought a turkey,” he said. “Usually we go to the Ramada for Christmas but my dad said since we were having company we’d make a feast at home.”
“We got two kinds of dip,” Arthur added.
Someone had decorated the entrance with a “Merry Christmas” sign and a cutout of Santa in a disco outfit. Eleanor would not have noticed if the older brother, Arthur, hadn’t pointed this out, but they had hung a bunch of mistletoe from the ceiling.
“Stand here, okay?” Benny said. “That means my dad gets to kiss you.” His speech was a little difficult to understand, but Eleanor figured out what he was saying. Until now, she had not actually laid eyes on her host, but now she saw him, standing a little uneasily a few feet behind his sons—a pale man of average height and narrow, sloping shoulders wearing a red-and-green sweater with a reindeer on the front and a bow tie. He had a regretful air about him, as if he already knew he was a disappointment, but maybe his sons would win her over.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I wasn’t going to do anything like that. The boys are just excited you’re here.”
Benny led her in—the picture coming to mind of Ricardo Montalban’s small sidekick, Tattoo, onFantasy Island,escorting that week’s guest stars off the plane and down the plank leading to the island.
Russell was no Ricardo Montalban, but he had clearly worked hard to set the stage for her arrival. There were carnations on the table, and though it was daylight out, candles already lit. He had a record playing, the Carpenters’Christmas Portrait.
Russell asked how her drive had gone. Arthur asked what kind ofcar she had, and concealed his disappointment when she told him Subaru.
“My brother really loves Dodge Chargers,” Benny told her. “He was hoping you had one. But that’s okay.”
Russell had bought wine, and now he poured her a glass. Red, a little sweet. “I’m not really much of a drinker,” he said. “But it’s a special occasion.” Eleanor handed Russell the pie. The boys gathered around to admire it, as if what she had brought were a rare and exotic treasure. This may have been their first homemade pie.
“You’re pretty,” Benny said. “We were talking about it before you got here, since we didn’t know what you look like. Arthur said the important part is if you’re nice but it’s an extra bonus when someone’s pretty.”
